White Sox Kick It Off on ESPN2

Workers are rioting in Paris, torching every Cooper Mini in sight. Undocumented Aliens are flooding our country and sapping our resources. Iran has finally enriched their uranium, and is planning to launch on Israel. And, our media is giving aid and comfort to the enemy in Iraq by criticizing our every effort to win the hearts and minds of Iraqis. But, what the hell?! Opening Day is here!!! The first 20,000 fans will receive a free pair of rally socks on Sunday night at U.S. Cellular Park, when the White Sox take on Cleveland. This game holds great interest for both teams and their fans because: a.) It's the Opener b.)it's on ESPN2 c.)Cleveland wants to show they're better without Jim Thome d.)the Sox want to show they're better with him.

For Fantasy Leaguers, I have two lock-down, sure-thing sleeper picks: OF Brian Anderson, White Sox and at 2B, Texas Rangers' Ian Kinsler. I love stories about long-shot-guys who never give up. Kinsler fits that description. He bounced around three different schools collegiately. And, he was drafted in the 17th round as a shortstop. His first year out of college (2003), he didn't look back, hitting .402 with 11 Home Runs and 52 RBI's in 59 games to start the season at low Single-A Clinton. He kept tearing it up, even after changing postitions in 2005 in AAA. His development was the twinkle in Buck Showalter's eye last year, as Alfonso Soriano led the MLB in errors at 2nd Base.

Remember Derrick Gordon, Lamar Lefty? Last night, he went 6 strong innings against Texas A&M in Beaumont. The Aggies won with a walk-off tater by RF Blake Stouffer in the 10th Inning. Gordon allowed 4 hits, 2 earned runs and had 7Ks. I imagine he had to feel alright with that. A pitcher has to have an almost separate agenda than the rest of the team. He has got to go to the mound with a set of goals that ignore the play of the rest of the team. In this way, he won't be affected by defensive errors. Nor will he delude himself that great play by his team will mask a poor outing.

Junior had a day last Sunday like Gordon's, throwing 4 Innings against a team that has been a nemisis since he was Nine Years Old. (The Triangle Terminators) He threw 60 pitches, 40 for strikes, had 3 Ks, allowing 2 unearned runs. His team lost 2-0. The other pitcher threw a wicked no-hitter over 6 Innings. On most days, John's effort would have been good enough to win. On Sunday, it wasn't. But, he was poised throughout, and met his goals on the mound. I was proud of him.

And, with the world essentially circling the toilet, I appreciate a every last good game a lot, even if my team came out on the wrong end. Torch every Matchbox Car in Gay Paree'! Do we care?! We got our our cold Bud. And, opening Day is here!! Hoorah!

Alexandar the Great & Flash Gordon

My friend Erin, the hockey-mom sent me a link to a short composition on Alexandar Ovechkin. You have never heard of him before now. But, in three minutes, you'll be his newest fan.
Alexandar The Great

My son worked out last night with a lefty pitcher named Derrick Gordon. Gordon pitches currently for Lamar University. His fastball regularly tops out at 90mph. In 2004, he was on the SLC All-Freshman Team.

Derrick Gordon's Bio

He talked Junior through about 50 pitches, before telling him to shut it down. Gordon's friend, Lamar Catcher C.J. Ebarb was in a hurry to go. But, Derrick stuck around with John. They talked and joked and relaxed as each tried to one-up the other's knuckleball tosses. He seemed very happy to meet a kid and be a kid.

The dig on Lamar's Lefty is that (5'9") he may not possess big-league dimensions. But, if my son was a GM, he'd draft him #1. Gordon is as soft-spoken and articulate as any college ballplayer we've seen. And, he took the time to connect with a 13-year-old, at a time in his life when compliments and support are so critical to a boy's self-esteem and self-concept. Derrick seemed to be happy to help. He seemed to understand that connecting with the younger ballplayers is part of his responsibility. Gordon may never be seen in the Bigs. (On the other hand, he IS a lefty with good stuff.)But, in terms of success in life, one meeting is all it takes to tell that he's a lock.

If you read the Newberg Report (and you should), check out today's piece, mentioning one of my favorite sports-topics, the bandwagoner. Lastly, I want it noted for the record that I have successfully lived to be 40 years of age without ever seeing one episode of American Idol, The O.C. (or any of the line of asinine televised teen-oriented quasi-porn), The Family Guy, Scrubs, Two and A Half Men or The West Wing. Amazing, isn't it? How could one remain informed?

Spring Break Catch-Up

Check out Jamey Newberg's insights after visiting Ranger Spring Training this week:
March 16th Newberg Report
This perspective is valuable because it mentions the family and friends of ballplayers trying to make it in the MLB. No ballplayer is an individual. He represents the tale of a family; parents who taught him, loved him, hurt him and hurt for him. Every player is the tale of an investment, the conclusion of which is whether or not the investment was big enough. Before you cast your disdain onto the garden-variety, over-paid big-league ballplayer, read Jamey's reflections.

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In her typical maddening fashion, my wife has taken the first-round lead in my NCAA Basketball Bracket Extravaganza. Every year, she thinks of a way to outsmart the studious, conscientious sports fan, by making her picks based upon uniform color or mascot name. This year, she based her picks on aWestern Theme. Committing a near-sports-sacrilege, she's got University of Texas winning it all. There must be a method to her madness because she picked Northwestern State over Iowa! I'm fairly certain she's the only one in the country who made that pick. Infuriating. Simply infuriating.

She's an electrical engineer by training. So, you might expect her to be running the numbers and RPI ratings through her HP calculator, methodically posting the scores on a spread sheet. Privately, I believe she thinks this stuff is asinine. It is quite beneath her dignity to dedicate more than a five minutes of her time to the selection of an NCAA National Champion. And, that makes her success all the more frustrating. Next year, I am not letting any girls into my famous Bracket Extravaganza.

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We spent Spring Break out at my Dad's Ranch, just south of San Antonio. He was glad to have us out there to break up the monotony of over 100 days without a drop of rain.

I am increasingly glad that we have fun places for the kids to spend their time at Spring Break. During my college days, a young lad could find more than his share of trouble in places like Padre Island, Cancun or Daytona Beach. Sadly, the damage done by one's own poor decisions during these periods of mindless bedlam might never be undone during his/her lifetime. I did damage to myself and others. When they get older, I have determined that I will sacrifice my relationship with my children before I will sacrifice their physical and spiritual health to the demons of our society.

Sorry about the rant. Anyway, we took my son's friend Cameron to the ranch. He is the best shot with a rifle of any of John's friends. He almost single-handedly irradicated one pond of its snake population. In one instance, my old dad got into the action, producing a .22 pistol and vanquishing one alarmingly large snake from its perch in a tree, overhanging the water.

I have been trying to anticipate things that my kids can do for Spring Break (in their teens) that will be both fun and edifying. I need ideas that will interest them.

Who is Jerry Schmidt?

A fanatical OU alum, Laurie Harmon told me about Mr. Schmidt, the strength and conditioning coach for Bob Stoops. After reading the following article, it was no wonder to me why the Sooners keep winning. They also keep turning out guys like Roy Williams, who is generally regarded as the hardest-hitting DB in professional football.

Who Is Jerry Schmidt?

Papa John and Clemens Scheduled to Start

If you missed the last start of Roger Clemens' Redford-esque career in Game Four of the World Series in 2003 (Yankees), or the last start of his shining career on October 22nd of 2005 in the World Series against the White Sox, don't worry about it. The latest "Last Start" of Roger Clemens' career is today, March 10th, 2006, when he takes on the lowly South African Squad in what has become a very exciting World Baseball Classic. If you miss this one because of the unfortunate 2:00PM start time, don't worry about that either. The next "last start" of the legendary Rocket is tentatively scheduled for October.

