Tag: baseball

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Writer’s Block

I’ve been struggling to compose anything that made sense/brought joy to me of late, so I thought I’d try and break my slump here. To be sure, this isn’t the type of “slump-buster” you may be familiar with, I have no plans for anything nefarious, merely trying to switch things up a little. I don’t have a theme for today per se, rather I’ll try and do a “hit to all fields” post for the occasion.

After looking at that last paragraph, I’ve apparently got baseball on my brain, what with all the references. Ok, let’s start there. If you’ve followed the lack of action on that front for the last several months, you may be aware that Major League Baseball (MLB) and the Players Association (MLBPA) recently agreed on a new collective bargaining agreement after a lockout that lasted 99 days. If you have ever read any of my stuff before, or if you know me IRL, I think you’ll know that; A.) I love baseball, B.) I support union workers period, and C.) I’m a lifelong Cubs fan. Let me add to that by saying; D.) I’m what you might call somewhat political. While I’m not argumentative by nature (there are some that just need to hold their thoughts right about now, just sayin’) I have felt the need to stand my ground from time-to-time on various topics. Here’s one that has been building for a long time and the recent lockout proved to be the straw that broke the camel’s back- I’m done with the Cubs.

I’m done giving my support to an ownership group that has, at almost every turn, stood for things I vehemently oppose. Every inside piece I’ve ever seen about the family that owns the Cubs has been filled with disdain for the common fan. Almost every move they have made since taking over the team has been done to deepen their own personal pockets. Now don’t misunderstand me, I understand that it’s a business, and the point of a business is, to my simple mind, to turn a profit. I get that. But when you turn a healthy profit and cry poor, well that gets old. Through readily available public sources, the family that owns the Cubs paid $845 million for them in 2009 and as of March 2021, according to Forbes magazine, the ball club was valued at $3.36 billion dollars. So don’t tell me you can’t afford to pay your employees. And it’s not just them, I’m sure a similar search through any number of ownership groups would produce similar results. And yet, MLB chose to lockout the MLBPA last December and sit idly for 43 days before restarting negotiations. And fought them every. single. step. of the way.

So thanks for the 2016 season and the World Series, but I’m out.

I’m not going to go any deeper into this particular topic, I just submitted my article for the Illinois retired fire person magazine and I feel like they should have a little exclusivity as far as my views on the topic go. So. Moving right along.

I’m often fond of weather bragging when it’s beautiful down here. So I feel the need to weather shame a little today. It’s. Frickin’. Cold. Like, I had to get my old Carhartt winter jacket back out of the closet this morning. Granted, those of you back in the Greater Burlington Metropolitan Area (aka northern Illinois) might cast a wayward glance at me for whining about rain and 40ยบ but I’ll not change my position that this is just not right. The fact that the coming week should be pretty seasonal if not a little better is small consolation to me today. I’m cold. And a little crabby too. But a lovely latte and firing my thoughts off on my laptop are helping to abate that misery.

Music, of course, helps. How’s that for a segue? For my listening pleasure today I’ve got Joe Pug pumping through the headphones. Today is the first time I’ve ever listened to him, possibly even the first time I had heard of him although the name does strike me as kind of familiar. I was scrolling through the Twitterz this morning and I saw a post from Jason Isbell that linked to a Joe Pug song, so I gave it a listen. The song was Bury Me Far (from My Uniform) and it blew me away. I apologize for the ads on the link, if I knew how to put one up without them, I certainly would, but I guess that’s the way YT does business… Anyway, back to the music, yeah, if you’re unfamiliar with Joe Pug, give him a listen. He’s actually playing in Chicago next month on the 15th at Tonic Room and if anyone goes, I’d love to hear your thoughts. I can’t wait for him to get down to the southeast, we’ll definitely go check him out.

Imma wrap this one up briefly by continuing the musical vibe, we’re off to see Graham Nash on Tuesday over in Durham. I’m really looking forward to it too. I saw CSN many years ago, Diane and I went with the Great Vincenzo and Terri to the United Center. The band was at the opposite end of the stadium from us, but it was a great show nonetheless. There have been countless protest songs written throughout the history of recorded music, but I wonder if anyone, anywhere has ever written one as beautiful musically as To The Last Whale: I. Critical Mass, II. Wind On The Water because I don’t know if it’s possible. Again, sorry if you get the ads, but enjoy the music. I know I do.

Peace.

