Bobby Hull and Ezra Pound

Bobby Hull was Ezra Pound on skates, a combination of extraordinary talent and odious behavior. Hull benefitted from the fig leaf that comes with the term “alleged.” Otherwise, he and Pound could have shared a prison cell somewhere. Pound put his stamp on modern literature in the first decades of the twentieth century as both poet and critic. He was also a fascist and antisemite, so much so that he lived in Italy before and during WWII, doing radio broadcasts for the Axis cause. Unlike Hull, Pound spent thirteen years in prison. Hull is alleged to have said that Hitler had good ideas. Pound said pretty much the same thing, but he said it over the air in wartime, which earned him a conviction for treason. Hull is alleged to have abused two of his wives, and he was convicted of assaulting a police officer during one of those incidents. In 1998, he was quoted in a Moscow publication that Hitler “had some good idea. He just went a little bit too far,” which begs the question of what Hull considered more than a little bit. In the interview, Hull also expressed concerns that the Black population of the U.S. was growing too fast along with support for eugenics, the selective reproduction—perhaps you say “breeding”—of human beings. Hull later sued the publication, but there’s no indication that the suit went to trial. Me, if I’m accused of making such statements, I’d spend the rest of my life trying to clear my name. Hull scored 610 goals in his career. That has to be balanced against everything alleged. Unlike Hull, Ezra Pound never claimed he was misquoted.

Gus Zernial...Chiefs

Quarterback Jalen Hurts led fans in a rendition of “Fly Eagles Fly” following Philadelphia’s 31-7 win over the 49ers for a trip to Super Bowl LVII, and I got to thinking of a story from long-ago baseball player Gus Zernial. Allow me to summarize it from We Played the Game, an oral history of baseball, 1947-1954, edited by Danny Peary. Zernial was a power-hitting outfielder who came up with the White Sox in 1949 and was part of a three-team deal with the Sox, A’s and Indians that brought Minnie Minoso to the South Side two years later. Unfortunately for Zernial, he drew the short straw and ended up in Philadelphia. Never mind that he batted in 100 or more runs in his first three seasons in the City of Brotherly Love. Philadelphia fans are a hard lot, which Zernial learned one day in 1954. He’d been having a bad day in the field during a blowout loss to the visiting Red Sox, and it got significantly worse when he tried to catch a line drive off the bat of Billy Consolo. Zernial tripped and broke his left shoulder. “The fans were booing me,” Zernial recalled for Peary decades later. “I said [to myself], ‘Thank God I don’t have to come out here anymore.’” And how did those Philadelphia fans react as he was carted off the field? They used “a lot of foul language and such sentiments as, ‘You should have broken your neck!’” I wonder, how many fans filling Lincoln Financial Field last night are descended from the fans who booed Zernial that day, or the Easter Bunny, for that matter? In the likelihood it’s more than a few, I’ll be pulling for the Chiefs thirteen days from now.

Clear-eyed

Candace Parker is leaving the WNBA Sky, where she played the last two seasons, for the Las Vegas Aces. The Naperville native said in part she wanted to be closer to her 13-year old daughter, who’s starting high school late next summer. That Parker and her family live in Los Angeles leads me to ask: Why did the Chicago media portray her 2021 signing with the Sky as a “homecoming”? She never played with the Sky before and never relocated in the offseason to the Chicago area once she signed with them. To pretend otherwise was lazy journalism pure and simple. Parker made a business decision to play here and another to go elsewhere, as is her right. Leave “homecoming” for athletes from here who play and live here. Nothing else fits the definition, no matter how tempting it is to pretend otherwise.

