Making my best pitch

I have a dead file, and it is in need of its annual updating.

The file dangles in the front of our family filing cabinet, a red hanging folder filled with all of the important stuff my family will need for when I depart this mortal coil: the songs I want played, the songs I wish to have sung – the how-I-want-them-played-and-sung at my memorial service – dead-file-e1327109698717along with the scripture, quotes and poetry I want to be read, and what I want printed on the program.

Pretty basic, but important stuff.

My wife and kids know where this file is, they know that all that key info will be right there, as I am trying to be proactive, not controlling.  They are mostly okay with this arrangement, and though they don’t know what’s in it, they figure they will deal with that if and when the time comes.

Or, hopefully, my children will simply be able to pass on the whole thing to their adult children under the banner of ‘you cousins can all take some responsibility for grandpa/great family-tree-relationship-chart-free-pdf-templategrandpa/great-great grandpa here.’

Good Lord willing, that’s the way it plays out.

As is my custom, I review the file at the beginning of the year – though not as some sort of resolution ritual, or anything like that. I am always reminded to do this by all of the year-end/year-beginning, tax-and-estate planning reminders from every direction and the television commercials featuring thought-dead-already celebrities touting ’providing for your family’ with mail-order life insurance. Though sometimes I get those commercials confused with those of some other thought-dead-alreadys and their reverse mortgage ads.

Now there is a spiritual analogy post just dying to be written.

This year, as I reviewed the tattered red folder, I added a note about where the baseballs are – and nobody has to look far: they are right next to the folder.  Nice to have a decent file cabinet wide enough for legal files – I can have my letter-sized files, and room along the side for a half-dozen baseballs, in their boxes. Where they will hopefully remain for a long time.

Yeah, the baseballs.

Anyone who knows me and my family will attest to our love of the game. My wife Amy and I began dating late summer, 1991, as our hometown Minnesota Twins were en route to their second World Series championship, and let me tell you, World Series victories are great new-relationship aphrodisiacs. The following year we got married and had a Twins-themed wedding reception, followed up by family members and the wedding party (60 of us, all told) going to the Twins-Brewers game the next day, after which we (just Amy and I) followed the Twins on the road to Chicago and Milwaukee for our honeymoon

So yeah, as a passionate aficionado of all things America’s pastime, baseball will certainly be as much a part of my departure from this world as it is in my existence on this rotating-like-a-fine-change-up celestial orb.  My immediate family understands that, and figures they will deal with whatever zaniness I have in that red file folder when the time comes, though the one particular aspect they do know of gets the ‘hot potato’ treatment amongst daughter Lindsay, and sons Will and Sam. (Amy wants no part of my baseball bequest and has long since informed all the kidlets that this one will be totally on them.)

Somebody is going to have to put me in the baseballs.

It’s pretty simple, actually, and far more feasible than other preferred options, like a traditional Viking viking-funeral-799141funeral.  The whole ship set ablaze and afloat (with my remains on it) while in keeping with my ancestral roots and desires, is impractical and expensive (EPA permits and whatnot) and maybe just a bit pretentious. So while the whole Viking ship thing would be as exciting as an inside-the-park home run, my baseball brainchild is an easy, knock-it-outta-the-park game-winner.

That I hope doesn’t result in me getting knocked around.

Upon my demise, after everything donatable has been donated, organ and tissue wise, the rest of me will need to be cremated. That will leave me as a nifty little pile of ashes, which will then need to be handled in some way. As I have never been one easily confined to conventional parameters (literally or figuratively) I don’t see myself as sitting in an urn or ornate box on someones’ mantelpiece somewhere.  Bor-ring.

Hence the baseballs.

It’s pretty simple, really. A set of regulation, major league baseballs has been purchased, to be autographed by me; some signed as ‘dad’ some as ‘grandpa.’ Then, when the time comes to stash the ash, each ball will have a small core drilled out of it, just big enough to contain some of my ashes. Once the ashes are placed in each ball, the hole will then be sealed up with the drilled-out core and some epoxy, and the baseballs will then be ready for distribution to the next generation(s).

The idea could catch on – a sort of national pastiming-on, if you will.

The great thing about me being ensconced for eternity in baseballs is not only will what’s left of me be suitable for display in a ball cube, on a mantle or in a memorabilia cabinet, I will also be able to remain part of the family in a tangible, practical way.

For years after I am gone, when my grandkids and great grandkids get together someone will baseball-ed3always be able to say, “Hey! Let’s go outside and play catch with grandpa!”

And we still can.

Ummmm….but please, no batting practice, kids.

“Because grandpa said so! THAT’S why!”

 

https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B017LALIES

 

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Making my best pitch

I have a dead file, in need of its annual updating.

The file dangles in the front of our family filing cabinet, a red hanging folder filled with all of the important stuff my family will need for when I depart this mortal coil: the songs I want played, the songs I wish to have sung – the how-I-want-them-played-and-sung at my memorial service – dead-file-e1327109698717along with the scripture, quotes and poetry I want to be read, and what I want printed on the program.

Pretty basic, but important stuff.

My wife and kids know where this file is, they know that all that key info will be right there, as I am trying to be proactive, not controlling.  They are mostly okay with this arrangement, and though they don’t know what’s in it, they figure they will deal with that if and when the time comes.

Or, hopefully, my children will simply be able to pass on the whole thing to their adult children under the banner of ‘you cousins can all take some responsibility for grandpa/great family-tree-relationship-chart-free-pdf-templategrandpa/great-great grandpa here.’

Good Lord willing, that’s the way it plays out.

As is my custom, I review the file at the beginning of the year – though not as some sort of resolution ritual, or anything like that. I am always reminded to do this by all of the year-end/year-beginning, tax-and-estate planning reminders from every direction and the television commercials featuring thought-dead-already celebrities touting ’providing for your family’ with mail-order life insurance. Though sometimes I get those commercials confused with those of some other thought-dead-alreadys and their reverse mortgage ads.

Now there is a spiritual analogy post just dying to be written.

This year, I found as I reviewed the tattered red folder that there is one key piece of information that I keep neglecting to place in my dead file: I’ve got to tell them where the baseballs are.  I also remembered I actually have to purchase, and then partially prepare said  baseballs.

Yeah, the baseballs.

Anyone who knows me and my family will attest to our love of the game. My wife Amy and I began dating late summer, 1991, as our hometown Minnesota Twins were en route to their second World Series championship, and let me tell you, World Series victories are great new-relationship aphrodisiacs. The following year we got married and had a Twins-themed wedding reception, followed up by family members and the wedding party (60 of us, all told) going to the Twins-Brewers game the next day, after hich we (just Amy and I) followed the Twins on the road to Chicago and Milwaukee for our honeymoon

So yeah, as a passionate aficionado of all things America’s pastime, baseball will certainly be as much a part of my departure from this world as it is in my existence on this rotating-like-a-fine-change-up celestial orb.  My immediate family understands that, and figures they will deal with whatever zaniness I have in that red file folder when the time comes, though the one particular aspect they do know of gets the ‘hot potato’ treatment amongst daughter Lindsay, and sons Will and Sam. (Amy wants no part of my baseball bequest and has long since informed all the kidlets that this one will be totally on them.)

