Abandon Ship

Good teams—think the A’s or Yankees with Reggie Jackson on the roster—will fight from time to time.  Bad teams—think just about any Bears’ team—fight all the time.

It happened up at Halas Hall just this week, receivers Josh Bellamy and Tre McBride going at it loud enough for reporters to hear; McBride was then cut the next day.  “Coach” John Fox said the decision to let McBride go was “just kind of churning the roster” over, which 3-8 teams can be expected to do.  Fox also dismissed the contretemps as something “that happens all the time” in the NFL.  “I just think that room [where it happened] is closer to y’all than I probably would have designed it.”

That makes perfect sense.  After all, if a ship is sinking and the alarm goes off, people will realize the ship is in fact sinking.  But it you can keep from sounding that damn’ bell, why maybe everyone can go down to Davy Jones’ locker without being any the wiser.

That’s what passes for a plan with the Chicago Bears.

That's Entertainment

Japanese star pitcher/hitter Shohei Ohtani wants a shot at doing the same with an MLB team next season, and Mets’ GM Sandy Alderson is in Ohtani’s corner.  Alderson told the NYT this week that baseball “is an entertainment business.  The foundation is baseball, but it’s entertainment.  To see someone with that kind of talent do what others have potentially not been able to do, that would be an exciting experience for the team” and all of baseball.  “It’s going to be fascinating.”

You know what would be even better, Sandy?  Instead of you and all the other GMs falling over themselves to sign a player who gives no hint of being able to do what he says he can at the major-league level, commit to develop female baseball talent.  That would be exciting and fascinating and—oh, right—entertaining beyond belief.  But I won’t hold my breath for it to happen anytime soon.

Stop It, You're Killing Me

I wonder how many people out there have both Bears’ (3-8 on the year) and Bulls’ (3-15) season tickets.  That’s got to be a bummer.  You go to a game, and they lose.  They go on the road, and they lose.  What’s a person to do, given that ownership isn’t in a listening mood?

After Sunday’s 31-3 loss to the Eagles in Philadelphia, coach John Fox admitted, “The game was not competitive from early on.”  Ya think?  And if my ears didn’t deceive me, Fox also said his team wasn’t prepared to face the 10-1 Eagles.  That might explain how Fox’s offense managed zero first downs in the first half and six rushing yards on the game.  If that doesn’t say “fire them all now!”, I don’t know what does.

Fox is a bad joke, along with Fred Hoiberg, his counterpart with the Bulls.  What’s that old saying, a fish rots from the head?  Well, somebody had to hire these clowns. 

Pick a Side

A sportswriter in yesterday’s Sun-Times pretty much spent most of his column carrying water for agent Scott Boras, who thinks baseball owners are pocketing too much new revenue courtesy of technology while stiffing the players. 

But Gordon Wittenmyer does bring up one interesting point, that TV and digital revenue is now the primary source of income for teams rather than attendance.  Now, there’s your column.  If teams can make money without having to pay attention to their support base, how can fans express their dissatisfaction with the state of a franchise?  By calling in to sports-talk radio?  I doubt it.  As it is, owners are laughing all the way to the bank.  Only a fool would bother to turn on the radio driving there.

And a sportswriter agreeing with Boras isn’t all that smart, either.  If in fact every team is making money, then I as a fan want a rollback on prices.  You don’t have to go out of your way to get robbed anymore; just attend a game and have a beer or a brawt.  Furthermore, as a fan and a taxpayer, I want teams to start paying for their own venues.  (When was the last time you heard Boras complain about publicly-funded stadiums?)  Lastly, as a taxpaying fan, I want owners—yes, we’re talking about you, Jeffrey Loria—to pay a nice hefty capital gains’ tax when they sell a team.

Too bad we won’t be getting a sports’ column on those and related subjects anytime soon.

Karma

Ex-Bulls’ guard Derrick Rose has taken a leave of absence from his latest team, the Cavaliers.  Rose did the same thing last season with the Knicks, but this time he bothered to get permission first.

The 29-year old Rose is said to be frustrated by all his injuries; on top of the four knee surgeries, he’s now dealing with a badly sprained ankle.  But, other than his immediate family and hangers-on, does anyone really care if he retires, as is rumored?

Rose has always put himself first, except maybe for that time someone else took his SAT test; that transgression led to the school records for his one year at Memphis getting wiped out by the NCAA.  As for his time with the Bulls, Rose never reminded anyone of Michael Jordan or any other Chicago great athlete who played with pain.  Every rehab was a study in deliberation, if not equivocation.  And let’s not forget all his talk about having to do what was right for his family come free agency.  Derrick Rose couldn’t be expected to give Chicago a hometown discount, no sir.