Smile

My 31-year old turned into her teenaged self yesterday morning when someone she knows posted a photo of ex-Sox and HOF slugger Jim Thome having breakfast at a nearby restaurant. “He was five-minutes away,” the woman-child enthused. “I could’ve pick up Leo from daycare [Clare was working from home] and had our picture taken.” Alas, mom-child found out too late to act. “Imagine if we’d all been there when Thome walked in,” I teased. “That way, you could’ve had your picture taken, and I could’ve said, ‘Oh, by the way, my daughter hated you at first because the White Sox traded Aaron Rowand to get you.’” This attempt at humor was not appreciated. Truth be told, nothing would’ve pleased me more than to have my daughter rooting for Thome—whose smile could brighten the dark side of the Moon—from his first big-league at-bat. But we’re not Cleveland fans, and neither Chicago team knows how to scout its own backyard. Thome was born in downstate Peoria and went to school in Bartonville, about a 2-1/2 hour drive by way of I-55 and -74. Apparently, Sox scouts lacked the same ability to read a map. When the 1989 draft rolled around, either a lack of scouting reports or negative reports on Thome kept not only the Sox but every other major-league team from selecting the 18-year old out Illinois Central College in East Peoria during the first twelve rounds. The then-Indians rectified that mistake in the thirteenth round. Cleveland picked after the Sox, by the way. The Sox chose Frank Thomas in the first round, so it’s not like the draft was a total disaster. Here’s the thing, though: they also picked two first basemen ahead of Thome. Here’s the other thing—he came up as a third baseman. Yes, the Sox already had Robin Ventura, not that it kept them from drafting a third baseman in the fifth round. Other times, I complain about all the talent the Sox have traded away: Earl Battey; Johnny Callison; Norm Cash; Bucky Dent; Brian Downing; Doug Drabek; Terry Forster; Goose Gossage; and Bob Wickman. You can also throw in Gio Gonzalez, who was packaged with Rowand in the deal that brought Thome to the South Side. At the very least, Thome should be among the ones we had but let get away, assuming he couldn’t have dislodged Thomas or Ventura or proved a better DH than George Bell. Instead, he goes on the list with Curtis Granderson and Kirby Puckett, local products made good elsewhere. We should try that restaurant, though.

PILOT This

Today’s Sun-Times had a fascinating story on the Bears, and it wasn’t in the sports’ section. Instead, the Munsters made news by pushing for a change in state tax law to allow a PILOT program, as in payment in lieu of taxes. Wait, there’s more. In essence, the idea would allow the Bears to negotiate their tax bill, a power most of us peasants would just love, provided we had the Bears’ level of clout, which, sadly, we don’t. There must be more generations of McCaskeys out there in need of cushy trust funds than I realized. If the Bears want to pay for their new digs, that’s fine by me, only the thing is, they don’t, not really, and this shows it. Basically, the team is saying they’re going to bring so much prosperity to the area they deserve a nice big tax break for their efforts. How big? As big as they can get away with. For area businesses and schools, a Bears’ stadium and whatnot is a Trojan Horse on steroids. Choke roads and highways on game day; attack established restaurants and bars with your own entertainment district; and build commercial space in a region full of it. Oh, and dictate what you’ll pay in taxes. And if public officials object? Why, then the president of the Illinois Chamber of Commerce warns that “other states [will] make their cases on why the Chicago Bears should be the St. Louis Bears.” Correct me if I’m wrong here, but St. Louis has lost two NFL teams so far, yes? The Chamber is pretty much Phil Sheridan reincarnated—the only good unions and taxes are non-existent unions and taxes. A tax break for working people? Not their concern. A tax break for the fumbling, bumbling McCasekys, whose team, according to the Times and Forbes, generated $520 million in revenue in 2021? That’s a different story. But not one I care to hear.

Searching

Some days are harder than others. Taking a relative for x-rays for the second time in two weeks qualifies as one of those harder days. That would be today, not to be confused with the unplanned visit to the doctor’s office yesterday afternoon. The driving doesn’t bother me; it’s always been a way to explore new places. The music figures in once those places grow old. This comes from Clare and softball, practice after practice after tournament. She made CDs for her father in eighth grade. Grandpa can now make his own CDs. If you want to listen to Beach Bunny; Wet Leg; or Vilray and Rachael, hop right in. Then, there’s the collecting. I always try to find the time to scan eBay once a day. Right now, I want a team autographed ball from the 1963 White Sox, but it has to include autographs of Deacon Jones and Dave DeBusschere. I just looked a few minutes ago. That, and at White Sox rumors, which is how I found out Gary Peters died at the age of 85. Peters won AL Rookie of the Year, going 19-8 with a 2.33 ERA. He pitched the last game of the season trying for win number twenty, at home against the Senators. It was a Sunday, and my parents took a late September drive, with me in the back seat. I bet my father Peters would win the game. The Senators had 106 losses, and one more looked like a sure thing. My bad, my loss of a quarter after a 9-2 drubbing. Minnie Minoso led the visitors with three hits. Some days, the music isn’t enough, and the right team autographed ball isn’t for sale. Those are the days you don’t want a ballplayer from your long-ago childhood to pass away, least of all on a gray January Thursday.