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Senior Moments…

So, from the title it should be pretty much obvs where I’m going with this. And while I did have to correct the Oldest One when she tried to stick a label on one of my foibles (More on that later. Probably. Maybe.) that’s not where I’m going with this one.

Tonight is Senior Night at the Heir To The Throne’s baseball game. These aren’t a new phenomena, I remember mine (Although in my case it was Senior Day since the football field didn’t have lights back then. And to the smart asses that might be reading this, it wasn’t because it pre-dated Edison’s invention. The school just didn’t have lights back then) from mumble-mumble years ago, standing out on the football field flanked by my parents, as were all of the other senior football players and cheerleaders. I also remember being alongside the Boy Child at his Senior Night mumble years ago. So I figured my time for this stuff was gone.

Wrong.

I was talking to the Oldest One the other day and she told me the HTTT wanted me to join them on the field. Of course I’m honored to do it. I’m also incredibly thankful she gave me a heads up, otherwise I might’ve gotten some dust, or something, in my eyes. She said she wasn’t sure if he wanted to surprise me or not so I should act surprised. Ok then. I’m not positive, I may still lose my shit tonight. As I’ve written here lately, this is his last year of playing baseball, and I don’t know if he feels any emotion on that front yet, but I sure do. I know the OO does too. I’ll let you know how it goes…

So, I wrote everything you just read yesterday. And, as it turns out, the Oldest One and I both made it through Senior Night unscathed. I can’t however, say the same about my truck. Top of the 4th inning, one of the batters lifted a high pop up into foul territory behind home plate. And as I watched it drift back, high overhead, arcing up and then back down, the thought occurred to me that it would land very near my vehicle. In fact, it landed this near-

I guess if I’d been thinking I could have taken a close-up so you could have seen the little remnants of the thread from the baseball embedded in the glass. As aggravating as this was, I almost instantly realized there was nothing I could do after the fact. I also recognized there was no little irony that, after all these years of going to his baseball games and parking in roughly the same spot for each and every one of his home games, that on this, his final home game, I “caught” a foul ball. I suppose the perfect irony would’ve been if he’d been the batter, but hey, nobody’s perfect amirite? The only thing more aggravating came when, after about 30 minutes on the phone with a nationwide auto glass repair/replacement company that promises on their website “Broken glass? We’ll fix it fast.” See, here’s the thing about that; my definition of fast is worlds away from theirs. According to this company, eight days is a perfectly acceptable answer to the question “How quickly can you get me in for a replacement?”

Needless to say, I’m waiting to hear from another auto glass repair/replacement company to see if they can get me in faster and for less than the $750.00 I was quoted. Sigh.

So, back to the Oldest One and her failed attempt at maligning my mental faculties. I’ll admit, I tend to say things like “I was just going to tell you something but whatever it was vaporized…” I tend to say things like that because things like that tend to happen to me. Typically the thought returns in due time, although not always. My Mom was well known in the family for cycling through about five or six names when talking to any of her grandkids before she’d land on the correct name. We lovingly and laughingly referred to it as a “Grandma Ellie moment”. So, the other night, when good old OO experienced a lapse of what she wanted to say, she tried to pass it off as a “Dad” moment. Now, I’mma tell you something right now. This will not fly. And I told her that in no uncertain terms. Laughingly, of course. Still, things like these must be nipped in the bud.

Lastly, before I leave you with the impression nothing good came of yesterday, it was really a wonderful day. To be able to share this moment-

with these two meant the world to me. And I can’t wait to see what the future brings for him.

Ok, one last thing. Since I’ve been back I’ve done, basically all of my writing at a lovely coffeehouse in Algonquin. And one recent day, one of the baristas and I were chatting and the topic came to this humble little blog. So, when I ordered my Daily (not a typo btw) vanilla latte, she told me she would craft a duck into the foam. Lo and behold, I give you the I Can Relate To Ducks (not its real name) latte –

Pretty cool, no?

Peace

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Pride

It goes without saying, I’m proud of my kids and grandkids. For any number of reasons. In the case of the adults, for example, they’ve all grown to be loving. caring, human beings, the type I’m glad to spend time with, and I would even if they weren’t my kids.

In the case of the littles, I’m proud of the traits they’ve started to exhibit, which leads me to believe they, too, will become amazing adult human beings. But this particular post isn’t about the littlest ones. Instead, it’s about the biggest of the littles. Number 18 in your scorecard, number 1 in your heart, yes, this post is about the Heir To The Throne.