John's next start is scheduled for tomorrow afternoon, in Brenham, Texas. He has been having a lot of success of late. But, he's getting to be a sort of 13-year-old David Wells. Wells takes a beer-and-cigarettes approach to conditioning and training. But, its the corpulent righty's obscene ability that has made him successful. "Papa John" has been doing it with game-day effort like Wells, while taking the off-week preparation casually. The sad truth of it is this: neither Wells nor Papa John can have the kind of tenure at the highest level that the Rocket has had if they don't commit to their preparation. (This is not to say that John hasn't been hitting the crap out of the baseball lately. He has been tough with a bat in his hand in the past month and a half.)

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Complacency - n - com·pla·cen·cy A feeling of contentment or self-satisfaction, especially when coupled with an unawareness of danger, trouble, or controversy

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If John doesn't have a great pitching performance tomorrow, it may be for the best. He really has potential to be good. But, as they say in the Oklahoma Sooners' weight room, "Hard Work beats talent when talent doesn't work hard." The occasional stumble might reinforce that pearl of wisdom.

Bonus: Since you're doing your homework, and checking my blog, I'm going to help raise your Baseball IQ. Roger Clemens has the most career wins in the "Live Ball Era". Most folks think that after 1920 (start of the Live-Ball Era), the construction of the baseball changed. In fact, the construction remained constant. But, the rules of professional baseball changed to help hitters. Prior to 1920, professional baseball re-used foul balls. This gave players plenty of opportunity to scuff the ball for the pitcher. Since that time, foul balls have been replaced. So, pitchers had to ostensibly play fair.

Youth Sports: Why Put Up With This S*&$?

Mike Reed of Pasadena, Texas correctly summed about youth sports, “Parents have become the ultimate fools.” Everyone is aware of news stories about parents bludgeoning each other in the stands or the “Texas Cheerleader Mom” hiring members of the Corleone Family to “whack” the coach, another kid or the French and Russian Judges. (I don’t know that lady. But, I recall buying Girl Scout Cookies from her outside the Walmart.) In fact, just this week a dad in nearby Canton, Texas was convicted of shooting his son’s football coach. (I’m not on a first-name basis with that guy. But, we buy our tobacco and deer corn at the same store.) Competitive Youth Sports is a minefield, fraught with perils, be it baseball, hockey, football, motocross or Azteca-Style Horseback Riding (Indeed, one of our faithful readers’ sons is the preeminent young rider in South Texas). At such a tempestuous time, we brave few must remind ourselves why we expose ourselves and our children to the ugliest displays of selfishness, violence and self-aggrandizement. To clarify, we do it because our kids need our support in this competitive world. In reality, if we’re big enough to make a baby, we are big enough to keep the implicit covenant to teach him/her about life. And, where better to do that than the odorous cauldron of emotions and histrionics of sports? However, sometimes those emotions get the better of us. So, we must constantly check our motives.

Society wants your kid to fail. Don’t take it personally. But, society doesn’t want to see your kid at the top. They want their kid at the top. (Again, nothing personal.) It’s a numbers game. From a secular, purely mathematic perspective, there just aren’t too many spots at the peak of the proverbial podium. So, if your kid wants to stand there, he’s got to pull somebody off, slide on sideways and knee somebody else in the groin to force his way. And, it is not just that impersonal in sports. Every pursuit worth pursuing requires grit and determination. So, smart parents hedge their bets by playing the ‘Sports’ game, the ‘Academics’ game and a wildcard (like dance, ceramics or Olympic-Style Curling). Kids need our support. They need their own pit-crew to succeed in this endless drive for advancement. Like EVERY race, things get heated, tense and demanding. Successful kids today need parents ready after school to pull them in the front door, wipe their noses, shove a protein-rich, vitamin-packed, Strawberry-Banana NASA bar in their mouth, stab an electrolyte IV in their arm, update the spreadsheet on BM’s and throw them into the car to listen to soothing Classical piano all the way to their Business Leadership for the Nine-Year-Old Entrepreneur Seminar. Society is a punitive dog-eat-dog place. Nothing personal, just a numbers game.

The Parent/Child Pursuit Covenant is this: If you honor him, he will honor you. (This applies to girls too.) If you give him the support he needs, he will compliment you with sincere effort in all his pursuits. Never was there a child who didn’t want the approval of his parents, so the above is a hard and fast rule. Another aspect of The Covenant: your child’s youth will test the depth of your belief in your core values. In other words, do you believe in your platitudes enough to invest your child’s youth? For example, how many seasons in a row will you poke out your chest and pronounce,

You never lose if you never quit

if your child has still never won anything? How many years will you tell your son

There are no short-cuts if you want to succeed

as you and he continually watch his peers getting ahead by way of parental favoritism and politics? The PCP Covenant implies that he is not the only one who is being tested. You’re both being tested. You’re in this together.

Relating to our motives for pushing our kids, I wrote the following in my epic masterpiece, DADDY BALL:

As good fathers, our most fervent wish is simply to have each spring afternoon develop as follows:

1. Drive to ballpark with son, hitting all the lights.
2. Son remembers all his equipment, and carries his own bag.
3. Win coin-flip.
4. The sun shines brightly into the dugout of the other team.
5. Infield plays tight, fundamental defense.
6. Outfielders keep their heads in the game.
7. Son pitches two or three innings, just to let the dog out a little. He fires blistering cheese, while buckling knees with that filthy knuckle-change thingy.
8. Son breaks tie with a walk-off double and RBI in bottom of the last inning.
9. As dusk falls over the ballpark, father and son walk to parking lot while all other dads make-way; other moms silently contemplate the father’s strong jaw and incomparable manliness, as well as the son’s easy swagger.
10. Dad puts arm around son, and they both smile.

That sounds fair enough, doesn’t it? We’re not asking too much there, are we? It’s important to remember that every daddy is trying to pave the way for HIS son’s walk-off, game-winning base-hit. So, in order to reduce the sometimes unrealistic pressure to succeed, remember that some afternoons will end with failure. Now, ask yourself: In failure, where is the first place your child looks? (Yes. He looks at you, seeking understanding.) So, remember to believe in him enough not to lose faith after one bad game. A real father finds the virtue in each loss.

Not only so, but we also rejoice in our sufferings because we know that suffering
produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope.

--Romans 5:3-4

We’ll actually expect to lose on occasion because we trust that our kids are strengthened by it, in the long run. Our motives have got to be centered on the growth of our children, not the results of the game.

There has never been a team in youth sports that fell apart because of the players. No videotaped bludgeoning of a referee was ever meted out by the kids. And, no bitterness amongst the players ever continued for a season without the implicit sanction of a petty parent. As the old adage goes, youth sports would be a picnic if it wasn’t for the parents. (Please cease and desist with all comparisons between me and Tennis-Dad from Mont-De-Marsan, France.) Sports for our kids have become rugged, ugly testing grounds for their character and the quality of their upbringing…….. And, guess what…… That’s what childhoods are supposed to be. So, parent and child: remember your covenant, support each other, check your motives, buckle your helmet and get in the game.

Youth Hockey: The Parental Contact Sport

It’s a little known fact that while in my Early-80’s high school heyday in the Northern Suburbs of Chicago, I started the trend to make the mullet haircut and cargo pants the fashion bonanzas that they were (Yep, me.). I never got the credit that I deserved. But, I was fortunate to live in a great place and time to be in high school. I played football. The female persuasion was the motivation for my choice of sports. Every catch, run and tackle might be rewarded by the praise and worship of the girls. That was the jock-mindset. But, there was a stranger group of athletes at our school, whose behavior and motivation was something I could neither explain nor understand: the Hockey Players.

