Oh, That Rebuild

It’s all about the learning.  On Tuesday, Lucas Giolito of the White Sox went six innings against the Indians, giving up five runs, all earned on nine hits, including two doubles and two home runs.  But here’s the positive—Giolito didn’t walk anybody.  Go, rebuild!  As for yesterday, Reynaldo Lopez went 2-2/3 innings, more than enough time for him to yield seven earned runs on eight hits.  But this is a rebuild year, so everything’s a mulligan.  Yea, rebuild!

Tim Anderson and Yoan Moncada are the Sox double-play combination of the future.  Anderson made his tenth error at short yesterday while Moncada bobbled number five.  Mulligan.  Daniel Palka butchered another ball in right field.  Mulligan.  Adam Engel has struck out 43 times in 140 at-bats.  Mulligan.

On Tuesday, 19-year old Juan Soto collected three hits in the Nationals’ win over the Orioles.  Meanwhile, 21-year old Eloy Jimenez, the Sox #1 prospect and #3 in all of baseball according to MLB.com (Fernando Tatis is #7, but we traded him for James Shields), toils away at AA Birmingham.  Despite hitting .333 with 36 RBIs (second-best in the Southern League), Jiminez has to wait his turn.  GM Rick Hahn has a plan.

Mulligan.  

Let's Dance

Clare and Chris came over for a Memorial Day barbeque, during which we watched the White Sox cough up a four-run lead in Cleveland.  (Suggestion:  Either make Daniel Palka a dh or encourage him to open a butcher shop.  Palka wields a glove like a meat cleaver.)  During dinner, Clare mentioned that she hadn’t picked out a song for the two of us to dance to at her wedding, now a little over a month off.  “We can’t do ‘I Fought the Law,” my daughter joked.  Oh, would that we could.

In seventh and eighth grade, Clare entered a hitting contest at Stella’s, our batting cages of choice.  Both years she was an independent while virtually everyone else belonged to a travel team (ironically, one she’d belong to come high school).  The first year, Clare was one of twenty hitters and finished second.  She might have slipped to third the next year.

When you don’t know anyone outside of your father (and that’s of debatable worth), you may need help to stay calm and focused; music can definitely help.  In my daughter’s case, it was “I Fought the Law” by the Bobby Fuller Four.  My guess is Clare heard it in the car once and went nuts, more or less.  “I’m breakin’ rocks in the hot sun/I fought the law and the law won/I fought the law and the law won.”  Clare just had to have the song, and, before long, she did.

On the way to every session (the competition went on for several weeks, November through December), I played the song, and Clare did a little cowboy pantomime when Bobby Fuller sang, “I’m robbin’ people with a six-gun.”  Or just hitting a rubber-coated baseball.

But you can’t dance to a lyric like that, so Clare will have to find something more appropriate.  Lucky for me I can tell the story as part of the toast.   

Fast Cars

In a way, nothing could be more American than auto racing, or more democratic.  I mean, who doesn’t race at one time or another?  So, rather than say I’m not a fan of the sport, I prefer to think of myself as a driver in good standing, and have been since July of 1970.  Trust me,   there’ve been a lot of races.

The one I’ll mention here occurred two months after I got my license that July (and how tricky my instructor was trying to get me to run a stop sign on the course).  As I recall, it was a Friday night in early September, and I was on my way in the family Ford Galaxie to visit my girlfriend, who went to school in the faraway North Shore.  My, how I zoomed down the express lanes of the Kennedy Expressway.  Let’s just say I was in the ballpark of the speeds Chuck Berry mentioned in the lyrics to “Maybelline.” 

I couldn’t get over how fast I was going; things looked cool in a blur.  Then, just like that, I throttled back, my need for speed entirely satisfied.  In all the time since, I’ve been more interested in getting to places on time (as opposed to late or early, both of which I hate).  But I still want a car that can go zero-to-sixty in a few seconds flat.

I like dependability and style along with performance.  Of all the cars I’ve had, the PT Cruiser was my favorite.  Talk about style; it looked like a ’40s’ panel truck.  At stoplights, people were always asking me about it.  There was also the time someone I knew, a true “gearhead,” said, “You know, a hemi would look just perfect in that.”  Yes, put a V-8 in my baby.

The PT took us to all of Clare’s area travel tournaments and twice to nationals in Kansas City.  After nine years, we switched to a Ford hybrid and gave the PT to Clare, who drove it another three years.  Even now, four years after its passing, we share tales of driving the PT.  You really don’t need Indianapolis or Dattona for that.

But a hemi would be nice.

Fahters and Sons and Flags

For as long as I can recall, Memorial Day on Homan Avenue involved the flag and spring cleaning.  My father flew the flag on the front porch, and we all pitched in with the washing and whatnot.

When you’re twelve, helping to carry the mattresses outside is a job in itself, but that was only the half of it.  Next, I was handed an honest-to-goodness rug beater and instructed to beat the dust off the mattresses.  Très fun.  When I grew older, I was promoted to wall-washing.  Kitchen, dining room, living room—my father and I shared space on an extension plank between two ladders.  First we did the walls with Soilax, then rinsed them down with water.  After that, we used a special sponge for the ceilings.  Again, très fun.  This went on for years, even after Clare was born.  Where’s Daddy?  Why, he’s up on the ladder Grandpa is holding steady.

Spring cleaning was done by the Fourth of July.  My father could concentrate on making barbeque chicken on the grill—and putting the flag out.  His work uniform, of a Chicago firefighter, had a flag patch.  The front railing had a special holder for the flag pole; I wouldn’t be surprised if he fashioned it himself.  And, when the time came, I had a flag as a housewarming gift from my father.

