Category Archives: Baseball

Game Seven (Classics Never Die)

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I’ll do my best at some play by play.  The NLCS (National League Correctional Series) wait…..I just got out of there……I mean the National League Champion Series is currently being played.  That’s baseball to those meatheads watching their fantasy knuckle heads get concussed.

Steroids . . . they do a body good.

The San Francisco Giants are displaying their October costumes.  Orange and Black.  They have worn them for years, but it seems appropriate while approaching the Fall Classic.  Hitting coach for the St. Louis Cardinals, Mark McGuire did not receive the “it’s not Halloween” memo as he is clearly posing as someone who is not currently taking steroids.  Ding dong.  “Trick or treat”.

“You look strangely thin, young man.  Who are you supposed to be?”

“Mark McGuire.”

“Oh that’s cute…..let me inject this Milky Way into your butt.  You’ll have biceps, triceps and acne for years.  Just don’t tell your wife.  She’ll be concerned about your shrinking baseballs.”

The opening ceremony was just as painful as expected.  Whoever butchered the National Anthem needs to know that free and brave are separate words…….in some particular order.  I give up.

There is a guy named Scutaro playing for the Giants.  He used to play for the minor league team, The Sun City Muppets.  His abilities have far exceeded those of puppets without legs.

Residential Nazi, Matt Holliday, seems disgruntled.  Let’s go to a commercial break.

Five hour energy drink?  I don’t need one.  I’ll take a scooter O for the road.

Scooter just lined one into right field for his second hit.  This Muppet can really hit.  Now a cartoon character known as Kung Fu Panda (Pablo Sandoval) just came to bat and lined one into left field putting runners on the corners.  Excuse me, second and third.  Another fictional character posing as Buster is at bat.  He looks like he’s twelve years of age, but his mom says he’s almost twenty, and he hits you just like puberty.  You just can’t determine when he’s going to embarrass the pitcher.

The bases are now loaded with Scooter at third, Kung Fu at second and Buster posing as himself at first.  Where is number 8 when you need him?  Number 8 just cleared the bases.  I can’t keep up with this.  Where is soccer when I need him?  This game is too fast. I need a zero zero tie!  Baseball is supposed to be slow and boring.  I’m switching to Monday Night Foolsball.  I need a Hank Williams Jr. Fix.  Who is playing?

I’ll catch up in the seventh inning stretch.

Wait, the football game broke into another fight with helmets and face masks.  Boring.  Men breaking their knuckles on plastic head bowls doesn’t impress me.  This pitcher hitting for the Giants with the bases loaded does impress me……until……we have to wait….he struck out.

My wife just called me so I have to act like I’m putting the sheets in the dryer.  I use fans and “I can’t hear you” noises to distract her.  She thinks I should be writing, doing laundry and watching baseball at the same time.  Who is the crazy person in this family?  It ain’t the dogs and cats.  They are currently folding clothes.  Stupid, but not crazy.

Seven to Zero in favor of the Giants.  If my mother is watching The Waltons right now, I will be forced to not send her a Mother’s Day Card.  She loves The Waltons more than baseball.  That’s certifiable.  They are a fictional family for crying “Goodnight Johnboy” out loud!  What decade is this?  My mother just informed me the Waltons are painting their house!  What color?!!  I don’t care!  Back to the game.

Commercial Break:  Cialis.

Here’s something interesting. Oh dear.  The Giants are warming up another character.  He is in the bullpen, but the only name we’ve heard or read about comes from a Monty Python Movie.   They call him, “Tim”.

As a former betting man, I will bless or irritate the  baseball betting Gods by writing, “it is over”.  Catastrophically more disturbing, since the baseball game looks as though it’s over, I have lowered myself and degraded my principles by changing channels, not to the football game, but the Presidential Debate.  Did I just capitalize that as though they were proper nouns?  I’m going back to the game I love.  Not the political games I hate.

My wife is watching ABC, and I am fighting her over the foreign policy remote.  This is ridiculous.

God Bless America, God Bless Concussions, God Bless Baseball, and well, soccer, I will just pray for your sport to grow arms.  That will be a miracle.

On the Seventh Day, God Created a Blowout, and then He skipped the eighth day due to a rain delay, and on the ninth day, He created Baseball.

Genesis:  10 13 73

Unfair Weather Fan (Waiting to Inhale a World Serious)

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Waiting is not a virtue.  Punctuality is.  I’ve been waiting 35 years for the Seattle Mariners to deliver a World Series.  The lack of punctuality existing is clear, and even the lack of a World Series they haven’t bestowed has become irrelevant.  I’ve waved the white and blue flag, surrendering my allegiance to this group of players.