Somebody is going to have to put me in the baseballs.

It’s pretty simple, actually, and far more feasible than other preferred options, like a traditional Viking viking-funeral-799141funeral.  The whole ship set ablaze and afloat (with my remains on it) while  in keeping with my ancestral roots and desires, is impractical and expensive (EPA permits and whatnot) and maybe just a bit pretentious. So while the whole Viking ship thing would be as exciting as an inside-the-park home run, my baseball brainchild is an easy, knock-it-outta-the-park game-winner.

That I hope doesn’t result in me getting knocked around.

Upon my demise, after everything donatable has been donated, organ and tissue wise, the rest of me will need to be cremated. That will leave me as a nifty little pile of ashes, which will then need to be handled in some way. As I have never been one easily confined to conventional parameters (literally or figuratively) I don’t see myself as sitting in an urn or ornate box on someones’ mantelpiece somewhere.  Bor-ring.

Hence the baseballs.

It’s pretty simple, really. A set of regulation, major league baseballs will be purchased, then will official-major-league-baseballs-edbe autographed by me; some signed as ‘dad’ some as ‘grandpa.’ Then, when the time comes to stash the ash, each ball will have a small core drilled out of it, just big enough to contain some of my ashes. Once the ashes are placed in each ball, the hole will then be sealed up with the drilled-out core and some epoxy, and the baseballs will then be ready for distribution to the next generation(s).

The idea could catch on – a sort of national pastiming-on, if you will.

The great thing about me being ensconced for eternity in baseballs is not only will what’s left of me be suitable for display in a ball cube, on a mantle or in a memorabilia cabinet, I will also be able to remain part of the family in a tangible, practical way.

For years after I am gone, when my grandkids and great grandkids get together someone will baseball-ed3always be able to say, “Hey! Let’s go outside and play catch with grandpa!”

And we still can.

Ummmm….but please, no batting practice, kids.

“Because grandpa said so, THAT’S why!”

 

https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B017LALIES

 

Had a ball, to a tee

Baseball is prominent in Lucker family lore: my wife and I come from families of ardent baseball fans, and we met in the summer of 1991 – our dating life was intertwined with the World Series run and eventual championship of our hometown Minnesota Twins.

The following summer we were married, had a baseball-themed reception, took 60 relatives and wedding party members to a Twins game the day after the wedding, then followed our heroes on the road to Chicago and Milwaukee as a baseball honeymoon. We will celebrate the twenty-fourth anniversary of all that this summer.

But some of our greatest shared baseball memories don’t come from sitting in the cheap seats, or hanging out in a bar celebrating a World Series game two triumph with delirious strangers. Ours are far superior.

They come from our time on the field as t-ball coaches for our sons.

Amy and I spent four years as co-coaches for various teams our sons Willi and Sam played on, emphasizing fun and love of baseball over competition, and loved it all. We introduced not only our kids, but a number of others in south Minneapolis and Marshall, Minnesota, to grand additions to the grand old game such as pre-game bunny-hopping and conga-lining-around-the-bases warmups (10 minute warm-up periods were mandated by the Minneapolis park board – they didn’t say HOW to get them ‘warmed up’) to every-kid-wraps-up-practice-with-a-homerun, along with innovative team (and individual player) cheers and so much more.

Eldest son Willi is now a college sophomore, Sam the younger a high school junior. Willi’s teammates are also in college (or, in at least one case, a college grad!) and I see young kids in our New Orleans neighborhood in their t-ball uniforms, I can only think back…and smile.

The place was Sibley Park, in south Minneapolis. The time was post 9/11, jittery, uncertain 2002. It was the summer of the Bobbleheads – the greatest group of young ballplayers to ever cross a chalked baseline. No names have been changed because nobody’s innocence is threatened – only enhanced. What follows the chronicle of the magical season, as recorded and distributed at the time, from April through early June, in the Baseball Diaries – an emailed extravaganza that was the forerunner of this blog. It is a bit lengthy, but worth it.

Settle in for some baseball magic, in its purest form.

04/30/02
Dear Diary:

As the legendary Jack Morris said just before pitching 11 shutout innings in game seven of the 1991 World Series, “In the words of the immortal Marvin Gaye, let’s get it on!”

The above, I believe, is the Bartlett’s Quotations version of a double play.

This year’s dual-Lucker coached juggernaut is known as the Bobbleheads. The name stems from last years tee-ball experience with the SIBAC Tornadoes, where at least once per game one of the assembled parental or grandparental units would comment that “With the kids running around in those big, oversized batting helmets, they all look like bobble-heads!” First practice was tonight, and it went well. We caught some throws, we even caught a couple of batted balls, and not one kid ran to third base instead of first. We also kept the swarming of multiple fielders to hit balls fairly low, and registered just one “double wicket.” (A hit ball that cleanly makes it through two sets of infielder’s legs, ala croquet, while also eluding their gloves.) The new team cheer was a big hit, too.

Our SIBAC BOBBLEHEADS shirts should arrive tomorrow, just in time for our opening game against Hiawatha Park. We will try to refrain from extending our hands to the other team at home plate while uttering the phrase, “Hiawatha! We’re the Bobbleheads.” We’ll try really hard not to do that.

It’s always “A great day to play two!”

Goodnight, Diary.

autographed bat

 

05/02/02
Dear Diary:

Well, we celebrated a successful season opener on all fronts. The Bobbleheads had a rip-roaring grand time over at Hiawatha Park. It appears that our reputation is growing as we had three new kids sign on last week, and we got a little surprise when we met our Hiawatha opponents.

When their coach introduced himself to me he said he had never coached tee-ball before. He was a veteran of cubs, midgets and for the last few years, four pitch. He described himself to Amy and I as “really in the dark about how tee-ball works.” Not to fear I told him, just follow our lead. The Hiawatha kids were already a little taken aback at our calisthenic routines, but the parents and other crowd members seemed to enjoy it. The game itself was…an experience.

There wasn’t time to explain step-by-step what we were going to be doing, so we had to wing it. We were the visitors, and batted first so I was up at home overseeing. This made it convenient to simply yell out everything to everyone as loudly as I could. The first inning consisted of me yelling out instructions like “OK, coach Dan at first base! Reeeememberrrrr every kid who gets to first gets a high-five!” Followed by “Coach Bruce! Remember that evvvvvery kid who gets to third gets a high-five!” As I was at the helm at home, I took care of home plate-high fives.

By the time Hiawatha batted in the bottom of the first, their coaches pretty much had it down. Every kid getting to first got a high-five, every kid getting to third got a high-five, every kid getting home got a high-five. Every kid got multiple, well deserved, high fives. All in all a pretty smooth game in front of a large and boisterous crowd. (Hiawatha is a busy park next to a busy lake.) After they batted one of the Hiawatha kids asked what the score was. I announced/yelled out that after one inning of play, we were of course, tied “A bunch…to a bunch!” All concerned seemed satisfied with that answer.

Add in our conga-line base running warm up, five (count ‘em, five) different renditions of the “Gooooo Bobbleheadssssss!” cheer and game ending glove slaps, and I think you’ll find that tee-ball at Hiawatha is gonna start looking a bit different in the weeks ahead.

