Baseball, Life, and Other Stuff

Wise Word for the New Year

A friend of mine recently made a very wise statement to me:  "Never forget where your joy comes from," she said.

Too often, adults subsitute distraction for joy.  We're so bogged down at work or worried about our 
children or distraught over the state of the world, that temporary relief from that stress feels like joy.  So we mindlessly watch TV or shop at the mall, but it's not the same.  We have forgotten the wisdom of our childhood.  For most of us, childhood was a moment to moment proposition from which we did not want to be distracted at all.  Not by our parents, not by school, not by anybody. Our joy was intense and immediate.

Never forget where your joy comes from.

Tuesday, I was working out at Extra Innings at a time when about fifteen, 8-12 year old boys were attending the December Vacation Clinic.  When the instruction was finished, a whiffle ball game ensued.  With the happy sounds of play emanating from the tunnels, I couldn't help but wander over to watch the action.  At one point, a boy was racing around the bases.  An instructor had the ball and was moving toward the third base side of home to apply a tag as the boy made an ill-advised dash for the plate.  As the instructor went to make the tag, however, the boy, without hesitation made a head first slide into home--along the rough indoor turf--avoiding the tag and scoring a run.  An out-loud laugh passed my lips at the same time that tears came to my eyes.  There was something about the way that boy reacted to seeing the fielder with the ball . . . I knew he was going to slide, rough turf or no.  It's what I would have done.  That's what made me laugh.  In that instant, I felt what he felt; his joy was my joy.  And it was not metaphorical.  It was real.  Unbeknownst to him, he had given me a gift of pure joy and it was overwhelming in a good way.  That's what made me misty.

For me, baseball has a way of distilling the years until that pure, sparkling childhood is left.  When I'm
talking to 87 year old coach-extraordinaire, Mo Weber about the game, neither of us are aware of the 34 years that separates us.  In fact, we're the same age, it's just that Mo has seen more games.  None of the Extra Inning staff has ever asked me, why at 53 years old I show up and do a baseball workout once a week.  They don't have to ask because they know why.  It's a time in which I can renew my joy, a joy that they are quite familiar with, a joy that is a great age equalizer.

Never forget where your joy comes from.

True childhood joy never dissipates.  In fact, it increases when one learns to share it and ultimately to give it away.  I'm so fortunate to broadcast New Market Rebel games on the web because I not only get to talk to the players and then watch them play, but I also get to "give" that night's game to the listeners.  I want them to not only see the plays, but also to smell the onions frying below, to feel the breeze waft across our broadcast platform, to listen for Molly the Rally Dog, barking in the background, to enjoy sitting with Charlie, Jay, Noah, Kevin, Andrew, C. B. and me at a ballgame.  Sure, their "seat" may be in Baltimore or Kansas City or Arkansas or California (and we had regular listeners in all four of those locations last season), but if they receive joy from the broadcast, then my joy is increased in limitless fashion.

Never forget where your joy comes from.

This entry isn't really about baseball.  It just seems that way because the examples are personal.  For you perhaps joy comes from singing or woodworking or tracking the stars; dancing, painting, teaching, sewing; working on cars, taking walks, studying history or literature or mathematics.  Whatever it might be, never forget where your joy comes from.

And never forget to give it to others.

May the New Year be a joyous one for you and yours.

 

The Funniest Baseball Story?

It dawned on me recently that there aren't many baseball jokes out there and I think that the reason is because it would be hard to make up anything funnier than what baseball players actually do and say.  Therefore, I put it to my readers:  What is the funniest baseball story that you've ever heard?  Maybe you've witnessed something hilarious on the ole ball diamond?  Whatever it might be, please share the funniest thing that you've read, seen, or heard from the wonderful world of baseball!

One story that has always amused me is the time when Oriole outfielder Pat Kelly, who became a minister once he retired from the Grand Old Game, was quoting from the Bible in the Baltimore dugout during a game.  Referencing scripture, he shouted to Birds' manager Earl Weaver, "Romans 10:9, Earl!" to which Weaver immediately replied, "I hope they're playing the Yankees."