Returning from a four day vacation to Los Angeles, the city of Angels and baseball, leaves me with a dull impression on my mind.  There were indeed Angels in Los Angeles, and they were sitting right next to me at Dodger Stadium, also known as “The Chavez Ravine”.   The Angels may be a team in LA, but the Angels on this night were my wife sitting with me and my two friends, Trevor and Marshall.

Trevor, and his father, Marshall, were hosting this baseball party lasting from the first inning rib Trevor grilled at his home, until the ninth inning at that glorious ravine.   It was a fabulous night amplified with cheering at the proper moments, sighing at improper moments, and happily devouring peanuts without even recognizing your belly was already full of the magnificent ribs provided prior to the game.  We ate those peanuts like we were mad at them.  Watching the Dodgers and rooting for them from the tender age of I don’t remember, this was significant and winning nostalgia.  (Their triple A club….”The Spokane Indians” was located five minutes away from our home in the mid seventies.  This is why I followed and worshiped a team that would eventually deliver a boy a World Series.)

Fast forward to the year 2012 where I recently sat with my friends at The Chavez Ravine.  The Dodgers won, and now, I, once again, love the Dodgers and the city.

So, thanks to those friends and true men who love and respect the sport (Trevor and Marshall) for reminding us of how much fun the game can be.  Some people, owners, and Generally Stupid Managers forget.  I never do forget.

P.S. Go back and read this as though it was the voice is Steven A. Smith from ESPN.  He’s terrifical, magical, and glorious.  See . . . Frank Caliendo Impersonates Stephen A. Smith

 

The Best and Worst day of a Boy’s Life (the cub scout eye test)

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This is a story about a young, naive baseball player; One who was too young to have recognized the sadness this wonderful game could provide.

I was playing pool on a Friday night with one of my best friends, Andy,  when I got the call.  The call was from my father.  That always made me a bit nervous.  It turned out to be the most exhilarating moment of my life.  My father called me to tell me a Chicago Cub’s scout had flown into Spokane and wanted to meet me and my father at a local hotel.  I remember looking at my friend, Andy, and he could tell I was bursting with happiness.  He said, “what the heck?….What’s going on?”  I told him the Cubs are in town to see me.  (One of the many great things about my friend was when I told him that, he looked like he was even more excited than me).  He said, “well let’s get your ass to that hotel……you really are on your way to the show.”

My father and I met this scout at the hotel, and at eighteen very young years of life, my hopes of making it to the major leagues were shattered.  I’m a pretty good judge of reading people.  That scout gave me his official Cub’s card and looked me up and down like I was a race horse or on a trading block.

I had terrific baseball stats, but I was not a tall or big boy.  It was then when I realized my destiny was not to get to that top level of play.  This is extremely scary to a boy who thought, with great confidence, it’s not if I’m going to make it, it’s when I’m going to make it.  Well, I didn’t even come close.

The second eye test was through a view finder.  He asked me if I wore corrective lenses.  I said yes.  STRIKE TWO!  The interview ended with this.  “We’ll keep in contact with you”. That was strike three for me.  Even at eighteen, I wasn’t really a dummy.

The car was silent on the drive home.   I was the kid who slept with a Dodger’s batting helmet on my head.  I had a baseball bat glued to my hand since I was about four years old.  I could emulate the swing of every major league player since 1977.  So, what was terrifying me was the thought of “What the hell am I going to do now?”  What are my other options?  Do I become a Cowboy or an Indian?  I knew my dream was over.

Draft day was strike four.  Many friends and relatives were questioning me as to what round I would be drafted.  After meeting with that scout, I knew.  But, many loving people payed  attention to that day of drafting, and my name was never mentioned.  I disappointed many people who thought that’s where I belonged.

I did receive a scholarship to play college baseball, but I knew that was not where I belonged.  I succeeded one year and failed miserably the second.  Officially, my baseball career was over.  I think I cried, but I can’t truly remember.

Let’s set this record straight, I did NOT belong to play at that level.  I have no excuses.  I was good, but clearly not that good.  Dozens of times, people have asked me, “why didn’t you make it?…..what happened?”  Now, the usual response of an ex-hopeful professional athlete is something along the lines of,  “Well my shoulder went out on me”, but I always tell old friends, ” I just wasn’t good enough”.  That’s the truth.  No excuses.  This is a physically and mentally tough game.

