Category Archives: Baseball

Tools and T-Ball

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On God’s Seventh Inning Stretch, he created T-Ball.  It was one of his many mistakes. Actually, that’s not entirely true. He probably was just messing with us when he gave us the gift of the Tee, but, as usual, we abused it.

Never having played in the rough and tumble, hard knocks world of T-ball, I still know a thing or two about it.  Watching it was penance for many of the sins I’ve committed.

A tee was meant to be used as a training tool, increasing the chances that an inexperienced batter could hit a line drive.  This is when God said, “Hey, baseball ain’t that easy.  Don’t hit the tee, my son, hit the ball.”

This created controversy amongst the players’ mothers and fathers when their children weren’t successful.  Some of the mothers and fathers were logical.  “It’s sitting right on top of the tee.  Just hit it.”  Others made certain their child would never be competitive again. “Great Job.  You didn’t hit the ball or the three foot tall tee, but you did hit air, so run…..run…..run… (to a base you didn’t earn)!”

Trying to create an organized, or engaging event out of T-Ball is simply a crime for those who are in attendance and fantastically ridiculous if you think your five year old will learn something about the true form of baseball from this “S–t” show.

This is when parents began sacredly believing this gift was delivered by Him so youngsters could be humiliated in front of their mothers and fathers wishing they could actually hit a ball off of that tee.   If you know anything about baseball, or the Bible, the tee is punished along with the child, yet the ball is set free, dropping majestically into the dirt in front of the batter’s 400 dollar nike cleats.

As Tom Hanks stated in “A League of Their Own”, there is no crying in baseball, but, according to God, I guess there is crying in T-Ball.

Strike Three

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Swing at strikes.  If you know nothing about baseball, you’re out.

April 15 (opening day….baseball) is right around the corner, and if my mom is looking forward to Spring and seven months of baseball, YOU better look forward to seven months of baseball.  It’s just that simple… as is the game.

As Americans, we don’t look forward to sloppy play by play.  We look forward to hotdogs and a cold beer while listening to play by play.  If you can’t play the game, you may as well eat and drink it.  Am I wrong?  No.  I’m not.

As is life, successfully playing baseball is wildly difficult.  Eating and drinking isn’t.

Our Favorite Holiday (7) Moods

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Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter, Jewish rituals.  All respected and appreciated by my father, but no holiday compared to game seven of the World Series.  As a man of faith, he attended church more than regularly, but he appreciated both the love of baseball and the fact game seven of the World Series wasn’t deemed as a Holy Day.  Rather, he left us believe it would be a hope, or future treasure chest filled with nostalgia which we could open years later and say, “We watched that game with our dad.”   We didn’t have to go to church on these days.

Rather than inviting people over, he’d only allow pedestrians in if they were interested in the game.  Following the game, you must stay off the phone, because one of his great friends, annually, would call him after the final out.  If you stayed off the phone, and watched the game with popcorn wedged in your teeth, game seven was more than just a good mood.

Politics and Baseball

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Currently, there are two major competitive series playing out this season of the witch or pitch, depending how you look at it.  One remains a Fall Classic, and the other has, decidedly, become a Fall Catastrophe.

Let’s make this simple.  Hilary Clinton and Donald Trump wish to run our country. Neither of whom have any respect for one another, in addition to women and e-mails.  Important U.S. and foreign policies have vanished, clouded by their adolescent behavior and disagreements.  So, let’s take a giant leap to Major League Baseball.  Here we have two teams, the Chicago Cubs, and the Cleveland Indians fighting for one of the most coveted of all trophies.  They are fighting, civilly, to win the World Series.  Yet, they don’t hate each other.  Quite the contrary.  They want to win at all fair costs, but each team and manager will tip their hats to the winner, recognizing one manager may successfully outwit the other, or his team may just be that terrific on a certain day.

Cubs fans don’t hate or disrespect the Indians, and the Indians don’t hate, nor do they disrespect the Cubs.  Both teams, on each side of the National and American Leagues, have fantastic, yet wildly different managers, but equally exceptional at their jobs, AND, they respect one another and their teams. While they are two opposing teams, they are each a fine display of non partisan sportsmanship.