I probably find more holidays to fly it than my father did.  The way I see it, you claim the flag or let someone else do it.  So, out the flag goes for Labor Day and Veterans Day and maybe even Columbus Day.  I’ve flown it so much over the years Clare has been pressed into duty as a second Betsy Ross, sewing up holes and mending tatters along the edges.  That flag will die with me, and I intend to live to a hundred.

The NFL owners would probably love to salute me at halftime, if only I’d buy season’s tickets to the Bears.  It’s just as well.  The owners have announced a new policy about protesting the national anthem—players can either stay in the locker room or stand at attention along the sidelines.  I don’t fly the flag for the likes of them to dictate conduct.  I don’t even fly the flag for all the same reasons my father did.  Oh, I’m proud and thankful to be an American, just as I’m sure Patrick Henry and Thomas Paine were proud.

It would be nice if a few football players happened to cite the likes of those two as an inspiration, but what can you expect of anyone in their twenties?  I’ll cite it for them. 

State of the Rebuild

Maybe the White Sox shouldn’t be in such a rush with their prospects, after all.  I mean, look what happens when they get here.

On Thursday afternoon, starter Lucas Giolito took it upon himself to pull a Carson Fulmer; no two innings pitched for Giolito.  Instead, the young right-hander managed just four outs, during which time he allowed six hits and three walks while hitting a batter.  Add it all together, and one of the hopes of the rebuild gave up seven runs, all earned.  Giolito (3-5) now has a 7.53 ERA.  As bad as that is, he also leads the AL in walks with 37 and the majors in hit batters with 10.  So, all the work with pitching coach Don Cooper must be paying off.

Going the distance for Baltimore was Dylan Bundy, who entered the game with a 2-6 record and 4.70 ERA.  Those numbers didn’t stop Bundy from throwing a complete-game two hitter.  Oh, and he struck out 14, 11 on breaking balls, and I swear not one of them was in the vicinity of 90 mph.  So, all the work our young hitters are putting in with hitting coach Todd Steverson must be paying off as well.   I particularly like how Bundy threw breaking balls from the start, but nobody in the home dugout seemed to take note.  Nearly all Sox hitters go up looking for the fast ball.  Sliders and curves are foreign to them.

[On the other end of the spectrum is the consistently good Reynaldo Lopez, he of the misleading 1-3 record (and 2.93 ERA).  Lopez went seven strong innings against Detroit on Friday and left with a 4-2 lead; the Sox bullpen quickly turned that into a 5-4 deficit.  How long do you think before the non-decisions—six so far and counting—trigger a dugout or clubhouse explosion?  I’m guessing sooner than later.] 

But, hey, this is a rebuild, and winning isn’t everything; this year is all about developing talent, which is why the Sox signed veteran catcher Wellington Castillo to a two-year contract, so he could help bring the young pitchers  along.  Only Castillo has just been hit with an 80-game suspension for PEDs use.  At least he took responsibility for it.  Better late than never, right?

Sox GM Rick Hahn said Castillo’s suspension won’t “have much of an impact at all” on the success of the rebuild.  Neither will the young talent, from the looks of it.

Age is Relative

On Monday, nineteen-year old Nationals’ outfielder Juan Soto became the youngest ballplayer to start a game since 2012.  When he hit a three-run home run in his second big-league at-bat, Soto became the youngest player in Nationals’ history to homer (beating Bryce Harper by three days).  Did I mention Soto won’t turn 20 until October 25?  Eloy Jimenez of the White Sox will turn 22 a month later.  So, who’s the better prospect?

Jimenez may be rated higher, but Soto is already in the bigs (albeit due to a slew of injuries to the Washington outfield).  Yet, if circumstances have forced the Nats to call up Soto sooner than they’d like, they still did it without fear of starting his free-agency clock or anything else.  The White Sox under general manager Rick Hahn operate until a different set of rules, ones I don’t pretend to understand.

Top pitching prospect Michael Kopech is already 22, as are two other top-10 Sox prospects; two others are 21 and three are 23.  Only Luis Robert at age 20 comes close to matching Soto in age.  And yet Sox fans are told to wait until the talent is ready.

Yeah, we wouldn’t want another Juan Soto on our hands, now would we?   

Say What, Say How

Perhaps the most underappreciated job in major-league baseball right now is that of the interpreter; you can’t go international without one.  The success of Japanese, Korean and Taiwanese players can depend on what their interpreter says, and how it’s said.  Latin players oftentimes rely on a bilingual teammate to translate for them, but I wonder.  Midwesterners who’ve gone to NYC or Boston at some point feel like they’re in another country with all the extra t’s and r’s and “ah’s” that come out of people’s mouths.  Spanish has to be the same way as it’s spoken in the Dominican Republic, Cuba, Puerto Rico and Venezuela, among other places.  And what do they speak on Curacao?

Baseball is a game of nuance both as it’s played and learned.  Pitchers have to understand grips and arm angles while batters are forever experimenting with their stances.  Clare would have coaches talk to her about her “load,” and she’d have to explain to me what they meant (a batter at the ready position as the pitch is thrown, I think).  Now, imagine a hitting coach talking “load” or hips or shoulders to a player who wants help.  It’s one thing to speak Korean, Japanese or Chinese, and quite another to apply it to the game of baseball.  I would think the best interpreters are ex-jocks rather than expats.

Players and organizations have to decide on some happy medium when it comes to language; the onus to learn English seems to fall heaviest on Latin players.  The White Sox look to be doing something a little different in that regard.  Not only do they have a team interpreter, the interpreter helps players do postgame TV interviews.  This strikes me as a smart thing, signaling to players their “take” on the game matters more than the language it’s given in.  It also shows respect in this age of Trump.

