It Happens, I Know

The Illinois High School Authority (IHSA), the governing body for high school sports in the state, is considering a rule to tighten up on transfers and associated coaching hires. It seems some basketball teams are the product of such transfers. Who knew? We saw as much in softball during Clare’s playing days. One D-I bound pitcher changed schools, not that it bothered my daughter; she hit that pitcher like she owned her. And, then, after Clare graduated and was playing for a travel team for one of her new college coaches, the head coach for the softball powerhouse in our conference came up to her and said, “You should’ve transferred to our district.” Clare underwent baptism by fire as a freshman starter. Was that a good thing? I don’t know, but I doubt she would’ve played as much for that other team as an underclassman. And I doubt she would’ve had the experience necessary to hit that team as well as she did (two doubles and a homerun in one game I remember in particular) as an upperclassman. In other words, I’m happy—and I think Clare was, too—that she spent all four years as a Morton Mustang. But these are different times, my friend, different times.

The Classes Over the Masses

There was a small story, five paragraphs long, in yesterday’s Sun-Times: “Sox to build new outdoor bar at ballpark.” The times we live in. Too bad the story didn’t mention who’s going to pick up the estimated $284,500 tab because it’s doubtful the Sox will. They’re mere renters. Landlords do that sort of stuff in the everyday world, and I’m betting the public stadium authority will be doing the same here. But, unlike the real world, I wouldn’t expect any rent increases. Why, the team might move. What the story did note was the removal of eight rows of seats. The Sox, like most every other team in baseball, doesn’t much care about how many fans come into their park, as long as they’re the right kind, demographically speaking. The deeper pockets, the better. Comiskey Park could hold as many as 52,000 fans; Guaranteed Rate Whatever comes in at 40,615, minus however many seats those lost eight rows will come out to. Ticket prices rise while ballpark capacities shrink. Not how I’d run a team, but nobody’s asking.

Freudian Slip?

Well, this is just what I wanted to hear. New White Sox manager Pedro Grifol has finished picking his coaching staff. Daryl Boston at first base doesn’t count. Boston knows where the organizational skeletons are buried and/or is such a good pal of team v.p. Kenny Williams that he has a job for life. Comiskey Park should’ve had Boston’s clout. What struck me was Grifol referring to the hitting-coach situation as “almost probably a two-and-a-half-headed monster.” By that he means new hitting coach Jose Castro plus assistant hitting coach Chris Johnson plus major-league field coordinator Mike Tosar, who Grifol thinks knows something about hitting. Only Johnson made it to the majors, hitting .275 with 773 hits and 339 RBIs over an eight-year career. How exactly does a 2-1/2 headed monster work? I have my doubts, though Castro was an assistant hitting coach the past eight seasons in Atlanta, and the Braves seem to know how to hit. Maybe he’ll prove to be the exception to the Bukowski Rule that you don’t hire minor leaguers to coach major leaguers to hit or pitch. I hope so.

Now What?

I just finished reading Keith Law in The Athletic If I understand Law correctly, he dislikes Astros’ owner Jim Crane, along with Jose Abreu; Andrew Vaughn; Gavin Sheets; and the White Sox. Really, if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all. The Astros’ signing of Abreu to a three-year deal seems to have set Law off. If he were a Sox fan, I’d get it, but I have a sneaking suspicion Law couldn’t find 35th and Shields with GPS or Google Maps, even if you paid him. Leave the outrage to the fans involved, Keith. That said, Sox fans may be wondering what’s next. They probably see the logic of letting go of the soon-to-be thirty-six year-old Abreu. If this clears the way for Vaughn and/or Sheets, there shouldn’t be too many complaints. Both players are pretty popular, and fans want to see them do well. Ditto Jake Burger. How many of these three will be on the team after winter meetings next week? We’ll see. The problem is that Sox management has a tendency to do dumb stuff. Pull the plug on the 1994 season when the team is in first place in its division? Make up for that by signing Albert Belle. Let Mark Buehrle walk? Pivot to John Danks and Jake Peavy. Oops. Sign Adam Dunn. Trade for James Shields. Maybe the Sox did light the fire. So, now we wait for what’s next. Why do I feel like Santa put me on his naughty list through no fault of my own?