Bad Day at Black Rock

Clare wanted to talk to me about Eloy Jimenez, that lovable bull in the White Sox china shop. On Monday, Eloy did a Zoom call in which he declared he wasn’t accepting the notion of being the primary DH this season. No, he wants to play the outfield. With Andrew Benintendi signed to play left, Eloy wants to give right a shot. Never mind that Eloy’s had plenty of time to learn the easiest position in the game. Having failed there, he intends to switch over to right field, where balls off the bats of right-handed hitters tend to slice away from the fielder. But Eloy says he’s been practicing, so there’s that. Too bad he didn’t start showing this level of effort earlier; he’s been a major leaguer since 2019. Now, all of a sudden he wants to get better? OK, but he might want to tell Oscar Colas, the rookie the Sox have penciled in for right field, where he’s going to play. Moving right along, Clare asked if I saw what Eloy said about who’s going to step up as a team leader with Jose Abreu now in Houston; he couldn’t name anyone. Hello, Tim Anderson. Care to comment? As we were discussing all things Eloy, Clare interrupted, “Oh, this isn’t good,” and I’m thinking another California mass shooting or something in Ukraine. Then she read the announcement that MLB is investigating recent Sox free-agent signee Mike Clevinger on allegations of domestic and child abuse. Clevinger is accused of choking the mother of one of his children and throwing used tobacco—more information here please. By my way of thinking, used tobacco gets spit, not thrown, unless the thrower is being really gross—at his ten-month old daughter. To which you can only say: Way to go, White Sox. They go from Tony LaRussa, who was facing a DUI charge at the time of his hiring in 2020, to this. Does the front office know the meaning of “due diligence”? Not from where I sit. These days, we all have to be Caesar’s wife, beyond reproach. But that would require knowledge of Shakespeare, and the Sox seem stuck in vaudeville.

My Kingdom For a Kicker

What do Connor Barth; Mike Nugent; Cairo Santos (twice); Cody Parkey; and Eddie Pineiro have in common? They’ve all tried to fill the void left when the Bears cut kicker Eddie Gould right before the start of the 2016 season. Gould is the guy who kicked four field goals Sunday—from 26; 47; 50; and 28 yards—in the 49ers’ 19-12 win over the Cowboys. The forty-year old Gould is now 29/29 in postseason field-goal attempts. After being let go by the Munsters’ then-GM Ryan Pace, Gould spent half a season with the Giants, where he went 10/10 on field goals. In his seven years with San Francisco, Gould has gone 161/184, for a 87.5 percent success rate. And Barth et al? They’ve gone a collective 157/188, good 83.5 percent of the time. Gosh, what do you think might have happened in that wildcard game against the Eagles, where Parkey missed a 43-yard attempt with time expiring and the Bears down by one? Did I mention that Gould has never missed a field-goal attempt in the postseason? Double-doink.

We Thank You for Your Patronage

Buffalo Bills’ fans filled Highmark Stadium in Orchard Park for yesterday’s playoff game against the Bengals. A crowd of 70,733 fans braved cold, wind and snow only to see their hometown heroes fall, 27-10. The stadium used to hold 80,000 fans in a time before luxury suites took up so much space. The new Bill’s stadium will seat in the neighborhood of 60,000 to 63,000 when it opens in 2026. Simple math says 10,000 fans from yesterday won’t be welcome on the premises three years down the road. Then again, 10,000 fans have already been given the boot. What’s a few more? But, hey, thanks for being loyal fans of the Buffalo Bills.

What to Make of That?

