A Poke in the Eye or a Jab in the Gut

 It would be impossible to exaggerate how bad travel ball was at times.  Most parents varied between surly and outright hostile, as did a majority of the coaches Clare played for.  Most of the kids were OK, which was a blessing, though there was one or two who knew they were God’s gift and/or the coach’s favorite.  Let me also note here the Bataan Death March quality of tournaments.  Teams played regardless the time, the weather or the lack of toilet paper in the restrooms.  Clare shudders at the mention of Kankakee, where the food and the toilets nearly did her in, while Michele is pretty sure she won’t be caught dead in Toledo, where we spent $50 at the concession stand on water.  It’s amazing how few drinking fountains these places have.

And yet I miss one thing about travel, how it ate up so much time.  Clare’s five years coincided with the White Sox winning the World Series in 2005.  After that, they trended steadily downward, but I was too busy to notice.  Between travel and varsity, Clare was busy with softball eleven months out of the year, and so was I, even after I taught her how to drive (with lessons in the parking lot of the high school where the travel team had Sunday morning practices).  God rested on Sunday, we had the month of August.

In college, softball took up only March through the first part of June; as I’ve noted above, the NCAA playoffs are our March Madness; that at least delayed my following a mediocre baseball team.  Now, though, it can be White Sox 24-7 if I want.  Oh, joy.

A few weeks ago, the Sox were the best team in the AL, thirteen games over .500.  As of today, they’re three over and in full free-fall.  This is how bad they are: on Saturday, a reliever threw a wild pitch issuing an intentional walk.  That same relief staff coughed up three leads over the weekend to allow a Royals’ sweep in KC.  Fourteen runs allowed from the seventh inning on—how do you spell impending disaster?

And in true Jerry Reinsdorf style, loyalty trumps accountability.  Pitching coach Don Cooper is a self-proclaimed genius.  All those runs?  It must be my imagination.  Robin Ventura?  He doesn’t call anyone out.  Heck, he doesn’t even wake up from his nap on the bench as his team implodes.  All in all, I miss travel ball.