Better Late than Never

Better Late than Never

The White Sox opened the season in April on the road with three losses to the Royals.  Yesterday afternoon, almost five months to the day later, they finished a three-game sweep of KC, again on the road.  Go figure.  The Sox have a slightly better than mathematical shot at a wildcard sport, but I refuse to jinx it by looking.

The winning pitcher was Erik Johnson.  Two years ago, Johnson had an impressive September, going 3-2 with a 3.25 ERA, good enough to secure the 23-year old righty a spot in next year’s pitching rotation.  That lasted for all of a month in 2014.  Every time he pitched, Johnson looked to be sweating bullets on the mound, which could explain the 6.46 ERA.  This season he was named the International League’s most valuable pitcher, an honor that puts him back to where he was in September 2013.

Johnson had an interesting start, giving up three runs in six innings, all the runs scoring on solo homers.  Then we have the last out in the sixth inning, when Alex Gordon’s bat shattered, with the barrel hitting Johnson in his left, non-pitching, forearm.  This had better stop, or someone will get killed.  I don’t want to hear an aluminum “ping” or a composite “thwack,” but that’s going to happen unless MLB gets serious about the science behind better wooden bats: better design, better wood grains, better understanding of why and when bats shatter.  And get started now, if not sooner, as one of my eighth-grade teachers used to say.   

Quality Time

Ah, Indiana.  According to the billboard on I-80/94, we missed the “Nudes-a-poppin’” festival, held in Roselawn; that was two months ago.  And next week is the annual Valparaiso Popcorn Festival; we’ll be missing that, too.  We just wanted to visit our daughter on a Saturday night.

Because parenting doesn’t come with a manual or a calendar, you don’t know when things will change abruptly.  One moment your kid’s sitting next to you on the couch watching the ballgame, and the next she’s at a tournament in Colorado or Florida.  She’s in the dugout but not playing, so you’re not there watching.  Like I said, it goes by in a flash.

For some reason, Valpo holds class on Labor Day, so Clare couldn’t come home for a long weekend.  With softball duties and fall ball looming, we either got in the car to see her or stared at family photos for the next month.  We drove.  Hence, our exposure to “nudes-a-poppin.’”

The White Sox pioneered the “turn-back-the-clock” promotion with old uniforms and whatnot during their last season at Comiskey Park in 1990, so it was only fitting we did our own version.  After dinner (NOTE: Valparaiso is an island of good restaurants amidst a sea of corn), we went back to Clare’s apartment and found the Sox game on WGN.  (NOTE: Satellite TV isn’t all it’s cracked up to be when you don’t get to choose the package.)  My goodness, we beat the Royals in KC for the second straight time.  Alexi Ramirez, in the middle of what used to be called a salary drive, hit a three-run homer in a 6-1 win.  The Sox have a shot at the second wildcard spot, though with lightning-strikes-twice sort of odds.

And just like that, the ballgame was over.  Clare walked us out to the car, so I could negotiate my way back to the interstate in fog.  We lived, to find ourselves a state and world away from where we had been just a few seconds ago.

Gathered 'Round the Crystal Set

 Yesterday, the Syracuse Orange—they used to be the Orangemen until certain bloody WASP connotations forced a change—opened their season against Rhode Island.  We sat gathered around Michele’s ipad to watch in the living room. Final score: Syracuse 47, Rhode Island 0.

Like Clare, her boyfriend Chris has made the jump to NCAA Division I via coaching.  Every once in a while we caught a glimpse of him on the sidelines, his head set on, his face an intense shade of red.  Chris is just a kid, really.  But now he doesn’t have the luxury of screwing up the way a kid will from time to time.

Despite the pressure that comes with the job, Chris called Clare from the locker room right after the game.  You could say it was their “Rocky” moment.    

Roger and Me

How did this happen, me being on the same side as NFL commissioner Roger Goodell?  But in the case of Goodell vs. Patriots’ quarterback Tom Brady, I am, sort of.

Yesterday, a federal judge overturned Brady’s four-game suspension for Deflategate.  Apparently, the judge didn’t think that the seriousness of the situation had been conveyed to Brady, and he found instances where evidence and a witness had been kept from the quarterback’s legal team.  Furthermore, “No NFL policy or precedent notifies players that they may be disciplined (much less suspended) for general awareness of misconduct by others,” wrote Federal District Judge Richard M. Berman.  By this, Berman means Brady may have been vaguely aware that Patriots’ equipment people had been tampering with the balls but didn’t alert anyone.  In other words, Buck Weaver would’ve been home free if only he had played football instead of third base.

My own take on the situation is that a reasonable suspicion of cheating merits investigation and punishment, if the facts warrant it.  The problem for Goodell is that the NFL has been used to getting its way for so long that it thought due process is for suckers.  But you have to respect the law if you want to live under the rule of law.