Writing is even tougher, but that’s all I have left.  That and a nice wife, and a very fortunate life.

After many years, I couldn’t watch a ballgame.  I felt betrayed by countless years of swinging a bat.  I have since forgiven the game and have become a teacher of baseball.   My only remaining sadness is that my wife never saw me play centerfield.  Fortunately, we go to many ballgames and I enjoy describing what a player should do in certain situations.  I quiz her on how to execute the next play.  “What should he do here….bunt, swing away…..make certain he is unselfish and hit a sacrificial fly?”  It makes this game fun again.  Even our dogs appreciate the countless fly balls I hit them for retrieval.

I’m lucky I didn’t make it.  I wouldn’t be where I am today.

Take me out to a ballgame….

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Diamond in the Rough (The Painfully Slow Evolution of a Baseball Team)

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There are four measurements on a diamond: cut, clarity, color, and carrot.  There are four measurements on a baseball field: hitting, throwing, running and catching.  Both are measured in terms of perfection when it comes to a ring or the baseball field.

Talking to a scientist the other day, he informed me that a piece of crap, or a piece of coal, can turn into a diamond with enough pressure and time after several thousand years.  This was sad news.  Immortality is not my business.  He also informed me that diamonds are extremely costly.  I already knew that, but I questioned him further by asking why diamonds are just as expensive as going to a Seattle Mariner’s Baseball game.  He laughed at me and replied, “That’s why they call the field a diamond…..it’s really expensive, because it’s a place to witness perfection.”  Still shaking my head in disbelief, just like a child asks questions to an adult they can’t possibly answer, I asked “Don’t the Mariners play on a field then?”  My business is asking rhetorical questions.  My scientist friend knew he could not answer this question.  Therefore, I answered it for him.

Here we go.  “You see, scientist friend, when I grew up, I played on baseball fields.  These fields were plagued with weeds and gigantic rocks almost resembling erratics from the Great Missoula Floods.  The stands were filled with angry fathers not volunteering their time but volunteering their mouths during a game littered with nice kids, but crappy ballplayers.  There were these unusual ladies also showing up giving little advice, other than, “who is in charge of the treats at the next game?” Later on, I found out they were mothers.  I found it strange they didn’t even watch the game.  They did their nails, gossiped, and spoke evilly of their estranged husbands.  But, what baffled me the most was when their son struck out in four consecutive at bats on twelve consecutive pitches, the mother would hand him a soda, or a drumstick or a fruit roll up and say, “Wow, you were terrific today!”  Now if you say that to a real ballplayer after striking out, it adds kindling to the campfire.  It might smell good, but it still burns like hell.  So, the only proper thing to do as a real ballplayer is to toss the soda over a fence, beat one of your other crappy teammates with the drumstick and refrain from strangling your mother with the fruit roll up.  Then you head home and sneak a beer out of your father’s hidden stash in the basement.

Mr Scientist seemed to be getting bored with my explanation, so he wanted me to reach my point.  So, I told him that diamonds are supposed to be beautiful.  Since a field represents a little league ballpark, a baseball diamond should be saved for when you make it to the big leagues…….you know, like the guys I used to watch on T.V. and admired since I left the womb.  Those guys deserved to play on a Baseball Diamond.  The Seattle Mariners have a dynamite field, but let’s not go too far as to refer to it as a diamond.

I’ve been watching these guys play for 35 years.  If it takes another one thousand years to see them in the World Series, I’m clean out of luck.  This chunk of coal doesn’t have that much time to see a diamond, unless it’s on my wife’s finger.  I see that every day.

With all this being written atop my soap baseball box, I’m on my way to go see a chunk of coal on a baseball field at Keep me Safeco Field.  I’ll purchase a ticket, buy some Cracker Jacks, a dog and a beer, financing the diamond earrings the players will wear after the game and, hopefully, not become too embarrassed by the mothers and fathers misunderstanding the process of how long it takes a coal turn into a diamond.

That’s how much I love the game.

 

 

Mariner Jet Lag (it’s raining in seattle?)

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Once again, I am on the same jet lag wave length as my wife because of my love for baseball and pure hatred for (I’m not going to provide them the decency of using proper nouns or capital letters) the seattle mariners.  This organization has made me feel as though I was on a twenty two hour flight back to India.  I’m exhausted watching the AM games in Japan, and my wife is currently filing divorce papers regarding the alarm clock issues.  Nothing makes any sense.  My wife and I were just fine before the mariners chose to play in a country (a country who once upon a time, bombed us in the island of Hawaii).  Now, we are at athletic odds because she can’t understand my desire for the great game of baseball, and our new time zone, even in the US of A.

