American Icarus

Daedalus built the wings from feathers and wax, and before the two set off he warned Icarus not to fly too low lest his wings touch the waves and get wet, and not too high lest the sun melt the wax. But the young Icarus, overwhelmed by the thrill of flying, did not heed his father's warning, and flew too close to the sun whereupon the wax in his wings melted and he fell into the sea. Daedalus escaped to Sicily and Icarus' body was carried ashore by the current to an island then without a name. – THE MYTH OF ICARUS

Anybody with an appreciation for the game loves to read about those few guys who have what it takes to be a winner at any level. Throughout my life, I watched the story of Steve Howe unfold.

"He loved to play baseball and was always fun to be around," said Paul Tungate, his high school coach. "He was a joy to coach. Very likable, cocky and confident. He knew what he could do, and we knew what he could do. He just went out and did it."

The left-hander played two seasons at Michigan and helped lead the Wolverines to the College World Series. The Los Angeles Dodgers selected him in the first round of the 1979 amateur draft, shortly after he was an All-America selection.

Howe was the 1980 NL Rookie of the Year with Los Angeles, closed out the Dodgers’ 1981 World Series championship and was an All-Star the next year.

He flew to incredible heights. Yet, in rarified air, there are precious few warning signs. And, like Icarus he flew too close to the light. What follows is a staggering chronology of his fall. Equally staggering are the number of times he was invited back into the hot spotlight by the well-meaning, the foolhardy and the callous, indifferent suits whose performance is not based on what is right, but statistics.

1982 - Enters drug rehabilitation after the season.

June 29, 1983 — Fined one month's salary ($53,867) and placed on probation by the Dodgers after admitting a drug problem.

July 15,1983 — Reported late for game and suspended two days by the Dodgers.

September 23, 1983 — Missed team flight to Atlanta and suspended indefinitely by the Dodgers for what the team says is cocaine dependency. Goes into substance abuse rehabilitation.

December 15, 1983 — Suspended for one year by Commissioner Bowie Kuhn for cocaine use.

May 1984 — In a grievance settlement, agreed not to play in 1984.

June 23, 1985 — Fined $300 by Los Angeles for arriving three hours late for a game.

July 1, 1985 — Placed on the restricted list by the National League for three days at the Dodgers' request after missing a game against Atlanta. Released by the Dodgers two days later.

August 12, 1985 — Signed by the Minnesota Twins, but released a month later after missing three games with what the team said was a "temporary recurrence" of cocaine problem.

March 20, 1986 — Signed by San Jose of the California League.

May 15, 1986 — Suspended by the National Association of Professional Baseball Leagues after allegedly testing positive for cocaine. The following month he was suspended again through December 31 for the same reason; San Jose released him the day his suspension was over.

July 11,1987 — Signed by Oklahoma City of the Class AAA American Association; the Texas Rangers purchased his contract the following month.

November 1987 — Agreed to two-year, $1.2 million contract with Texas.

January 19, 1988 — Released by Texas after violating aftercare program by using alcohol.

April 4, 1990 — Signs contract with Salinas of the California League.

February 1991 — Signs contract with Columbus of the International League.

May 9, 1991 — Contract purchased by the New York Yankees.

November 5, 1991 — Signs one-year contract with the New York Yankees.

December 19, 1991 — Arrested on cocaine charges in Kalispell, Montana.

June 8, 1992 — Suspended indefinitely after pleading guilty in U.S District Court in Missoula, Montana, to a misdemeanor charge of attempting to buy a gram of cocaine.

June 24, 1992 — Suspended permanently by Commissioner Fay Vincent.

August 18, 1992 — Fined the minimum $1,000 and ordered him to perform 100 hours of community service by a federal judge in Montana and placed on probation.

November 11, 1992 — Reinstated by a baseball arbitrator.

June 22, 1996 — Released by Yankees.

June 24, 1996 — Arrested and charged with criminal possession of a weapon at John F. Kennedy International Airport in New York when a police officer spots a loaded .357 Magnum pistol in his carry-on baggage.

April 1997 — Signs with the Sioux Falls Canaries of the independent Northern League in comeback attempt at age 39 but quits midseason because of an arm injury.