I didn’t understand them then. I don’t understand them now. Words like ‘crease’ and ‘icing’ don’t mean the same thing to hockey-people as they do to me. But, I did see enough of our Glenbrook South High school team to know that they were relentless about winning and passionate about their sport. Being a parent of an accomplished ballplayer, I have seen it all when it comes to the special community of Tournament Baseball Parents. There’s an ongoing soap opera among parents on most teams. The dramas that play outside the lines can be more ridiculous than any error-filled game within. But, I’m finding out that hockey parents take the games of guile and hostility, as well as commitment and time-investment to another level.

Down here in Texas, it would be hard to become a hockey player, much less learn to skate. In the Lone Star State, anything holding ice that is larger than a tea glass gets filled with bottles of beer. But, in the Mid-West, the Parks and Recreation departments cover the city parks with water from a fire hose, when the temperatures drop. The result is an ice rink in just about every neighborhood. Of course, one has to be a good ice skater. I was always very stable on the ice because my ankles and the blades would actually touch ice simultaneously, giving me a training-wheel effect. Yet, despite the best efforts of the Parks and Rec. Dept., it was never really my thing.

Back in the ‘80’s, there was a group of three brothers that seemed to form the nucleus of our hockey program. Though they were related, to my recollection, these Jones Boys were two murderous thugs and one silky ice-humming-bird, name Jeff. I don’t remember the older two Jones’ first names. But, it wouldn’t matter because the government has either assigned these two a number or a new name via the Witness Protection Program. Imagine two silver back gorillas patrolling the rink, using their front knuckles for balance. The vision of their sinister advance prompted entire school administrations to bolt simultaneously into the concession stand just to be out of their line of sight. Younger brother Jeff was different from the older versions. He was all speed and finesse. Not to say he couldn’t take the contact. But, no one could catch him. Along with his ethereal skill in his chosen sport, in school he was as quiet and kind as the librarian.

It has always been my theory that most hockey players are people who are deeply, sadly pained. They play their sport because they want to trade pain they can neither see nor salve for pain that they can explain. The older two Jones fellows said nothing to discourage my theory. But, to my knowledge, they never spoke. I’m fairly certain they used their mouths only for ripping and tearing.

All three Jones Boys gave our program respectability in the early 1980’s.

Now, in the year 2006, the family’s little sister is the mother of the three new players who carry the family mantle. Mom’s name is Erin, an Irish name. Her oldest is 14. He is a freshman and already carries 190 lbs. of burgeoning brawn onto the ice. Erin also has a 13 year old and a 5 year old, both future superstars. A hockey puck is the coin of the realm in her family. She sent me an email on February 15th, 2006: the day Latvia (2 million people) tied the American Hockey Team in the Turino Winter Olympics.

I am housing two fourteen year old boys from Latvia this week. They came here to play Joe's hockey team. They want me to take them to "the shopping" so that they can buy "the hip hop clothes" and ”the bling". Unfortunately, Northbrook Court (an upscale mall in the well-heeled suburbs of Chicago) is not filling the retail inventory with ghetto clothing. They are downstairs in my family room bellowing the Latvian National anthem right now. I assume that the Latvian hockey team must be beating the good ol' USA. The game is on now. I am sure that I will have to go down there and break up a fight soon as my Joe will risk bloodshed defending his country and his sport. This might get ugly. To make matters worse they have trained my five year old to cheer "LATVIA! LATVIA!". I'll have to tell him that Latvia is a bad word. He even has the little accent down. Joe will probably put him through the wall….

Well I have to drive the Latvians to their game. They smell very badly. They refuse to let me wash their clothes. I keep saying give me " the pants", and "take the shower" I think they must think I am putting the moves on them.

And relating to Hockey-Parents (Oh, the profundity!):

There used to be hockey web site for parents in the Chicago area to post information regarding hockey scores and the best places to skate. It ended up turning into this big platform of negativity, degrading people and their children. I thought it was fun to go after a glass (or two) of wine, and use my clever wit to vent my anger in a clandestine fashion. Sometimes, just reading all the misspelled words was more interesting than the actual posts. On occasion, I would begin a thread, just for giggles, that would talk about which rink has the best concession stand, or which concession stand employees are the rudest.

I did generate an interesting thread about the correlation between the type of car that pulls up in front of the rink to drop off players and what type of equipment they wear as well as what type of player they are. For instance, the kid in the Range Rover will have the most expensive, shiny, "must-have" equipment. He is usually a decent player because he takes a lot of private lessons. His parents are usually on the board of directors, thereby secretly controlling every aspect of the team. They take the coaches out to fancy restaurants after games to secure more ice time for their son.

The kid that arrives in the Volvo has the safest equipment. His helmet is hand-made by a neurosurgeon to prevent concussions. He is a cautious player, shying away from any physical contact, even during practice with his own teammates. His parents are the ones in the stand calling anyone that touches their child a goon, and screaming out things like "Hey, this isn't Wrestlmania!"

Then, there’s the boy that arrives in the pickup truck, with the name of a construction company on the door. This boy will usually arrive in full gear because he's had to dress in the car, because his Dad has two jobs and is scrambling to get him there. His helmet, gloves or pants do not match. Every item he owns is second-hand, including his skates. This boy is the hardest-working, most committed player on the team.. Nobody is buying him a Power Aid for $2.75 after he skates. He brings a water bottle from home with tap water. His parents sit quietly in the stands and watch him play. Secretly, they are happy just to be able to sit down for an hour.

Erin, on hockey-parent conduct:

I could tell you stories that would make those crazy baseball Dads look like kittens. I've seen Mothers climbing over the glass, trying to hit the referees with their Gucci purses. I've accidentally been hit by a roll of tape thrown by enraged parent from Green Bay who was really aiming at the 85 year old Grandpa, sitting behind me. Gramps was screaming something about one of the boys on the Green Bay team being a cheap-shot, or that he should be thrown out of the game. I don't really remember, I just remember thanking the gentleman who threw that tape for saving me the $4.00 for the new roll of tape. I've seen full-out brawls in the stands. I've been told to shut up, even though I never actually spoke a word. The only saving grace about the low-class, irresponsible behavior from the stands is that the kids can't hear too much of it. The helmets block a lot of the noise.

The thing that I can't get over is when you go to an ice rink, and they have a bar. So now you have, this group of really competitive parents, their kids playing at the highest competitive level. And, Mom and Dad get intoxicated. Then the rink administration has the audacity (two days later) to wonder why a fight broke out. That is really bad right? It gets better. Mom and Dad actually put their kids in the car after 7 beers and drive then home. Good times!

Oh, the Outrage!

My son was on a team a few years ago and I actually heard a Dad in the stands telling his wife, that their little superstar would get $75 dollars after the game, Yep, $25 bucks per goal. My eyes lit up and I couldn’t resist, so I casually announced that we only pay our son if he gets a penalty, (preferably for slashing, or charging the goalie)! Can you imagine paying for a goal?

Of course, she's absolutely right. That is simply scandalous. $25 is pretty high. I keep a payment scale in range of $15 - $20 in the first round of a tournament, unless its a national qualifier. Naturally, it is a graduating scale. So, in the Championship Game, I have been known to part with between $50 - $100 (just to make sure my son is focused and his priorities are in order.)