Don’t call me unless it’s at two AM.  If I don’t answer, it’s because I’m either napping, or talking to my Japanese Lawyer.  He’s awake at two PM, where it is apparently the land of the rising sun.  Perhaps that’s why seattle decided to fly twelve hours and play twenty four hours of baseball……..to find that rising sun.  I haven’t seen it for a week.

 

Opening Dismay

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Other than Pearl Harbor and poor driving skills, I have nothing against the Japanese.  I have everything against a team in Seattle, Washington, located in America for having baseball’s opening day in anywhere but America. The Seattle Mariners are playing the first game of the season in Japan.  This is America’s official pastime, but it seems to me, for the team I root for, since I reside in the city, it is America’s official posthumous time.  The first game of the season is usually the first and last for our fairly ridiculous sport crazed city.

I don’t give a crap what people say about the NFL, NBA, soccer and any other sport, baseball is America’s favorite pastime. (Disclaimer: I love each one with the exception of the NBA and soccer.) Opening day is special, and it belongs to baseball.   It doesn’t belong in Japan where I have to set my alarm clock for three AM, instead of the usual three PM schedule.  This is truly unholy on one of the most holiest of days.  My wife will have to hit the seventh inning snooze button when the Mariners, with severe jet lag, are losing in that inning, just around seven AM.

The official owner of the Mariners lives in and is from Japan.  Qualified sources have informed me he won’t be attending the game.  I think he is an elderly owner, but I don’t give a shit if someone has to bring him into his luxury box seat by way of a forklift while he’s collecting money on a pallet selling Ichiro jerseys.  He should be in attendance.

This may sound a bit moronic and immature, but I celebrate this day much like people celebrate Christmas and Easter.  I celebrate the Lord’s birth and His resurrection, but I really don’t look forward to the presents or the eggs……unless they are deviled.  Baseball’s opening day?  That’s what I look forward to, but not in Japan at three in the morning.

I hope you all have a great opening day.  I won’t.  Hot dogs and beer don’t fare well with my stomach that early.

 

Mediocrity

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Mediocrity should be placed in the Hall of Fame of Embarrassing Words.  We all know what four letter words are, but shouldn’t a nine letter word such as “mediocrity” share those four letter words’ fame?  I believe it should, much like I believe Pete Rose should be in the Baseball Hall of Fame.  Pete Rose may have been a mediocre gambler, but he was an outstanding competitor.

Mediocre  shouldn’t be in the Hall of Fame of Words.  I only write this because I have been mediocre at so many things.  I am man enough to acknowledge this. I was a mediocre baseball player.  I was a mediocre football player.  I was a mediocre student. I was also a mediocre teacher and coach on certain days.  To receive a C grade in class allows you not to fail.  But really, other than graduating from High School or college, do you wish to place that C average on your resume?  We place so much greatness in mediocrity.  Let me make this simple.  When I was mediocre at anything, I was pissed off at the world.  Since I’m still mediocre and pissed about everything ( other than my wife and my life), and including not playing in the big leagues,  I wish to congratulate the Seattle Mariners, the Seattle Seahawks, and the Washington Huskies for accepting mediocrity.

Failing is ok.  Accepting it is not.  It doesn’t mean you have to throw tantrums and beat your  head on the floor.  It means you must do everything possible, on every play, or in every inning to WIN.  My coaching and teaching friend, Russ, and I presented a speech each year regarding losing.   We took it out of a Bible Verse.  It’s the Book According to Steve.  “Losing is for Losers!!”.  Somehow, this wise man is still living.  How many other Bible members are still living these days?  I only know of one.

I am happily married to a woman.  Loving her and respecting her is absolutely essential for our success.  It’s quite easy.  She is far more bright than I shall ever be, but when I speak of winning, and she speaks of sympathy, I know where the pants should be placed.  I have no fun losing at Scrabble to her.  She has no fun losing at Monopoly to me.  Many of my friends and relatives despise losing at Cribbage to me.  Losing is simply NO FUN.

For all those fabulous mothers out in space, it’s ok for your son or daughter to lose.  A hand can be raised for the winner and you don’t have to scream obscenities or become upset.   You just have to tell them to beat the Holy Hell out of them the next time they meet.

Games are fun. Losing isn’t.