August 19, 1997 — Critically injured in a motorcycle crash and later charged with drunken driving. Charges later dropped after prosecutors decided his blood test was improperly obtained.

April 1, 1999 — Suspended as a volunteer coach for his daughter's softball team in Whitefish, Montana girls' softball team.

April 28, 2006 — Dies in a one-vehicle car accident in Coachella, California, when his pickup truck rolls over in the early morning. Howe was 48.

A decade ago, it was clear that he was no longer the shining star that the world saw in 1980. And sports fans quickly discarded any thought of him. Society was indifferent as his demons took control of him. And, his employers uttered only a demand of accountability. Like Icarus, only the forces of gravity were present to dictate the fall. Only the few left who loved the person were close by as his story concluded.

How deafening was the silence after Howe had played his last meaningful game. How guilty was the game for allowing him to take part, instead of demanding that he clean up. What more compelling cry for involved parenting is there than the story of Steve Howe? It was Icarus’ father who gave him the ability to fly. What would his father have given for a few more minutes to discuss the danger of flying too close to the bright lights, the hazards and temptations? Once he was airborne, Howe was headed for the sun. And, his story will serve only as an object lesson for those few who care to hear it.

(Chronology of Arrests, etc. from Wikepedia.Com)

Yesterday, Bono was the guest editor of England's Independent.
(A link to his piece is attached below.)

I have watched these brave
and beautiful souls who are fighting a forest fire of a pandemic with watering cans, knowing they will not see the light of a day when their work will be honoured. I have been a witness to their conversations around canteen tables, deciding who will live or die, because they do not have
enough pills to go round.

Bono - 5/16/06

What can he be talking about? To grasp the situation,
recall the facts I discussed in my February entry:

• 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.

The title of Bono's piece asks "What can I do?" And, I'll preface my thoughts by saying that life in Swaziland is barren and tragic. And, it seems that nothing that we do will reverse the situation
immediately. But, that is no excuse to do nothing. A few kind family and friends responded to my February entry by sending small donations to Lisa Mooneyham in Swaziland. And, our donations helped to buy the water tank pictured here.This tank will allow children of this village to have access to clean drinking water, without having to leave their village.

As some of you know, J. Scott Mooneyham and his wife are in the employ of the State Department. However, they also joyfully act as the boots on the ground that will act as our emissaries on a very local level.

Please make a donation of $10.00 to $20.00 or more to:

Lisa Mooneyham
2350 Mbabane Place
Dulles,VA 20189

Note: Aids Children/Titus Tribe

This is a State Department Address.
So, please only send checks (and/or clothes). Mail is filtered.
The children in the picture attached are recipients
of hand-made American teddy bears from the people at the Mother Bear
Project.

Here is a very common Swazi child: Bongani's Story

Background on John Scott and Lisa Mooneyham

The Mother Bear Project

The Independent - Guest Editor: Bono, May 16, 2006

Lisa is very fond of the children of Swaziland. And, she is very appreciative of the Mother Bear Project because they provide the only toys that many of these children will ever own.

Please make a donation to Lisa. I leave it up to her discretion as to how best to use our funds. However, she will send each giver a card and pictures of her activities. (February donors have these forthcoming.) And, please identify yourself as a member of the "Titus Tribe" because J. Scott and I have a bit of a competition as to whose tribe will raise more money.

Lisa
Mooneyham (left) is pictured here with Jody from the Mother Bear
Project.

Covering All Bases

Doug Flutie has officially retired, at the age of 43. He was a classy guy. He could have his name on the marquee. Or, he could back-up the starter. He was a team-guy. He did anything the coach asked, including being the first NFLer since WWII to drop-kick the football for a point after touchdown. I bet you didn't know that he and his brother Darren, another Boston College great, have a band called The Flutie Brothers. Also, Darren had a great career in the Canadian Football League. Both Darren and Doug may join Steve Nash as First Ballot Entries into the 6'0" And Under White-Guy HOF. (Throw in John Stockton and 5'10", Whitey Ford.)

ESPN has named its 10 greatest point guards of all time. And, I am in agreement with most of them. But, you can't base a player's importance solely on his numbers, as ESPN does to justify their picks. When I was in college in Boston, Larry Bird played with a point guard, who he referred to simply as the greatest player he'd ever played with: Dennis Johnson. He won championships in Seattle and Boston. He was All-NBA Defensive Team in nine different campaigns, NBA Finals MVP in 1979, and a 5-Time All-Star. DJ was a guy who (like Doug Flutie) was a team-guy, so his numbers weren't flashy. But, the results were pretty fine.