Who knows, once a player expresses himself in his own language, he may be willing to learn another.

Old School, New School

The old and new ways of running a baseball team went on full display Monday night at Guaranteed Rate Whatever when the White Sox faced off against the Orioles.  With the Sox down 3-2 in the bottom of the sixth and runners in scoring position, catcher Wellington Castillo failed to run out a popup.  That did not sit well with manager Rick Renteria.

So, he pulled Castillo and put in Omar Narvaez.  As much as I applaud the move, I have to wonder—when will players on this team realize their manager wants them to run everything out?  This is Renteria’s second year managing on the South Side.  Before Castillo, Renteria already had pulled three players during his tenure on the South Side, one each last year, this spring training and earlier in the season.  How exactly do you send a message to people who don’t look to be paying attention? 

Now fast-forward to the bottom of the ninth innings, score still 3-2, two out and runners on the corners.  Rather than face Jose Abreu, who was two for four, Baltimore manager Buck Showalter opted to walk Abreu, thereby putting the winning run at second base.  Why?  Because Showalter knew Renteria had next to nobody left on the bench.  That’s the problem with a 13-man pitching staff like the Sox have.

Next up after Abreu was Trayce Thompson, a defensive replacement for Daniel Palka (good bat, bad glove).  The only non-pitcher alternative to Thompson was infielder Jose Rondon, who has never played outfield in his professional career.  Me, I would’ve rolled the dice with Rondon and asked for volunteers for the outfield if the Sox had tied the game.  Renteria stuck with Thompson, who struck out, putting his batting average at .119.

If you’re going to go old school, go all the way.  It’ll mean more bats available for crunch-time.

A Pulse, Maybe

The WNBA Chicago Sky have started their season going 2-0.  Lo and behold, both Chicago papers noticed, and at least one of the TV stations, too.  The Trib gave the Sky’s recent 80-76 win over the Liberty four paragraphs to three for the Sun-Times.

If this is more than just “dead-cat bounce” coverage, I think part of it has to do with the Sky’s new home at Wintrust Arena, in the south South Loop.  Judging by the Sunday crowd of 7,992 fans, people may be more inclined to show up there than at the god-forsaken Allstate Arena in suburban Rosemont; the new court definitely looks better on TV.  I also think there’s another reason, at least for last weekend’s coverage.

Sky rookie Diamond DeShields is the sister of Rangers’ centerfielder Delino DeShields Jr., and both are the children of former MLB player Delino DeShields.  As luck would have it, both the Sky and Rangers were in town over the weekend, so Diamond DeShields surprised her brother with a visit to Guaranteed Rate Whatever.  After the hugs came the gamesmanship.

Diamond said her brother would stink if he tried to play her game, but she’d be fine at his.  Personally, I’d like to see what she could do with a bat and glove.  I bet Branch Rickey would, too.

Celebrate

My, my.  Javy Baez of the Cubs is known to stand there at the plate and admire his homeruns.  I don’t like that for a number of reasons, but numerous sports’ people say we have to get with the times.  The same should be true of Baez, who didn’t like being on the other end of a celebration Saturday afternoon in Cincinnati.

Amir Garrett of the Reds did a little celebrating of his own (I don’t like a pitcher doing it any more than a hitter) in the seventh inning after striking out Baez, who took exception.  One thing led to another, both benches cleared, but no punches were thrown.  I wonder what would’ve happened had someone stepped on Baez’s big toe, landing him to the DL.

Maybe his manager could lecture him that what goes around, comes around.

Why Pitch Counts Count

“Old-school” MLB pitchers like to rail against pitch counts, which is a pretty sure bet they enjoyed careers that were relatively injury-free (isn’t that right, Fergie Jenkins?).  So, rather than hear from a pitcher during the Stone Age who was a genetic freak in his own way, how about tracking down a few pre-Tommy-John-surgery, pre-pitch-count pitching prospects who blew out their elbows?  Then, add a few of all the guys who developed bad shoulders after throwing 130-150 pitches game after game.

The more hitters hit, the better the chance they’ll figure things out.  The more pitchers pitch, the closer most of them get to a career-ending injury; those are the breaks of the game.  Given that reality, pitch counts make perfect sense, as important as any sabermetric tool, if not more so.  One hundred pitches a game strikes me a as reasonable workload for starting pitchers.  What matters next, or should, is where in the game those 100 pitches lands a pitcher.

Take yesterday, when White Sox starter Reynaldo Lopez threw 100 pitches plus another seven in his start against the Rangers.  That 107-pitch pitch count took Lopez through eight full innings in a 3-0 Sox win.  It’s a manager’s dream to have his starter go deep in the game with a low pitch count.

Now, let’s go around MLB and see where 100 or so pitches found other starters yesterday.  Eduardo Rodriguez of the Red Sox needed 110 pitches to get through 5.2 innings against the Orioles, this in a 5-0 Boston win; that’s not really good.  It took Junior Guerra of the Brewers 91 pitches to get as far as one out in the fifth inning against the Twins.  How do you say, “That’ll tax your bullpen”?  By the way, Milwaukee lost. And last but not least there’s Joe Biagini of the Bluejays.  Eighty-seven pitches netted him four innings, four runs and a loss in his start against the A’s.

Long story short: pitch counts tell you what kind of starter you have.  Anyone who finishes seven innings in 100 pitches is a keeper.  Everyone else needs to get to work before their arm gives out.

