Dumb, Dumber...

The Trib sports’ section was really full of gems today.  As ever, there’s space devoted to the Bears, the last day of March being the opening of the football season (assuming it ever ends).  And let’s not forget Jimmy Rollins, released by the White Sox last June and trying to make it with the Giants this spring at the age of 38.  But that .119 batting average only led the Giants to say, Bye-bye.

Then again, it’s not as though a high batting average will earn anyone a job.  Just ask ByungHo Park of the Twins, who hit .353 while leading Minnesota this spring with six homeruns and 13 rbi’s.  But that’s not good enough for a team with the worst record in baseball last year at 59-103.  No, rather than go with a hot hitter to start the season, when there are plenty of off-days, the Twins opted to carry 13 pitchers.

That’s 13 pitchers for a team with a 5.08 ERA in 2016, just .01 of a run off from tying the D-backs for worst in baseball.  In other words, the Twins want more bad, which is just what they can expect to get.

Thank heavens they’re in the same division as the Sox.

Apples and Oranges (and a Slice of Lime)

 The Georgia shoebox—or envelope or drawer or whatever it was—that held those old photos of Comiskey Park is now officially empty.  The last two came in the mail yesterday, again from 1946 or thereabouts, this time showing two New York Yankees, identified on the back as “Hendricks” and “Dutch Schultz,” only nobody by those names ever wore Yankee pinstripes.

With a little digging, I was able to match near-names and faces to Tommy Henrich and Johnny Schulte, a left-handed power-hitting outfielder and coach/scout, respectively. Henrich managed four homeruns in four World Series while Schulte had a hand in scouting Phil Rizzuto and Whitey Ford.  What I really like about the Schulte photo, though, is that wall clock attached to the centerfield wall.  This time, it really stands out.

Did I say ten feet tall?  It’s higher than the leftfield wall and has to be closer to seventeen feet.  And now I can make out the words on top of the clock:  Gruen Watch Time.  Cool.  By the way, Schulte is posed in such a way so that the clock looks to be next to his right elbow and the American flag atop the centerfield flagpole is on a stick attached to his baseball cap.  In contrast, Henrich merely looks like another in a long line of New Yorkers ready to break South Side hearts with their bat or glove.

So, here I am all excited by what used to be my ballpark, now gone 26 years and counting.  And the Sox?  Why, they’re busy unveiling Craft Kave, where fans can go sample 75 craft beers.  The team has also signed on with not one, not two, not three, but four, Yes! Four regional breweries.  According to a team press release, the companies will each receive “prominent in-park exposure through a branded interactive kiosk.”  Wow.

This should bring at least three million fans to the park, maybe four.  Who needs winning baseball?     

Once Upon a March so Cold/Hot

Clare told me the other day that she’d been dreaming about softball for the past two weeks.  Given how this was such a major part of her life, I’m surprised it was only two.

My waking memories of softball are more hot and cold, literally and in reverse order.  Our wedding anniversary coincided with the start of softball, the third week of March.  All through high school, we basically froze; really, flesh will adhere to aluminum bleachers no matter the clothing, or so it seemed.  Sophomore year high school, I looked like the Michelin Man, I was bundled up so much.  But you root for the ones you love, whatever the temperature.

Our reward was college softball, which kicked off every year in Florida.  The first year we went, neither Michele nor I could get over that it was already 80 degrees around our anniversary.  The locals—Clermont, outside of Orlando—thought we had to be out-of-towners because we were wearing shorts; they thought it was a little “cool” out still.  Ordinarily, when in Rome...but not this time.  Better yet, we were able to sightsee around games, with trips to Daytona Beach and St. Augustine and a couple of spring training contests.

But now all we can do is dream or remember, or look at pictures uploaded.  My father always said it was hard getting old.  He was right. 

 

There Will Be No Raiders There

Oakland Raiders’ owner Al Davis always struck me as scum, and his son Mark is proudly carrying on that tradition by getting NFL owners to sign off on his proposed move to Las Vegas.  How quaint of the Dolphins’ Stephen Ross, the only to vote against the franchise shift, to say that “we as owners and as a league owe it to the fans to do everything we can to stay in the communities that have supported us until all options have been exhausted,” or in the case of the Raiders, Las Vegas comes up with $750 million in public funding for the $1.7 billion project.  Let it be noted for the record Ross spent $500 million of his own money to update what was once Joe Robbie (now Hard Rock) Stadium.

But paying for stuff with your own money isn’t how most professional sports’ team owners do things nowadays, Ross and the Ricketts’ family excepted; the 30-year mortgage is for suckers, and season’s-ticket holders.  If the Raiders' move is the injury, here’s the insult—they may not leave Oakland for two to three years, until their desert palace is ready.  Boy, won’t players feel the love from Oakland fans.  I bet Mark Davis will be a real man about it, though, and walk the sidelines without fear of what may come his way.