My son Junior's team played a very competitive baseball tournament this past weekend. Junior crushed the ball. He walked once, had a single, triple and double, struck out once and ground-out twice. As a team, the results weren't great as we won one and lost two. But, he made the greatest catch of his life on Saturday, diving for a fly ball on the left field foul line to save a run. This catch was so good, it would have lead-off ESPN all weekend (even if Barry Bonds would have hit his Ruth-tying HR).

Paul's Specter

There's a dark shadow, cast over this weekend. My wife scheduled a "Marriage Retreat" for us. Her sister and my brother-in-law, Paul will accompany us. My wife heard about it from some of our church members, who said it is really enjoyable.

I would bet my subscription to MLB.TV that no man ever scheduled one of these events. It's always wives. First, men have a deep-seeded paranoia that these events are designed by women to get all the men trapped in a big room, then draw everyone's attention to their weight and relational shortcomings. Further, men see these Marriage-Workshop events as conflicting with more preferable televised sporting events and twilight hours at the golf course. (more evidence that these events are designed by women). Is it any wonder why marriages need workshops, with women sabotaging all their husbands' precious free-time?

Of course, I'm going to miss one of Junior's baseball tournaments. And, this is at a time when he and the team are playing real well. They won their last tournament in Lake Charles, Louisiana. He's been a little light with the bat, but is pitching very well.

My brother in law, Paul (the finest brother-in-law you could know) is a true glass-half-full guy. He's looking forward to our opportunity to be together. He's a great man, but he may be a little naive. Doesn't he detect a conspiracy?

Paul and I ran the Cowtown Half-Marathon, in Ft. Worth together a couple months ago. That was a big achievement because Paul recently completed chemotherapy. We ran together, encouraging each other the whole way. We also recently took a trip with the wives and kids to South Texas to visit our wives' family. And, that's when I first saw the shadow.

All the girls got in one car, so they could blaspheme husbands, boys and males of every species. All the guys got in another so they could talk freely about the true meaning of life: baseball. It was just John, Paul, Me,.... and the shadow.

Paul is generally a very happy person. He is complimentary of people, and highly socially adept. He's handsome, athletic and has good fashion sense. He gives others the sense that they're ten pounds lighter, and ten years younger. He doesn't release the phantom around any but a trusted few.

During the long, hot stretches of Texas Highway, we three men discussed Junior's baseball exploits. Paul encouraged Junior to tell, to relive hits, K's and errors. I filled in, where I felt my input was helpful. Paul then offered his advise and experience. It seems that Pauly was a bit of a baseball player himself.

After John's recent experiences had all been parlayed, Paul talked about his own. As it happens, he was an All-State 2nd Baseman, during his highschool days in Colorado. His parents encouraged him during those years, enjoying those days with their son. During the playoffs, his Senior year, he once had 11 straight hits. During summer tournament ball, he once had a stretch where he got 22 hits in 23 at-bats. He recalled the names of players he hadn't seen in over fifteen years. Looking out into the nothingness of South Texas, he relived throws, the feel of the air, the smell of the grass, the exuberance of youth, prolonged by every new day on the diamond. As he told the stories to John and I, his eyes grew vacant. And the specter stretched his pin-striped legs, in the front seat, his ghostly features becoming more real.

At the end of his Senior year in highschool, Paul had two items sitting on his desk: an offer to play at Nebraska, and another at Iowa State University. But, he and his parents decided that he was too book-smart to risk his future on the crapshoot of sports. He told us about the despair he felt after his last game in highschool, knowing that he had chosen the discipline of Chemical Engineering over baseball. Junior asked if he would change anything if he could make the decision again. He told John that once a man makes a decision, he can't look back. And, the smokey apparition stared at Paul with his peircing eyes, nodding with an omniscient, wicked smile before fading out of sight.

