Coach Q

I like Joel Quenneville for two reasons.  As a boy growing up in Windsor, Ontario, he used to go to Detroit Tigers games and root for Dick McAuliffe with that peek-a-boo batting stance of his.  Coach Q also found the time 6-1/2 years ago to visit my nephew shortly before he died from pediatric cancer.  He dropped in at home, not the hospital.

The Blackhawks fired Quenneville yesterday, ending his 10-plus year run as head coach.  Hawks’ owner Rocky Wirtz said in a statement that the team needed a “fresh start.”  Apparently, Quenneville and his three Stanley Cup championships had grown stale.

With the hiring of 33-year old Jeremy Colliton as Quenneville’s replacement, the Hawks may be signaling they want in on that Chicago rage, a full rebuild.  No doubt, ticket prices will be rolled back to pre-Q levels.  Roll back if you’re going to roll over, I say.  That, and don’t be surprised if and when Q makes the hockey Hall of Fame.

Trading Curses

I’m starting to wonder if the Cubs haven’t traded one curse for another, 2016 for the billy goat.  Hear me out.

Cubs’ president Theo Epstein made a series of moves—getting Jon Lester, Jayson Heyward and Ben Zobrist along with manager Joe Maddon—that led to a World Series’ championship two years ago.  Only now Epstein can’t seem to do anything without balancing it against those 2016 moves, plus the Yu Darvish signing this past season.

Go after Bryce Harper?  What do you do with Heyward?  Go after Manny Machado?  How do you avoid taking a huge hit from the luxury tax courtesy of those big deals given to Lester et al?  Tired of Maddon and looking to change managers?  What will the fan base say?  Want to see what you can get for Kyle Schwarber?  Again, what will the fan base say?  People have a way of growing attached to Series’ heroes.

I might be tempted to laugh here, but I just read some “insider” analyst that the White Sox are interested in both Harper and Machado; perish that thought.  But if nothing else, the hot stove is glowing already, and it’s not even close to winter.  Damn’.

Highway Robbery

When your married daughter calls at 9 PM on a Sunday night, your heart skips a beat, or at least mine did.  But there was no news good or bad of a personal nature to report.  Adam Engel of the White Sox missing out on a Gold Glove was another matter.  The South Side’s intrepid centerfielder lost out to Jackie Bradley Jr. of the Red Sox.  Now will somebody please explain to me why?

Managers and coaches do the voting (though not for their own players).  Sabermetrics count, but aren’t the sole criteria.  OK, then let’s match up Engel and Bradley.  Engel had 355 putouts on 367 chances, with five assists and seven errors, good for a .981 fielding average.  The numbers for Bradley were 299 putouts on 313 chances with nine assists and five errors, all of which comes out to a .984 fielding average.  For anyone out there who can’t do the math, Engel had 54 more chances and 56 more putouts.  To this layman’s eyes, those numbers mean our centerfielder possesses considerably more range than theirs.

But wait.  Only one centerfielder hails from the East Coast, where everyone, whether coach and manager or reporter, thinks all talent resides.  So, Jackie Bradley Jr. it is.  All I can hope is that Engel has absorbed enough of the South Side to appreciate the Chicago adage—Don’t get mad, get even.  I’d start in spring training, Adam.

A Saturday Game, the Parking Lot

 It has to be NCAA D-III football when you stop on your way back to the car so the visiting team can get back to its bus.  Do players and parents meet in the lot after an Ohio State-Michigan game?  I doubt it.

Yesterday was Seniors’ Day at Elmhurst, and, according to the rules of being a father-in-law, my presence was expected, maybe even desired.  I can only imagine what the parents of those seniors were going through as they made their way onto the field, listening to their sons’ accomplishments over the course of a college career and remembering other times at other places.  There was high school, Pop Warner, the backyard.

The Vikings of North Park University—the cause of my postgame traffic jam in the parking lot—lived up to their team name, coming and conquering by a score of 36-19.  No matter.  I got to sit behind the Bluejays’ mascot, Victor E., and told the oversized bird, Down in front!  I bet that kind of thing doesn’t happen at Camp Randall Stadium.   

There might’ve been 30 people on the visitors’ side, each person a true fan and/or parent.  You sit in the November cold because it’s your kid and you love him.  They fill up Camp Randall for somewhat different reasons.