Someday, Roger Goodell is going to assemble a goon squad to hunt down the likes of me. I watch playoff football; turn it off; come back to it after church or dinner; and never bet a dime. What does the commissioner make of that? I mean, the Jaguars-Chiefs’ game was good, Kansas City winning 27-20, but not enough for this baseball-first fan to stay glued to his TV. Sorry, 5 o’clock Mass, Jesus offering to turn some guys He met into fishers of men. Not to take anything away from Patrick Mahomes. As of today, this is somebody I could see my grandson emulating. So far, Mahomes has avoided the prima-donna persona of Tom Brady and Aaron Rodgers. Giants-Eagles? The score was 14-zip Philadelphia the first time I checked, 28-0 the second time. We taped “The Chase” for our gameshow pleasure, followed by episode seven of “The Crown.” I worry about Lady Diana. No doubt, football fans go through the same on Opening Day or the All-Star Game or the baseball postseason. But I think casual viewership of the national pastime provokes a different reaction. Don’t care about baseball? Fine, we’ll try harder to win you over. Don’t care that much about football? Traitors each and every one.

Friday Filler

I just finished reading an op-ed piece by a professor of computer science in today’s Tribune, on using artificial intelligence to help select candidates to Cooperstown. Talk about dumb, and I say that as someone with a Ph.D. Why genuflect at the altar of AI? Read on: “With baseball now a sport driven by data analytics, perhaps the shift from sports writers to artificial intelligence is the direction needed to make selections. This would take into account both on-field and off-field factors so that a decision could be made that captures the spirit of what a Hall of Fame-worthy career should be.” What a crock. Why? Because humans decide on the parameters of the algorithms used. A group of data-heads will define what constitutes a HOF player by inputting the minimum number of hits/wins/RBIs/strikeouts/etc. needed for entry into Cooperstown. Anybody who falls short gets shown the door. And if I disagree with the parameters? Who’s to say that 300—or 275—wins should guarantee a pitcher his plaque, provided he also tallies on the right side of strikeouts: WHIP; ERA, innings pitched per game and whatnot else the data-heads throw in? I’d like to see some examples of how this would work. Does Kirby Puckett get in with 2304 hits, Minnie Minoso with 2113? Why or why not? Ditto Tommy John and Jim Kaat. Analytics can’t even agree on a definition for WAR. How are they going to agree on standards for HOF entry? It’s just stuff to pass a Friday morning in January.

Unasked

Give the McCaskeys credit for pulling off a real Hail Mary with the hiring of Kevin Warren as the Bears’ new team president, replacing Ted Phillips. The Chicago sports’ media has gone absolutely ga-ga over Warren. In part, that’s because Warren is the anti-McCaskey; when he speaks, he soothes rather than enflames. Moreover, the former Big Ten Commissioner knows what to say, and how to say it. Why, there’s no greater opportunity in all the sports’ world than “here in Chicago, with this incredible fan base and this history and tradition.” [Warren in yesterday’s Tribune] Hold onto your wallets, folks. This self-described “stadium nerd” helped shepherd the construction of U.S. Bank Stadium when he was chief operating officer of the Vikings. Nearly half of the $1.1 billion cost came from the public. Not a word from the nerd at his introductory press conference on whether the Bears will want to go half-sies in Arlington Heights. He did say, though, how excited he is by the challenge to create an “atmosphere that becomes as 365-days a year environment.” [again, Tuesday’s Trib]. Oh, and he wants to come up with a “very, very creative solution to our stadium situation.” Right. Does that creativity entail new personal seat licenses for season-ticket holders who want to make the move to Arlington Heights? Warren didn’t say, and he certainly wasn’t asked. The consensus among suddenly-smitten sportswriters and commentators is that the Bears will be looking to do their new home along the lines of U.S. Bank Stadium, II, which means a seating capacity in the neighborhood of 67,000 fans. So, follow along here. The Munsters want to move to suburban Arlington Heights; probably ask for as much of a public subsidy as they can get away with; probably hit fans with another round of PSLs; and probably increase seating capacity over Soldier Field by a measly 6500 seats or so. Does that seem fair? Warren didn’t say, and he certainly wasn’t asked.