Today, Paul wouldn't trade his life. He's beaten Cancer. He's got a beautiful wife and daughter. His career as an Engineer is going very well. He makes family events a lot more enjoyable for me. My wife loves him too. And so,... we're all set to go to the big Marriage Retreat this weekend, just the five of us: our two lovely brides, Pauly, Me and the Shadow.

Keith Hernandez, Friend to Women

This past week, former Met Keith Hernandez protested the appearance of a female massage therapist in the San Diego Padres' dugout. She was ostensibly there to attend to the aches and pains of players during the game. He was probably just joking, in suggesting that women don't belong in the dugout. And, I'll contend three things: A.) He was right. Women don't belong in the dugout. B.) Keith's timing wasn't very good. C.) You've got to be a bigger star than K. Hernandez to get away with such a verbal misstep.

Of course, I've got a daughter. And, I don't believe I'm setting her or her gender back to the days of suffragettes and abolition by suggesting that I don't want her anywhere near those mouth-breathing, tobacco-spitting race horses in the heat of competition. The offense she takes at being barred from entry is nothing compared to the offense of hair-curling remarks she'll hear if entry is allowed. And, why ask players to have to dodge around the litigation minefield presented by mixing genders? The accidental brush or other physical contact or misconstrued statement by a ballplayer could expose him to poor publicity and/or litigation. If the game is played purely, a ballplayer has only to focus on balls, strikes, effort, wins, pennants and championships. My daughter focuses on the same thing, playing softball. I don't think she wants any guys tidying up the dugout, while she's getting her game on.

I'll contend that we're on the backside of the era of political correctitude. I think all people, be they men or women, gay, straight or otherwise are getting tired of having to mind their casual banter for fear of being ticketed by the PC Police. This period of social McCarthyism is thankfully nearing its end. If it leaves us with a little common sensitivity to others, that will be ok. None of this excuses Hernandez' poor judgement. He may not be wrong. But, he's a knucklehead for making himself a lightning rod for criticism.

Who does Keith think he is? Babe Ruth? Now, the Bambino got away with murder:

"I'll promise to go easier on drinking and to get to bed earlier, but not for you, fifty thousand dollars, or two-hundred and fifty thousand dollars will I give up women. They're too much fun."

Wow! If Keith Hernandez had said that , the National Organization of Women would be all lathered up and marching on the capitol.

The former Met slugger's good timing with a baseball doesn't mean he isn't a clumsy commentator. Now, if Charles Barkley had said anything similar, it wouldn't have raised an eyebrow. For example, at halftime of this year's All-Star game, in response to seeing Beyonce in the crowd, Barkley said, "All I wanna know is when ya see someone that pretty, how can you go to Brokeback Mountain?" If anyone else makes that statement, the city of San Francisco would declare war on the rest of the country. Certainly, Keith H. doesn't reach that level of star-power. Keith shouldn't say things that might be construed as discriminatory toward women. But, that doesn't mean I would ever want my precious little girl anywhere near a major league dugout.

Open Letter to Aggie Baseball Coach

Dear Coach Childress,
Being an Aggie, I like to give a helping hand to my fellow maroon-bloods whenever possible. And, it seems the honorable men of Olsen Field are poised for only their second losing record since the Eisenhower Administration. So, I thought you might benefit from some hard and fast rules to success in order to turn this thing around. I don’t know if you’re a big “character” guy, like your predecessor, Mark Johnson. Since you spent the eight years prior to now as pitching coach at Nebraska, maybe pitching will be the key to your team’s turnaround. Maybe not. Maybe you’ll emphasize hot bats.

A quick note about that “character” thing: last year, I talked to Jason Tyner about his days in College Station. He remembered Coach Johnson as a bit of a disciplinarian, who was also exceedingly truthful and loyal to his players. His personal comportment was exemplary. In fact, Jason said that he could remember one time that Johnson used an expletive for emphasis. (It starts with “S” and rhymes with quit.) That was a sign to Tyner that his coach was as angry as he could be at his players. The cuss words were almost as rare as the number of Johnson’s losing seasons (That would be: 1.)

Due to your experience, you might consider pitching to be the key to your introduction to that celestial place called the Top 25. But, be careful there. Last year, Johnson’s 3.66 team ERA, albeit the lowest in four years, got him 9th Place in the BIG 12 AND a ticket out of town. Surprisingly, the Aggies’ current 3.29 team ERA is second in the conference to Nebraska. WHOOP!-dee-doo. They are also enduring an unprecedented seven game losing streak, after Tuesday night’s loss to the kind lads from Houston.