Life is hardly ever fair, though it has seen fit to allow Rose to earn over $117 million in salary alone.  Ernest Hemingway wrote about heroes who demonstrated grace in the face of adversity; I saw it all the time in high school and college sports.  Here’s a chance for Derrick Rose, finally, to do the same.

About that Room...

Hey, Bulls fans, this joke’s for you if for no other reason than it’s already on you:  Team owner Jerry Reinsdorf walks into a room, where he finds son and team president Michael; executive vice-president John Paxson;general manager Gar Forman; anc coach Fred Hoiberg.  Yes, Reinsdorf is in fact the smartest one in the room.  How can you tell?  He immediately walks out.

Which is what Bulls fans should start doing post haste after last night’s 143-94 loss to Golden State.  The 3-14 Bulls were outscored 81-34 in the second and third quarters; outscored by five in what should have been a garbage-time fourth quarter; and yielded 26 points to Warriors’ guard Stephen Curry in the second quarter.  But no doubt they played hard.

The free flow of basketball differs from the stop-and-go action of baseball and football; bad players and coaches are exposed a lot quicker in the NBA, the Bears’ John Fox notwithstanding.  You can make an average baseball and football player better by breaking down what they do—hitting, pitching, receiving, running.  In contrast, a basketball court is bedlam in four quarters, and plays break down all the time.  Players have to be able to go to Plans B, C and whatever on almost every possession.  Maybe you can make an average player better in the NBA, but it helps to start off with good players.  That counts the Bulls out.

If Jerry Reinsdorf is as smart as Rick Hahn says he is, Reinsdorf will focus on where the problem starts, the front office.  Paxson-Forman drafted or acquired these guys and hired an invisible man as head coach.  This is the “brain trust” you want to decide on a top draft choice?

I guess we’ll find out just how smart Mr. Reinsdorf is.

Taking a Stand

Taking a Stand

Hall-of-Fame second baseman Joe Morgan contacted HOF voters this week urging them not to vote for steroid users.  This, of course, led to some predictable reactions among sportswriters.

One bigtime writer suggested substituting amphetamines, or “greenies” as they were known back in Morgan’s playing days, for steroids to see if the onetime member of Cincinnati’s Big Red Machine of the 1970s would react the same.  In Chicago, one writer took his own greenies’ shot at Morgan and asked “who knows for sure?” as to who took them and who didn’t.  This guy would be defense lawyer’s dream if he ever gets on a jury.  Another Chicago sportswriter wants to see a boycott of Cooperstown by HOFers, which Morgan mentioned as a possibility, as a sign that inductees are serious.

As a fan, I want to know where the sports-writing establishment was when Sammy Sosa grew exponentially along with his homerun production?  Did the cat get their tongues and typewriters? My daughter came of age athletically just as MLB’s steroids scandal broke.  She has a strong sense of right and wrong when it comes to doping.  If sportswriters can’t/won’t exercise their HOF vote because of an inability to identify the honest players from the cheats, I know a former college softball player who would gladly do it for them.

Back into the Box

You can take the hitter out of the game, but you can’t take the game out of the hitter, as I found out yesterday when Clare stopped by the house.  Two days past her twenty-sixth birthday, our only child had volunteered to help make some Thanksgiving Day dishes.  She also wanted me to watch a Netflix documentary on fastballs.  “I think you’ll like it,” advised my personal film critic.  (We actually had Clare do movie reviews when she was growing up, but that’s a story for another day.)

Narrated by Kevin Costner (who else?), “Fastball” tells the story of baseball’s most exciting pitch.  I usually watch these things more for the old footage than the talking heads.  Walter Johnson, the “father” of the fastball, not only looked good, but I have to admit I actually learned something—off of old measurements corrected, Johnson actually threw a hair faster than 93 mph (vs. 98 mph for Bob Feller).  But the real revelation was the White Sox own, Goose Gossage.

The more Goose talked about his talent, the more my daughter acted like she wanted to step in and hit against him.  Forget Bobby Riggs and Billie Jean King.  Goose vs. Clare would have been a matchup for the ages.  Trust me.

The Cost of Employment

In a Tribune story today, White Sox General Manager Rick Hahn said, ostensibly with a straight face, his boss Jerry Reinsdorf “in just about every room he’s in he’s the smartest guy in it.”  Really?