This is not to deny that D-I sports or the pros have their share of committed fans.  The difference comes at the receiving end.  Maryland didn’t care about Jordan McNair any more than Rick Pitino ever cared about anyone but himself.  That’s the nature of bigtime college sports, not everywhere perhaps but in plenty of places.  If anything, it’s worse in the pros.

Reading Willie McCovey’s obituary, I was reminded that the Giants nearly moved to Tampa.  Gosh, the White Sox nearly moved to Tampa.  All you fans who loved McCovey or Luis Aparicio, thank you, but business is business.  What’s that?  You’ve convinced enough politicians to fund us a new stadium?  Why, in that case let’s celebrate by coming up with McCovey Cove.

I’ve come to appreciate the traffic jams in parking lots at D-III schools.

David, Goliath and the College Football Machine

 

 A few years ago, my now son-in-law Chris was a football graduate assistant at Syracuse and had a chance to do the same at Maryland; graduate assistants are the new indentured servants, if only the NCAA cared to investigate.  But the boy wanted to come home to the Midwest and his homerun-hitting sweetheart, so he missed the tragedy-scandal that has befallen the Maryland football program.

Had things had gone according to the school regents’ plan, Terrapins' coach D.J. Durkin would’ve been back at the helm, this despite the fallout resulting from the death of football player Jordan McNair after a grueling spring practice session.  There’s a line of thinking common in certain football circles that connects pain with gain.  My nephew once had a high school coach tell his players to suck it up during a summer practice, unless they wanted to join the “grass fairies,” his term for soccer players.  Maybe the good news is this kind of thinking seems to be on the decline.

Anyway, public outcry set in motion a series of events this week that have led to Durkin’s dismissal and the resignation of the regent (also board chairman, naturally) who wanted to keep him on.  Oh, and Illinois Wesleyan played UIC yesterday in basketball.  In other words, an NCAA D-III team dared take on a D-I opponent, and the Spartans did pretty well for themselves.  They outrebounded the Flames 34-30 in an 83-67 loss.

Really, it’s not winning that counts, but how you play the game, and where.    

Refund, Please

With the baseball season over, I thought it would be a good time to see how my baseball magazines did on their predictions.  Not too good, it would seem.

Athlon Sports had the Astros and Yankees in the ALCS, with the Astros moving on to win a second straight World Series against the Nationals. Lindy’s had the Yankees winning the AL and the Dodgers the NL; they also had the Angels’ Mike Sciosa as AL Manager of the Year, always a neat trick for a team that finishes under .500 (80-82).  Street and Smith picked the Yankees to win it all, in this case over the Nats.

Here are some other funny predictions: Aaron Boone of the Yankees and Dave Martinez of the Nationals as managers of the year (Street and Smith); Austin Hays of the Orioles finishing second to Shohei Ohtani for AL Rookie of the Year (Athlon); and Francisco Mejia of the Indians as AL Rookie of the Year (another of Lindy’s “Fearless Forecasts”).  In case you were wondering, Hays didn’t make it out of AA, and Mejia hit .154 for the Indians, who shipped him to San Diego in July for pitching.  I’m sure the Padres hope their young catcher can hit better than the .185 BA he posted in 58 plate appearances.

Maybe I’m being unfair here and should wait to see how the magazines do on their Cy Young and MVP choices.  Nah.  Just give me a refund.  

Stretch

Willie McCovey was a National Leaguer and, outside of facing a Giants’ team in Strat-O-Matic or SF coming to Wrigley Field, I never really paid that much attention to him.  When Harmon Killebrew or Mickey Mantle could hit a homerun to break your White Sox heart, there was no need, really.

So, I was utterly surprised to read in McCovey’s obituary today that he made his major-league debut on my seventh birthday.  I had cake, McCovey had two triples off of Robin Roberts.  My God, he batted between Willie Mays and Orlando Cepeda that day in 1959.  How could a team with so talented a core win all of one pennant, and no World Series?

McCovey made the last out in the seventh game of the 1962 Series, a screaming line drive to Yankees’ second baseman Bobby Richardson with the tying and winning runs in scoring position.  That out, a ball hit so hard, always bothered him.  That career—521 homers, 1555 RBIs, a .270 BA—more than made up for it.