I’m glad the 1980’s are over. I did my bit for fashion and athletics. But, it’s over now. I’m glad I was able to trade that place with its strange sport of hockey for an area and a sport that I can understand. Hockey, snow and ice: it’s so foreign to me. But, team-politics, conflict and soap-operas as well as commitment, practice and parental sacrifice; that stuff I’m very familiar with. It’s funny how much all of us sports-parents have in common.

Playing in the Baseball Time/Space Continuum

We spent the weekend in a place outside of the confines of time. If you can believe this: We were in League City, Texas, watching my son play at Wrigley Field. The new facility is called Big League Dreams. Completed last Summer, it reportedly cost $30 Million to build.

Every field is a replica of a professional park, either current or historical. As a matter of fact, my son's Texas Sundevils won two in a row on Sunday, February 12th, on the old Polo Grounds of New York.

The restaurant behind homeplate allows sports-dads to eat a great burger and drink a beer while watching their kids and ESPN simultaneously. It was everything I ever dreamed of in a ballpark. When I ventured into the eating establishment's welcoming confines (upon my arrival Saturday), I was so overcome that my arms went limp, my chin dropped to my chest and I spontaneously wept. The matronly beer lady brought me a frosty $4.00 Domestic Brand, and then held me until I could gather myself. She understood. I was not the first father who had lived to see his ideal of the perfect baseball tournament materialize at this, the Copa Cabana of youth baseball. As I sucked my thumb, she gently pulled my head to her comforting, copious bosom and hummed the melody to "Say Hey, Willie". Then, she released me to sit by all the other red-eyed, quivering First-Time-At-The-Big-League-Dreams dads.

My son and his team did their parts. By winning 4 out of 5 and coming away with a 1st Place Tourney Trophy, they did nothing to defile the synthetic turf upon which they played. Papa John delivered, getting 6 hits and 8 RBI's for the weekend. He pitched like a bulldog, sometimes having to scramble and battle for the bone that he would eventually take. In his seven innings against the eventual second place Houston Toros, he allowed four runs. The picture attached is another of our great pitchers, Ryan St. Clair. Behind him, one can see the sprigs of ivy that will cover Wrigley's walls in May.

At Big League Dreams, they thought of absolutely everything.

Of Dickens, Baylor And Swaziland

Aren’t we often like Ebenezer Scrooge at our desk or computer, burying our nose in pointless minutiae and trivia, while the import of our very lives is floating just over our heads? Another commonality between us and Scrooge: our times are both Dickensian. And today, mine is the voice of a writer you used to know, telling you that we should change. I'm all about sports. Yet, the box scores of our lives are as quickly forgotten as Weber State v. Cal. Poly. Still, there’s still time to put up a difference-making shot. But, the shot clock is running down.

_________________________

The couple was so young and beautiful. Lisa was the result of tough, committed and loving parenting. I met her on the day before her wedding. She was the consummate FSU co-ed, as sweet and gorgeous as the oranges that dot the state of Florida. The grateful recipient of all the things we parents want our kids to have, she was the shining jewel in her Italian-American family’s crown. Her husband and I ran together in college. We remained very tight; partly because I kept his bawdy secrets, and he mine. After college, he became a Marine Chopper Pilot. He saw duty in places like Kuwait, Oman, and the mean streets of Oceanside, CA.. Later he joined an organization called the Diplomatic Security Service. He’s done “church work” in every unpalatable cesspool nation in the world. He’s guarded Maddie Albright, Colin Powell, Former Israeli PM Ehud Barak and the late Chairman Yasser Arafat, to name a few. Lisa couldn’t have known it at the time. But, on the day of their wedding, she stood on the altar with the Marine version of Pirate Jack Sparrow. His is a rare amalgamation of whimsy, lunacy and courage that has allowed each day’s evening cocktail to remain just as pleasant despite any particular day’s inordinant carnage. Marines refer to his ability as “compartmentalization”. It is his ability to drown out bad sights and sounds by turning up the volume on the looping Door’s soundtrack that plays in his head. She couldn’t have possibly known what was in store. And, he cut a fine figure of a Marine in St. Petersburg, Florida on his wedding day.

Last year, J. Scott was stationed at our American Embassy in France. We visited in the Spring of ’05. We took Paris by storm. We even got to hob-knob with Ambassador Leach at the annual embassy Easter egg hunt. Lisa and J. Scott were conversant in French. They ate baguettes, fromage and drank café’ du lait. Their little daughter was speaking the language and wearing stockings and a French beret’. Their toddler son had adapted to small dogs and dark chocolate, too. During our visit however, they received news that J. Scott would be assigned to manage security at the American Embassy in Swaziland (tiny country bordering South Africa). To put it in terms that we can appreciate, that is like being taken FIRST in the draft…. by the league doormat.

Prior to moving to any new assignment, the State Department educates my friends, so that they are best prepared. Here is some of the information they received:

• Swaziland is among the world's countries with the greatest prevalence of HIV and the greatest need for treatment, training and education.

• In 2002, 39% of pregnant mothers were HIV positive. The survey from 2005 listed this rate at 56%.

• In southern Africa, 50% of all deaths of children under the age of five are caused by HIV/Aids.

• By 2010, 10% to 15% of the population of Swaziland will be orphans.
(http://bayloraids.org/newsreleases/release23.pdf)

Life is almost hopeless in Swaziland. Almost. Although we Americans only concern ourselves with Baylor’s recruiting class and win-loss record, it should also be noted that Baylor School of Medicine teamed with Bristol Meyers Squibb to turn ground last year on a new hospital, which was scheduled to open this winter: The Pediatric HIV/AIDS Center of Swaziland. So, there is a glimmer of consciousness being dedicated to the pandemic that kills the children of Swaziland. But, it’s only a glimmer mind you, because the children have to compete for our attention with the Super Bowl, the upcoming World Baseball Classic, as well as Spring Training. And, for goodness' sake, let’s not forget Tiger Woods or the almighty Professional Bowler’s Tour.

Lisa sent me an email at the beginning of the week. After all the righteous indignation I could muster to qualify and quantify the Super Bowl officiating, I decided to give her email a quick look:

I have to tell you the story of this day. We brought the shoes and some clothes to a woman named Sylvia. She is HIV positive. Her husband already passed away, she has a daughter Fifi pictured with the group of girls (Fifi's eyes are an unusual almond shape.) Sylvia's house is typical Swazi, no electricity, no running water. She has an outhouse in the back and they bathe and wash clothes in the river, they also drink from it. Sylvia works at the gov't hospital with the AIDS babies and mothers. She helps administer drugs and counsels them on nutrition and nursing etc. She is amazing!! Some Swazi's don't believe AIDS is a disease, some are
superstitious and believe it's a curse some one put on them. Sylvia was called by the chief of her village because a mob was trying to kill an old man they accused of causing the AIDS. She calmed the crowd and saved the man. She showed us around her village, the empty huts where people lived and died and the kids are just gone?! The baby is newborn,(I got to hold him), both of his parents are positive, they just found out! Scott asks me why I want to help them, what do I think I can accomplish? I don't know the answer to this yet. I know I have seen their faces, and I have seen the children, and I can't turn away. Love you much Lisa

Reading those words from one so close and dear made me think of my own daughter. I take my aspirations for her for granted. How dark would my reality be if I had the same realizations as the parents of Swaziland; that I could offer my children nothing and no hope in the future? I was reminded of a recent dialogue I had heard at the first play my daughter ever saw in person.

They were a boy and a girl. Yellow, meager, ragged, scowling, wolfish; but prostrate, too, in their humility. Where graceful youth should have filled their features out, and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shriveled hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and pulled them into shreds. Where angels might have sat enthroned, devils lurked, and glared out menacing. No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has monsters half so horrible and dread.

Scrooge started back, appalled. Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.