What if Adam Dunn is in the room, too, and/or Adam LaRoche and/or Robin Ventura?  Heck, what if Reinsdorf is in the room all by himself?  Even then, I doubt it.  That said, I feel bad for Hahn.  He has himself a job that involves a whole lot of apple polishing, if not worse.  

Echoes

One of the benefits of aging is not having to do all the stuff from when you were younger.  One of the consequences of aging is not being able to do all the stuff from when you were younger.

Actually, I could probably still play racquetball, but for a partner or two.  Most of the people I played with have retired, except for this one former teaching assistant; he ended up in the former Yugolslavia after graduate school.  So, that doesn’t look promising.

I liked racquetball because it’s a real grunge sport.  At the UIC campus—and at Elmhurst College from what I saw when Clare attended—it was mostly an afterthought, a row of courts down a labyrinth of passageways in the bowels of the athletics’ building.  It was usually very hot when we played, with the shadows ready to take over as soon as we switched the court lights off.

I especially liked how you could score points by hitting the ball off the ceiling; it made my bad tennis stroke into a formidable weapon.  I also liked the noises—gym shoes squeaking on wooden floor, the ball whacking off one or more walls, shouts of “Block!” and “your point, damnit!”, among others.  I had a tendency to dive after balls and pop back up to wait for the return, so much so that teaching assistant wanted to know why I didn’t stay down.

It was my Rocky moment.

By the Numbers

Those natives by the lake known as Bears’ fans are getting restless, or at least wise to the smoke ownership is trying to blow their way.  On a beautiful crisp November Sunday, some 10,000 of them didn’t show for yet another game that got away.  In other words, nearly seventeen percent of Soldier Field stood empty for a 27-24 loss to the Lions that ended with a missed Connor Barth field goal from 46 yards out.

Because the McCaskeys are a penny-wise lot, it will take some time for them absorb the significance of the no-shows.  Right now, I suspect they think they’ve pulled a fast one over those rubes who paid for tickets but didn’t attend.  But as soon as a toady shows the McCaskey “brain trust” how fewer fans translates into less concessions’ revenue, they should get fired up.

And the Bears forever being the Bears, it’ll be a game of one step forward and one or more steps back.  In true broken-clock fashion, GM Ryan Pace looks to have gotten it right with rookie quarterback Mitch Trubisky.  The same can’t be said for Pace’s choice of John Fox as head coach or any of a slew of other personnel decisions.

Take kicker Connor Barth, (please, as the old joke goes).  Barth was brought in at the start of last season because he was younger—and cheaper, always important in Bears’ calculations—than incumbent Robbie Gould, this despite Gould’s career accuracy which may land him a spot in Canton (the NFL’s Cooperstown for anyone not in the know).  Talk about a dumb move.

This year, Gould is 19/21 kicking for the 49ers versus Barth’s 11/16 with Chicago.  The 34-year old Gould is 11/12 from 40/49 yards out.  And Barth, who at the age of 31 should be three years stronger than Gould?  Oh, he’s all of 5/9 including yesterday’s miss.  Gould is also 2/2 from 50-plus yards out vs. Barth’s 1/2.

Maybe things will really change for the better once the no-shows reach 20,000 or more, but I wouldn’t bet on it.

Melancholy

November is the cloudiest month, followed by December and January.  So, if the next three months don’t drive me to jump out the window, we’re good.  I’d just like to see some West Coaster do it.

And this has been a particularly hard month, the clouds and sports’ pages offering constant reminders of mortality.  First, it was Bobby Doerr, then Jim Rivera, and now this week Joe Fortunato and J.C. Caroline of the NFL champion 1963 Bears.  Enough, already.

For me, Fortunato and Caroline, respectively a linebacker and defensive back, were names that came out of the car radio on a Sunday afternoon.  That Jack Brickhouse could pronounce them without stumbling was impressive in itself, and Brickhouse uttered them a lot when I was a kid.  For what it’s worth, my parents always seemed to go for a Sunday drive with me in tow, weather permitting.  I think they liked to imagine themselves living in different parts of the city or in some far-off suburb.

Brickhouse was probably at his best verbal on December 29, 1963, when the Bears beat the Giants 14-10 for the championship.  He definitely shouted “Caroline!” and “Fortunato!” enough to burn into my memory.  Drive, they said, and we did, to points unknown with old man Halas leading from the sidelines.

For the Love of the Game

Clare’s fiancé Chris was out the door around 7 AM this Saturday morning, rain be damned.  Chris was meeting his father and brother to enjoy a belated birthday gift, a Northwestern University home game at Ryan Field against Minnesota.  The wind, by the way, will likely be blowing in off Lake Michigan, which is about a mile or two from the field.