One Down, One to Go

The silver lining to the Cowboys beating the Buccaneers Monday night 31-14? Well, Tom Brady looks done. Father Time and all that. But I wouldn’t go so far as to call it just desserts, not when you factor in Cowboys’ owner Jerry Jones. About the only thing Jones deserves is the attention he’s been receiving for a photo that’s surfaced showing him as a high school sophomore in the background of a protest over the integration of North Little Rock High School in 1957. How did Jones describe himself, “a curious kid”? But not an adult who could offer perspective on the issue of race in America by noting what he’d seen as a fourteen-year old and what he’d learn since then. That’s because Jones has gone through life like the Bourbons, of whom it was said, “They had learned nothing and forgotten nothing.” Which helps explain the French Revolution. Liberte, egalite, fraternite. Go, 49ers.

Nature or Nurture

Are sportswriters born lazy, or do they get that way over time? I ask because of a lazy column Rick Telander did in today’s Sun-Times. Telander called Soldier Field a “ridiculous 10-pound toilet seat crammed into a five-pound box.” Oh, and it’s the “lowest-capacity stadium (61,500) in” the NFL. But if the Bears move to Arlington Heights and build a stadium “with modern amenities,” why, “maybe they could win a few games, too.” Nowhere does Telander discuss financing. Just how much of my tax dollars does he propose to fork over to the McCaskeys? Don’t hold your breath for an answer, anymore than expect Telander to note that the Bills’ new stadium is supposed to seat in the neighborhood of 62,000. I guess they don’t care about hosting a Super Bowl or moving into new digs with some 10,000 fewer seats than their current home, Orchard Park Stadium. The Bears can do whatever they want, provided it’s on their own dime. It’s the lazy-ass commentary I can do without.

No Soup For You

The Cubs had their fan convention over the weekend, and, by all accounts, the faithful went home happy. They got to rub shoulders with the likes of Billy Williams and Ryne Sandberg and grill owner Tom Ricketts over the odds of a rapprochement with Sammy Sosa (slim and none). Meanwhile, over on the South Side… Nothing. No chance to meet with Wilbur Wood and Bill Melton, or Jermaine Dye and Paul Konerko. No meet-and-greet with new left fielder Andrew Benintendi or manager Pedro Grifol. And certainly no question-and-answer session with The Chairman, blessed be his name. It’s the Middle Ages for White Sox fans. We’re supposed to pay, pray and obey. If we don’t like it, we can always go north. Talk about your existential rock and a hard place.

SNAFU

All 49ers’ rookie quarterback George Purdy, aka Mr. Irrelevant, did yesterday was complete eighteen of thirty passes with three touchdowns while running for another in San Francisco’s 41-23 wild-card win over the Seahawks. This got me wondering: Did the Bears know about Purdy? I don’t mean this as a knock on Justin Fields; it’s more a comment on an organization’s ability to recognize talent. The 49ers have it, the Munsters almost always don’t, may Fields be the exception. But consider, before Purdy, San Francisco identified Jimmy Garoppolo as the quarterback it wanted back in 2017. Garoppolo took them to one Super Bowl and may be on the bench (injured, giving Purdy his chance) in another. Two winning quarterbacks acquired in just over five seasons. And over at Soldier Field in that time? Mitch Trubisky, Mike Glennon, Nick Foles, Andy Daulton, Fields. It boggles the mind. Check that. It’s situation normal…

Floor Burns

I hope Rick Hahn sent Arturas Karnisovas a Christmas card, better yet a nice gift. I mean, Karnisovas makes Hahn look good, which is no easy feat. Let me put this another way—at 19-24, the Bulls are a creeping disaster, sure to get worse. This is the team Karnisovas built: Lonzo Ball hasn’t played in a year due to injury; Alex Caruso shows on any given night how much he depended on LeBron James to look good; and Zach LaVine shows on any given night why he shouldn’t have been signed to a $215 million deal. You give that kind of money to a player and expect him to play both ways. Not LaVine. Defense isn’t his thing. Unfortunately, he sometimes loses the feel on his shot, as in last night’s 124-110 loss to the Thunder. LaVine shot five-of-nineteen from the floor. The fourteen free throws rate as no more than a consolation prize. But, hey, Nikola Vucevic, another Karnisovas’ acquisition, led both teams with four turnovers. That has to count for something.