Spreading the word is what we’re all about. Its tee-ball gospel, the Bobblehead way!

Til the next time then, blazing new trails – the Bobblehead Way…

Regards,

Us

autographed bat2

 

05/16/02
Dear Diary:

With glorious sunshine and temps in the 70’s, weather the likes of which we haven’t seen for the past couple of weeks, spring returned today to the Twin Cities. It enabled the Sibley Park Bobbleheads to make their home-opener even brighter.

After squeezing in a practice between showers and then missing a game last week due to a deluge, it was good to be back on the Sibley aggregate basking in the glow of our fans and the sun. Resplendent in our fire-engine red shirts with SIBAC (Sibley Athletic Club) BOBBLEHEADS splayed in dazzling white across the chests we took on our brethren, the SIBAC TWINS.

Katie the park director was on hand getting us set up, and she informed us that the Twins were missing both their regular coaches for the night. She also said that their fill-in, Coach Chris, wasn’t well versed in tee-ball. Not to worry, I told her. We were ready to “Spread the gospel of Sibley Tee-Ball” just as we did a few weeks back at Hiawatha.

After filling in Coach Chris and his parental volunteers on the basics, I went back to our third base bench to address our parents. I explained that like in our first game, we were going to have to lead by example as our opponents were once again inexperienced both on the field and on the bench. I told them why I would again be yelling for both teams to hear me. Just so they knew the score, I had prefaced my remarks with “Lest you guys think I’m some sort of raving ego maniac…”

Play ball!

We batted first, doing wonderfully. Batting fifth tonight was Bailey, a ruddy kindergartener with reddish blond hair and freckles. He’s got game, and seems to enjoy the whole experience. As I was helping Bailey get settled in the batters box, I heard a chant break out from our bench: “Bay-LEE! Bay-LEE! Bay-LEE!” As I turned around to look, every parent gave me a shrug and an “I-didn’t start it” look. Seems that one of the kids did, and it took hold pretty quick. Bailey looked at me, blushed, rolled his eyes and said “Ohhhh man!” He then singled to short. The Twins just seemed puzzled by it all.

The rest of the inning went well until it was brought to my attention that I had overlooked young Joey, and that he hadn’t batted. As we were already taking the field I informed all concerned that we would just bat Joey at the beginning AND at the end of the second inning, and everybody was cool with that. Joey is a quiet kid. He is also the youngest and smallest kid on the team, but he can play. When the top of the second rolled around, Joey was seeking out a helmet and a bat, and I stage whispered to the kids on the bench that what they did for Bailey might be kinda cool to do for Joey. By the time Joey and I got to the batters box, the third base side of the field had erupted in the chant of “JOE-ey! JOE-ey! JOE-ey!” Looking somewhat BMOC-ish, Joey grinned at me and said “Oh boy!” before rapping a single to third.

That was all the encouragement the Bobbleheads needed. The rest of the inning was peppered with spontaneous chants for every kid from when they walked to the tee, til they hit the ball.
“SE-bast-YUN! SE-bast-YUN!”
“Han-NAH! Han-NAH!”
“MAHL-lee! MAHL-lee!”
“Ray-CHEL! Ray-CHEL!”
“Bay-LEE! Bay-LEE!”

There was a slight pause as our number six hitter came to the plate, as the lack of rhythm in “Wiiiiiiiil! Wiiiiiiiil!” sort of threw them for a loop, but they recovered nicely for “ANGE-gel!” “KEIR-nan!,” “Ti-ah-ZA!” and “JOE-ey!” one more time.

All in all, Diary, it was a great night. We played well, looked great, sounded awesome.

The kids were happy, the adults seemed impressed. And we helped the SIBAC Twins learn a few things. Like pre-game calisthenics are a must, especially frog hopping and then group running of the bases. They now know that wrapping up each inning with a home run is cool, too. It took them awhile to remember to give high fives at first and third, but they finally got that down pretty well. They still seemed puzzled when we applauded them at the beginning and the end of the game, and they need some work on their game-end glove slapping. They also had to be re-assembled quickly for the traditional high-five line of congrats after the game, but they did quickly come up with their own cheer. Now Diary, I know I am biased, but to be honest with you, “Tee-ball rules!” just doesn’t have quite the same panache as “Gooooooo Bobbleheads!”

Bobbleheads rock. Wait, I take that back. We bobble!

Goodnight Diary.

 

05/23/02
Dear Diary:

Please pardon the indulgence.

I’ve been thinking a lot about shirts this spring. The new Bobbleheads tee-shirts, bright red with bold white lettering across the chests; the wide eyes of recognition when the kids got them – “Hey! They even have numbers on the back!” I remember thinking briefly, that wouldn’t be such a bad shirt to have for a grown up.

Apparently, I am not alone.

At least a couple of parents have inquired about getting one, and we have even had a couple of Baseball Diary readers who have expressed an interest. Then on Tuesday night I walked into the park building to check out a tee and some bases, and was confronted by Sarah of the park staff. “Hey coach! We hear you guys are going to order big Bobbleheads shirts! I want one!” Turns out other park staff does too, including Katie the Park Manager. “Everybody loves ‘em,” she told me. “What can I say? You guys picked a really cool name!” Dale the park equipment guy called St. Mane sporting goods, and if we have enough interest we can get the shirts for the big kids at about eleven-bucks a pop. Bobblehead mania; coming soon to a torso near you.

Goodnight, Diary.

05/29/02
Dear Diary:

Sometimes life just happens, and we’re the better for it. Such was tonight’s Bobbleheads adventure.

Our scheduled opponents from Corcoran Park never showed up. Their coach had called Katie the Park Director yesterday telling her that this might happen, and she had cautioned me last night at practice. Having been forewarned, we arrived at Sibley #5 tonight with two alternatives to keep our charges occupied and to give them a suitable challenge as well.

5:45 arrived and no Corcoraners to be found. I announced to the assembled eight kids and nineteen moms, dads, grandparents and friends that as we were apparently opponent-less, but that I had come armed with plans B & C, just in case this had happened. Plan B was to take whatever Corcoran kids showed up, mix ‘em with ours and split into two teams. Now as our eight were the only ones on hand, 4-on-4 didn’t seem like a real enthralling idea, so after discussing it with fill-in coach (and team dad) Tom and getting his thumbs up, I proposed plan C:

The Bobbleheads versus their parents.

To their credit, the moms and dads were game; nobody had to be coerced, and most seemed genuinely enthused by the idea. The Bobbleheads themselves seemed mostly bemused by the prospect. All of them save young Keirnan, who ambled up to me after the announcement that plan “C” was a go and said, “Coach, don’t you have a plan ‘D’?!”

Coach Tom and I had decided that the Bobbleheads would let the parents bat first, and we took our spots in the field. It seemed that most of the kids were trying not to laugh at the parents coming up to bat, which was hard because some of them looked pretty funny squeezed into those smallish batting helmets. In all three moms, four dads, and one grandma batted – in a few instances escorted on their jaunts around the bases by younger Bobblehead siblings. Much whooping and hollering was heard from the parent’s bench, so we knew they were really into it.