We are Who We are

Clare called me first thing yesterday morning to say that the White Sox had sent down Carson Fulmer after his latest disaster of a start.  My daughter loves baseball no less than I do.  But she is her own person, one who has to spend today, a Sunday, at work.  She fully intends to stream some NCAA playoff softball to watch when she’s not running around solving crises in higher education.  Me, I’ll probably turn on the worst team in baseball.

I dearly miss watching my daughter play softball; she has a swing so sweet it would make Ted Williams smile, if only he could.  I suspect Clare misses playing, too, and watching this year’s whippersnappers will both bring back memories and fuel her desire to become a college athletic director/coach.  She can leave the crappy stuff, like watching those “rebuilding” White Sox, to me.  After all, what are fathers for?   

Anatomy of a Draft Pick

I come not to bury White Sox right-hander Carson Fulmer, but to understand why this 24-year old former first-round draft choice finds himself back in the minors.  Last night’s performance—five walks, two hit-batters and three base hits all leading to eight earned runs in two-plus innings—was just more of the same.  It marked the third time this season the Vanderbilt product couldn’t get out of the second inning.  That happens, and Fulmer’s 8.07 ERA is easy to understand.  So is the demotion to Charlotte.

I’m going to go out on a limb here to say part of the problem is maturity.  TV cameras showed Fulmer in the dugout after he was lifted, his glasses on backwards over his cap.  Nope, sorry.  That little gesture speaks loads as to where Fulmer’s head, let alone his glasses, should be.  The White Sox website ran an update this week on another #1 draft choice, righty reliever Zach Burdi, who underwent Tommy John surgery last July.  Burdi has been rehabbing in Arizona since January and may even pitch again this year.  I don’t get that same sense of dedication from Fulmer. 

In choosing him, the Sox passed up on the likes of the Cubs’ Ian Happ.  So, obviously, there was something in Fulmer they saw and liked.  But what, exactly?  In his first full season in the minors, he went 6-10 with a 4.63 ERA while splitting time between AA and AAA.  Last year, he posted a 7-9 mark and 5.79 ERA for Triple-A Charlotte.  That makes his 3-1 record with the Sox at the last season all the more confusing.  Who’s the real Carson Fulmer?

And all those stats lead to another question—what have Fulmer’s coaches done for him?  In the minors, apparently next to nothing.  As for Don Cooper, if he wants to take credit for the 3-1, then he has to own up to this year’s 2-4.  If Cooper is a genius who’s dispensing the secrets to having a Hall-of-Fame career and Fulmer’s not listening, somebody did a bad job of scouting.  Young athletes aren’t exactly adept at hiding their true selves.

Then again, if Cooper is more skilled at hanging onto his job than he is actually coaching, it doesn’t say a whole heck of a lot for the chances of the rebuild, now does it?  

Of Money Bins and Money Pits

I saw in the paper last week that the Rays are looking—desperately, no doubt—for a new ballpark.  Something about the funereal air and weird-looking turf at Tropicana Field keeps the fans away.

Of course, I never tire of pointing out this was the place the White Sox threatened to move to if they didn’t get their publicly-funded ball mall.  Had the Sox gone South (as opposed to south, as in this current rebuild), I suspect that by now they would be threatening to move back to Chicago if some sucker in Florida didn’t build them a new home.  I also saw that the Diamondbacks and Maricopa County officials have entered into a preliminary agreement to release the team from its Chase Field lease in 2022.  My heart goes out to any team that has to play in a 20-year old facility.

   And I’m ever so worried as to where public funding for replacement stadiums would come from.  Both Florida and Arizona want to cut back on Medicaid, and they aren’t too wild about paying their teachers a living wage (Arizona partially excepted in the wake of massive teacher protests there).  How will these two hotbeds of Tea Party sentiment react to MLB owners coming hat in hand to ask for a handout?  Maybe they could work a deal where able-bodied Medicaid recipients work on the stadium construction projects to keep costs down.

It only seems like the chain gang reborn.

Rebuilding, a Player's Perspective

Brandon McCarthy started his MLB career as a 21-year old with the 2005 White Sox.  Thirteen years later, the tall right-hander is still pitching, currently as a starter with the Braves.

McCarthy has never been one to hide his opinions; Clare does or did follow him on Twitter for his outside-the-box take on things.  McCarthy had a bigger forum yesterday in the Tribune, which he used to full effect.  To the best of my knowledge, this was one of the few, if not the first, times a ballplayer offered his thoughts on team rebuilds.

Speaking to reporter Paul Sullivan, McCarthy said, “You see teams tank and do something and fall short, and then you’ve subjected your fans to a few years of tanking.”  McCarthy did allow that there are times tanking makes sense, “But you’re also seeing too many full teardowns...it’s somewhat of an easy lie, an easy situation to pass off to [and on] fans.”  I’ll say.

Now we come to the point where the player sounded like this fan:  “We’ve seen it a ton.  Like, if five years in a row you nail your top draft pick inside the top ten picks, then you’re probably going to be better.  But it took five years in a row of your fans trudging out to games pretty much just to watch the other team play.”

Let me note here that the White Sox, who officially began their rebuild in 2017, haven’t had a winning season since 2012.  So, Sox fans have been trudging for a lot longer than five years.  Last season’s record was 67-95.  With a record right now of 10-29, we’re on track for a 40-44 win season; hello, ’62 Mets.  Trudge, fudge…

Making Book

Where I grew up in Chicago, we had plenty of corner groceries, including Carl’s; my mother sent me there for milk and the Polish sausage.  Rumor had it other people went to place bets with Carl’s partner, Mickey, who was said to make book in the back of the store.  Suffice it to say that from early on in life I’ve associated gambling with various other activities best hidden from view.