He Works in Mysterious Ways

It could be worse. I could be a Twins’ fan trying to convince myself Carlos Correa wants to be there. Not too long ago, Correa was going to sign with the Giants for thirteen years and $350 million, then with the Mets for twelve years and $315 million, only an old ankle injury kept getting in the way of his signing on the dotted line. You can’t sign what the other side takes off the table. So, now Correa is back in Minnesota, where he played last year and opted out of his contract at the end of the season in order to make a free-agent killing. Best-laid plans, Carlos, best-laid plans. But six years at $200 million (with incentives that could lead to another $70 million) isn’t too bad a consolation prize. Only I wouldn’t insult people’s intelligence by releasing a statement about how he knew God would “put me in the right place” and how happy he is “to be back home with his extended family,” the Twins. Unless it was God’s intention to jerk around a free-agent shortstop for reasons best left to the Almighty. The Man works in mysterious ways.

New Clothes, Old Boss, Same Old Same Old

The Bears finished the season Sunday with their tenth straight loss, 29-13, to the Vikings. In his postgame comments, coach Matt Eberflus did a pretty good Matt Nagy imitation, talking without saying anything. General manager Ryan Poles followed that up by deigning to meet the media yesterday, the same way that ex-GM Ryan Pace used to, as if he were being docked $1000 for every comment of substance uttered. Poles wasn’t happy with how the season went; pretty much thinks Justin Fields is his quarterback; and wants the team to do better next year. So do we all. What kills me is how the Chicago media reacted. Oh, plenty of people let Poles know he’s on the clock, the honeymoon’s over. But I’m not aware of anyone who asked Poles why he can’t bother with the Fourth Estate the way that Jed Hoyer and Rick Hahn do. Yes, Hahn does a rope-a-dope to tire out reporters, but he’s there facing the heat. Heck, he even says something substance on occasion. With Poles, the next time will be the first time. Yet, no one will call Poles out, or just call him, for that matter. Instead, newspapers; news sites; the radio; and TV will be rife with speculation: What will the Bears do with the first pick in the draft? With other teams, journalists look for players, coaches and execs good for a quote. With the Bears, nobody thinks to ask. Politicians would give their right arm for that treatment. Only in Chicago.

Out of Sight, Out of Mind

The Sun-Times is the only media outlet in these parts that pays the least bit of attention to high school sports. That is, if you’re male and play the right sport. Take basketball. To its credit, the Times offers regular coverage, provided we’re talking boys’ basketball. Heaven help any boy, or girl, on varsity bowling, another winter sport. The only way players will get attention is by bowling 300, better yet, doing it more than once. Wrestling will get passing notice, girls as much as boys, because of the novelty factor, I think, girls’ wrestling being a recent addition to varsity sports. But sports like swimming, gymnastics and volleyball are all but invisible. Did I mention softball? The one sport that draws TV cameras is golf, boys or girls. Gosh, I wonder why? Not because female golfer might be wearing shorts, right?

Refuge

What I don’t need is to have my daughter call and tell me that White Sox closer Liam Hendriks has non-Hodgkins’ lymphoma, for which he’ll start treatment today. It’s the second week of January, and I prefer news of a more upbeat nature. Hendriks’ going into full remission would qualify, but that won’t be happening this week. Somehow, I’ve become like Pig in the comic strip Pearls Before Swine (or Wise Ass on the Hill, depending on the day). I try to keep life simple and, overwhelming evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, positive. Anything remotely connected to mortality induces worry if not panic. Thank God for my two Christmas gifts, 1970 and 1980 White Sox team autographed baseballs. I’ve already said how anything with Luke Appling’s and Walt Williams’ autograph rates as heaven-sent. The 1980 ball is just as joy inducing. I mean, when was the last time anyone mentioned former Sox coach Loren Babe? Or Fran Mullins, traded by the Sox to the Reds in 1983 for Steve Christmas? Mullins’ autograph is downright beautiful, the antithesis of those scrawls that adorn balls nowadays. And far be it from me to complain about Rusty Kuntz or Lamar Hoyt. Baseballs signed by long-retired ballplayers—that’s what I need to help me through January. Here’s hoping Liam Hendriks has something just as good, if not better.