The World Series and My Dad

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Some of you may know that the first game of the World Series begins tonight between the St. Louis Cardinals and the Texas Rangers.  Many of you may respond by saying, “what, huh?”  Or, “Who Cares?”  Well, I do care because it represents a memorable and significant evening I shared with my late and great father 23 years ago.

In the 1988 World Series, my beloved Los Angeles Dodgers were playing the “Unbeatable” Oakland Athletics.  The heavily favored A’s were predicted to win the series quite easily in a 4 game knockout sweep.  Not too keen on being, once again, athletically disappointed, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to witness the Dodgers getting the crap kicked out of them.  Therefore, I was somewhat easily persuaded by three of my friends to attend a high school dance that Saturday evening.  After mentioning game one of the World Series was on that night, they really didn’t care.  They had girls in their, I mean on their minds.

Only a sophomore in high school, I still had to run things by my father and mother before sneaking out of the house.  So, when asking dad if I could attend this dance that evening, he pondered my request for less than a second and said, “Negative…..You will be watching the World Series with your mother and me tonight.  The memories of this game will be far more important later in your life than a half ass ridiculous high school dance where you’ll just end up getting in some sort of trouble.  You need to focus on school and sports…….not girls”.  He couldn’t have been more right or prophetic that magnificent Fall evening.

Now, when my father said to any of his seven sons they were not allowed to do something, arguing was simply not an option.  His word was Stone Cold Gospel.  When he told his six daughters they were not allowed to do something, they didn’t quite cower to him like the boys.  They were always far tougher and a little more outspoken than us.  They still remain the same.  (I’m only still friends with them because I am afraid of them)

Secretly, wanting to watch the game, it was easy to tell my peers I would be unavailable for The West Valley High White Dance Down.  They knew, and liked my father, but also knew when Rodney E. Gannon said, “no”, …well that was that. They just strolled out of our living room without much to say but, “sorry”.

Now for the boring details of the game:  Kirk Gibson played for the LA Dodgers that year and was apparently ferociously competitive.  He helped lead them to the World Series even though suffering numerous injuries during the course of this long season.  His knee injuries did not allow him to start in the first game of that World Series.  That was disappointment number one for dad and me.  Early on in the game, a very respected man in the baseball community (steroids) known as Jose Conseco, (I hope I spelled his name wrong) hit a grand slam putting the A’s up 4-0. That was disappointment number two.  I’m glad my mother’s clam dip was so good that night because it was the only thing keeping me from running away from home.

Much like baseball, a son only gives his father three chances before saying, “I’m Out”. He was down to his last disappointment strike.  While stuffing myself with chips and dip, trying to ignore the game, I noticed the Dodgers were making an attempt to come back and make a game out of this debacle.  With Kirk Gibson, not even on the bench, but in the training room, barely able to walk, the Dodgers chipped away at the A’s lead making it 4-3 in the bottom of the ninth.  It was then when Kirk Gibson asked the batboy to get him a batting tee.  The manager, Tommy Lasorda, also known as Tommy Lasagna (he once claimed to have never turned down food ending with a vowel) had no intentions of allowing this hobbling athlete to enter the game.  However, down to their last out facing Dennis Eckersley, thee most feared closing pitcher in the game, he considered putting Gibson in as a pinch hitter.  With two outs, and nobody on base, a lesser known player, Mike Davis, drew a walk.  Thus, the winning run would come to the plate.  Lasorda beckoned for Kirk Gibson.  Unable to run, a game winning home run was the only option.  On a three and two count, with fifty thousand fans screaming, Gibson jacked a backdoor slider into the right field stands of Dodger Stadium for the game winning home run sending the loyal followers into a high five frenzy.  It was his last at bat of the series.

The Dodgers went on to beat the “unbeatable” Oakland A’s to win the World Series.  I couldn’t thank my dad more for keeping me home that evening.

We celebrated by having mom’s Saturday evening burgers and making fun of the fools inevitably getting their hearts broken at that coveted dance.  I didn’t sneak out that night.  I also realized that dad wasn’t being a tyrant keeping me home.  He just wanted to watch the game with the last of his seven boys.  That was one hell of a memorable moment, not just for baseball, but for a father and son who didn’t always see eyeball to eyeball.

After my last and closest brother left for college, I was left alone with mom and dad for those high school years and it wasn’t always easy for any of us.  After that evening, dad and I became a little closer.

That was 23 years ago, almost to this day.  Ironically, or coincidentally, Kirk Gibson was wearing the number 23 that night.

Baseball Moments – Footage of Gibson\’s World Series Pinch Hit