As a future father-in-law, I take the associated responsibilities quite seriously.  If the boy was sitting in the rain to root for Ohio State or Notre Dame or Illinois, even, I might be tempted to give him grief.  NU, though, I approve of.  They’re an Ivy League program stuck in the Midwest.  Harvard and Yale at least get to play in the same academics-first conference while Northwestern tries to compete in the sports-before-schooling Big Ten.  They ought to get points just for trying.

Along those lines, I give my future son-in-law points for being a big fan of Pat Fitzgerald, the Wildcats’ head coach.  Fitzgerald recruits players who are familiar with books and class attendance while expecting them to compete against the likes of Michigan and Ohio State.  Personally, I’m a fan of his news conferences, which are always a study in humor and honesty, with Fitzgerald criticizing his own performance on the sidelines as much as he does his players’ on the field.  You have to like a guy like that.        

So, make it a perfect birthday gift and beat those Gophers, NU.  And see what you can do about that lake breeze while you’re at it.

 

The End of the World as We Know It

 Yesterday, he Cubs announced season tickets prices for next year, and, wouldn’t you know it, prices will rise  a mere one percent on average.  This is what you call major spin.

According to today’s Trib, that average cost is separate from what the team will be charging for the brand spanking new American Airlines 1914 Club; with tickets ranging between $400 and $695 a game, that could set you back as much as $56,000 and change.  Never fear, though, the Cubs haven’t forgotten the common fan.  Why, some upper deck outfield ticket packages will average a mere $8 a game.

I wonder, though.  Which set of fans will they be trying to get more of, the 695s or the 8s? 

Pitchers and Hitters

I was picking up Michele from the train last night, which involves side streets, stop signs and a park; the all-day rain was just a mid-November bonus.  At a stop sign by Proksa Park (we in Berwyn are proud of our Bohemian forebears), I happened to see three people playing long toss, two men and a teenaged girl.  Father and coach with daughter, I thought, and at least two of them serious about her craft.

“Pitcher,” Clare said later over the phone when I told her about it, without a whole lot of respect in her voice.  My daughter still thinks like a hitter and probably imagined herself trying to hit under similar conditions—wet and cold on a field with so-so lighting.  She pretty much did once back in 2011, as a freshman at Elmhurst.  The Bluejays were playing Judson University out by the Fox River, a doubleheader that started after 5PM in early April with the temperature a brisk 40 degrees.  I—and everything else—went down from there.

The Chicago Bandits used to play at Judson, so the lighting was decent.  In the first inning, Clare lined a ball to dead center that couldn’t have gotten more than fifteen feet off the ground.  Anywhere else and she has a record-breaking sixth homerun, but not at Judson, where center was 230 feet from the plate.  The ball hit the fence on the fly, and Clare had to be satisfied with a double.  That was the highlight against two losses out in the middle of nowhere on a rain-soaked field (Clare nearly drowned venturing into foul territory in right, I kid you not).  The parking lot was so dark I almost couldn’t find my car.  Back home, I spent a good twenty minutes under hot water in the shower before the shakes let up.

Come to think of it, if I see that girl again on my way to the train, I should warn her about what she could be getting herself into.  And the two guys with her.  

Fading Away

Journalists like to flatter themselves by saying they produce the first draft of history.  But what happens when they stop bothering to try?  You can’t miss stuff and call it history, although the Tribune tried real hard to do just that today.

Buried deep inside the sports’ section was a one-sentence notice on the death of 96-year old former White Sox outfielder Jim Rivera.  Following that were two sentences on the passing of Hall-of-Famer Bobby Doerr at the age of 99.  Heaven help any baseball fan who depends on a newspaper for information.

The New York Times, of course, ran a detailed obituary, which is how I learned that Doerr was the last remaining major-league ballplayer from the 1930s and he was probably the most popular one in all of baseball during his 14-year career playing second base for the Red Sox, 1937-1951(missing the 1945 season for military service).  According to the obit, Doerr also may have been the one Red Sox player Ted Williams trusted enough to discuss life outside of baseball; Williams particularly envied Doerr for the ideal family life he had growing up.  Now, that’s good journalism as opposed to the Trib devoting maximum space to cover the woes of that team purporting to be the Chicago Bears.