He Gone, and Them, Too

According to MLB.com, Adam Engel signed a one-year deal with the Padres, either as a fourth outfielder or a platoon in center. No more highlight reels for White Sox fans, or memories of Jim Landis and Ken Berry for those of us old enough to remember. I know, I know, baseball is a business, but, still, I wonder. Yolmer Sanchez wins a Gold Glove, he gets nontendered. Danny Mendick works his butt off as a twenty-second round draft choice to make the majors, he gets nontendered. Add Engel, and a pattern emerges. The Sox are a bloodless organization, following a plan that has little place in it for emotion or loyalty. They’re also dumb. Also consider Aaron Rowand, Mark Buehrle and Rick Renteria, if you want. More dots to make an unpretty picture.

Music to My Ears

I came late to pop music. Grade school was about learning, high school about survival. (Anyone who attended a Catholic boys’ school in the 1960s knows what I mean). I didn’t start getting serious about the Beatles and company until the summer of 1970. Oh, Freda Payne with that band of gold of hers. The late start may explain why I still know more pop music than someone my age could be expected to. Drive with me, and you might just hear the latest from Lord Huron or Lake Street Dive. It’s not that I want to be hip or pretend I’m young; I’m not. I just enjoy listening to the likes of Beach Bunny. Good Chicago group, there. My daughter has something to do with this, too. Driving her to practice or tournaments got me into the habit of burning CDs; the oldest ones I have date to Napster. The earth has layers, and so does my CD collection: Clare from eighth grade; high school and college. Me, in all the years since. Lately, I’ve found myself driving to the hospital and/or Walgreens and/or a relative’s house because that’s what you do with the power of attorney. Not only are the CDs in constant rotation; more of them are getting added to the collection: John Lennon and Paul McCartney from their post-Beatles’ work, the greatest hits, or what I think are their greatest hits, from U2. A little Nathaniel Rateliff and the Night Sweats are up next, as soon as I get the time. Doing the U2 CD, I listened to “Desire” for the first time in a while. All I could think about was how this song used to play at the start of White Sox games against a montage of great plays and players shown on the Jumbotron. An Irishman sings to Harold Baines and Luke Appling. Carlton Fisk tags out two Yankees in one play at the plate. We’re looking to buy a new car in the spring. I have no idea how I’m going to survive without a CD player. For once, the old dog will have to learn new technology. Desire.

Compare and Contrast

Signed to a five-year, $75 million deal, Andrew Benintendi is the new left fielder for the White Sox. Forgive me if I confuse him with a Sox left fielder from my youth. Benintendi stands 5’9” and weighs 180 pounds. During his playing days (1960-1968), Floyd Robinson stood 5’9” and weighed 175 pounds. Benintendi, like Robinson, bats lefthanded. Over the course of a seven-year career, Benintendi has a .279 BA with 778 hits; 396 runs scored; 384 RBIs; and seventy-three homeruns. Those stats were generated over 745 games and 2791 at-bats. Robinson broke the starting lineup in 1961, at the age of twenty-five. From 1960-65, he accumulated 2707 at-bats over 753 games that led to a .293 BA with 794 hits; 389 runs scored; 365 RBIs and sixty homeruns. Benintendi and Robinson may not be twins, but they come pretty close. And here’s where I hope the similarity ends. Robinson hit the proverbial wall at age 30 in 1966, batting .237 with thirty-five RBIs; he hung on for two more years before retiring. Benintendi will turn twenty-nine next July. If I’m comparing apples to oranges, he’ll be worth his contract. But, if past is prelude….