It occurred to me midway through the top of the first that the ages of five, six and seven were good ones for watching parents (try to) play tee-ball. The looks of pride on the faces of each Bobblehead as his or her mom or dad (or grandma) hit the ball, ran to a base or thrust out arms in exultation upon reaching a base were the equal of any similar looks those same parents have had for their kids over the past month.

I spent the night stationed as the third base coach for Bobbleheads on offense and on defense, where I was privileged to overhear some of the great asides of the night.

Such as Rachel’s “Oh there’s my dad, he’s gonna do something goofy.” And showing mild disappointment when he didn’t. There was Keirnan’s repeated plea “Can’t you find a plan D?” Add in Joey’s mile wide grin when both his mom and his dad were on base simultaneously, Hannah’s incessant giggling, Bailey’s “Wow, my MOM!” when she got a hit, and Mali’s shear awe and pride at his grandmother gamely batting and running to first.

I personally declare plan ‘C’ a success. To use a common phrase from our household, “Hey, we’re making memories here!”

So to a red-shirted kid, the Bobbleheads as beamed with pride as moms and dads hit and ran with aplomb, shook their heads in disbelief when they missed catches and throws in Three Stooges-like grandeur while in the field, and just generally hammed it up. No petulance about “parental embarrassment,” no kid telling mom or dad to get off the field, nobody getting mad. Just the shared sheer joy of watching moms and dads goof off a little.

Now that’s tee-ball the Bobblehead way.

Good night, Diary

Us
(PS: Just between you and me I really don’t think Keirnan wanted a “Plan D.”)

autographed bat2

 

Thursday night, June 6, 2002. Late.
Dear Diary:

An era came to an end Thursday night. This probably goes against most any dictionary definition of the term era, but where the Bobbleheads are concerned, that’s kind of how this six-week season felt. This was one special group of kids and parents, Diary.

We said our goodbyes at the season-end potluck for the two tee-ball and two four-pitch teams from Sibley. Eight of our nine stalwarts showed up – and Bailey’s folks stopped by with a thank-you card and a gift certificate for the Coaches Lucker on their way home from the doctor where they had found out that Bailey had strep. They didn’t bring him in, but I went out to see the poor guy in his car seat. He was looking pretty rough until I gave him his participation ribbon and certificate and his sheet of Official Bobblehead Cards.

Bobblehead Cards are way cool, Diary.

Rachel’s dad Dan had brought his digital camera to our last game, and he took action pictures of the squad. Then with the help of his trusty computer, he whipped up a great set of baseball cards – just like real ones, with team name, player names & numbers and great shots of the Bobbleheads in action. Then he printed them all up in glorious color and stuck ‘em in three-hole punched plastic sleeves like real card collectors use. Each kid (and Amy and I) got a set and man, you should’ve seen their faces!

Thanks, Rachel’s Dad!

I don’t know that I have ever been tempted to apply the word noble to a bunch of five, six and seven-year olds – but these guys certainly were that. Never had to scold anyone of them in six weeks of practice or games; never an admonition to stop something, never an altercation amongst the kids themselves. They came every week; they came to play every week. They showed joy in the game, glee in each other. And dang, Diary – they could play! They could all hit like crazy. Heck, everybody batted 1.000 with multiple home runs.

We will remember the way the girls played the field (so to speak.) Week in, week out Angel, Hannah and Rachel all made great plays defensively. Kiernan and Sebastian can also flash some mean leather. Bailey was everywhere, every game – smiling ear-to-ear every minute he was on the field. Will’s love of leading calisthenics was matched only by his ease at being distracted by crawling bugs and other stuff in the infield dirt. He misses a lot of plays, but he sees more of things and life than most. And you gotta love Joey and Mali, the two youngest, two littlest guys we had – and with two of the biggest hearts on any diamond, anywhere. It wasn’t lost on me that the name chanting for batters by their teammates from the bench started with a spontaneous, enthusiastic focus on Joey and Mali.

At the end of the potluck we coaches each got to introduce our team and hand out their ribbons and certificates. I explained to the crowd our penchant for high-fives every time a kid got to first, third or home. We got in one last high-five as each kid came up to get their stuff and then we ended our team turn in the spotlight with one final group crouch leading up to a cacophonous “Goooooooooooo Bobbbbbbleheads!!!” I personally will admit to a couple of tears, and could rat out more than a few parents who were dabbing at their own eyes.

Funny what you’ll get from a bunch of tee-ball playing kids.

That’s it for now, Diary. See you next year.

Us

bobblehead bat

May, 2016.
Dear Diary

Epilog.

Alas, there was no ‘next year’ as we moved out-of-town. While I do know at least one set of our parents went on to spread the Bobblehead gospel at another south Minneapolis park, save for my own son, I have no idea where any of these kids are now, but I’d like to think that somewhere, deep down inside each one of them, at least a little bit of the joy of being a Bobblehead still remains.

Because man…could those kids play ball.

autographed ball2

The Summer of My Clip-On Name Tag (or, Loves Labor Days Renewed)

Mark. My first name, in plastic, on a small clip. People readily took to using it, too, all summer. Mostly folks I didn’t know. An interesting departure from my full-time gig, where students and staff alike universally refer to me as ‘Mr. Lucker.’

IMG_20140901_120110It had been a few years.

I have written before of my rather, ummm, varied career (radio announcer to hotelier to social service case manager to corporate trainer to high school English teacher) and the numerous detours and sidelines I had earned money on along the way. (Check out my poetry blog for more on THAT topic ( http://markluckerpoet.wordpress.com/2014/04/26/walking-down-sesame-street-with-studs-terkel-at-graduation-time/ )

This summer fit right into my life’s working-guy theme. (English teachers are big on things like ‘theme’ in a narrative).

It was an interesting adventure.

I needed to make some money in my ‘off’ ‘ time and the chances of me doing it in my present locale seemed iffy, at best. Summer work is hard to come by in New Orleans, where, due to heat, humidity and threat of hurricanes, tourist season goes into a dormant period; here is not much temp or part-time work to be found. Hence my brainstorm: I would need to be in Minnesota for my daughter’s sisterssludge2014wedding come the end of July, so instead of (maybe) finding something then having to bail, why not work in my old hometown for the summer? I could stay at my mom’s, help her out with some stuff, get reacquainted with some old friends. I even lined up an art exhibit at Sisters Sludge, an old-stomping-grounds coffeehouse.

I’m clever that way.

During my previous career incarnations, I often supplemented my income with temp work through a variety of staffing services. In late spring, I contacted ProStaff – whom I worked for so long and so well for over fifteen years. An emailed resume and an office appointment to complete paperwork, and I was ready to go.

There was irony and symmetry in how that played out.

IMG_20140622_231206In short order, I got my first assignment: at a downtown hotel as part of the host staff for an international convention for management accountants. It was not the hotel where I had spent nearly a decade, but a hotel that I knew well. A temporary name tag in conventioneer plastic holder and I was set to go.

Working, essentially, as a mercenary concierge, I immediately took to the gig and made it my own. Like riding a bike, I foamboardquickly adapted and remembered why I enjoyed my hotel years. It was an enjoyable three days.