As for Rivera, I had to go online to the Society of Baseball Research (SABR) to get a good biographical article written by Richard Smiley.  I always knew Rivera didn’t reach the major leagues until the age of 29 in 1952, but I didn’t know why.  The debut had to wait because back in 1944, while he was in the Army, Rivera was sentenced to life imprisonment for the attempted rape of the daughter of an Army officer; his baseball talents earned him a parole.  Then, at the end of his rookie season, Rivera was again accused of rape for sex he said was consensual.  According to a lie detector test, Rivera was telling the truth and not prosecuted.

You would think a sportswriter might want to explore parallels between Rivera’s situation back then and the celebrity/public figure sex scandals of today, but I’m not holding my breath, nor am I implying Rivera got away with anything.  Beyond that 1952 incident, he avoided controversy, retiring after the 1961 season to run a restaurant in Indiana and make occasional public appearances as a member of the “Go-Go” White Sox of the 1950s.  Yes, the past is past, but it’s way too valuable to let fade away, especially in the name of more Bears’ coverage.

Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!

As a White Sox fan, I should be happy to see that Cubs’ president Theo Epstein talking techno-gibber.  But as a baseball fan, I suspect just about everyone is doing it.

Epstein told the Sun-Times the other day he wants outfielder Jason Heyward—still due $147.4 million on his albatross of a contract—to put up better WAR (win-above-replacement) numbers.  “That’s what we want to get him back to, being a six-win [yes, above-replacement] player.”  What this means in English is that Heyward’s 6.5 WAR for the Cardinals in 2015 consisted of a .290 batting average, 13 homeruns, 60 RBIs and 79 runs scored to go with a Gold Glove in right field.  Maybe I’m wrong, but I thought the more detail the better in measuring performance.

If this keeps up, Epstein will at some point announce a trade of a 5.2 WAR player for a 3 and a 3.5.  Heaven help us when that day comes.      

Walking the Walk (While They Sit)

Because yesterday was a November Sunday wet and dreary, I had no problem watching NFL football, even if it was the Bears coughing one up to the Packers, 23-16.  It was worth it just to watch the military-NFL complex at work on Fox TV.

Pre-, half-time and post-game commentary originated from the Norfolk Naval Station on the Virginia coast.  The talking heads were set in front of the Navy’s finest ships in port; I don’t know how many times I saw shots of aircraft carriers.  This got me to wondering, if the NFL and Fox are so interested in our armed forces, why not broadcast from the Walter Reed National Military Medical Center in Bethesda, Maryland?  And if that was too far to go, why not the nearest VA hospital?  Given that Roger Goodell and the NFL want to thank our military men and women so much for their service, they can do it by showing what that service can entail, the physical and emotional loss.  But I won’t hold my breath.

Any more than I would for the Bears to fire coach John Fox after his team failed to beat an injury-plagued opponent coming off a loss just six days before and the Bears coming off their bye week.  Fox treats the forward pass with the same fear of it that George Halas had.  The McCaskeys keep looking for a clone of the old man, but all they end up with is losers.  The Bears’ offense got so predictable and predictably bad that color commentator Chris Spielman started to mock the “run-run-pass-kick” mindset that prevailed every four downs.

The Bears actually seem to have a real quarterback in rookie Mitch Trubisky, who fell nine feet short of throwing for 300 yards in wet, muddy conditions.  Not all they need is a real coach.

Kick the Tires First

Not that I believe in sports’ conspiracies, but the media sure seems interested in Japanese pitcher/hitter Shohei Otani, the 23-year old phenom who wants to play in the majors next year.  Not only that, Otani, who pitches from the right side and hits from the left, wants to do both in the bigs.  I wouldn’t bet on it, though.

From the time of Babe Ruth, the rule of thumb in baseball has been to find what a player does better and concentrate on that one thing.  It seems to have worked with Ruth, 94 career wins vs. 714 homeruns and a certain immortality.

If I didn’t know better, I’d swear Otani had Scott Boras as his agent.  Look, he’s got a 42-15 career record!  Look, he has a career batting average of .286 with 48 homers and 166 RBIs!  To which I would say, Yeah, what’s your point?  You actually mean to say he’s going to throw 150-plus innings with 500-plus plate appearances?  I doubt it.

Japanese players tend to fall into the category of good but not great, Ichiro excepted.  What Otani has done is nice in a high-A league sort of way.  Now, consider that he’s 6’3” and all of 189 pounds, had quad and ankle injuries this season, and is just coming off of ankle surgery.  A skeptic might say Otani’s body is already breaking down from the strain.