`Spirit, are they yours?' Scrooge could say no more.
`They are Man's,' said the Spirit, looking down upon them. `And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers. This boy is Ignorance. This girl is Want. Beware them both, and all of their degree, but most of all beware this boy, for on his brow I see that written which is Doom, unless the writing be erased. Deny it,' cried the Spirit,…. ' --Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

I received another message from Lisa on Wednesday, February 8, 2006:

Hope all is well with Edna and the kids. We miss you all so much. Loved the
pictures sent at Christmas!! Scott has been filling you in on my experiences on the front trenches of the African poverty and AIDS epidemic. Pretty awful! I have met such wonderful people in Swaziland. They are so poor, no running water, no electricity, yet very happy and welcoming. After the treatment by the French it is a
little shocking. I was at the Mbabane Government Hospital last week. You can't imagine being in this hospital, a cement building, no food, no nursing staff. The patients are literally stacked one on top of the other, laying on the floor. I met a
boy, he was about 14 years old, he looked like he was 80. He was sitting on a chair crying, his mother was holding his hand. He told our interpreter that he was so hungry, he wanted beans and rice to eat. The mother had no money, no food is handed out in the hospital, just tea and a piece of bread every day. The father was at home and would not support them, they were farmers, lived out in the country. I had nothing with me, just a hand knitted bear from the USA, which we gave to him. (The Mother Bear Project, check out the website! ) A woman we were with went back the next day to bring the boy and his mother some rice, he had died that night. The boy had AIDS, he was raped by a man that had infected him. This boy died hungry, scared, and shunned by his father. No one will know him, he will never graduate from high school, have a family, make a difference in this world. But I knew him, I saw his tears and heard his crying for help. I will never go back to that hospital without money in my pocket. I am left with his face in my mind. Lisa

There is no record of the boy. The mother disappeared into the night. My friend would never know the boy’s name. But, as Lisa exposed herself to sickness and despair on the precipice of hell on earth, she had met he who was so ‘meager, ragged, scowling, wolfish’ described by Dickens: Ignorance.

Tick, tick, tick, tick.

_________________________________

Please send a check for any amount to:
Lisa Mooneyham
2350 Mbabane Place
Dulles,VA 20189
Note: Aids Children

This is a State Department Address. Mail is filtered for any objectionable material. Please just send check or clothes.

Officials Steal Super Bowl from Seattle

I'm in a big hurry today. So, hang on. We're going to get scatalogical.

My son threw four innings on Saturday in Houston. Struck out six. He allowed no one to score. Ordinarily, this would be the big story. I would normarlly flesh out the details: pitch selection, strike percentage, etc.. I would offer descriptions of his knuckle ball and comparisons between his fast ball and various jet planes. But, I just can't let the weekend expire without throwing a flag on Big TV, Big NFL, Las Vegas Oddsmakers, The Sopranos and anyone else who was involved in the miscarriage of justice that was a Size XL slap in the face to equity and fairness.

Yes. Jerome Bettis became the NFL audiences big huggable teddy bear as his career wound down. It was his last game. And, didn't it make good television when he and Bill Cowher and Dan Rooney could share the big stage, wet kisses and a group hug? It would have made a very compelling reason for folks to tune in. But, did the NFL and Big TV have to script it?

Exhibit A.) That was the mother of all ticky-tacky penalties when Darrell Jackson's Seahawk TD was wiped off the board because of a dubious push-off in the 1st Quarter.
(If the poor officiating would have stopped here, I could have let it ride.)

Exhibit B.) Roethlisberger didn't get the ball over the plane of the goal line at any time during the twelve replays that I studied with my Bill-Nye-Spy-Glass. That was a bad call. (Is there a trend developing here?)

Exhibit C.) In the Fourth Quarter, Ike Taylor picks off Hasselbeck. Why? Because the Seahawks had completed a 20+ yard pass to the goal line two plays prior that was called back by a phantom holding penalty which replays exposed as another unforgiveable bad call. (At this point, the officials all traded in their black and white jerseys for Black and Gold before restarting the clock. But, in the interests of impartiality and propriety, Bill Leavy resisted Cowher's entreaties to don the Steeler Super Bowl Champs caps until the conclusion of the quarter.)

Exhibit D.) Despite all the quizzical officiating, the Seahawks were not the beneficiary of even one poor call. Hmmmmmm. (I'm crossing my arms and rubbing my chin.)

Side note: The Stones proved a very unfortunate choice for the Half-Time Show. Although Ron Wood was proficient with the slide guitar, Keith Richards was only aware enough to make his own song selections, independent of the band. Richards is a walking anti-drug advertisement. While Mick bellowed "I Can't Get No Satisfaction", Keith was 2,000 Light Years From Home. Wood looks like a slimmed-down Mrs. Doubtfire. Bill Wyman, who gave up his Stonemanship in the late-90's never looked so smart.

At times, pro sports makes a person feel dirty, in need of a shower. Last night was one of those times. I felt like ABC must have been laughing greedily, when the credits rolled; like used-car salesmen, who had just sold the country a big lemon.

Hunting the Alpha Male

This is a sports-related blog. The contents therein relate strictly to sports. But, today I'm veering dangerously close to the margin of my subject matter. And, I hate to bug my kind reader with something that doesn’t relate to balls and strikes. But my pastor, whose self-proclaimed mission is to "comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable" disturbed me at the late Sunday Service. He said he's disappointed at the parents who didn't send their teenage kids to an event called HOT HEARTS, which many of our church-kids did attend. In addition to some real passionate Christian Rock and Fellowship, one of the speakers talked about the deadliest cancer to be found on the internet: pornography. This man at HOT HEARTS warned kids to beware. This ‘cancer’ eats at the soul. And, our pastor spoke about it with all the subtlety of an Irish shillaly.

I love the Irish. Being part Irish, there is a special corner of sympathy in my heart for this dirty, beautiful, honest, beer-swilling people. My own great-great-grandfather, 'Big Dan Pollock' was an unshaven, club-wielding union member involved in the rioting over unfair wages and the firing of union members in the Pullman Strikes of Chicago (1894). So, I claim a certain heritage along with this people. Hence, when I heard Irish Evangelist Alistair Begg on the radio one day, I was ensconced. I soon became a periodic listener.

As it happened, I listened as the melodic Mr. Begg spoke once about lust and pornography on his radio show, Truth for Life (Please visit his site: www.TruthforLife.Org) He likened people to hunted-wolves, taken by Canadian Eskimos. The Eskimos use an intriguing hunting method: simply adhering a frozen piece of animal flesh to a frozen, sharpened blade. The hunters then stab the knife tip into the snow and wait, leaving the knife in the snow. As darkness falls the wary predator, overcome by his lust for flesh, advances on the meat. The wolf begins by cautiously licking the meat. Tasting blood, he soon becomes intoxicated by the taste. More ravenously he licks. He is deliriously unaware when the blood he is consuming becomes his own. His frozen, insensitive tongue is now slicing repeatedly on the hunters blade.....

The morning sun rises to reveal the dead animal lying not far from the trap. The Eskimo picks up the dead wolf that bled to death as a result of his own lust for flesh.

The metaphor is obvious. We men may mislead ourselves that we are involved in a harmless diversion. But, it is a trap. And, our own lust soon leads to the bleeding
of our very souls.

Now, is this cancer so socially pervasive? Am I being overly dramatic? In answer to that question, our Pastor yesterday talked about a survey at a massive Promisekeepers meeting. Their survey revealed that fully 80% of them were troubled by their own consumption of online porn. These men were Christian fathers and husbands. One has to wonder what the percentage is in the rest of society.