So, Monday’s Supreme Court ruling that struck down a federal law restricting state involvement in sports’ betting will in essence put gambling front and center (not far from where Carl stacked the smoked fish next to the cash register).  I’m curious as to how states will insure against underage gamblers.  At Carl’s, you could shoot dice for the Hostess Twinkees.

I also wonder if what promises to be a “golden age” of state-sanctioned gambling will lead Commissioner Rob Manfred to reconsider the ban on Pete Rose and the Black Sox.  You could argue these were players ahead of their times.  If not, MLB will have to come up with rationale why, and something better than to say that was then and this is now.  Personally, I can’t wait.   

Practice Makes Perfect

Most athletes have to wrestle with their demons.  For Clare, there was one in particular, a strike zone as big as the wide open spaces.  My daughter started where Yogi Berra and Vladimir Guerrero left off—what they wouldn’t swing at, she did.

This led to some—no, many—testy practices between BP-throwing parent and batter/child.  Over time, I got Clare to lay off of anything that bounced in, and she never had a problem with inside pitches.  Stuff in her eyes, she’d swing at, and she made hard contact more times than you could imagine.  It was breaking balls outside that drove me nuts.  Clare’s front foot would go one way and her bat the other, almost always resulting in a very sad swinging strike.  That in turn led me to utter these immortal words:  “And where would the ball go if you’d actually managed to hit it?” Equally sad little foul squibs every blue moon were all the answer I needed.

If nothing else, this war of wills led to a better hitter, though I doubt it’ll get much mention during my eulogy.  Still, I wonder if something similar has happened with Matt Davidson of the White Sox, a war that’s led to a change in approach.  It sure looks that way, compared to 2017.

Last year, Davidson hit .220 in 414 at-bats, with all of 19 walks.  So far this year, he’s managed 22 walks in just 115 at-bats, which helps explain the .261 batting average and .383 on-base percentage.  Last year, Davidson had an OBP of .260.  As for power numbers, he’s on track to hit 44 homeruns compared to 26 last season.  So, something’s changed for the better here.

I just hope it didn’t take as much yelling back and forth as with a certain bride-to-be.

Deep in Enemy Territory

Deep in Enemy Territory

I spent much of Saturday driving to and from Wrigley Field, twice no less, but at least it was for a good cause, that being my daughter’s bachelorette party.  Clare decided to hold it in the bleachers during game two of this year’s so-called Crosstown Classic.  Long story short—bad weather  good company.

No, I wasn’t invited, and I didn’t have a ticket to yet another drubbing of the “rebuilding” White Sox.  My job was to deliver my wife to the Friendly Confines to join in the festivities; Clare thought it would be fun to have both her mother and future mother-in-law join the celebrants.  Who could know there’d be a nearly two-hour rain delay?  At least no one with the last name of “Bukowski” made a drunken fool of herself waiting for the game to start.

Professional baseball started off as so many green fields shoehorned into urban neighborhoods, where people walked or took public transit to the game.  Wrigley is that field with a vengeance, so much green surrounded by so much brick and glass (meant to generate a different green altogether).  There isn’t a hint of an adjacent parking lot, just barkers every block or so along Addison Street with signs that say “Parking” for $30 or $40 or more.

You drive to Wrigley Field, you either park miles away and take a shuttle or you give in to those bandits with their signs.  The smart thing to do is take the “L” or, as Michele did, have someone drive you; that’s the straw I drew.  I dropped off my charge at the corner of Clark and Addison, where she could join with others of the few, the proud, the so-far-from-the-South-Side Sox fans.

The comparison between Wrigley and Guaranteed Rate Whatever is painful, a true national landmark vs. an urban mall.  To be fair, Comiskey Park never sat cheek-by-jowl with its neighbors; photos from the 1930s show cars filling up lots on two sides of the park.  For some reason, the surrounding Bridgeport and Armour Square neighborhoods never developed up to the entrances of Comiskey Park.  But it didn’t really matter.

That beautiful, symmetrical brick edifice dominated its site like a temple or church.  Had Sox owner Jerry Reinsdorf possessed an ounce of vision, he would have developed the surrounding real estate for a renovated Comiskey Park the way the Cubs have done under the Ricketts’ family.  But No, Reindorf tore down a landmark for a big box and wonders why his team can never draw like they do on the North Side.  Oh, well.

My daughter and her friends all had a good time.  There are some people in this world who can pull off going to a ballgame while wearing a sash that announces her impending nuptials; Clare happens to be one of them.  Despite the score (8-4, bad guys), she was happy, which is all a father can ask for. 

Crumbs

Heading into the Crosstown Classic this weekend at Wrigley Field, White Sox general manager Rick Hahn announced he was staying the course, damn’ the torpedoes and full losing ahead.  As bad as his team might be, Hahn as no intention of rushing the talent he’s squirreled away in the minors.

“As satisfying as it might be to reward the fans who have endured this rough start by dropping a top prospect in there as a bit of a cookie to show progress in this process and to make the games perhaps a little more palatable, that will not be the motivation,” Hahn told the Tribune Friday in that convoluted syntax of his.  “It will be based upon the player having completed every element of his development at the minor-league level.”

So, Hahn is either a prolix jerk or a clueless prolix jerk.  Judging by the stats, I’d say there’s a lot of talent at high-A and Double A for the Sox.  If Hahn doesn’t want to bring it to the parent club, he should at a minimum start reshuffling the rosters at Double-A Birmingham and Triple-A Charlotte.  Wait, maybe that’s what he was saying, only it got lost in all the verbiage.