This season marks the end of his baseball career. That saddens me. But I get it. Much as I’d like to believe otherwise, I don’t think he’s quite good enough for the MLB draft and he has no desire to continue his education in college. He wants to get into the trades, specifically he’s taken an interest in welding. I’m ok with that btw. One of the things I’ve learned over the years was that going through an apprentice program in one of the trades is roughly equivalent to getting a four-year degree from college. The difference is that, in approximate numbers, in college roughly 90% of the learning takes place in the classroom and 10% takes place in the field whereas in an apprentice program those numbers are reversed. But the total amount of time spent learning your craft is (again, roughly) equivalent. And on an even bigger plus, he won’t come out of the education phase with a huge college loan debt hanging over his head, rather he’ll come out of it at close to top of grade pay.

So, I’m proud of him for that decision, and I’ll do all I can to support him, just as I will with the four younger littles, whatever they choose to do when their time comes.

But this post isn’t about that. This post is all about memories. Specifically the ones I’ll carry with me in HTTT’s post baseball days. Like for instance four years ago, in his first season of high school baseball when, after delivering a couple of key, run scoring hits, the guys on the bench started chanting “He’s a freshman!”. That will always make me smile. So, I’m not sure I’m as ready for this end to come as he is, but I’ll say this. The lessons he’s learned from baseball will be useful in his future, wherever he may end up. He’s learned leadership skills, as evidenced by watching him give pre-game pep talks to the team after the coach has said his piece. I’ve watched him call time to go out and settle down his pitcher (he plays catcher) countless times. I’ve seen him interact with numerous plate umpires and opposing players and I’ve seen him, almost without fail, represent his team honorably. We won’t talk about the rare occasions where the family “red ass” rears it’s head, but it has happened a couple times, almost always directed at himself. I also won’t mention the family foot speed, other than to make a blanket apology for bestowing it upon him via the gene pool.

One of the things I tried to teach him over the years about hitting was this; don’t step into the batters box until your head is right. You don’t have time to react to the pitch if you’re busy thinking about stuff. So think about situations; what the pitchers might throw, how many outs there are, the count, things of that nature before you step into the box. And if you find yourself thinking about, well, really, anything, ask for time and step out for a few seconds to clear your head.

So, let’s go back to last Wednesday, shall we? (I know, I know, it was almost a full week ago. It took me awhile to figure out how to embed the video) Your Hiawatha Hawks were playing in Big Rock. Due to rotten weather this spring (I know, right? Bad weather in Illinois in the spring? Who knew?) the Hawks were actually the home team in this game. They started out in a 2-0 hole after a sloppy 1st inning. The deficit grew to 3-0 after 3 innings. The Hawks fought back to 3-2 after 5 innings and going into the bottom of the 7th, found themselves down by the same score. The first two batters struck out. It wasn’t looking too promising for the good guys. Then, the leadoff batter worked a walk. So did the number two batter. That brought HTTT to the plate. He fouled off the first pitch he saw, a fastball he was a little late on. Same thing with the second pitch, fouling it almost off his foot. He stepped in for the next pitch and as the pitcher got his sign, HTTT asked for, and got, time from the plate umpire. He stepped out, got his head right, and stepped back in. The third pitch was close, especially if you were from Big Rock as they groaned when the ump called it a ball. And then, this happened-

You may have heard someone exclaim “Holyyyyyyy shit!” in that video. It may have been me. That’s what you call #sorrynotsorry in the online world. It was a pretty cool moment, definitely one I’ll remember fondly for the rest of my days. I hope he never becomes too cool to look back on it the same way. Life doesn’t give you many opportunities for walk-off homers, when you get one and are able to deliver, it should last in your personal highlights for as long as possible. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere but I’m not sure I’m clever enough to pull it into better focus.

So, yeah, I’m pretty proud of 18. I’m going to miss the heck out of watching him play ball. Senior Night is next week and I’m hopeful I can keep my shit together that night because one of us is kind of an old softie. The Reigning Princess has started her softball season, or will if the weather ever cooperates, and the Former Beatle Baby will start his first ever baseball season soon too. So there will be more fond spring sports memories in our futures, I’m sure.

I can’t wait.

