Dig a Little

How a baseball autographed by members of the 1971 White Sox ended up in Arlee, Montana (Pop: 602) I couldn’t say.  But it’s back in the county of Cook, safe and sound.

Other people may not be interested in a ball autographed by the likes of Ed “The Creeper” Stroud (said to be so fast he used ankle weights to slow himself down a little) and Rich McKinney, to say nothing of Luke Appling and Chuck Tanner, but that’s their problem.  Me, I’ve got a crystal ball wrapped in cowhide, and I can see back forty-eight years.

When I look at an autographed ball, I wonder, when exactly was it signed?  You can take the historian out of the classroom; just don’t try to take the curiosity out of the historian.  The trick to getting a more accurate date is to find names that might contain a few clues.  Here, that would mean pitchers Jim Magnuson and Stan Perzanowski.

Magnuson appeared in fifteen games that season and Perzanowski in five.  Perzanowski pitched in two games in late June and three in September, so my guess is the ball dates to between June 20^th and the end of the month; the odds of getting a bunch of ballplayers to sign a ball the last week of the season can’t be that good.  Of course, it’s possible Perzanowski sat on a bench in the bullpen for months without pitching, but doubtful.  He went 18-4 in the minors that year, so it’s likely he was called up because of injury or for a look-see.

One name not on the ball belongs to pitcher Terry Forster’s.  He and I were both 19-year old rookies in 1971, the one a pitcher the other a college student.  I remember a game from early in the season, when Forster faced the up-and-coming Oakland A’s; he gave up two runs in 6.1 innings against a lineup that included Sal Bando, Bert Campanaris, Reggie Jackson and Joe Rudi.  It was one of those rare Sundays where I got the family car for my own devices.  All I ended up wanting to do was drive around and listen to the Sox game on the radio.

I thought Forster went up against Vida Blue that day, but I checked and it was Diego Segui.  If you’re going to have memories, best to keep them in order, I always say.

Get Used to It

Are baseball fans born or made?  With me, it was a little bit of both.  Well, a lot of one and some of the other, at least.

Baseball was the first sport that mattered to me, so that would probably be the “born” part.  Football followed baseball on the calendar and in my heart.  Gayle Sayers and Dick Butkus turned me into a Bears’ fan, but not on the same level as my rooting for J.C. Martin and Wayne Causey.  Equivalent talents?  In my heart, yes.

Now, as much as I would like to throttle White Sox ownership, I just can’t make myself jump on the Bears’ bandwagon.  If anything, all this preseason hype masquerading as coverage cements my baseball-first allegiance.  Just today, the Tribune poured another load of concrete in that direction.

Two of the three stories on the front page of today’s sports’ section were devoted to, wait for it, the Bears, as was all of the back page.  (I did not know and did not care that a two-way player who last played in 1934 is the 31st best player in team history.)  The page-one stories took up two full inside pages (ads excepted) while at least half of a third page was given over to coverage of other NFL teams.  Keep in mind the sports’ section is all of eight pages long.  Oh, and neither the Cubs’ nor Sox stories bothered with final scores, even though the Sox game in Detroit started at 6 PM our time.

The electronic version of the paper isn’t any better; the basic difference is reading the Bears’ stuff on a screen.  For what it’s worth, I’m not convinced Chicago is a Bears’ town to the exclusion of everything else, but the local media is another story.  It’s breathless coverage 24/7 when not carrying the McCaskeys’ water for what seems to be 364 days a year.

All of which helps make me a baseball fan first and foremost.

Pass on That

I was channel surfing yesterday afternoon when I came across a game on cable, a 16U fastpitch championship featuring a Chicago-area team.  I kept on going.

The team plays in a super elite circuit that Clare tells me didn’t exist when she was playing.  Thank heavens for that.  It would’ve been another thing we’d beat ourselves up over—I’m not good enough, we don’t have enough money…I almost feel sorry for the families involved.

I doubt the players have much of a life other than softball; ditto at least one of their parents.  And the tension must be brutal (to say nothing of the associated costs of team and travel).  The thought of college coaches being out there at any given time coupled with the possibility of not starting that day must make for one heck of a lot of upset stomachs, both adolescent and adult.

Remember this is 16U, with girls maybe as young as fourteen on a team.  I can’t imagine putting my daughter through three summers of that torture, using the twin carrots of a college scholarship and TV appearance to motivate her.  The good news for college coaches is that this is a perfect way to separate the wheat from the chaff.  Only the true lovers of softball will be on hand to watch.

That is, unless they just burned out.   

Collecting

A little before Clare was born, I bought two White Sox autographed team balls, from 1965 and ’66.  The ’names on the ‘65 ball have faded away, but Eddie Stanky and his boys are going strong.