Playing the Fool

Stop the presses!  Rafael Palmeiro, the non-cheat nonpareil, is coming out of retirement.  For some reason, the 53-year old Palmeiro wants to play at a level not even Julio Franco, who retired at age 49, dared.

Palmeiro told reporters, “I’m doing it because I love the game, first of all.  And because I want to get back to proving to myself that I can do this and maybe for some of those people that [sic] think that I cheated, they might think again and say, ‘Well, wait a minute.  He’s 53, he’s playing at this level, he’s playhng in the big leagues [actually, the Cleburne Railroaders of the independent American Association], he’s producing.’  Maybe some of those [people] will say, ‘OK, he did it legitimately.”

Or they could say that Palmeiro lied in his testimony to a Congressional committee that, “I have never used steroids, period” and now he’s lying to himself.

Mugshots

If only to irritate myself, I leafed through the White Sox magazine/program I had to buy Wednesday in order to keep score.  Ricky’s Boys Don’t Quit, but they sure do lose a lot.  I forget, what’s the difference in the end?

Mixed in with the puff pieces and ads are a series of headshots, 202 in all, of front office personnel; of that number, 73 are of female employees.  On such a slender thread does MLB claim to be making progress on the diversity front. 

Owner Jerry Reinsdorf and Commissioner Rob Manfred would no doubt say the glass is more than a third full, and indeed it is, if you include titles like “coordinator of ticket office services”; “senior coordinator , social content and engagement”; and “director of community and charitable programs.”  But all the senior vice presidents are male, and all the ex-players mentioned, from Ken Williams and Dave Duncan to Frank Thomas and Jim Thome, are guys, too.  Precious few women play baseball into adulthood, but I hear many of them have long careers in something called fast-pitch softball.

Apparently, a 12-inch softball and anyone who’s played with one could ruin a baseball player if they get too close.

Good Company, Nice Weather, Bad Results

 Until yesterday, Clare and I had never been to a Sox game, just the two of us.  Baseball and softball have always been a full family affair for us. 

But yesterday, Clare, well into her 26^th year and a little over a month from her wedding, left work to meet me at Guaranteed Rate Whatever for an afternoon game against the Pirates.  It was great for all the wrong reasons—no waiting to get in, no waiting at the concession stand, out of the parking lot in minutes.  Oh, and no major league baseball team otherwise known as the Chicago White Sox.

“Ricky’s boys,” as the advertising slogan calls this rag-tag collection of maybes and whatnots, did go through the motions for eight innings, building up a 5-2 lead behind homeruns by Tim Anderson and Daniel (he of the barrel chest) Palka.  Reynaldo Lopez looked sharp through 7-1/3 innings, rookie Jace Fry got his two outs, and then Nate Jones laid an egg in the form of four runs and a 6-5 loss.  What’s not to like about a 9-25 team?  Let me tell you.

I don’t like being told that reinforcements are on the way, at some point but don’t ask when.  Yeah, maybe things will be great in 2020, for those fans who don’t die between now and then.  Then again, maybe the survivors won’t be so happy with the state of things two years hence.  Nothing says the reinforcements have to be any good or that they’ll even get here.  Third baseman Jake Burger, last June’s first-round draft pick, ruptured his Achilles for the second time since spring training, this while walking in his backyard last week.  Don’t count on Burger in 2020. 

What you can count on is the mind-numbing “entertainment” between innings, with fans getting to name that tune and pick a favorite in the video-board race of the three Italian beef sandwiches.  Did I mention the pizza race or the match-the-Sox logos contest?  Well, consider it done.

So, I had to put up with that crap and try to keep score as best I could.  The problem here is that the Sox have decided to do away with scorecards; they must’ve been hanging around the plastic straws or some other bad character.  Instead, I got to pay twice as much for a program, which let me keep score as long as I didn’t go looking for names and numbers printed anywhere.  Trust me, said program didn’t fit on my clipboard and didn’t sit well on my lap.  I’ve seen prescriptions more legible than what I did.

All in all, the best part of the game was the company.  Clare and I shared observations borne of two-plus decades of watching games together.  My daughter has even picked up one of my old habits.  I used to go “Ooh!” when Clare swung hard at a pitch and missed.  Now she does it for the likes of Tim Anderson and Daniel Palka.  That means the, the acorn, no matter how comely, didn’t fall far from the tree.   

Pump It Up

Well, the weather yesterday was pretty much perfect, and I was pretty much rested, so a bike ride along Lake Michigan it was.  I’m happy to report that I’m still able to report.

Off the first ride, I couldn’t get a feel if the repacked bearings in both wheels had made a difference; now I know they did.  How else to explain the time it took me to do twenty miles?  Yes, the wind was at my back going north, but that meant it was in my face on the return.  So, that leaves the bearings.

I started out across from the Museum of Science and Industry, where, alas, the U-505 is no longer parked outside; still, the museum with its caryatids makes for a good reference point.  Then it was south for 2-1/2 miles down to 79th Street before turning back.  I passed by Rainbow Beach, where we all went as kids to escape the summer heat (and, in the case of my two sisters, to be seen by the opposite sex) and the old South Shore Country Club, where my sister Betty went to her high school prom.  All memories should be as pleasant.

I no longer get (too) upset by “cyclists” in their fancy outfits so tight it keeps them from talking, as in “Passing on your left”; I just keep an ear out for the approaching whirr and try not to get spooked when I miss it.  The big thing on the lakefront trail this year is separating bikes from pedestrians and joggers.  To do that, the city is making a new, bike-only trail, which sounds a lot nicer than it actually is.  Too often, the trail parallels Lake Shore Drive, with the traffic maybe six feet away.  They’re promising to install extra guardrails soon, which is very nice of them.  Something strong enough to hold off a drunk driver, I would hope.