The hunter is ubiquitous, seductive and beguiling. Just how ubiquitous
is this enemy? By the end of 2004, there were 420 million pages of pornography, and it is believed that the majority of these websites are owned by less than 50 companies (LaRue, Jan. “Obscenity and the First Amendment.” Summit on Pornography. Rayburn House Office Building. Room 2322. May 19, 2005). Just how seductive is this enemy? Just check out Sports Illustrated's web site. In the world of internet porn, the 'Swimsuit' Link is a gateway drug. Not even the Promisekeepers can steer clear. So, we as fathers and role-models better recognize this hunter for what it is. “Sins of the Father” is not a well-known figure of speech just because it’s a clever wordplay. We must begin by avoiding online porn and anything like it. As the alpha-male, we must be vigilant. The hunter wants to attack our young. Yes, my pitcher and your power-forward are really who is at stake here. You want proof? The largest group of viewers of Internet porn is children between ages 12 and 17 (Family Safe Media, December 15, 2005, http://www.familysafemedia.com/
pornography_statistics.html) Can we allow our children’s minds to become corrupted this way? Can we allow our sons’ behavior to be reduced to the visceral and ravenous consumption of the flesh of our daughters? The behavior of our own youth notwithstanding, we aspire for more for our sons than to be hollow, debaucherous idiots.

I was sitting comfortably in the pew yesterday when the pastor afflicted me as usual with guilt. I had not sent my son to the HOT HEARTS event because neither he nor I wanted him to have to endure a long, draining and histrionic event that would deprive him of rest. He's an athlete. And, he and I generally decline on invitations that entail non-athletic activity. In the societal pack, he and I are preparing for him to be an alpha-male. But, the pastor hit me with his proverbial shillaly on Sunday. The enemy hunter would always prefer to take the alpha-male. So, perhaps I allowed my boy to miss part of his preparation for that role. I am in favor of such an event where the truth is told, without shading, reservation or subtlety. In the words of the renowned Irishman, Bono of U2 during one of his live concert diatribes recorded on Rattle and Hum , “Am I bugging you?......... I’d hate to bug you.”

Sympathy for the UT Fan

By Guest Writer: Mike Reed

I will say I agree and disagree with your Longhorn Fan analysis. First, I have been a Texas fan since I was old enough to watch TV. Texas Longhorns, like the Dallas Cowboys, were on TV. I had a perception that the Texas Longhorns represented none other than the Great State of Texas. A&M still was a military school with just guys attending. What did A&M stand for anyway????? So, I grew up supporting the Texas Longhorns. Now, I did not attend the school but did attend 50 miles east of the A&M campus, SHSU. Do you expect me to be a Bearkat fan? I
am in their own conference. But, give me a break. I actually pull for TEXAS teams. My favorite is the Longhorns. However, I support the team that needs the win the most to best reflect the winning TEXAS tradition. Example: If the Aggies are going for the Big 12 Title and not Texas, I YELL for the Aggies. If they play a non-Texas (out-of-state) team, go AG's go. I bleed whatever color needs the transfusion. God forbid if Baylor ever won anything.

I can understand the intense hatred for a rival. However, I am an American first and then a Texan. Texas fans or Aggie fans would rather UOR (that is short for University of Russia) or Osama Institute for Terrorism won instead of their archrivals. I find this quite disturbing. It is like politics; we would rather become communist than let those damn Republicans get any credit. Talk about dividing your country. How about dividing your state?

I had to watch the U.T. / A&M game with my father-in-law this past thanksgiving holiday. He went to A&M the same time as my Uncle. I was on my best behavior. My son (who is a diehard Longhorn fan, because he actually wants to play for them someday) and I would at least excuse ourselves to the back room to high-five when Texas would score. I have to give it to the Aggies. They played very well. They gave a much more talented Texas team all they could handle. This is why the game is a tradition. Anyone can win, no matter the records. I think A&M has found their starting quarterback for the next three years. The kid is a stud.

I told my son if Texas A&M shows up on your doorstep with a scholarship, I will be wearing maroon underwear and only drinking Merlot. I might even drive a maroon pickup. Even if Notre Dame shows up on the doorstep offering a scholarship, I would wear….. (I have to draw the line somewhere) Go University of Russia. Later.

Sherrod Shout-Out

During my hair-days in Dallas, there was a sportswriter with the Dallas Morning News, named Blackie Sherrod. He wrote his columns for 60 years. He wasn't much for shades and hues and flowery sports-prose. He was all about capturing big news in short sentences, using small words. The Dallas Observer interviewed him on the occasion of his 2003 retirement. He remarked that the reason he was so succinct was so he could have time to get a beer with the boys. He wrote in bullet-points. I am going to try a little Sherrod-esque scattershooting today. (Boy, we never appreciate what we've got 'til it's gone.)

* Houston Chronicle reports that Major Applewhite is now QB Coach at Syracuse, and is a candidate for vacant Rice Head Coach Job. This kid isn’t even old enough to drink yet, is he? (They also suggest that former Nebraska QB Turner Gill and UM QB Jim Harbaugh are candidates.)

* Major Applewhite was among the top three greatest college QB’s (pound-for-pound)of all-time. Just heart and guts, and a big head, filled with an abundance of game-film.

* If UT could have their big-time NFL QB Chris Simms back for this year’s Big 12 Championship instead of their current QB, I don’t think they’d do it.

* Old friend, Travis Wilson tried to topple me from the peak of the mountain of Macho-Buck-Swishy-Writers yesterday with his use of the word “alacrity”. I take that as a provocation, a remonstrance to my dominion and paramountcy of the realm of the written word. By this slap in the face, he neglected the most important aspect of rightitude, which is the magnification of didactic pontification. I trust he won’t wade into these muddy waters again.

* What a skewed free-agent market it is: The Yankees are offering the walking Mexican pharmacy, Kyle Farnsworth, two to three years at $5 Million a season. Compare that to the $3 mil Brad Lidge will get in arbitration. It’s just not the time to go after pitchers. Prediction: Farnsworth’s joints won’t hold up. Within two years, we’ll see him on ESPN,laying on a mound in agony, having thrown his arm off his body. (Steroids don’t strengthen ligaments.)

* If the Rangers make a move in free-agency, I hope its to get Juan Pierre via the Marlins’ fire sale.

* And back to the Major Domo. When he, the reigning 1999 Big 12 Offensive Player of the year, stepped aside quietly to allow Mack Brown to fulfill the terms of his back-room recruiting deal with Phil Simms, Applewhite sealed his status as member of top ten classiest QB’s in history.

Scattershooting is the best tact for those of us who prefer the art of scatological, random sports-thought profundity. Blackie Sherrod was brief, but eloquent. He once said: “Saying that Wilt Chamberlain is another good, big center is like saying the Grand Canyon is just another ditch.” And, during his 60 years of sports writing, Mr. Sherrod made plenty of time for beer with the boys.

A Lesson for the Bandwagoner

It really nags at me. I am always amazed at the number of “UT Alums” out and about every year, on or around the time of the Thanksgiving “Backyard Brawl”. The successive losses are piling up so high for the Aggies that my relatives don’t want me to be alone during the holidays. I suppose I give my relatives reason for concern. This year, I twisted an ankle on a coffee table after the blocked punt that sealed the win for the Longhorns. There’s really no telling how low I could get emotionally if I was alone with my loser-team and a hangover. But, one thing is for certain: I’ll never switch allegiances. I’ll quit on the coach and the QB, but never the team. What really bothers me is that the more the Longhorns win, the more “Alums” they seem to have to help them celebrate wins from your backyard Kroger, to the most remote deer blind. Bandwagoners.