So, is it all about batting? Maybe. But, not necessarily. Last year, Baylor finished LAST in the conference in team batting average (.269 (40 points below league leader, Kansas State.)) Recall also that those Waco Bears finished #4 in the Baseball America Poll. And, the two teams that currently lead the Big 12 in team batting avg. (Texas Tech .329 and KSU .326) are in the lower half of the conference standings.

So Coach, it isn’t all about hitting. Nor is it all about pitching. There’s really nothing hard and fast that you can always depend on to go your way. I wish I could offer you more…… Well, maybe I can.

I took my eleven year old son to College Station in May of 2003. My boy was electrified at the prospect of experiencing everything about Aggie Baseball at Coach Johnson’s scheduled camp. The timing was difficult because the Ags were scheduled to play Houston in the championship of the NCAA Regional at Olsen. They had only to beat the Houston Cougars once, in order to advance. And, as you probably know, the fine gents from Aggieland fought hard and long into the night. I believe the last out was after 11:00PM. The whole town was deflated at the sudden and shocking end of the season. My boy understood the heartbreak. And, he didn’t expect the players to be at the field to meet him the next day at 7:30A.M., given the circumstances. Well, to my everlasting surprise, every last player who was not a graduating senior was there even after the crushing defeat. Every coach was there to process the kids. And, front and center was Mark Johnson.

Coach, I trust your baseball I.Q. I know Mr. Byrne does his due diligence. But, given the circumstances, I would say that the bloom is off the rose. And, I could criticize. But, I have every confidence that you’ll return Aggie Baseball to greatness. You’ll do it with consistent pitching, defense and timely hitting. But, please Coach; remember the “character” thing. You don’t have to be just like your predecessor. But, take a page out of his book. Be the kind of man who keeps his word. Be the kind of coach who doesn’t throw his players under the bus. Earn no words other than reverent remembrances from your former players. Be a man who remembers that our kids look to you as an example. If you’ll do that, I’m sure you’ll have twenty great years, just like Coach Johnson.

Good luck and Gig’em, Patrick J. Titus ‘88

Ebarb, Big Hitter

(Beaumont, TX) The Southland Conference named Lamar University’s C.J. Ebarb as their Aeropostale Hitter of the Week on April 10, 2006. No doubt, this is a new name to most. But, this is a young man who has been working at his stroke in the developmental hinterlands for several years.

Ebarb enters the Division I baseball fan’s radar, currently boasting a hefty .571 slugging percentage. He is in the top ten in the Southland Conference in HR’s, doubles, slugging percentage and RBI’s.

Long-time Lamar University Assistant, Matt Thompson believes that it was only a matter of time before Ebarb received recognition. “He just loves playing. He’s the consummate hitter. And, being a catcher, he understands both the mechanics of his swing and the strategy of pitchers”, said Coach Thompson. He went further: “CJ goes above and beyond most college athletes, often going independently for BP after formal team practice.”

As a four year starter at Jasper (TX) HS, Lamar’s catcher set school records for BA, OBP and walks. His team bio reveals that he helped Southern Nevada Junior College win the 2003 NJCAA National Championship, and that he was selected to the All-Tournament Team that year.

Although he has been consistently exceptional on the diamond at every level, recognition has been slow coming. But as Coach Thompson says, he loves to play. And, with his team sitting atop the league, after a (4/7-4/9) three-game sweep of 2nd place UTA, he likes to win. It’s never been about the accolades.

(I like this guy. He's a character. He caught a bullpen thrown by my son once. My son felt really big-time.)

What You Didn't Know...

I don't know if I've ever told you that Fiber One can make you run like a Swiss time piece. As we age, this is increasingly important. I eat it everyday. Look for it in the Alfalfa section of your grocery store. During my last prostate exam, the doctor compared my colon to the lobby at the Austin Four Seasons for its impressive cleanliness, as he considered re-using his glove. That went a long way toward helping me recapture my dignity.