I’m holding my official vote before I make this proposal.  If the Cleveland Indians win the World Series tonight, Terry Francona, manager of the Cleveland Indians, will get my vote for President of the United States and Joe Maddon, manager of the Chicago Cubs, will get my nod as Vice President.  If the Chicago Cubs win, Maddon will get my vote as President, but only if Francona runs as his Vice.

Due to the fact both managers would agree on not putting up a “Wall” since many of their most talented players couldn’t climb that “Wall” in time for Spring Training, just might make for an amicable political relationship.  Or, you may just believe they are caring and competent humanitarians, persuading those in our country to believe it can be better.  Just ask the Cubs and Indian fans.

It’s just that simple.

Your Roots

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Similar to questioning one’s faith, I am questioning who I’m rooting for to win the World Series.  I’ve never been an avid Cubs fan, but I’ve been to Wrigley Field.  Does that somehow qualify me as being a year long fan?  I don’t know.  I like the Cleveland Indians, but I’ve never been to the garden city, so I’m a bit torn.  Therefore, one must always, beyond a coin flip, decide which way they should root.  Two of my best friends, my brother, Tom, and a dear old man, Marshall, are rooting for the Indians.  They are the only ones, (inside of my circle of nonsense), I know rooting for the Indians, and they share the same birthdate.  Is this ironic or just coincidental?  Only the late, great George Carlin could answer this question.  For me, I’ve decided it’s all about game seven.  That’s all I really care about. Ultimately, I say, “Piss on games one through five. Let’s root for games six and seven!”

Disclosure:  (Assuming the Cubs win game five)

Post Season Rules

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The game of baseball can be taxing.  It goes from boring to stand up and hug or high five your phony neighbor in one inning, one home run, or even one strike. During this post season of baseball, some people have asked me if I am rooting for the Cubs or the Dodgers in game six of the National League Championship Series.  Simply loving the game, I’m rooting for game seven.

The Retired Helmet

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Vin Scully, the now former announcer for the Los Angeles Dodgers has passed, figuratively speaking, for the Dodgers and all their fans.  Yet, he will still remain alive in everyone’s baseball hearts.

The LA Dodger helmet I wore to bed for years was not only embarrassing to my brothers, it also was a legitimate reason for hazing me.  Yet, I bet Vin Scully could have weaved a story with so much eloquence about that silly boy, and it would make it funny as opposed to embarrassing.

Does Bow Know Baseball?

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Tim Tebow deciding to play Professional Baseball will thrill minor league players for taking their jobs just to fill seats.  He will be well loved and embraced by those in the clubhouse barely able to pay their rent in the offseason.  For his sake, I hope “his” God teaches him how to hit a 95 mile per hour fast ball which may or may not be directed at his head, or, hopefully, since I am a pacifist, his ribcage.

Bolivar’s Door

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Bolivars Door

Sadly, there is no image of an enormous dog named Bolivar in this picture, yet the door behind my white head remains significant.

This picture was taken in 1979, the same year the Pittsburg Pirates won the World Series.  The door was as ugly, colorful and magnificent as the Pirates’ uniforms that year.  I remember the Pirates just as I remember our dog.

Very little did I know about Bolivar.  Evidently, he was part of a grandeur litter given as a gift to one of my brothers, Glenn.  This may have been ten years before I was born. Therefore, I only knew him in his later years.  Some say he was a Newfoundland.  When I came to know him, at my age and height, I just maintained the notion he was a friendly and cuddly black bear.  Everyone in our neighborhood felt the same making all of us feel safe.

The door represented a gift granted to us by this overweight canine maintaining justice on our block. Each night, after a hearty stew, Bolivar always wished to head out for the night and scratched on the door until someone would let him outside to patrol our neighborhood.  When Bolivar was alive, I don’t remember a crime on our street.  We didn’t lock our doors back then and even left our garage door open before Bolivar, sadly, passed away.  Our dog died, but the door didn’t.  Countless times, our mother pled for a new door.  Our father, a man crazy for nostalgia, refused to replace what was left of Bolivar.

After Bolivar died, oddly, crime became a serious issue in our neighborhood.  Locking our doors and shutting the garage door became a task each night after his death.  It didn’t seem right to a boy of my age.