And, contrary to any stereotypes, the accounting folks were anything but staid, soulless, number-crunchers. They were, in fact, a lot of fun, and they were also helpful, as they allowed me to come back post-convention and take all of their high-end foam core signage that would have just been thrown out. Six-by-four foot sheets of top-quality stuff that come in handy in a classroom, and that I also used as the backing for some of the artwork I put together for the art showing.

The hotel was the ironic gig.

The symmetry came when fine folks at ProStaff then found me a longer term assignment working with an on-line university adapting materials for students needing accommodations. Interesting summer work for a teacher, very enlightening to get a different Ginellisperspective on that end of educational accommodations. Plus, the unit was a fun-loving group and we had more than a few laughs. It didn’t hurt that, being a teacher, I understood the basic concepts of what we were trying to do as well as the terminology. It was a good, easy fit for a temp job.

Plus, I got to roam the downtown Minneapolis Skyway system and even got to have lunch at a favorite old pizza place, Ginellis, which was right where I had left it decade ago. The pizza is still outstanding.

Meanwhile partaking in my hotel and educational endeavors, I had continued to search for other options, one of which turned out to be product demonstrator for a large, local supermarket chain. Actually, it was a contract gig through a marketing firm that had just gotten the contract, and between my teaching experience and my background in customer service, the outfit eagerly signed me up, and sent me my demonstrator kit: a matching red cap and apron set, a debit card to purchase the items I would be selling at each IMG_20140709_155112assignment, and a clip-on name tag with ‘Mark’ in big, white font.

Dressed in black slacks and white shirt (a combination I am usually loathe to participate in due to its mundane sartorial aspects) I spent weekend days in various Cub Foods aisles pitching everything from high-end hot dogs to exotic cold cuts to Greek yogurt. The only dud assignment came in trying to interest customers in some new cereal varieties. They were tasty enough, but even I had a hard time trying to spin breakfast cereal with the term ‘digestive blend’ in the name.

Yum.

Met some interesting folks, but never did run into anyone I knew, which was disappointing, because I had the opening line all set: “Off all the gin joints in all the world, you walk into mine.”

So it goes.

My favorite paid gig of the summer was serendipitous to say the least: I got to sell caps at Major League Baseball’s All Star Game at Target Field.

The Minnesota Twins were hosting this year’s extravaganza, and were seeking help during All-Star week festivities. Ironically, my wife, still in New Orleans, saw something about an All-Star game hiring fair on Facebook, and forwarded me the info. Much like with IMG_20140714_205827the food demonstrator gig, my background in the hospitality field got me the gig and the choice assignment in the stadium pro shop selling fitted caps. Far better than outside somewhere working smokey, messy concessions.  I got a spiffy plastic name tag in bold black font stating MARK L with the notation ALL STAR GAME-TEMPORARY WORKERS. Nice.

Baseball is one of my passions, and the Twins are my team. This wasn’t my dream job, but it certainly was a primo assignment that was interesting and fun, plus got me back into mid-semester on-my-feet-all-day form with four nine-hour-days of cap-hawking. A sweet deal all the way around as I got paid for spending my days talking baseball with all sorts of folks.

And I learned something very comforting: there are plenty of grown adults with a poorer grasp of math than I.

Fitted hats (at least the sizing of them) befuddled more than a few of my customers.

Caps were in a large set of wooden cubbies aligned by size in 1/8 inch increments, starting at 6 ¾ and going up to 8. The whole fraction thing was a puzzle to many, as customers would as to try a cap in what they thought was their size, only to find it too small. This was the typical exchange that transpired (more times than I would care to count):

IMG_20140712_210634CUSTOMER: “Seven and 1/8 was too small. Let me try the next size up.”
ME: (handing them the 7 ¼ in their preferred design) “Here you go.”
CUSTOMER: “No, I said the next size up. That should be 7 2/8.”
ME: “Yep. Seven-and-a-quarter is the next size up from 7 1/8.”
CUSTOMER: “That should be 7 2/8 then, shouldn’t it?”
ME: “Yes sir. But 7 2/8  is 7 ¼
CUSTOMER: “How does that work? Won’t that be too small?”
ME: “If it is, we’ll just try 7  3/8  or 7 1/2.”
CUSTOMER: “Huh? Those seem like they would be way too big.”
ME: “Nope. We should be able to find one in that range that fits.”

It usually ended up as a mini, chapeau-oriented version of Abbott & Costello’s classic ‘Who’s on First’? routine, and the whole 1/8 and ¼ thing got people even more confused at the higher end of the size scale. For some reason, the jump from 7 ½ to 7 5/8 got people even more adamant that my math skills were deficient. Most were pleasant about it, but a few got somewhat riled – one indignant woman in particular who was convinced that the cap manufacturer had screwed up, in that the 7 ¾ hat her husband tried on was too small, but the 7  7/8  he tried fit fine must be mislabeled, because, “That is a much smaller size.”

Aside from playing fun-with-fractions with numerous customers, my favorite encounter was a husband and wife in their forties who came to me with an interesting dilemma: she wanted the quality of a fitted cap, but needed the ‘hole in the back’ for her pony tail to IMG_20140715_204054hang out, as a fitted hat just gave her ‘a lumpy head’. (The ‘hole in the back’ of course comes only with adjustable hats, as the ‘hole’ is the space above the adjusting strap.) Clear to the fact that no fitted hats would fit the bill (pun intended) the wife had resigned herself to an adjustable cap, though she didn’t want any of the ‘cheap or cheap looking’ styles.

She was trying on a lot of caps, and her husband seemed more exasperated, rolling his eyes as she modeled each. We chatted while she browsed, and then I remembered some dazzling, sequined Twins hats that I had seen in a remote cubby, as the Twins had moved much of their regular merchandise off to the edges to make way for All-Star logoed stuff.

I excused myself from the husband, went and found the hat I remembered, brought it to the wife, proclaiming proudly, “Here you go – pretty cool hat and with a pony-tail hole!” She eyed the cap, tried it on, turned around a few times, took it off, put it back on, checked it out in the mirror from different angles…as her husband turned to me and said, quite dryly, “ I really admire your initiative.”

Hats off to me.

caps

The Legend of Home Plato, Baseball Philosopher

“Opening day of baseball season is like the first night of your honeymoon. Once that first pitch opening daysmacks into the glove, everything and anything is possible. Plus, you get to live it all over three, four, five times or more that day and you goo to sleep smiling”

-Home Plato, Baseball Philosopher

It is that most serendipitous and melodic harbinger of the end of winter – baseball. Spring training has wrapped its languid flow in Florida and Arizona and the teams have dispatched too locales from coast to coast. Optimism reigns as fans return like Capistrano Swallows to major league ballparks in an effort to get their initial, anticipated glimpse of the year at their favorite teams, beloved veterans and highly anticipated newcomers; to soak in the sun and think of the possibilities of what the new season will bring.

Opening week.

Their first chance since fall to experience baseball…to talk baseball in something more than wistfully nostalgic tones for last year or unbridled optimism in the unseen for the year ahead.