Mothers, don’t let your children grow up to be fans of a pro sports’ team.  It’ll only break their hearts.    

Gibber-jabber

I never let Clare make excuses for herself or talk gibber, as I call it.  She always hustled, so I never once called her on that in high school or college.  Hitting, we disagreed on and argued over.  On my end, it was all about learning from mistakes and finding the best approach that day against that pitcher.  My daughter thought she was doing that and told me when I was wrong to think otherwise.  You could call it a frank exchange of positions that went on for some time.

Thank God I had the child I did because if I were the father of James Shields or Todd Frazier, they might not have made it to the majors.  Shields started for the White Sox yesterday and escaped with three runs in five innings on eight hits and three walks.  This is how he put it to the Tribune:  “They [Giants’ hitters] battled me out there.  They had a bunch of foul-offs today, and the second inning was my bad inning [where he allowed all three runs].  I was up in the zone a little bit, and they were taking advantage of it.”  The Sun-Times story had Shields also saying, “But overall, I felt good, and I’m ready to move on.”  Not so fast, son.

If the other team has a lot of “foul-offs,” as you put it, that means your fastball was very hittable and your breaking stuff wasn’t doing anything special.  A pitcher should never talk about “my bad inning” because that makes it sound he’s in the habit of giving himself a mulligan every appearance.  And don’t be in a rush to move on unless you’ve learned something first.

As for Frazier, he’s hitting .161 without any homers or rbi’s in a spring where he’s had to battle finger and oblique injuries.  But not to worry, he tells the Trib.  “Everything is good, where I want to be.  I’m working on some stuff, so the numbers might not all be there, but the way I’m approaching spring training is to work and see what I can do going to the opposite field.”

You see, Frazier wants to improve on his .225 average from last year, but only so much.  “I’m a .250 hitter, so I’d like to be around there.  Let’s be realistic.  I’m not going to hit .315 or .320, even though I’d like to.  That means I’ll probably hit 15 home runs [vs. the 40 he hit in 2016], if that’s the case.  You have to be realistic with yourself.  Be who you are.”  And who exactly is that, young man?

Any child of mine was encouraged to demand the most of herself, to hit .300, then more [.425 one year in high school, .309 one season in college], six homeruns, then more [10 one year in high school, seven one year in college].  The idea isn’t to hit 40 homers or .315, but to do both.  Didn’t Frazier grow up wanting to be like Mike...Schmidt?  If not, why not?  Being “realistic” should never be an excuse for expecting less of yourself, as my daughter could tell you.   

A Little Mystery

Well, I can’t help myself.  I bought another two batches of snapshots taken at Comiskey Park, six in all and all apparently from 1946.  They come from an antique store in Georgia, so I see this as a form of rescue and repatriation.

Two of the photos have comments written on the back.  Tigers’ outfielder Dick Wakefield is described as “The very nicest of all players.  Posed for me on request.”  Added beneath that is “Detroit paid plenty for him but he ‘copped out.’”  How quickly an opinion changes.  Wakefield batted .293 in a nine-year career, mostly with the Tigers.

Then we have the snapshot of Luke Appling, Old Aches and Pains.  On the back it says, “I can’t believe this is Luke Appling, who was with the Cardinals in St. Louis when they won their first pennant.  Dizzy Dean, Paul [Dean], Appling, [Leo] Durocher and many others were with Card[s] then.  It was in the ’30ies I believe.”

Well, yes and no.  The Dean brothers and Leo the Lip did in fact play for those Gashouse Gang St. Louis teams of the 1930s, but not Appling; he spent his entire career, 1930-1950, on the South Side.  Either Luke was toying with the person who wrote that, or somebody’s memory failed.  I checked the St. Louis rosters from 1932-38, and no one has a name that even comes close to Appling.  A mystery in black and white, this is.  

I Second that Emotion

Well, the U.S. bought home the cup/trophy/ribbon/participation certificate by winning the World Baseball Classic with a 8-0 thumping of Puerto Rico earlier this week.  The Americans also made a statement by not being demonstrative, at least when compared to other teams and fans.

Puerto Rico, Cuba, Korea, Italy, Israel, Venezuela, Mexico, Japan—everybody seemed to get into the “act” but the U.S.  This whole question of showing emotion goes back to Jose Batista’s bat flips and the routines of a number of closers on the mound after they’ve finished a game.  The more the merrier in some cultures, but…

“It didn’t sit well,” Pirates outfielder Andrew McCutchen told the NYT of all the victory preparations—caps, t-shirts, parade—the other side was making, this before the game had been played.  “I always learned in this game: Stay humble, be humble, or this game will humble you,” McCutchen said.  “I learned it over my career.  Hey, don’t say anything; just go out and play the game.  It will speak for you.”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.  Here’s hoping McCutchen wins Comeback Player of the Year in the NL.