Another story that I have enjoyed over the years involved former Oriole centerfielder Jackie Brandt.  During Spring Training in the early 1960s, Brandt and a few of his teammates went out for ice cream one evening.  Jackie was not satisfied with the flavor selection and insisted that they travel some 30 miles to a store that Jackie knew had a much greater variety.  The group walked in the shop and when it came time for Brandt to order, he promptly asked for vanilla.  His teammates didn't nickname Brandt "Flakey" for nothing.

Okay, readers; it's your turn!

One More Christmas Thought

As I wrote earlier I just haven't been feeling the Christmas spirit this year and from what my friends have told me, neither are they.  The radio station which I mentioned in that previous entry began to run commercials several days ago stating that while they were happy to be "the Christmas station," but come December 26th, they would return to the great mix of music for which they are famous.  Between the lines what they were saying was, "We know that you're sick of Christmas music, so the second Christmas is over, we're done with it!"

Well, yeah, we're sick of it, because you've been pumping it into our ears 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, since November 12th!!  Christmas has been in our faces non-stop for 6 weeks and not even Christmas remains special under those circumstances.  It's the same experience as eating a plate full of chocolate chip cookies; it's too much of a good thing.

Yet, now that Christmas is over, and we could use some holiday cheer as we head into the cold and often bleak days of winter, we're cut off cold turkey from egg nog and mistletoe.  Okay, most of us still have some cold turkey left, and by "some" I mean two truckloads worth, but you get my point.  Maybe now more so than before Christmas, I'd like to hear "Winter Wonderland" or some such happy song.  We certainly won't be hearing those melodies in the malls now, that's for sure.  No one wants to hear about snow glistenin' in the lane when we're buying bathing suits, which no doubt will be on the racks later today.  Better get a jump on your July 4th shopping.

George Washington's Christmas Gift

Of all the gifts we may receive this season, it is not an exaggeration to say that as Americans, the greatest gift was delivered 234 years ago tomorrow night.  That is when George Washington crossed the Delaware River and led his cold and hungry, but dedicated soldiers in an attack against Hessian mercenaries in Trenton, New Jersey.  This battle turned the tide of the Revolution, ultimately leading to an American victory--and our freedom.

It is easy to forget that moments from so long ago touch us directly.  I would venture to guess that most Americans think of the famous painting of Washington standing in a Durham boat, but don't know why he was crossing the Delaware or about the battle that followed.  We need to take a moment on Christmas night and put ourselves in one of those boats . . . A nor'easter is sweeping in bringing with it rain that turns to sleet that turns to snow . . . men who had been soundly defeated and driven from New York and across New Jersey are undertaking a mission based solely on their faith in their commander . . . they are allowed no fires when they disembark lest they alert the Hessians of their presence; two men freeze to death on the march . . . they are behind schedule . . . and somehow, those 2,400 men achieve a victory that alters all of human history.  The chills do not proceed from the imagined cold, but from the reality of their accomplishment.

Take a moment and give thanks to George Washington and his soldiers.  Among other things, they gave us the freedom to celebrate Christmas.

For a thorough discussion and excellent read, check out David Hackett Fischer's Washington's Crossing.  Fischer examines not only the battle, but its historic legacy.  I highly recommend it.

 

The Seventeen Second Miracle by Jason Wright

Normally, I wouldn't pick up something like The Seventeen Second Miracle, mainly because I find actual history more inspiring than fiction, but I am so glad that Melissa Dodge had me borrow this book.  This novel was not only inspirational, but moving.  Its message, that we should convert our thoughfulness for our fellow human beings into action, is timely and much needed.  The book is not a call to remake the world; it is a call to be mindful of whatever little corner of it we may occupy; and the "action" that will improve that little corner may only take 17 seconds.

Author Jason Wright, who lives in Woodstock, Virginia has filled his novel with such realistic characters and with such great local detail (Route 11 potato chips and Joe's Steakhouse in Woodstock are referenced, for example) that I actually googled these characters to see if perhaps this was based on a true story.  The main character, Cole Conner, runs a discussion group from his wife's book store in Charlottesville.  He is carrying on a certain legacy of his father's; a legacy that came to his father under tragic circumstances.  Students are assigned to the group by the local school principal, but Cole doesn't know why they have been assigned.  He only knows that these kids need a seventeen second miracle.  Having taught high school kids for 20 years, I can say that the teens look, sound, and act like the real thing.  The realism gives way to an It's a Wonderful Life ending, however, in which certain characters change and certain situations are resolved a little too conveniently.  It's a flaw that is easily forgivable, especially since the very last chapter returns the characters to a grim realism with which many of us are all too familiar.