Right now, Otani would cost an MLB an estimated $20 million posting fee to his Japanese team in addition to a minor-league salary and a signing bonus that's capped at just over $3.5 million.  (Any mega deal for Otani would have to wait until he reaches age 25, at which point there’s no cap on what he can sign for.) The question then becomes, Do you want to gamble that money on Otani becoming the next Babe Ruth, only better?  Not me.    

Shifting Gears

People who bike year-round in the Chicago area (I can’t bring myself to write “Chicagoland”) amaze me.  I turn into a baby once the temperature goes below 60 degrees.  Then again, people who bike in January and February strike me as stupid.  Really, in the snow or when the temperature is 10 degrees, sans wind chill?  No thanks.  Feel free to get yourself killed or have a heart attack, though.    

So, I bike inside and try to switch over to my one other talent, walking.  Ask anyone who knows me, and they’ll tell you walking anywhere with me is like trying to survive the Bataan Death March.  I’m sure my daughter has some sort of story about keeping up with her father for fear of being lost forever in the deep, dark woods.  Get over it, kid.

But I do like to walk and have been known to take one of the ‘L’ lines to its end and then walk home; for a native South Sider, Milwaukee Avenue is another good challenge, going forever, it seems, northwest of downtown.  Maybe this year, I’ll focus more on the 606.  If nothing else, I know there won’t be any cyclists like me tooling around.

Funny, but cold air walking doesn’t bother me in the least the way it does biking.  I’m a sucker for the urban landscape with those old two-flats and factory buildings that line the trail.  And the light, there’s something about the Chicago sky from January through March.  The sun on the winter clouds produces an incredibly rich shade of orange tinged with purple.  It’s almost worth the snow and cold to see it.  Now, all I have to do is motivate myself to get outside.

I mean, the Bears are on, and college football….

May It Go the Full Fifteen

May It Go the Full Fifteen

My, my.  Dallas Cowboys’ owner Jerry Jones is reportedly looking to take legal action against the NFL to prevent Commissioner Roger Goodell from getting a contract extension.  It seems that Jones is one unhappy cowboy.

First, Goodell handed down a six-game suspension to Dallas running back Ezekiel Elliott over allegations of domestic abuse that did not lead to charges.  But don’t think for a second Jerry Jones cares about Elliott’s right to due process.  Mr. Cowboy is also upset that Goodell hasn’t cracked down on the national anthem protests by players.  In Jones’ world, you play and you stand because he wants you to.

What I want to see if for the Papa John’s guy to get involved; he and Jones could form a tag team against Goodell and the NFL lawyer of his choice.  Do they have rounds in wrestling?  Regardless, it would be fun to watch.

House of Cards

The thing about the Bulls’ third-year forward Bobby Portis is that you’d probably peg him as the last guy on the team to clock a teammate at practice, the way he did Nikola Mirotic last month.  Portis is more of a goof, and I mean that in the most fan-appreciative sense of the term.  Think Hunter Pence or Ben Revere or any player who exhibits a mix of enthusiasm, humility and hard work.  They’re not the kind to swear or showboat and not the kind to go ballistic.  I would have expected Mirotic, to be the one throwing punches.

So, Portis finished serving his eight-game suspension and played for the first time Tuesday night against the Raptors.  And guess what?  Portis managed 21 points and 13 rebounds in just 24 minutes, that’s what.  Before the game, Portis admitted to the Trib beat reporter, “I’ve been anxious, real anxious, real giddy all day.  Didn’t sleep last night, didn’t sleep today, couldn’t nap.  I’m just ready to play ball.”  Who talks like that, if not a goof fans would be silly to root against?

Portis has not avoided reporters or tried to shirk responsibility for his action.  But Mirotic is pretty much MIA, avoiding the press and keeping mum.  It’s far from an ideal situation, but it’s the one Bulls’ management let happen.  Right now, odds are Mirotic will be shipped out.  That would resolve a roster and locker-room problem while leaving the one in the front office.

Playing in Theatre One....

Clare texted Michele last night: Baseball’s over, and now I’m watching baseball movies.  I blame Dad.  Well, excuse me.

We probably did watch a lot of them, starting with “A League of Their Own,” but I’m not the one who goes around saying, “There’s no crying in baseball!”  That would be a former resident of our house.  I’m also not the one watching “Moneyball,” as Clare was last night.  I advised that she take notes, just in case her career takes another route.

Lately, “The Natural” has been in heavy rotation, and I still love watching the last half-hour.  Go, Roy, go.  Be a hero (which he isn’t in Bernard Malamud’s book of the same name).  The funny thing is, I don’t particularly like Robert Redford or Glenn Close, but they’re perfect in the roles of Roy and Iris.  I also love the scenes shot in Buffalo’s old War Memorial Stadium.  Now, that was a sports’ venue.