(Aaron Morgan, Home Run Swing, 4/9/06)
During my son's baseball tournament this weekend, our head coach was stricken by the call (more like the command)of nature during one of our games. I felt compelled to advise him about the healthful effects of eating F1 with regularity, for regularity. In that tournament, the SE Texas Sundevils took 2nd Place, losing the fiercely competitive championship game, as the sun fell in Lake Charles, Louisiana on Sunday Evening. John had 2 triples and a double during the tourney. (He must be eating Wheaties. )

You probably didn't know it, but I was finally getting ready to proclaim Yao Ming not a bust. And, all of a sudden, the big Chinese horse threw a shoe, last night against the Jazz. He has always frustrated me because of his lack of agression, despite gargantuan size and ability. More out of basic courtesy than anything else, he deferred to Steve Francis and recently T-Mac as the first option. But this year in light of McGrady's injury, he found himself forced to be THE GUY, while surrounded by a low-end CBA roster for most of the season. Up until then, he lead the league in scoring (at his position) and was third in boards behind Ben Wallace and Marcus Camby.

You probably didn't know about Norman Chad. His syndicated column is called the Couch Slouch. His work has no educational or nutrional value. (But, neither does Budweiser. And, no one questions its place in society.) He is the only source of humor to be found in the realm of sports in the Houston area. People of the Houston area are saddled by the lackluster work in the Houston Chronicle sports page. H-Town sports-fans are encumbered by limp, flacid and formulaic sports-talk on AM 610. Superior product from the DFW area (Dallas Morning News Sports Page and AM 1310 The Ticket) is discussed only in low whispers, assumedly because of deep-seeded jealousy.

The Texas Rangers are last in the AL West. No surprise. They jumped out to a typical 2-6 start. But, I bet you didn't know that Rookie Ian Kinsler is hitting better than .400 (9 for 20) as Alfonso Soriano's replacement. No doubt, he eats his Fiber One.

Alicia's Meeting

Last week, the biggest thing in my nine-year-old daughter’s life was that she and I went to the pet store to buy her a hamster. The little puncture marks in my fingers are testament to the fact that no matter how sincerely kids promise to take care of their new pets, the responsibility falls upon the parent. But, it meant so much to her. She giggles when she holds the hamster she named “Grace”.

Also, last week a bus carrying our Beaumont girl’s high school soccer team crashed and rolled 1 ½ times, in bad weather on Highway 90, heading to Houston for a playoff game. Two precious girls were killed, one a sophomore and one a senior. Two doting fathers were irreparably afflicted by the broken hearts that they will carry until the end of their lives.

My son knew Ashley Brown from a meeting at friend Aaron Morgan’s house. He said she was very nice. Aaron’s sister is one of the friends left behind to be irreversibly scarred and defined by this event. My wife works with Alicia Bonura’s father, Mike Bonura. He is a fine employee of Exxon-Mobil, who with his wife also has two handsome sons. Mike was back at work less than one week after the event, no doubt trying to escape the words, songs and memories that his daughter had so lovingly, generously left for him. Alicia’s MySpace page is now the cyber-meeting place for her friends and her memory, where their words plead with her to make sense of it all.

A National Honor Society member, Alicia dreamed of playing soccer at Texas A&M, and majoring in Engineering. She wrote that she loved God and couldn’t wait to meet Him. Her faith and future were like her smile: brilliant.

These are the times when we scratch our heads and utter with resignation: “Well, we must remember that God has a plan.”, despite the sense of inadequacy that we assign our own words.

My wife didn’t want a hamster: they run their treadmills like a buzz-saw in the middle of the night. Their cage constantly smells like a port-a-john in August. They bite.

My family attended Alicia Bonura’s wake at her family’s Catholic Church. I was struck by the poise and silent dignity of her family at a time of such despair and vulnerability. It almost seemed that they willed themselves to live up to her wondrous memory by being the best they could force themselves to be. Still, nothing anyone could have said to them could have soothed the unquenchable, smoldering despair caused by the loss of their family’s most shining light.

Alicia’s friends write angrily on her MySpace page that their school is trying to move forward, but they’re not ready. It’s just too soon for them. Still, they’ll have to move onward. We all will. And, I'll be stuck with this hamster while I await my daughter’s release from school. And, I’ll be there early to pick her up because I'm reminded that every moment with her is my privilege and a blessing.

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.”