Having little foreknowledge of what the book was about heightened its impact for me and so I will say no more.  I will, however, give away the "punch-line":  Love is a verb.  Most of us recognize this to be true.  Read the Seventeen Second Miracle and you will be inspired to act on that recognition.

This novel is quickly paced and I highly recommend it.  You'll find it an especially appropriate read during the Holiday season.

Yankee Misery Makes for A Merry Christmas

Cliff Lee rejected the New York Yankees contract offer to sign with Philadelphia.  Kerry Wood rejected the Yankees to sign with the Cubs.  All I can say is HA!  HA!  HA!  Of course, they did manage to sign an aging shortstop with declining skills for $17 million per season.  To which I again say HA!  HA!  HA!  Derek Jeter has always been overrated, but overrated or not, the greatest ballplayers decline with age and Jeter will be 39 when his contract expires.

Boston looks like the overwhelming favorites to win the AL East and with Tampa Bay losing their All-Star left-fielder (to Boston, no less), their first baseman, their shortstop in a trade to the Padres, and four members of their bullpen including their closer, the Rays will be closer to last than first.  That's too bad, for if the Rays had kept their team intact, this might have been the year that the Yankees finally missed the playoffs.  It might happen anyway, although neither the Central nor West Divisions look very strong.  Still even the real possibility that the Yankees will miss the playoffs makes for a merry Christmas.  And if they actually DO miss the playoffs, then that will make for some early Yuletide joy come next October.

One of My Father's Favorites is Gone

One of the greatest pitchers of all time, Bob Feller, died Wednesday at the age of 92.  His accomplishments are huge; a Hall of Famer and a 6-time 20 game winner whose fastball is ranked as the third fastest in the history of professional baseball by Tim Wendel in his new book High Heat.  Incredibly, he struck out 15 batters in his major league debut--at the age of 17 and ultimately amassed 266 victories, a total that would have been much higher, but for the fact that Feller enlisted in the Navy two days after Pearl Harbor and served for four years.

"Rapid Robert" as he was known was always one of my father's favorite players.  Dad didn't really follow professional sports all that much, nor engage in any star-worship, but I heard about Bob Feller from him at an early age.  I heard about how Feller worked on his family's Iowa farm and joined the Indians out of high school and how he served in the Navy.  About 15 years ago, my parents went on a baseball theme cruise and Bob Feller was among the couple of dozen players and managers who were the featured attraction.  My dad, who served three years on a destroyer in WWII, had a chance to talk to Feller and talk they did.  The funny thing is, as my dad related their conversation to me, it was all about the war and the navy.  Feller didn't talk to my dad as a Hall of Fame pitcher talking to yet another fan.  They talked to each other as veterans; as shipmates even.  The conversation confirmed my dad's impression that Bob Feller was real; that he'd left the farm, but those unpretentious values that farm life teaches had never left him.

Bob Feller was a great ballplayer and a greater American.  A fascinating guy, I encourage you to check out Feller in his own words, through this link.

RIP Rapid Robert Feller, one of my dad's favorites.

Up on a Rooftop

Is anyone else not feeling the Christmas spirit?  It dawned on me recently why I'm not.  Christmas music and Christmas television shows and Christmas sales have been going on so long that all the "wonderful" has gone right out of one of the most wonderful times of the year.  Local radio station Mix 95.1 FM, for example, has been playing non-stop Christmas music since the beginning of November.  Stores have been stuffed with tables and racks and displays of pre-packaged Christmas gifts to the point where I feel bloated just walking through those places. . . .  Just buy this crap and check another person off the list!  Don't think!  Of course, it's hard to think while stores pump our ears full of some alternative band's alternative version of "Jingle Bells" that is so hideous, it would make Santa want to jump, not down, but off the nearest chimney to an icy, but eager death.  We should all be grateful if the Grinch stole this modern Christmas.