Things could get interesting for the folks who pay the commissioner’s salary and dislike taking it on the chin in court.  One thing about owners is they all hate losing.

A Stretch, But Bear with Me Here

 We stopped going to Brookfield Zoo as a family because the summers were taken up with travel softball, so, it’s been a while.  That explains some of the shock Michele and I felt yesterday, along with the $34 admission for two.  Thank heavens we saved $10 by walking in instead of driving.

Along with museums and ballgames, the zoo used to be a summer staple for kids.  No more.  A family going to see the animals had better be prepared to pay, and pay.  Oh, and don’t expect to see that many animals.  Statues of animals, yes, but not the real thing.  As God is my witness, we saw two lion statues to one lion at the lion exhibit.

In place of animals were ever so many places to spend money on food and souvenirs.  There were also signs everywhere telling us how we could save particular species along with the environment.  Message received.  So, why not just make a contribution to the World Wildlife Fund instead of walking around to find where the bears have been moved?

I’m old enough to remember when they sold marshmallows at the zoo to feed to said bears; as a kid, I also saw bears begging for sweet rolls and elephants being pelted with peanuts whether or not they put out their trunks.  It was all very amusing, but not at all good for the animals.  Even though major zoos have stopped that sort of thing, they continue to face extraordinary pressure from animal-rights’ groups challenging their very existence.  I’ve heard PETA say kids can learn about animals by watching YouTube, a sentiment seconded by one of the zoo signs we saw yesterday.  From the looks of it, PETA has won, and zoos are on their way to extinction.

How sad.  Kids won’t know to watch the video if they haven’t seen the creature up close.  Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!  We see these as children, and we come away with an appreciation of nature.  Once you start depending on a screen to show this, you run the risk of Sponge Bob getting in the way.

Already, there is a generation of Chicagoans that has never seen an elephant at the zoo.  I get the criticisms—these glorious animals need space and numbers to be truly happy as social creatures, and why would they want to deal with Chicago winters?  Fair enough, but poachers don’t feel that same concern for their prey.  It’s time to rethink how zoos work, not to close them down or turn the experience into another day at Great America, with the smell of manure added in.

The future will be a function of land and money.  With both, zoos can have the same number of species as before while giving them the space they require to thrive.  Zoos with limited funding and/or expansion possibilities need to specialize on what animals they want to show.  As for major urban areas like New York and Chicago, the elephants have to stay in order to work their magic and majesty on young imaginations.  There has to be a way to create warm spaces in January short of putting elephants in a pen.  We owe it to ourselves and the animals to try.   

So Funny It Hurts

 Clare just sent me a clip from a Saturday Night Live skit that first ran in April.  It’s a nice takeoff on “A League of Their Own.”

 Five Rockford Peaches are debating whether women can play baseball.  As soon as they decide, Yes, they can, two black women walk over and ask if they can play.  One of the Peaches explains that it’ll be a gradual process.  First, white women will play, then black men, “Then all women are allowed to play underhand with the big softball, like a child.” 

Finally, just as the Peaches are ready to accept black teammates, the Peaches’ manager announces the good news:  “The war’s over, the men are coming home, so get off the damn’ field and never come back.”  That’s pretty much what happened, and it seems to be how MLB wants to keep things, Jessica Mendoza in the broadcast booth notwithstanding.  I’m surprised the commissioner’s office didn’t go after SNL for smearing the national pastime.  Trust me, guys, the truth will set you free.

Take a Walk

Michele and I spent the afternoon back on the 606 Trail.  Compared to July, it was almost deserted.  The novelty’s worn off, some schools are back in session, and it was a good, humid, 90 degrees out.  It was like we had our very own linear sweat lodge.

Free of attack from kamikaze cyclists, I was better able to take in the surrounding neighborhoods.  They’re 20-30 years older than where I grew up, 1900 vs. 1920s’ architecture.  That means more two-flats and worker’s cottages on fairly tight lots; my parents’ bungalow (on a 30’ by 125’ lot) is a suburban estate by comparison.  But we couldn’t sell the bungalow for a third of what the houses are going for along the 606.

A mix of sun, wind and sweat makes for good time travel.  The neighborhoods we were walking through—and above—reminded me of Bridgeport, when we’d go visit my Grandma Bukowski.  Yet even Bridgeport is gentrifying.  The ghosts are made to yield to progress in the form of skyrocketing real-estate prices.  At least in Bridgeport I can see buildings that cue childhood memories.  Ex-residents who walk the 606 have that advantage, too, I’m sure.

But when you go to 35^th and Shields only to find a parking lot instead of a ballpark, the memories fade.  I can never show Clare where I walked into Comiskey Park with my father, or where the old fighter stood after games selling early editions of the Chicago American.  I walk along the 606 in my reverie only to look up and see Cub flags and joggers in Cubs’ tee-shirts.  I’m a long way from home.