The same goes for the former Bush Stadium in Indianapolis, which doubled for Comiskey Park and Redland Field in “Eight Men Out.”  That might be my favorite movie, if not for the nails-on-chalkboard performance by Studs Terkel and recent scholarship that shows Charles Comiskey wasn’t quite the skinflint legend and film both have him to be.  Oh, well.  Those Black Sox sure could play.  

What a Joke

What a Joke

If he ever retires, player agent Scott Boras ought to consider a second career in standup comedy.  What he said about client Matt Wieters was downright hysterical.

Wieters had a bad year offensively with the Nationals, hitting .225 with 10 homers and 52 RBIs.  Wieters’ fig leaf, if you will, was the fact that Washington pitchers managed a 3.88 team ERA third-best in the NL.  So, when Wieters decided yesterday not to opt out of his $10.5 million option for next season, Boras the comic/agent jumped in to say, “What he does for a pitching staff is off the charts and in great demand.”  But, Scott, if it’s in such demand, why didn’t your client declare himself a free agent?  Maybe it has something to do with that game five loss to the Cubs in the NLDS, when Nats’ pitchers gave up nine runs and Wieters made two errors, including a dropped third strike and a bad throw, a passed ball and catcher’s interference, all in the same inning.

I mean, you can’t be serious, right?      

Look in the Mirror, Vin, before You Talk

Look in the Mirror, Vin, Before You Open Your Mouth

For reasons that are beyond me, former Dodgers’ broadcaster Vin Scully was honored over the weekend in Pasadena, yet another example of the insanity that prevails in California.  There was, perish the thought, “An Evening with Vin Scully” during which he was asked about NFL player protests during the National Anthem.  “I have only one personal thought, really [ever, that’s for sure],” responded Scully.  “And I’m so disappointed.”

Scully said he had “overwhelming respect and admiration for anyone who puts on a uniform and goes to war.  So the only thing I can do in my little way is not to preach,” which he immediately went on to do by adding, “I will never watch another NFL game.”

The 89-year old Scully claimed he’s not “some great patriot.  I was in the Navy for a year, didn’t go anywhere, didn’t do anything.”  To the best of my knowledge, he also didn’t do anything when Dodgers’ owner Walter O’Malley decided Ebbets Field was a dump to get out of and what the city of New York offered as a new home didn’t meet his needs or standards.  So, the Dodgers and a young Vin Scully abandoned Brooklyn for Los Angeles, where the building of a new stadium at Chavez Ravine involved the dislocation of a lot of people.  Again, I’m not aware of Scully ever addressing that particular bit of Dodgers' history.

Given a choice, I’d take the backstabbing frontrunner-ism of Harry Caray to the gauzy blah-blah of Scully.  But I don’t want to preach.

Oh, Boo-hoo

John Schnatter, the founder of Papa John’s Pizza, thinks his business has taken a hit because of NFL player protests during the national anthem; by the pizza king’s way of tihnking, peasant heads should roll for such impertinence.  “NFL leadership has hurt Papa John’s shareholders,” Schnatter complained recently.  You have to wonder if he’s ever tried to eat what he sells.  Who eats this stuff, or Domino’s Pizza Hut or Little Cesar’s?   

Actually, I do know, and a lot of the time it’s travel teams far away from home.  I can’t tell you the number of times a pizza “party” featured one of the above brands.  Melted cheese on gooey white bread, yum.  Probably the only thing worse than a meal of pretend pizza was the time the geniuses in charge of Clare’s travel team junior year in high school let the girls vote on where to eat, and for whatever reason they picked Hooter’s.  I kid you not.  Talk about a lack of adult leadership.

Now that my one and only has aged out of travel softball, I’ve stopped eating hot cheese on goop.  Maybe NFL fans are starting to catch on, too.

Moving On

The best part of the World Series being over—outside of the pizza won and the Cubs turning into yesterday’s news—is that the new season can start.  It doesn’t have to be anything big, just a sign that spring will indeed come.

I saw those signs already in the Friday sports’ section, teams making all sorts of roster moves.  The White Sox declined their option on oft-injured catcher Geovany Soto, which means we won’t have to watch another season of Soto’s near-yip of a throw back to the pitcher he does.  It also means the Sox are likely to stay with their catching duo of Omar Narvaez and Kevan Smith while two promising minor leaguers—Zack Collins and Seby Zavala—work their way up the ladder.  Oh, and “pitcher” Mike Pelfrey is now a free agent.