Peace

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An Open Letter to the Ricketts Family

I’m 60 years old. I’ve been a Cubs fan, literally, for as long as I can remember. My earliest recollections are from after school. I was young, certainly not more than 10 years old, standing in front of the television, doing my best impersonation of Pat Pieper, the old Public Address announcer at Wrigley Field, as he told the crowd who the next batter would be and I followed my version of the introductions with a live-action reenactment of each swing; Kessinger, Beckert, Williams, Banks, Santo, and on down the line-up. Looking back, I’m sure my Mom would have thought her young son had lost his mind. Except for the fact that I learned my love of the Cubs from both Mom and Dad. She probably thought my actions were perfectly logical.

There’s just something about baseball, you know? I mean I love the Bears, and I’ve been a big fan of the Bulls and the Blackhawks since back in the 1970’s too. But it’s different with baseball. There’s just something about the game that endears it to me. Far better writers than I, have waxed poetic about baseball’s romanticism, the soul of baseball, for generations. I’m not going to try here.

I lived and died with the 1969 team, never believing, (I was too young to grasp things like mathematical elimination then, so I truly held on, like a condemned man picking at every scrap of his last meal) until the last day of the season that the Cubs were not, in fact, going to the World Series.

That was most likely the first time I said “wait till next year” a phrase which had become synonymous with the Cubs long ago.

It wasn’t the last time, not by a long shot.

I celebrated when Tribune Company bought the team back in the 1980’s. Surely their financial resources would bring success to the team, I thought. And there was promise, brought by Dallas Green and Jim Frey and Don Zimmer and some really good teams they assembled and coached back then. I remember vividly, the joy of watching the Cubs clinch a playoff spot after Rick Sutcliffe’s gem in Pittsburgh. This, I thought, this is what it feels like! This is wonderful! And then, the NLCS against the Padres brought me back to earth. Wait till next year! From that magical season to 2008 the Cubs made the postseason six times in total, a number that pales in comparison to successful franchises. As a Cubs fan, it was the most successful run of my lifetime. Or my parents lifetime.

And then, in 2009, the Ricketts Family bought the Cubs.

Everything was seashells and balloons as family frontman Tom took to the airwaves and described how he came to love the team and how much it meant to him to bring a winner to the north side of Chicago. And I was all in.

Sure I heard and read things about the family’s political leanings which, except for Laura Ricketts, are polar opposite from mine. I was able to remove them from my fandom. This was baseball after all. It was different. Somehow.

I couldn’t believe it when Theo and Jed came on board, followed by Joe Maddon. As I watched the core of the team grow into actual bona fide stars, I felt the same feelings I had back in 69 and 84 and most other years the Cubs made the postseason. But all the previous years had firmly embedded in me a feeling of impending doom. And despite my best efforts, 2016 did nothing to dispel them. That was a wonderful team, powering through the first half of the season like no Cubs team I’d seen. And then, they brought in Aroldis Chapman. The same season he served his 30 game suspension from MLB for domestic abuse.

And I chose to look the other way. And I have to admit, I felt a little dirty for my fandom.

That fall, in what may well be the greatest sports-related moment of my life, the Cubs, my Cubs, won the World Series. I got goosebumps just writing that. Over two years removed from the event.

Last night I read about the emails written by Joe Ricketts as revealed by Splinter and I feel like the camel’s back may have finally met the last straw. Here’s the deal; I wish the family would release the funds to sign Bryce Harper, Manny Machado, and as many other free agent as needed to increase the odds of this team winning as many World Series’ as possible. However, I am willing to (grudgingly) concede that the family has every right to make as much money as the cash cow at Clark and Addison will deliver. You guys want to buy whatever part of Wrigleyville you don’t own already, that’s cool. If dumping generational wealth on someone not named Ricketts gets in the way of your doing those things, so be it. As the old saying goes; it’s your bat and your ball, you get to make the rules.

But I don’t have to like those rules. Truth be told, I haven’t been to a game in years. It’s not like the family will miss all the revenue I generated for them. But at least I’ll no longer feel the need to take a shower after I watch a game. It’s actually gotten to the point where I don’t know if I can tune in to a game without thinking about the hate-filled rhetoric a majority of the family embraces. That, friends, is a gut punch to my baseball sensibilities.

Hate is a strong word. I really try hard not to use it. But I hate the fact that I feel like I have to make this choice.

The more I think about this, the more I wonder what sap made a Faustian bargain to bring the Cubs a title, only to have fans endure X number of years of bile flowing from the mouths, and computers, of the family in charge. I’ll say this much for the White Sox, Chairman Reinsdorf may well support every statement ever made by Joe, Pete, or Todd Ricketts. But I don’t know because he keeps his opinions to himself, best I can tell. There’s something be said for that.

Peace.