A Walk Together

For reasons I don’t quite understand, Clare spent her last night of single life with us yesterday.  Like countless times before, she sat in the living room, phone at her side or pressed against her face as she told her soon-to-be husband that Matt Davidson of the White Sox looked good pitching in an 11-3 blowout loss to the Rangers.  “He was strangely athletic,” observed my ever-wise progeny.

This morning, like countless ones before, she used her Ted Williams’ root beer glass, the one I bought at a memorabilia show two years and a month before her birth; it was the same show where I talked with Luke Appling for a good ten minutes.  Between the glass and Clare’s aches-and-pains routine over the years, something must’ve rubbed off from that Sunday in downstate Lewistown.

In under four hours, I will walk my daughter down the aisle of the same church where she was baptized, to be married by the same priest who baptized her; baseball families understand the value of tradition.  Then, if I don’t break down by the time of the reception, I’ll give a test that will allude to my child’s athletic prowess (and, with luck, embarrass her just a little bit.  I mean, what good is a father if he can’t embarrass his daughter at her wedding reception?) 

When everything is over, the leftover wedding put in our care to go in the freezer, I will drive home with my wife, our lives forever changed.

Extremes

We brought Clare home from the hospital the Saturday before Thanksgiving, 1991; there were snow flurries that afternoon, as I recall.  Tomorrow, for our daughter’s wedding, the weather forecast is for the mercury to reach 99 degrees, or 100.  Did I mention the church has no air conditioning?

But both extremes are perfect bookends for spring sports in the Midwest.  Clare played softball with snow on the field some times, with the threat of heat exhaustion other times.  We played a travel tournament in Toledo the summer she was fourteen in conditions not unlike what they’re promising for tomorrow.  That was the weekend I learned about $3 bottles of water and disappearing water fountains.

At least we won’t have to eat any Toledo hotdogs at the reception.

Two Days Away

So, now we’re at two days from the wedding, and my daughter is still talking baseball.  First thing this morning, she sent videos of the Cubs’ Addison Russell looking very bad at shortstop and center fielder Ian Happ trying not to get hit on the head by a homerun ball that ricocheted back onto the field at Dodger Stadium.

Then, she came over this afternoon to deliver my pocket hankie and tie for Saturday.  The White Sox are playing a day game, which gave us a chance to watch Lucas Giolito walk the bases loaded in the top of the first before getting out of it.  “I think he’s got the yips,” Clare offered, and it’s something for pitching coach Don Cooper to consider.

Clare also remembered a time when she was on the Huskies, her first travel team.  The tournament was close to one player’s house, to which we descended on during one of those two-hour breaks between games that would otherwise drive a parent nuts.  It was 2006, just one year after the Sox had won the World Series, so you would’ve thought the host family would’ve put the ballgame on, but no; their daughter was a budding soccer star, or so they said.  We got to watch the World Cup instead.

“Dad and I couldn’t believe it.”  That, and how a wedding can sneak up on you.  

Counting Down

Four days to her wedding, and my daughter is still talking baseball.  Yesterday, Clare stopped by to kill time before she had to go to the florist to pick up special vases she wanted for members of the bridal party to put their bouquets in once they get to the reception.

These are not to be confused with the place cards she and Chris designed; those have little chickens or cows or vegetables printed on the reverse to indicate what kind of meal the person named on front wants, chicken, beef or vegetarian.  In high school, Clare showed particular interest in the Marshall Plan, to the point we had to search out George Marshall’s grave at Arlington after softball nationals’ one year.  I think she has the same attention to detail Marshall did as a general and secretary of state.

Anyway, we put on the Nationals-Rays’ game and got to talking.  Clare is still steamed at something Jessica Mendoza said on Sunday, that Bryce Drew is in a slump (.219 BA to go with 19 homeruns and 46 RBIs) because his swing is off-balance.  Father and daughter both agreed Harper is chasing pitches, hence the lack of balance, because he’s in a slump.  Then, this morning, she texted me that Yolmer Sanchez of the White Sox  has some incredible stats with the bases loaded, four for six with ten RBIs.

You can’t help but be proud of a child like that.  Maybe she wants to keep the old man calm in the days leading up to the wedding so he won’t be too much of a problem on the big day.  Or maybe baseball is keeping the bride-to-be from having the jitters.  Either way, God bless Yolmer, and Clare.