More Than Meets the Eye

I really like Bulls’ coach Billy Donovan. He’s a more polished version of Ozzie Guillen, ready to both praise and criticize players. If only he had more players worthy of praise. Check that. Maybe he does. At least his team should have three more victories. The NBA does an after-action report on games, focusing on calls made in the final two minutes. By the league’s own count, the Bulls have been hit with incorrect calls that directly cost them three wins. A 17-21 team should in fact be 20-18. Not great, but headed in the right direction. Off of last night, I may start paying more attention. The Nets brought a twelve-game winning streak to town, only to leave with a 121-112 loss. Patrick Williams had twenty-two points with seven rebounds and may actually be figuring out the power-forward position. Guard Ayo Dosunmu (seventeen points, seven rebounds) looks to be emerging from his sophomore slump. I know Donovan sounds hopeful. Nikola Vucevic has shown a recent interest in rebounding, so, that’s nice, especially when paired with the consistent play of DeMar DeRozan. As for Zach LaVine, sometimes he’s there, sometimes not. We’ll just have to wait and see how this all plays out. At least it makes the time pass, and that’s always a good thing come January.

Standards

Like everyone else, I want the Bills’ Damar Hamlin to recover. What I don’t get is the media’s reluctance to show the tackle that caused Hamlin’s injury during Monday night’s Bills-Bengals’ game. Videos of crimes and accidents are shown all the time on the news, without any concern for the privacy of victims. Several months ago, Chicago news outlets couldn’t stop from showing—and showing—video showing a young man struggling with an attacker, who then shot him. Why show one incident and not the other? I’m not venturing a theory here, because I don’t have one. But I do think there needs to be a policy that’s both consistent and transparent.

How Low Can Bad Go?

Maybe it’s the early January gloom (Chicago gray is like no other), but I can’t remember the last time local teams in the Big-Four sports have all stunk at the same time. But they do now. After the multiple eggs laid by the White Sox and Cubs last season, the Chicago sports’ media was primed to go ga-ga over the Bears, only to find that even the worst of train wrecks, as in 3-13, gets old after a while. I mean, Sox and Cubs’ stories are creeping into the papers. Did I mention the Hawks? Why bother, unless you can divine a silver lining in a 8-24-4 record? Which leaves us with the Bulls, who look hellbent on implosion. Take last night’s game against the Cavaliers, please. An eighteen-point halftime leads turns into a nine-point loss in overtime. Has anyone seen the Cavs’ Donovan Mitchell? Nobody in a Bulls’ uniform did, as witnessed by Mitchell’s seventy-one points, including two on a missed free throw (his own, by the way) to force overtime. Box out? More like knocked out. Our three wintertime teams have a combined record of 27-58-4. Hope springs eternal.

Who

Ryan Poles, Matt Eberflus. Ryan Pace, Matt Nagy. Meet the new boss(es), same as the old boss(es). The Munsters got blown out 41-10 by the Lions in Detroit yesterday, leaving them with a 3-13 record, second-worst in franchise history. Quarterback Justin Fields, the only bright spot on an otherwise talent-barren roster, traces back to ex-GM Pace. New GM Poles can’t point to one player of talent he’s added, though he does act a lot like Pace in dodging the media. Eberflus? More and more, a variation on Nagy. I know, I know, the Lions stunk last year (3-13-1), and look at them now, 8-8 with a shot at the playoffs. But at least the ownership DNA in Detroit traces back to a man who perfected mass production of the automobile. And the Bears trace back to a man who, in forty-six years as a head coach, pretty much treated the forward pass as the devil’s work. Beware who you welcome as a new neighbor, Arlington Heights, beware.

Uninterrupted

I can be nice on occasion. If my son-in-law wants to watch football when he’s over, OK. Golf, no. So, yesterday, no Tiger Woods in sight, we had the Fiesta Bowl on, Texas Christian vs. Michigan. I watched in wonder as the two teams combined for forty-four points in the third quarter. In the NFL, six touchdowns and a field goal in one quarter would’ve taken about, oh, an hour to ninety minutes because we must have our commercials. But ESPN had another game to broadcast, Ohio State and Georgia in the Peach Bowl. There was a schedule to keep, so commercials be damned, or so it felt. To see just part of a game unfold without broadcast interference was surreal. Or was it just broadcast interference of another sort? Either way, a game played on in real time, and it sure beat golf.