It’s a scientifically proven fact that the number of fans a team has increases in direct relation to its win-percentage. Longhorn Fans are getting so brazen in this state that they don’t even pretend to have a legitimate affiliation with the school. I don’t even bother asking how they think they’re entitled to join the maniacal, drunken mob-convulsion of the Austin Undergrads after another victory over the kind and dignified gents from College Station.

For the record, a fan is only entitled to wave the “Hook-em’ Horns” sign at me if he/she was enrolled there (or a state-sanctioned satellite) for at least two semesters before flunking-out and assuming his/her career as a Plano receptionist or Baytown dog groomer.

I just don’t respect the growing legion of Faux Horns. I do respect people who celebrate their teams’ good fortune as a legitimate expression of their long-time affiliation. For example, there is a high school friend of mine in Chicago who is more Irish than a leprechaun, dipped in green ink. His name is Sean O’Connor. His story is an illustration of honest and certifiable, non-bandwagoner, accredited sports fandom.

Sean’s dad was an Irish-Catholic from Belfast, Ireland. And, so was his dear mum. All of his brothers were at least part-time bartenders, as you might have guessed, from the time they were old enough to ride the scooter down to the corner. (And, they'd fight eachother for the scooter.) Any Chicagoan knows that it’s a much more pleasant trip to the Lakeview neighborhood surrounding Wrigley Field than to the rough and dirty South Side. Still, his dad took him to games at Comiskey from the time Sean was old enough to tug green beer through the nipple of his bottle. There they endured the interminable agony that the team had suffered since their last championship in 1906.

Sean and his father were always faithful. It’s always been sexy to be a Cubs fan. But, to my friend, it seems to be more about the connection with his roots. It seems that the elder Mr. O’Connor chose the Sox as his team because the Cubs were owned by a Protestant. The White Sox were owned by a Catholic. In 1910, Charles Comiskey built his ballpark at 35th and Shields. Shields St. ran through Bridgeport, which was as Catholic a neighborhood as could be found.

When Sean and I exchanged emails relating to the World Series Sox Sweep, I dutifully read and responded to his jubilant praise for the South-Siders. Although still stinging from what I saw as mystifying impotency at the plate by Astros 3B, Morgan Ensberg and SS Adam Everett, I gave Sean the ear that he had earned from his years as a real fan. As he crowed, and wished that his dad was there to crow along, I couldn’t feel a bit of resentment (as I cried over the wasted efforts of Backe and Pettitte).

I do however resent the legion of Faux-Horns that are breeding like rabbits at spring-break. This is not sour-grapes (although I can understand how it may appear that way). Its just that I can’t find a real UT graduate with whom to share the experience through the mob of Walmart-Longhorns. This crowd should show a little shame. If a sports fan wants to share in the joy of having an archenemy, he needs to take a lesson from Old Irish Sean O’Connor: he needs to pay his dues (or tuition).

Blalock Fallout: More Trade Speculation

Now that he's thirteen, there are times when my son doesn't walk next to me. Sometimes he jumps out in front, or lags behind. Sometimes it is a social situation, or just a visit to the Mall (where he doesn't know a soul). He doesn't want to be seen with me. And, my wife complains of the same thing. More temper outbursts. The Adolescence Fairy has got the radar gun on my son, like a pro scout.

The kid's got a big upside, with increasing potential for power numbers as his limbs elongate and he gets stronger. But, in light of this recent spat of what I consider emotional instability, I am beginning to see why some baseball clubs have trouble dealing with stars who are saddled with the "headcase" moniker. I have to consider not only how I am to handle his emotional turbulence, but I have got to think about how its going to affect my clubhouse. Now that the Blalock/Danks for Josh Beckett/Mike Lowell trade talk has simmered, I am starting to consider my own trade. I wonder if the A's would part with Barry Zito in return my young lefty prospect.

Its just like Rangers GM Jon Daniels related the potential loss of Hank Blalock, "It would certainly leave a scar." I wouldn't just get rid of my boy to get rid of him. He's come up in my system. He knows the protocols because he's been watching my signs since he was old enough to crawl. But, I've got to think about the club. My wife and daughter might warm to the trade after a while. I can just hear it now:

Wife: "Honey, I miss our son."

Me: "Well, sure we all miss him. But, in this game, you've got to give value to get value. Barry here has a career 3.50 ERA. He's 1.22 with hitters in scoring position, for heaven's sake! And, he can reach all those high boxes that Junior couldn't get for you."

Yep. Zito for My Kid sounds so one-sided, it seems unlikely that the Oakland Club would consider it. Wait. There's more to it. Zito's a big name for sure. But, his numbers are trending downward. Like my kid, he's still a young lefty pitcher. However, his best season was three years ago. He zenithed at 23 Wins and 2.72 ERA. Wowzer!! Well, he hasn't sniffed more than 14 wins since. So, when I called dangling this lengthening lefty whose best season is still in front of him, the Oakland Athletics would certainly answer the phone. Bet on it.

He's my kid. But, I have never allowed disrespect or disorder in my organization. The A's don't know about all that. They only know he's got a Plus Fastball, developing change-up and a filthy knuckler. A GM only keeps his job if he can sell-high and buy-low.

Could I pull the trigger on this? My wife thinks I've got to slow down and give it some thought. She says to think about it. Players and sons change. She says sometimes they need space. Our son might have to grow out some in order to grow up some. Its the front-office's responsibility to provide an environment that allows space and growth. She's right, if you use Zito's career as a measure. He's all over the road in terms of his numbers. And, Manager Ken Macha still loves him and gives him all the space he needs. Macha still considers Zito one of the faces of the franchise.

All this talk has given me new respect for what Jon Daniels must have been going through. The prospect of parting with Blalock, the home-grown, former top prospect must have been agonizing. Of course, he is tasked with running a winning organization. The gossip was that the Marlins wanted a sweeter deal. But, there was a point beyond which Daniels wouldn't go. I can relate. I guess my organization will take the bumps and bruises this year while our own top prospect develops. If I work with him, he'll come around. The Adolescence Fairy moves on down the road sooner or later. And, like the A's, I'll continue to stand by the face of my franchise.

The Bear's Challenge

The Maroon-bloods at Texas A&M University have a story about the harshest “Coach’s Challenge” ever declared. In 1954, in his first season as Head Coach, Paul “Bear” Bryant’s gridders went 1-9. The following summer, he took two busses with just over 100 players to a hot, cactus-ridden dot on the map, called Junction, Texas. In heat that exceeded 110º, The Bear worked those players for ten days, on a rocky pasture, with no water, in full pads. Most players didn’t have the courage to tell the Coach that they were quitting. So, they left under the cover of darkness. In the end, only 25 players remained. The following year, such off-campus “camps” were outlawed. No doubt, today Bryant would be arrested on criminal charges for his unyielding harshness. It should be noted however that his football teams went 25-4-2 in the following three seasons. The quitters didn’t want “it”. The survivors found it within, and are reverently referred to as “The Junction Boys”.

In sports, parents and coaches ask their kids to excel. We demand that they exceed previous limits. Why? Simply put, to the winner goes the spoils. For example, in my high school, the athletic achievers got first pick of the girls. The draft order worked like this: 1) The jocks. 2) The rich kids. 3) The Musicians. 4) The Partiers. 5) The Geeks. Oh sure, now we all act indignant about the inherent unfairness and insensitivity of “The Draft Rules”, but we all knew them. And, we all played by them. And, deep down, we knew that they were fair.