So, the general managers meet in a couple of weeks, and after that it’s the winter meetings, and after that you can almost see the new year.  How far off can pitchers and catchers be then?

What Do They Know?

Question:  How many economists does it take to write an op-ed piece on the NBA and NFL?  Answer: Two.  Second  Question:  How many economists does it take to write an intelligent op-ed piece on the NBA and NFL?  Answer:  Impossible to say until it’s been done.

If the above suggests I don’t like economists, you’re right.  Two practitioners of “the dismal profession” wrote a piece in the Tribune the other day about how unfair pro basketball and football are to require draftees to attend college first, one year for the NBA and three for the NFL.  I’ve been reading the one guy long enough to know these rules offend his devotion to the free market, a god fairer and wiser than all others.

Anybody can point out the hypocrisy of college sports; I sure have.  Now offer up a well-conceived alternative.  You’d think economists would have the know-how to that and sketch out exactly how a basketball or football minor-league operation would work; they could even sell their blueprint to the interested parties.  But that’s detail work, and big-idea guys can never seem to be bothered.

And they certainly don’t want to be bothered with the example of Jahlil Okafor.  The Philadelphia 76ers’ third-year center has thoroughly worn out his welcome in the City of Brotherly Love.  A combination of injury and immaturity—Okafor came into the league as a 19-year old—has Philadelphia management eager to find a trade partner willing to take on a player known to get into parking-lot fights and driving his car in excess of 100 mph? 

Theoretically, if Okafor had stayed in school, he would have had the chance to grow up while playing against his own age-cohort.  Don’t underestimate the importance of that second factor.  A rookie going up against a (much) larger and smarter veteran risks injury as well as humiliation.  Quick, count all the 20-year old running backs in the NFL.  Turn pro too soon, and you may as well swim with the sharks.

I wonder, would Okafor or any other teenaged athlete stay in the minors three or four years learning his craft?  That’s a question too hard for a roomful of economists to answer.

Blame Him, and Him

If Dodgers’ fans want to know who to blame for their team losing the World Series in seven games to the Astros, look no further than manager Dave Roberts, with an assist from one of my least favorite Hall of Famers, Tony LaRussa.

For all intents and purposes, Roberts lost the Series in game two, when he pulled starter Rich Hill after four innings of one-run ball.  From that moment on, Roberts turned each game into 27-out matchup contest.  There was no way his bullpen could keep up with that idea.  Yes, the bullpen pitched 7-1/3 scoreless innings in game seven, but by then it was too late.  The game LA relievers needed to win was #5, when Brandon Morrow and Kenley Jansen plain ran out of gas.

Oh, both Morrow and Jansen were good last night, after starter Yu Darvish gave up five runs in 1-2/3 innings.  And can somebody tell me why Darvish, who was knocked around in game three, got anothr start?  I mean, over the last two seasons as a Texas Ranger Darvish faced the Astros five times.  They know him, they like him.  You’d think that reliever-happy Roberts would have yanked his starter after one run or two, or 1/3 of an inning.  Between them, Clayton Kershaw and Alex Wood threw six shutout innings, on short rest no less.  Neither of them could have started?  Houston should give serious thought to awarding Roberts a winner’s share of the money.

They might also throw some cash LaRussa’s way.  After all, he’s the manager who started this whole “yank the starter and go to the ’pen for your matchups” thing.  Lucky for me and the pizza I won, Astros’ manager A.J. Hinch played that game a little less, and a little better.

Very Important, or Not

I was looking over the tiny type of the Transactions notices of the Tribune sports’ section yesterday when I saw that the Mariners had hired someone as their “director of high performance.”  Thinking Seattle had confused Halloween with April Fool’s, I checked on the their website.  No joke, Dr. Lorena Martin will now be the person in charge of…what, exactly?

According to the story on the Mariners’ website, Martin will be “responsible for coordinating all aspects of the team’s mental-training approach of players and staff, including the entire organization’s medical, strength and conditioning, nutrition and mental skills departments.”  Wow.

In other words, Martin will have a crucial say in how players train, take care of themselves and approach the mental challenges of their sport.  Apparently, the Mariners are tired of paying money to people who don’t play.  The story on Martin noted that last year, seventeen Mariners on the disabled list received $43 million while injured, third only to the Dodgers ($58 million) and Mets ($49 million). 

This is progress of a sort, I guess.  If a woman can decide how players and staff (coaches, yes?) should train, the day could come when she decides which players and staff are worth training.  Maybe.  I think.