There was a rhythm to Christmas when I was a boy, a slow but steady march toward the Big Day.  Right after Thanksgiving, the first Christmas cards would arrive.  I got to open any that included "& Family" on the envelope, because as an only child, that was I!  Soon decorations began to appear throughout the neighborhood.  Then came the Friday that we made green and read construction paper chains to put on the elementary school tree, and there was that special night that How the Grinch Stole Christmas was broadcast for the one and only time that season.  In another week, the entire neighborhood was decorated, and I knew we were getting really close to Christmas when my mom started baking cookies.  Turn an 8 year old loose with the sprinkles and the kitchen becomes a blizzard of red and green sugar crystals!

It took forever, but the last day of school finally arrived and we bound off the bus, with cards that we had made for our parents.  The next day was Christmas Eve!  The High Holy Day of Anticipation.  What was Mom wrapping back there?  What would Santa bring?  Would he leave presents for me at Grandma's, too?  Always, right before bed, my dad would stop, a surprised look on his face, and he would shush me.  He'd look at me and say, "I think I hear something on the roof!"  I loved that tradition, long after I knew that there were no reindeer knocking about our rooftop, because it was a call to believe in hope and in joy. It was the one thing that connected this Christmas to all the Christmases that I had ever known or that I ever will know. . . .

. . . Ah, so that's it.  As I write this, I realize what is truly wrong with these modern Christmases.  I'm being asked to believe in excess and gluttony; and I'm being asked to believe that stuff can fill all our empty places as though our souls were stockings simply to be filled with things.  But filling is not the same as fulfilling and so I refuse to believe the new Christmas Story.  I'm going to cling to the belief that if I listen hard enough on Christmas Eve, I'll hear something on the roof.

Capital Offense

My goodness, what's wrong with the Washington Capitals?  Losers of 5 straight going into last night's game, I really had a feeling that the Caps would right the ship against the New York Rangers.  Wrong feeling.

First, the Caps gave up a goal in the first period with only 2 minutes left.  Then, they gave up 3 more goals in about 5 minutes early in the second period.  At this point, coach Bruce Boudreau called a time out and lectured his troops.  By "lecture," I mean that he launched a vein-bursting, obscenity-laced tirade.  It was a work of art.  But it got no results.

The Caps finally began to exert some pressure on the Rangers, but Alex Semin zipped one off the cross bar, and on the next shift, the Caps hit the post on two consecutive shots.  Alex Ovechin even got into a fight, drawing only the second fighting major in his career, in an attempt to fire up his team.  As he headed to the penalty box, he pumped his fist at his teammates, as if to say "Let's go!" or whatever the Russian equivalent may be.  The Caps soon went to a power play--and promptly gave up a short-handed goal.

The Caps gave up two more goals in the third period and--for good measure--hit the post one more time.  Final score:  Rangers 7 Capitals 0

Just as with baseball, there seems to be no figuring slumps in hockey.  They have what is arguably the most talented team in the NHL and yet these last 6 games they look like they don't even know which skate to put on which foot, much less how to score a goal or two.  Obviously, some Capitals fan is not wearing a lucky shirt or he washed a lucky shirt or she moved to a chair from the lucky couch or from the lucky chair to the couch.  Clearly, the fabric of the Capitals Cosmos has been disturbed and if you're the one who rent that fabric, the FIX IT!  Fix it before Bruce Bodreau really does pop a vein.  Of course, he's a hockey coach, so they would just stitch him up and send him back to the game.

Hot Stove Happiness

The baseball winter meetings just concluded in Orlando, Florida and I for one am sad to see them end.  I love following the trades, the signings, the rumors of trades, the rumors of signings; heck, I love to see who gets taken in the Rule 5 draft.  I've been checking out www.mlbrumors.com several times a day.  This is the time of year, when it seems that Santa, in the form of your favorite team's general manager, just might bring home enough goodies to make your team a contender.  Real baseball junkies can't wait to see the new players come spring.  We subconciously begin to absorb the new guy's mannerisms, so that we can tell at a glance that it is he, even without checking out his number, which we are also curious about.  And right now, in the dead of winter, we can hope that the guy that we just got will blossom or have a career year or resurrect his career and lead our team to a championship.  Such hope generates the kind of warmth that takes the sting out of these 10 degree mornings.  It's the time of year that I am reminded of Rogers Hornsby's famous quote:  "People ask me what I do in the winter when there's no baseball.  I'll tell you what I do.  I stare out the window and wait for spring."