Same Old Same Old

Reports are the White Sox are about to sign righthander Mike Clevinger to a one-year deal worth somewhere between $8-$12 million. Order your World Series tickets now, folks. Or not. The Sox don’t look to be interested in getting the band back together by signing ex-Sox lefty Carlos Rodon. No, that would mean dealing with agent Scott Boras, and Jerry Reinsdorf can’t bring himself to do that. Better to shop in the bargain basement. If Clevinger has a comeback season after going 7-7 with a 4.33 ERA for San Diego this season, great. If he’s a bust, no big bucks lost, so, great again. This is how the Kansas Citys of the world operate, and the Sox just signed a Royals’ coach to be their next manager. Not necessarily a blueprint for success, but how the Sox do business way too often.

Strategy

I’ve taken to collecting White Sox team autographed baseballs. In fact, I’m toying with the idea of constructing a family tree, with marriages or births marked with a team ball from that particular year. God and lottery willing—1939 will be the starting date—I might just be able to pull this off. I also want a run of balls, 1960-1980, teams from after Comiskey ownership and before Jerry Reinsdorf. This period marks the time from when I first became aware of the game to the peak of my fandom. Marriage and parenthood helped temper things. Anyway, I just got a ball on eBay from 1970, and I’m ecstatic. It’s hard to explain why, exactly. I mean, this is a team that went 56-106, with the third-worst winning percentage (.346) in franchise history. Not worst, mind you, but third-worst. This gives you an idea what it means to be a Sox fan. And, still, I loved this team, enough to want the autograph of someone like Bobby Knoop more than fifty years after the fact. I recently got outbid for a ball from 1991, the year of Clare’s birth, so I went into serious bidding mode. What, exactly, was the most I was willing to spend? An almost surefire way to win an eBay auction is to bet a huge amount on an item. That way, if someone comes in at literally the last second, you won’t get underbid. I’ve never spent more than $500 for an item, and there’ve been plenty of times when I’ve lost out at the last second, like on that 1991 ball. If I’d bid $1000 for something that wasn’t going to sell for close to that, what could possibly go wrong? Going up against someone with the same strategy, that’s what, but only a dollar cheaper. Somebody bids $999 for an item worth $200 and I bid a dollar more, you have yourself one happy seller and one severely burned buyer. No, thank you. So, I set an absolute top price I’d pay, waited for ten seconds left in the auction and bid it. Up until the last minute, only five people had bid on the baseball. I was one of three bidders in the last twenty-eight seconds. Two people guessed low, I won high. Let me note here that my high bid isn’t what shows; the winning price was merely a dollar over what the other guy bid, which was way below as high as I was willing to go. But second place comes away thinking, “I was outbid by a measly buck.” Better them than me. Buddy Bradford and Jerry Janeski, come to Poppa.

Thanksgiving

We used to go to my in-laws for Thanksgiving, then they started coming to us. As of yesterday, we started going to Clare’s. You go with the changes, or get left behind by them. My daughter was pretty much a whirling dervish, so I tried not to get in the way. Her son, on the other hand, insisted on his right to get in everyone’s way, which made for pint-sized chaos this room and that. It wasn’t until dinner and dessert had been served that I asked, “Did you hear about the girl who made the baseball team at Brown?” “Yeah. I just don’t know what to think about it yet.” Olivia Pichardo made the team as a fall walk-on to become the first female baseball player on a Division-I team. I can’t find many stats on her. The hitting and pitching clips I saw are the kind players send to college coaches, which is understandable. But it helps to see the outs and bad pitches to get a full picture of the talent. At one point, Clare and Pichardo were both thirteen-year olds with a choice to make, softball or baseball. Clare chose one, Pichardo the other. Eighteen years ago, there were fewer opportunities for girls in baseball. That now seems to have changed. The child I coached has aged out and finds herself involved in new activities, like getting her fifteen-month old son to throw a ball straight. If Leo picks up a bat, I’m sure his mother will be showing him what to do with it. And, if everything lines up just so, my grandson could know how to hit the ball because the girl I taught taught him.