Value for Value

Value for Value

Last week, Tom Verducci wrote in si.com about dumb things the Mets have done and could do yet.  Among the latter would be trading starters Noah Syndergaard and/or Jacob deGrom, a move or moves that “would plumb new depths to their foolishness.”

By way of a warning, Verducci sited the Chris Sale trade.  “Since the White Sox traded Sale, they have been the worst team in baseball (91-140, .394).  Their attendance has fallen 21%.  Their payroll has been slashed by 25%.  Their television ratings, down eight percent last year, were the worst in baseball other than those for the Athletics.”

Ah, yes, the gamble, the Hail Mary, the rebuild.  The Sox rolled the dice, sent Sale to the Red Sox and received four prospects in return; Verducci is not impressed with the top two, that being Yoan Moncada and Michael Kopech.  Of course, Verducci wrote his assessment before Moncada drove in six runs Sunday against those very same Athletics, giving him 32 on the year.  That would be second highest on the Mets, by the way.

As for Kopech, he continues to show enough to keep hoping he figures it out (at age 22).  Last night, the righty threw six innings for Charlotte, giving up 0 runs on four hits and two walks while striking out nine; Kopech now has 97 strikeouts, which puts him second in the International League.  The ERA isn’t that great at 4.66, but I’d bet a whole lot of teams out there would gladly take on this particular prospect.

The truth of the matter is the Mets are what the White Sox were, a team able to assemble at least some talent, but never enough on a consistent basis.  Syndergaard and deGrom are Sale and Jose Quintana by any other name.  And Todd Frazier is Todd Frazier regardless whether he’s playing for the Sox or the Mets (and you’ve got him for two years, Mets’ fans).  You’re damned if your team does trade for prospects, and damned if they don’t.

The way I try to keep my sanity is by making peace with the fact Sale is gone while deciding—regardless the evidence—that dumb moves by the Sox front office were more the work of Kenny Williams than Rick Hahn.  And, just for fun, I imagine the Sox signing Sale when he becomes a free agent after next year.

There may be better ways to get through a baseball season, but I doubt that’s true right now for the Mets or their fans.

Please and Thank You

Cubs’ catcher Willson Contreras apparently stumbled upon one of the lesser known unwritten rules of baseball—he forgot to say “thank you” to the home-plate ump after calling for time in the fourth inning of Saturday’s game against the Reds.

All of a sudden, umpire Greg Gibson started giving Contreras a piece of his mind, as if the men in blue had a surplus to share.  One thing led to another, and bench coach Brandon Hyde got ejected for defending Contreras, who gave his side of the story after the game.  Gibson, naturally, couldn’t be bothered to offer his, although he did provide yet another reason why umpires will be replaced by electronic sensors one day, and not a fan or player will miss them. 

Then, Not Now

I try to live in the present as much as possible, given how the past is always tugging at me.  It does no good to focus on Clare as a child or bat-swinging teen; she’ll still be six days away from her wedding.  Baseball, thankfully, is different.  MLB all but begs you to indulge in nostalgia, with Cooperstown and “turn back the clock” games.  But I prefer to do my own time travel.

For some reason, the 1940s White Sox hold a special attraction to me.  Maybe because they give way to the Go-Go teams of the 1950s, maybe because Ted Lyons came back from the war to play the good soldier in the dugout, managing some awful teams; the Sox had seven consecutive losing seasons, 1944-1950.  Whatever the motivation, I’ve been collecting photos of Comiskey Park as well as Sox players from the era, along with other stuff.

This week, I got the decal I bought off of eBay; it’s a four-inch square turned into a diamond by what’s printed on it.  On the front is “Watch the White Sox Play 1940” and on the back is the schedule, starting with that Opening Day no-hitter by Bob Feller.  I’ve already mentioned Luke Appling’s contention he was robbed of a hit in that game by an umpire. All I could find in the Tribune was mention of a ten-pitch walk Appling managed with two out in the ninth.

Next up courtesy of eBay is a sticker of a cartoon figure the Sox used in the ’40s, of a player dragging an oversized bat.  Somehow, the piece ended up in England, so I’m doing my patriotic duty by repatriating it.  Sure beats watching a team in “rebuild.”