Talking baseball takes on a fresh urgency this time of year.

It was with this backdrop that I made a pilgrimage to a local watering hole for the chance to talk baseball with a true baseball legend. A man who knows baseball, the game of life.  I found him sitting alone in a booth, nursing a tap beer.  His business card lay on the table in front of him, facing the spot across the table from him. My seat on the mountaintop. He motioned me to sit down, gracefully extended his hand. We shook, he motioned for me to take his card.

BrooklynIt reads, simply, ‘Home Plato, Baseball Philosopher’ in elegant, 1946 Brooklyn Dodgers uniform font.

Now while Mr. Plato knows life and knows baseball, he does not see himself as a great thinker – more an observer of and ruminator on life and how it relates to all things baseball. I have quoted Mr. Plato frequently throughout the years in various forms, but more importantly, I have taken his wisdom and utilized it to full effect. The opportunity to sit down and speak with him face-to-face was not to be passed up.

I could not if I had tried.

Over beer and salted-in-the-shell ballpark peanuts, I spoke with (mostly just listened reverently to) Mr. Plato about some of his views on baseball and life. What follows is a sampling of our conversation covering a broad array of topics baseball.

“Mr. Plato, sir” I began, a bit nervously.

“Call me Home. But not ‘Homer’ – people should know that ‘Home’ isn’t ‘short’ for anything, and I do not write epic poetry. I simply observe it.” He smiled knowingly.

scorecard“A two-to-six putout, as it were.” I replied, thinking myself clever.

“Leave the philosophizing to me, kid.”

“Sure thing. Where do we start…”

“And don’t call me a ‘baseball card.’ I don’t do jokes or puns.” His tone had an impish quality.

“Yes sir, Mr. Plato.”

“Call me ‘Home’.”

Moving quickly on, I asked Mr. Plato when he first knew he had a gift for offering perceptions. He leaned back in his chair, and in one smooth motion he reflexively pried open a fresh peanut shell with his thumb and rolled the two peanuts into the palm of his hand before popping them in his mouth, all the while never breaking our eye contact.

“Back in the day – I was in high school -we were being coached on how to steal a base. I made a joke; something about ‘my mom told me I shouldn’t steal stuff’ and my teammates laughed, but the coach wasn’t amused. It kind of just took off from there. I just modified mama’s advice a little bit to fit the situation.”

baseball“Mama always told me, never lie and never steal…unless you can put yourself safely into scoring position with less than two outs and one of your big hitters coming up.

“Do you have kids?” I asked, figuring that much of Home’s advice needed a ready target, like a catcher framing the plate.

“I have nine.”

“What kind of advice do you give them?”

“Only the best kind.” he replied with a grin and a wink.

baseball2“Ask any infielder; bad hops are a part of the game of life. Even the easiest looking play can be set awry by a stray clump of dirt. What counts is how you handle the bad hop. If you don’t catch it, stay calm, knock it down, pick it up. Stick with it; you can still make the play.”

“Bad hops are indeed a part of life.” I agreed.

Plato nodded. “I always try to remind my kids that sometimes, even the best of situations can provide a challenge.”

I nodded, writing it all diligently down in my notebook.

“Everyone who has ever played the game has done it – lost a ball in the sun. Life is like that; even the best and brightest of days can sometimes blind you to what you need to do.”

“Sound advice.” I was jotting that down furiously. Home was on a roll.

peanutsbaseball-1“Being proactive is good, but you also need to know how to react when things go awry. There are always going to be bad hops and off-target throws coming at you; always expecting to have to react to the unexpected, then reacting expectedly to the unexpected, is what separates the all-stars from the guys who ride the bench.”

“I’ve read that one before. Heck, I’ve tried to live it.”

The Old Philosopher seemed pleased. He nodded knowingly. “That’s good.” He replied confidently,without ego, taking a healthy sip of his beer. I was eager for more.

“What else can you tell me about how to live life?”

“You can argue with the umpire whenever you want, but you’ll rarely prevail – and you might get tossed from the game. Sometimes the victory comes in just letting him know you disagreed with his call in a respectful way. Stay in the game. Keep disagreements civil, and pick your battles wisely. The next time you step up to the plate, forget the last at bat ever happened.”

Louisville Slugger“That’s good stuff, Home.”

“Thank you.” He cracked open two more shells simultaneously, rolling the four peanuts around in his hand, ala Captain Queeg – without the angst.

“When the game is on the line, you can be caught looking. Don’t rely on the umpire to decide the outcome, never take a called third strike for the last out of the game. Go down swinging.”

“Another classic, Home.” I was soaking in not just the wisdom but the masterful peanut shelling. “In all my years of ballpark peanut eating, I’ve never mastered the one-handed shelling like you have.” I ventured.

Home looked down at his hand, cocked an eyebrow as he threw the peanuts into his mouth. “It’s all in the grip” he said matter-of-factly. Just like throwing the perfect curve ball.”

Made perfect sense. I had never mastered the curve, either.

Home checked his watch; It was getting late. “Before we go, can I ask you about self-confidence?”

“Self-confidence.” He took a breath, repeated the phrase slowly as a smile creased his face.

baseball3“There are two outs, and you have two strikes against you – what do you do? You step back, make eye contact with the pitcher, smile at him. Then give him a wink, a quick nod, smile again, step back in. Nothing so unnerves an opponent as your self-confidence. You’ve got him right where you want him.”

Home paid the tab and we got up from our table, walking into the crisp, spring air. I could swear that in the distance, I was hearing a faint roaring of a crowd.

“Thanks for your time, Mr. Plato.”

“Home.” He reminded me gently. “You’re very welcome.” The old philosopher smiled, adjusting the brim of his vintage Dodgers cap.

“Any last thoughts?” I asked knowingly.

“You know why is baseball played on a diamond, son? Like the stone, a baseball diamond needs diamondto be cut just so to shine just so perfectly so. In both cases, it’s a sparkling thing of beauty when done just right, no matter what the setting is.”

I finished writing, adding the last period with a penciled stab, I closed my notebook.

I nodded, we shook hands. I watched him walk away into the darkness, and I swear I could hear, from somewhere, the gentle lilt of a ballpark organ, a gruff voice hollering ‘Play ball!’ the cheers fading into the night.

March Maddening.

“Maddening, the game is” as Yoda might say – more calmly than I, I might add. I am not all that much of a basketball fan anymore, in large part because the game has become way too aggravating for me to watch.

deflatedBB2I saw part of the Wichita State-Kentucky game and had to just walk away in frustration; the calls and non-calls by the officials left me wondering what I was watching, exactly. Was I watching a game, or a team scrimmage with stoppages for coaching instruction? Between whistles and time outs, there was no flow to the game, no smoothness. What they called as ‘fouls’ befuddled me; what they didn’t call was just aggravating. My biggest gripe with contemporary basketball is traveling.

Apparently, there isn’t any such thing anymore.

I don’t walk my dogs as far as modern-day players’ ramble with the ball but without it touching the touching hardwood. Forwards drive to the basket lugging the rock like a drunken fullback, weaving through alleged defenses and I almost expect the play to end in an announcer’s call of “First down!”