I started off a little after ten in the morning and figured to get to the north end of the trail by noon.  Imagine my surprise to find out it was only 11:50, so I kept going another four miles or so into Evanston.  There’s a nice park right up against the lake and opposite Calvary Cemetery, final resting place of author James T. Farrell.

How a South Side White Sox fan ended up on the North Shore is beyond me.  Then again, that puts Farrell far away from the misery of his 9-24 Sox.

Time's Up

Time’s Up

Over the last five years, a number of NFL cheerleaders have accused teams of various misdeeds, from sub-minimum-wage pay to near-total control of on- and off-field behavior.  For example, players can be seen with whomever they want, but God help the cheerleader seen with an NFL player.

Right now, two former cheerleaders have offered to drop their EEOC complaints in exchange for a sit-down with NFL Commissioner Roger Goodell; the women are hoping to set up a work agreement of some sort.  Good luck with that.  Nobody should get the short end of the stick at work, but cheerleading may be work that’s headed for the ash heap of history.

What exactly is the connection between scantily-clad young women cheering and sports?  None that I can think of, outside of having to do with the testosterone levels of male fans and players.  I know that, in high school and college, cheerleaders do incredible routines that risk injury, but, again, what’s the connection to the game being played?  Or, put another way, can the game be played without the presence of cheerleaders?  Give me one example where the answer is No.

We never entertained the notion of Clare cheering on the sidelines as boys played.  Yes, other parents feel differently.  But I’d argue the times, they are a’changin’.  Pom-poms and human pyramids may be going the way of “Ladies Day” at the ballpark.  I’d say that’s a good thing.

Cinco de Padre

White Sox pitcher Miguel Gonzalez was minding his own business, sitting in the dugout a few hours before Saturday’s game.  When a mariachi band began practicing for a planned Cinco de Mayo celebration, manager Rick Renteria pushed Gonzalez—born in Guadalajara, Mexico—out of the dugout and told him to sing.  Gonzalez was caught on film doing a nice job fronting the band.  And that’s what got me thinking about my father and his polka music.  Given that both genres used the accordion, mariachi and polka are two sides of the same folk-music coin.

On weekends, my father would hole himself up in the basement, working on one project or another; I swear he was working on digging a hole straight to China when he wasn’t rebuilding an old washing machine or something else he found in the alley.  Armed with sledgehammer and/or screwdriver, my dad worked hours on end.  Sometimes, he whistled, other times he talked to himself (“Not too smart there, Eddie”).  Most of the time, he turned the radio to station WOPA and jacked up the volume.  When the mood hit, he’d sing along to the Polish version of Howlin’ Wolf or the people Miguel Gonzalez fronted.

It was Sunday afternoons like that that Ed Bukowski was in his element, working and fixing, singing.  When the neighborhood changed, he saw no reason to move from a house he’d called home and had helped pay for since he was thirteen years old.  I don’t know if he sang to the new neighbors’ music, but I bet he recognized it as a polka by any other name.

Now He Tells Me

On Friday, a Tribune sportswriter called out ex-Cub Sammy Sosa.  Too bad it’s sixteen years late.

Teddy Greenstein, who covered the Cubs for two years starting in 2000, offered a whole list of reasons to dislike Sosa, including being a “lousy teammate” who “would never take the blame for misplaying a fly ball or missing the cutoff man”; a cheater with a corked bat; and “the most egotistical athlete or coach” Greenstein has ever covered.  What, pray tell, set off Greenstein?

Well, Sosa did an interview recently on cable where he put his ugly—and clueless—self on full display.  When he wasn’t busy whining, Sosa came off as some sort of unappreciated martyr.  Here’s the thing, though.  This was all apparent to anyone who wasn’t a zombie Cubs’ fan (as much as it pains me, I will admit to the existence of thinking Cubs’ fans) or a member of the Chicago sports’ media.  When I first saw the “new” Sosa, in the spring of 1998 if I’m not mistaken, he looked like he’d put on thirty pounds or more.  I kept waiting for someone to call him out.  Silly me.

That wasn’t fat on Sosa’s frame, but new-found muscle.  Not once in that period 1998-2003, when Sosa totaled 332 homeruns, did I once read or hear doubts over how Sosa had gotten so strong.  Even now, Greenstein can’t bring himself to charge Sosa with using PEDs.  Instead, he merely offers that Sosa “nearly—but not magically—doubled his homerun rate from 1997 to 1998, quite the accomplishment for” an athlete in mid-career.

Greenstein is right, it wasn’t magic; science is more like it.  But maybe Sosa used magic to cast a spell over the Chicago media.  Or maybe the Chicago media just turned a blind eye to what was obvious from the South Side of town.          

Can We Talk?

After a loss to Atlanta Wednesday, ex-White Sox third baseman Todd Frazier, now of the Mets, has had it with plate umpires and their ever-changing strike zones.  “I’d like to sit down with [Commissioner Rob] Manfred or anybody at MLB and talk to them about it,” Frazier told reporters after the game, “because it’s rubbing everybody the wrong way.  You [and you know who you are, men in blue] have to do better than that.”

Frazier went on to say he’s already had a sit-down with an ump he claims miscalled five pitches on him during a recent game.  “I respect him for doing that.  But at the same time, when you look back and see this kind of stuff where they’re blatantly not strikes, I just can’t sit back and let it go anymore.  Something has to be said.”  Maybe he could say it to Joe West.  Now, I’d like to be a fly on the wall for that conversation.