Winning is fun, but sustained winning carries expectations. My boy’s baseball team has had remarkable success in the past year. And, he was one of the two pitchers who helped carry the team to a league championship and a berth in the Little League World Series. But, sometimes success carries that ugly, burdensome baggage: complacency. As the boys began preparation for this fall’s series of tournament games, the coaches noticed an increase in the “dropsies” and other statistical indicators of 10-year-old half-heartedness. After a recent and particularly underwhelming practice, the coaches gathered the kids to tell them that when the team bus takes off this fall, only the hard-charging players can ride. It was the kind of talk that becomes familiar to a kid once he plays at the high school level. It’s the coach’s challenge: step up or step off. No doubt, the challenge was the first of its kind for these boys, most of who still prefer GI Joe to any girl at school.

The next day was hot and humid. The grass was high and wet, from the day’s rain. The mosquitoes were out collecting blood, by the pint. And, where there were 9 players at the previous practice who heard the challenge, only 5 were present to accept it. Insuring one’s place in that unwritten draft order means hard work.

Fall is the time of year when men all over our great country define themselves. In fact, it was in the fall of my junior year in high school when I first heard “The Challenge”. Acutely aware of my uncertain spot in the draft lottery, somewhere between underweight rich kids and clueless geeks, I was determined to move up on the selection board. I decided that I would make the football team. And, like all good stories, I encountered a few hurdles. These were my size, my utter lack of speed and a complete ignorance of the rules and fundamentals of the sport. With pads, I was emboldened to take the field, for Two-A-Days. The football coaches issued the “the Challenge” every day, followed by endless running, hitting and vomiting. Players thinned in number. But, I persevered. I wore the bruises like a badge of honor. I began to understand the definition of character. And, I felt like I was building a little of my own. I was far from All-State, not recruited by a Division I school nor did I get my picture in the paper. But, I played. I succeeded. I didn’t quit. And, you better believe I moved up in the draft.

The winner gets the glory, the sense of accomplishment, the girls, etc. Our coddling moms and their servile husbands sometimes require a refresher. I had a firm grip on this dynamic by the time I was sixteen. If I wanted to move up, I would have to work. I appreciate the coach or teacher who demands excellence because it creates opportunity for the player to achieve. My son has never heard of Junction, Texas and I hope he never endures anything so grueling. But, sooner or later, everyone comes to his own Junction. By helping our sons learn to work hard, we increase their chances of being a survivor and a winner.

A Refund for Pudge?

Remember that my favorite ballclub is the Texas Rangers. Well, my brother in Detroit called a week or so ago. He was mad. At me. Evidently, he needed to vent for the failings of his catcher. Since I kind of sold him on I-Rod, he wanted to talk about the terms of a warranty. I know how he feels. I was angry too, when WE lost him.

For the record, I didn't sign-off on Ranger Management's decision to allow Pudge's exit. At the end of 2002, second-guessing Hicks for not opening the wallet yet again for the future Hall of Famer, was the Muzac filling my home. In '03, Pudge validated my disappointment by hitting .297, having his second best year in OBP, 85 RBI's and winning a World Championship in Florida. He finally received credit for calling games as well as flaunting all his other gifts. But, Arlington's rationale had included arguments about age, catchers' longevity and the need to spend dollars on pitching. Good reasons all, but he was OURS. I was sorry to lose him.

Before Pudge, no catcher had ever before had a 20 HR/20 SB season. In 1999, he raised the bar by going 35/25. He was just 19 when he took over behind the plate in Arlington. And, who can forget how quickly he established himself as the most feared gun in Texas, setting the MLB standard for throwing out base-runners? His quicks earned him 10 consecutive AL Gold Gloves. He made himself a Cooperstown lock.

So, what was my anguished sibling up there in Detroit so upset about? He had a list of offenses, for which he felt Pudge needed to be held to account. It seems that the Tigers' record, the firing of the legendary Allen Trammell, I-Rod's percieved selfishness and Congress' crackdown on steroids have led to the events that (in retrospect) makes Tom Hicks look pretty savvy.

Something was afoot back in February of this year, when Pudge reported to camp weighing 193. Keep in mind, he finished the previous season at 213 pounds. Hmmm.
Did this new streamlined appearance have anything to do with Congressional Hearings in March, involving (among others) old teammates Rafael Palmeiro and Jose Canseco? And, hadn't Canseco impugned Pudge by name as a steroid user? Certainly, Jose Canseco's credibility lies somewhere on the spectrum between Jon Lovitz and Jim Bakker. But, one must admit, this confluence of events really seemed to be seriously confluencing.


Performance and perception suffered this year. In 2005, Pudge had a .276 BA, .290 OBP and .444 SLG. All these numbers were well below his career averages. And, to make matters worse he had to shut it down early due to a lingering calve condition. Back in August, Pudge turned a four-game suspension into a personal trip to Columbia. He then showed up late (after the suspension) to the team's series with Kansas City. This led to an unhappy, closed-door session with Trammell. Then, instead of observing the seemingly advisable golden hue of silence, I-Rod dropped the following verbal Daisy-Cutter Bomb on the entire team on September 10th: "I've been here two years and I don’t see any changes. ... I love to be in the playoffs. I would love to see my teammates the same way, but I don't know. I don't have their minds ..."
From this point forward, teammates and management have questioned their mutual commitments where it regards Pudge, even causing doubt relating to the severity of his season-ending calve injury.

The Tigers think Pudge wants out. They know that arguably baseball's best all-time catcher wears the Olde English "D". But, he's not the best if he doesn't want to be. Lefthander Mike Maroth summed up the team's evident posture in an interview October 3rd, with Tom Cage of the Detroit News: "I want him back if he wants to be back," Maroth said. "If he doesn't want to be back, then no, I don't. That's up to him. What I know is that we need everyone on the team pulling in the same direction -- not just everyone saying they are." Those are at once the most appeasing and incendiary words I have ever heard, relating to the former AL and ALCS MVP. My, what a difference a year makes.

The venom in Detroit is bubbling just under the surface. Players and fans feel that Pudge was behind the movement to rid the Tigers of Trammell, the 1984 World Series MVP and the team's last connection with its former greatness. There is a sense that Trammell was the scapegoat for a bad season. There is also the realization that the team has made its bed with Pudge. There are 2 years and $20 Million left on his contract. And, as he carries the baggage of 2005 into Spring Training on those 35 year old knees, there is no team in the MLB that is likely to take that contract, without saddling the Tigers with something as bad or worse. Given the current emotional climate at Comerica, I-Rod better both PUT-UP and SHUT-UP.

Still, while listening to my brother's frustrated long-distance phone-rant,
I kept a level head. I was not about to pile-on Pudge because I have seen the man’s whole career. One bad year couldn't even scratch the glorious finish on his tenure. It occurred to me that I chose #7 for my jersey, when I coached my son's baseball team in 2003. I recalled Rodriguez' baby-fat in '91, when (after one game) he said he was never going back down to the minors. I'll always recall the imperturbable tenacity on his face during those glorious years in Ranger Red. And, you know what? We have done alright in Arlington at the Catcher Position over the past few years. But, Pudge is an upgrade.

This brings us back to that call from the brother in Detroit who was now writhing on the floor of his living room and raging into the phone about loyalty and commitment. He really seemed to want a refund. Of course, we're not kids anymore. There are no take-backs. But, in light of all Pudge did in The City of Arlington; and assuming Detroit would pick up a third to half that contract to atone for their frivolous fiscal largesse, I'd take him back with no further questions.

My Son Went 2 For 3. Therefore, I am.

Thank you for visiting my blog. This is the place for like-minded dads to share ideas, experiences and expertise that relate to our ballplayers, and the psychoses that cause us to obsess about their performance. Chime in with your two cents. But, for heaven's sake, keep it clean.