I try, but the college game is almost as unwatchable as the pro version.

Seriously, when a guy goes charging into the lane I half-expect him to hand off the ball to a teammate like a baton so that guy can run the next leg of the relay.

I saw at least two replays in the brief segment of the Wichita State-Kentucky game where I counted five steps that a guy took with the ball and in neither case was traveling called. Five. Full. Steps. Two more steps of that length, and the guys would have been in line to buy a Coke on the concourse level.

Then there was the Michigan-Tennessee game I saw the ending of the other night. There was a Tennessee player who had the ball bunnyhop1and hopped – HOPPED, two feet together, bunny- hop style – through the lane towards the hoop.

Kangaroosketball?

Guys run, jump, throw erstwhile passes, drive to the hoop from midcourt and the ball rarely touches the hardwood. I’ve seen more actual dribbling from bar drunks at closing time.

Then there are the inexplicable fouls: ‘reaching in’ and ‘over the top’ – we used to call that aggressive defense. Oh, and the bumping! I saw a Tennessee player guarding a Michigan player and they whistled him for a defensive foul. The announcers noted that he ‘leaned in with his hip.’

Ummm…yeah? We used to call that ‘defense.’ No harm, no foul.

They call charging fouls when all the offensive guy really needs is to have his visa stamped to verify all the traveling he has done.

Add that to the excessive timeouts and play stoppage, the three-point shot, zone defenses, goal tending, the ‘possession arrow’ (oh

man, how I hate the ‘possession arrow’) and ticky-tack fouls and basketball just doesn’t do it for me anymore. Timeouts happening after fifteen seconds of elapsed, actual playing time and it takes half an hour to play the last two-minutes of a close basketball game.

Zzzzzzzzz….

Snoopy and Linus watch basketball
Snoopy and Linus watch basketball

Timeouts = Strategy Sessions? Lack of acumen of the game, I think. If you can’t think two-or-three-plays ahead…

I realize that this is heresy for many this time of year, but I really don’t care squat about March Madness, as for me all it does is get in the way of sports page coverage of Opening Day

Ahhh, baseball.

Not that America’s pastime doesn’t have its issues – I could do without the DH, the ‘in-the-vicinity-of-second-base’ call and baseball and glove closeupinterleague play to name three. But baseball is like love; you put up with the quirks of the other person, live with the ups and downs of daily life, and the love continues to grow. Baseball is unbridled passion, basketball is a relationship ‘Hey, how ya doin?’ followed by a blank stare and silence.

But I digress.

Per my basketball irritations, I’m not a total slave to tradition – I am not advocating peach baskets, and I could live without the three-point shot. Zone defense saps the game of its flow and I don’t find the dunk nearly as interesting or entertaining as most. The call of ‘goaltending’ mystifies me as does the fact the bulk of the payers at every level only make sixty-percent of their free throws baseballand the post time-out mid-court throw-in instead of the baseline….

Bust all the brackets you want. Be a part of the madness. I hope you win your office pool. The greatest redeeming quality of college basketball?  Pro ball is worse.

Me? I’m hell bent for the sound of horsehide hitting leather, and the first “Steee-rike!’ call of the new year. Call me mad, if you will, but I’ll be glad when the Final Four finally exit the stage.

 

Boring is in the Eye of the Beholder, or: ‘Forgive him, for he knows not what he says’.

Favorite shirt. Good night to wear it.

During his sermon the other night at church, our pastor, Eric, made quite an observation. He said “Baseball is boring” and he said it with me sitting in the audience. It was good I was on hand to help set him on the straight-and-narrow path of what isn’t boring (baseball) fortunately, I was on hand and (I don’t believe in ‘coincidence’) I was wearing my favorite baseball-print shirt, so I had the street-cred when setting him and a few others straight.

“Baseball is boring” he said. This from a man who sometimes plans ahead to watch…basketball.

Basketball. Is. Boring. Basketball is played on uniform wooden courts; painted rectangles augmented with a couple of painted arcs and two free-throw lines. Basketball consists of a bunch of people in shorts and ugly tank-tops jogging up-and-down the length and confines of aforementioned rectangular wood where they do the same thing over and over and over. They go down the floor, throw a large, leather ball into an orange steel hoop, retrieve said ball, go back the other direction, throw the ball into the orange steel hoop at the other end, retrieve said ball, go back down to where they just were, throw the ball back into the orange steel hoop… etcetera, etcetera, etcetera ad nauseum.

Unless of course their attempt to get the bloated leather ball into the orange steel hoop fails, in which case the other team grabs the ball and heads back to the other end of the court, to try to throw the ball back into their-end orange steel hoop, where the other team again retrieves the ball, then goes back down to where they just were, throws the ball back into the orange steel hoop again….

Curly was never boring.

Or not.

The only real variable here is getting the ball into the hoop or missing the hoop – in which case the trip back down the court to where they just were is expedited because a rebound of a missed shot at an orange steel hoop is quicker than having to start all over again every time someone makes a shot into the orange steel hoop requiring everyone to stop and retrieve the ball and then begin another trip back down (up? across?) the shiny rectangular floor.One key caveat here: all ‘basketball is boring’ talk needs to include ‘except for the Harlem Globetrotters.’

Baseball is not played on a court. And aside from the infield diamond portion, a baseball field is not symmetrical and is not artificially confined to painted parameters; baseball action can (literally and figuratively) cross the line at any time, hence part of its unboringness.

Tennis is yet another, similar, boring sporting example of Freudian repression.

On yet another sort of rectangular, painted line court (this one usually green, but sometimes made of red clay – pottery class, anyone?) an individual or a ‘team’ of just two uses a round racquet with a handle to strike a small, fuzzy ball over a net, where the individual or team on the other end of the court/other side of the net uses his/her/their racquet(s) to hit the ball back over the net, where the other individual/team uses its/their racquet(s) to hit the little fuzzy ball back over the net, where the other individual/team uses its/their racquet(s) to hit said fuzzy ball back over the net to the other individual/team….unless the fuzzy little ball hits outside of the painted limits of the playing surface or hits the net it is supposed to go over.

In basketball, ‘nothing but net’ is a good thing; in tennis, ‘nothing but net’ is a bad thing. Nets come in handy in a fishing boat (not boring). Baseball has no net, unless you count the screen behind home plate that keeps spectators safe from foul balls.

At least they don't keep their blinkers on.

Even more boring than basketball or tennis is NASCAR racing. People race cars around a usually/mostly symmetrical track where, at 200 miles per hour, they drive straight for a few seconds, then start a wide, gradual left turn that culminates in going straight again for just a few seconds before they start another wide, gradual left turn that culminates in going straight again for just another few seconds before they start another wide, gradual left hand turn…

And they sometimes do this 200 times or more in a single race!

Baseball players are also noted for making mostly left hand turns, but there is a fair amount of variety in how they do it and when – plus a lot of suspense as to when they do it and strategy to how they do it – unless somebody has just hit a home run, in which case they get to circle bases laid out in a diamond formation to the cheers of the crowd.

NASCAR is high blood pressure-inducing road rage; baseball is a leisurely drive through a friendly town where people stop and wave to you when you are at a stop sign (base).