With that fondness for outside breaking balls in the dirt, Frazier is the wrong guy making the right point.  Major-league strike zones change game to game, and it’s not enough to say pitchers and hitters simply have to adjust.  Ballplayers learn their trade with a uniform knees-to-armpits strike zone as their template.  Umpires can’t all of a sudden say, “Throw it here”; “Don’t throw it here”; “This is a strike today”; “This isn’t a strike today.”  Madness that way lurks.

Just ask Todd Frazier.

Seems Like Old Times

When the White Sox traded for Matt Davidson in 2014, I was ecstatic without knowing a thing about Davidson.  It was enough for me that he wasn’t Addison Reed, the closer we sent to Arizona in exchange for the third-base prospect.  And now that I’ve watched Davidson these past two seasons work at being a major-league hitter, always humble and always trying to explain what exactly he’s up to at the plate, so much the better.  Addison who?

In two seasons as the Sox closer, Reed showed that ability relievers are supposed to have and forget about that bad night the game before, only there were too many nights like that with the young righty.  Do they keep stats for yielding the most walk-off hits in a season or career?  I’d be surprised if Reed wasn’t up there.  Other teams must’ve thought so, given how he’s now more of a setup man than a closer.  That way, the game still goes on in the eighth if Reed should cough up a lead.

Reed came in to pitch last night for the Twins, who in the offseason signed him to a two-year, $16.75 million deal.  Too bad for Minnesota it was a tied game against the Sox and they’d already gone through two relievers.  Reed it was, and he did strike out Matt Davidson.  Then, one batter later, it was bad Addison all over again, behind in the count and coming in with the wrong pitch, which Trayce Thompson proceeded to park in the left-field seats for a White Sox winner.  With that hit, Thompson is now hitting .140 on the season.

The Twins went into the season picked by many to compete for the second wild card spot, only to find themselves a disappointing 10-17; a walk-off loss hardly helps.  Not to pick on Addison Reed, but, my God, he’s doing the same thing today he did in 2011 and ’12.  It’s true—some people just don’t learn.

Still Swingin'

I would never admit to my daughter that I might be the tiniest bit proud of her.  At 26, she’s managed to find a good job at the Kellogg School of Management, and this off of what was supposed to be temp work.  She’s planned her June wedding down to a t (and replanned it several times since).  Yesterday, after splitting her work day between Evanston and the Gold Coast (Kellogg is a part of Northwestern University, and work takes her to both campuses), Clare swung over to the West Loop, picked up Michele and then drove to Berwyn to go hitting.

What’s it been, eight weeks or ten?  To insure against embarrassment, I got an extra token, thirteen instead of the usual twelve.  “Bunt the first five pitches, ‘butcher boy’ the next,” I instructed.  Keeping her swing short to start things off seemed the best way to shake off rust in the form of swings and misses.  I ought to get a job in this line of work, I was so right.  Thirteen tokens, 130 pitches seen, not one swing and a miss.  The girl’s still got it.

The best part of taking Clare hitting—after watching her, that is—comes from seeing how people react to a young woman taking her swings at the highest speeds.  The two boys from St. Laurence, my alma mater, didn’t say anything; after all, teenaged males have fragile egos that might be bruised from admitting a girl can hit.  The two fathers were fun, though.

The first was probably in his mid-thirties, his five-year old girl in tow.  “Where does she play?” he wanted to know.  The answer allowed me to give career highlights.  “See?” the dad asked his girl.  See how hard she hits and how far the ball goes?

The second father was older, and his boy wasn’t nearly as interested in what Clare had to show.  The man went up to Clare as she exited the batting cage and asked her to tell his son it’s OK that your hands hurt sometime from hitting.  We’ve been at the cages in the dead of winter, played games in the cold damp of March.  Oh, yeah, hands and wrists will hurt from making contact with a ball.  Alas, the boy didn’t want to hear any such message.

Clare stayed over for dinner.  How’d hitting go?” Michele asked on her return.  “Terrible,” I said in the way of all fathers slow to compliment their children.  But the truth came out soon enough.  It had to.

Take a Hike

There’s a commercial from a health-insurance company that really bugs me.  It features a couple, obviously on the far side of 65, doing some sort of training regimen heavy on stairs and love.  Up and down, hug.  Up and down, smile.  Then, it’s off to the stadium so they can climb all the way up to what must be their season’s tickets in the upper deck.  Apparently, love and good legs will get you far in life.  If and when they come up short, you can fall back on that insurance policy.

My thing is that nobody should have to hike through the Alps to get to their seats.  I distinctly remember taking my parents to a White Sox game in 1990, which was the last season for Comiskey Park; that summer, Ed and Mary Ann both turned 77.  I parked the car in the lot across the street; we walked over and into the park; climbed something like five—not seven or eight—stairs to get to an aisle in the lower deck; followed the aisle and then walked down maybe fifteen steps to our seats.  Try that in Guaranteed Rate Whatever.

If I were to try the same thing today, we’d have to take escalators to the main concourse and then walk down forever to reach our seats; there are no circulating aisles as in Comiskey.  I couldn’t tell you what it’s like in the upper deck because I refuse to step foot in it.  But I do know this.

When they were building the monstrosity, Tom Paciorek—Hawk Harrelson’s longtime sidekick—did construction updates.  One time, fearless Tom ventured into the stratosphere and joked about how high up he was, only the joke turned out to be on the White Sox.  Fans hate(d) the upper deck to the extent that in 2004 the top eight rows (some 6600 seats) were torn out and a pretend roof added to make the thing at least look a little like a real ballpark.     

In the make-believe world of affordable health insurance, that’s some gift to an elderly couple—eight less rows to climb.  But Guaranteed Rate still sucks.