Clare debuted, if you will, in 1991, so I’ll get a team ball from then, too, along with some others to denote the births of siblings, self and spouse, along with the wedding year of my parents, that being 1939.  First, though, I bought an autographed ball from the 1971 Sox.  I was eighteen going on nineteen that season, and I identified with that group of young overachievers, like Terry Forster and Carlos May and Bill Melton.

You can’t be eighteen again, and it’s dangerous to try.  But you can remember things from then, courtesy of a baseball filled with autographs from once-upon-a-time heroes.  I like to think of it as therapy on cowhide.  

Incompetence

I am now at that point in life where I can’t stand to watch bad baseball, and the White Sox have pretty much cornered the market in that regard since the All-Star break.  Oh, I’ll peak, but sit glued in front of the TV?  No, thanks.

So, the couple with five college degrees between them sat on the couch last night watching season two of “Endeavour.”  Apparently, everyone in Great Britain either is busy committing a murder, solving a murder or watching programs about people up to their neck in murder.  We fall into category #3, due to great character/acting and setting (suburban London, the 1960s).  Believe me, you don’t want to try to get away with murder on Detective Morse’s watch.

We watched two episodes and took a break after the first one; that’s how I saw recently recalled Matt Skole tie the score in the ninth inning against the Phillies.  I didn’t bother to check on the score after the second episode ended and in fact didn’t find out until 10 AM this morning that the visiting Sox won 4-3 in 15 innings.  How nice.  What a joke.

Don’t get me wrong.  I’m glad the Sox won; just thirteen more in a row and we’re back to .500.  But this isn’t baseball I grew up with, at least on the Phillies’ part.  Manager Gabe Kapler ran out of pitchers, despite having a 12-man staff.  Better—or worse—yet, Kapler used a pitcher in left field and an outfielder on the mound for two innings.  Don’t be fooled by the video highlights.

“Outfielder” Vince Velasquez threw a runner (actually, it was Jose Abreu, who does more of a speed walk on the bases) out at the plate in the 14^th inning and nearly did it again in the 15^th.  Sorry, you don’t subject your pitchers to injury trying to get outfield assists.  Velasquez pitched five innings two days previous.  If Kapler was afraid to bring him in to relieve, then he should’ve done a better job managing his bullpen.  Remember what the philosopher Forrest Gump said—stupid is as stupid does.

Which brings us to the subject of pretty-boy Bryce Harper, the $330 million man.  After going 0 for 6 last night, Harper has a slash line of 18 homeruns/72 RBIs/.248 BA, compared to Jose Abreu’s 23/77/.264, and I thought Abreu was having a bad season.  I bet super-agent Scott Boras has an excuse ready for his client, though.

I can’t wait to hear it.

You Can Bet on It

The cable channel that carries Blackhawks, Bulls and White Sox games will now carry a daily, four-hour sports’ betting show.  Words fail me, almost.

I hate taxes as much as the next guy, but I’d rather give my money to fund a government program purportedly for the public good than throw money down the rat hole of  sports’ gambling.  Instead of four hours, the program could be reduced to this crawler, to be run 24/7:  If the odds are against the house and in your favor so much, how come the house never goes broke?

A show like this needs a snappy title, something along the lines of Blackjack/Black Sox.  I’d be willing to bet they won’t go in that direction, though.  In that case, maybe they could have Pete Rose as a guest or, better yet, a host.  If baseball is going to turn a blind eye to gambling, Charlie Hustle deserves to be cut in on the action.    

Time to Grow Up

I freely admit to not being a easy-going, fun-loving type of guy.  At dinner yesterday, my dear daughter alluded to the way in which she was raised both as a child and an athlete; it seems that I could be rather demanding at times.  So be it, and I still think she’ll show for the funeral, schedule permitting.

That said, I wonder how long until 22-year old Eloy Jimenez grows up.  Jimenez looks to be more interested in playing class clown in the dugout than serving as rebuild foundation for the White Sox.  It would be nice if someone would point out the Sox already have a clown in Yolmer Sanchez, who is very good and creative in what he does.  But I’d argue a team needs only one player who’ll dump the Gatorade on himself when a teammate provides the walk-off hit.

And it would be nice if one of those Sox mentors I hear so much about would point out to Jimenez, who turns 23 at the end of November, what 20-year old Juan Soto is doing for the Nationals.  Last year as a teenager, Soto hit 22 homeruns with 70 RBIs and a .292 BA; this season he’s at 20/70/.289 with two months to go.  By contrast, Jimenez has a slash line of 17/39/.232.

Those are numbers more befitting a clown than a budding star.