Baseball is boring? Basketball, tennis and NASCAR have all the spontaneity and unpredictability of properly operating windshield wipers.

Unless, of course, you are an inherently violent person hoping for a ‘worst case’ scenario and bodily injury. But aside from a Three Stooges short, when was the last time you saw someone actually flip over the net during a tennis match?

After the service I was explaining to Pastor Eric and a small crowd of fellow congregants the error of his ‘baseball is boring’ ways. (For the record, we all agreed to keep football out of the equation, as we all agreed football is good. Hockey wasn’t brought up, and as I currently live in New Orleans; ‘puckishness’ only comes up during Mardi Gras. Hockey is good, too.)

In Eric’s defense and still grasping to the suspect agreement of ‘baseball is boring’, our youth pastor, Erik-with-a-K, proffered up this desperate pleading for the ‘baseball is boring, basketball isn’t’ argument: “But…basketball has the slam-dunk!”

Visual object lessons are always valuable tools – especially in church.

I grabbed a nearby trash can and an empty cookie package and coffee cup from the coffee area, walked back to the assembled throng, and placed the trash can on the floor in front of me, then with both hands, slam-dunked the cookie package and cup  into the garbage.

“Yeah” I noted dryly, “That’s exciting.” as the crowd laughed, some nodding in agreement, and the pendulum lid of the garbage can slowly swung to a stop

X
Definitely NOT boring

In a vain, last-ditch effort to salvage his original argument, Pastor Eric (with a ‘c’) added a plaintive, “Baseball on T.V.is boring! It’s like watching bowling on t.v.!”

Sometimes desperation makes people say strange things.

Somebody in the crowd offered up that ‘In baseball, all you need to do is wait for the ball to be hit and then go to where it is and catch it’ – which couldn’t be further from the truth. As I explained to Eric-with-a-C and Erik-with-a-K, et al, baseball is a thinking person’s game; you always have to be looking ahead a few steps, taking into account all of the variables that could occur with every single pitch.

Anticipating where the ball may or may not be hit on any given pitch is a graceful and delicate art form based on the varietal factors -not the least of which of who is doing the pitching and who is doing the hitting. You also need (on every single pitch) be cognizant of what sort of pitch may be thrown, what kind of hitter is at the plate, what sort of pitch the catcher calls for, what sort of pitch the hitter might be looking for, Don’t forget to take into account how many balls and strikes the hitters has as the pitch is made; is he two strikes in the hole or is the pitcher about to walk him with a fourth ball, or is it the first pitch of the at bat? Who else is on base? How many outs are there? All of these factors and more need to be taken into account, and they all change from pitch-to-pitch, thus negating any of the ‘you just react when the ball is hit’ malarkey.

"Oops. We left a basketball game on in the patient's room."

And that all happens before the pitch is even thrown or hit. The options increase exponentially from there.  Every pitch in baseball is an ‘if this/then that’ flow chart; basketball, tennis and NASCAR are flat-lines on an EKG monitor. I hope that helps set the record straight.  Good thing I was on hand to preach the baseball gospel.

Now as long as in future homilies Eric doesn’t come up with something crazy like ‘blog reading is boring’.

Then we’d have to have an even more serious post-sermon discussion.

Eternal spring

“You see, you spend a good piece of your life gripping a baseball, and in the end it turns out that it was the other way around all the time.” – Former major leaguer & Author Jim Bouton

Life is a scorecard; an encrypted story in exotic-to-the-unwashed hieroglyphs, easily and quickly translated by those versed in the language. We can excitedly tell the detailed story.

I’ve been told – more often than I can count – to take a walk.

I have sacrificed.

Took lots of pitches and touched all the bases. Made it to a few when I probably shouldn’t have, gotten thrown out when I tried to take an extra one…often experienced the thrill of sliding in safe at home.

I have played the field and struck out in love. My ears have echoed with the cheers of the crowd and have felt the sting of their boos.I have made may share of errors.

There are times when I have been left stranded, others when I have been benched. I have been shelled, and pulled for a reliever who could close out what I started.

I have made more than a few long, slow walks back to the dugout.

Ah, but the home runs have been plentiful.

I loved the game and life – and it returned the favor far more often than it could let me down. Oh yeah, a few pennant races broke my heart – but isn’t that life in a nut shell? I’ve had good winning streaks and a few tough loses.

There have been brush-backs, bean balls and I’ve thrown and been thrown more than a few curves in my day.

Hurled a few biting changeups of my own, too. Others will tell you there are times when I’ve been a real screwball.

Sometimes I’ve had to play hardball. I have usually won.

I have been thrown out, tagged out, shut out.

I have balked.

I have loved the game – my life – it has returned the favor.


Now, the grass is greener than ever, lush and rich; the sky is always a vivid blue. In my mind I can always I feel the breeze on my face, breathe in the aroma of oiled leather, hear the distant crack of solid horsehide colliding with polished ash.

Someday I’ll be rounding third and headed for home, with someone waving me on. I’ll know then as I do now that it’s been a grand and glorious event, an extra-innings affair to remember; a ninth inning grand slam in every sense.

It’s hopefully a long time before I need to come out of the game, many years before I’ll need a curtain call to acknowledge the home crowd, tip my hat and then disappear, headed for the clubhouse to hang up my gear for the last time.

Not now, not today.

It is spring again.

Hope, potential and promise fill the air, a game has yet to be lost.

A long, blissful summer awaits. There will be highlights and losing streaks, rainouts and glorious days you’ll hope will not end. For now, the joy is in simply taking the field again.

As Ernie Banks always says, “It’s a great day to play two!”

First Love

The young ballplayer drags his bat to the plate, leaving a neat,
shallow furrow in the dirt in which the seeds of success are now
sown; there is purpose to his gait, no fear. He is resolute.

He practice swings the bat in a warped, pendulum loop while his
oversized, red plastic helmet acts a boa constrictor trying to
digest his head. Dogged determination shapes the boys eyes

He stands beside home plate, tongue protruding from the lower
left corner of his mouth in intensity; his face drawn in pseudo-
sneer, he spreads his feet, digs toes firmly into the sacred dirt

The boy is ten.

He looks every bit the ballplayer; body language poised – just
shy of cocky; seriousness finger-painted in bold red dirt streaks
across the white script team name adorning his uniform shirt

His bat slowly rises, coming to rest on his shoulder as he fixes
a nearly-hardened gaze on the adversary forty-six feet ahead;
takes a deep breath, wrinkles his nose to move the sweat off

The pitcher looks at him, cocks his arm, throws. Bait not taken;
a ball! The bat in the boy’s hands wobbles alongside his head,
goes still a brief moment as the next pitch approaches before

whipping violently from his shoulder, thrust in a swept-sword
arc at the hurled sphere coming; arm muscles strain, elbows go
straight, torso and hips spin wildly, eyes close as bat meets ball…

Momentum causes the boy to teeter briefly, before an ungainly
burst from the batter’s box sends him lurching toward first as
the ball, like a flat stone on water, skims the infield dirt, kicking

up four quick puffs of diamond dust and the boy’s thought is of
only one thing; the sudden grandeur of a double – a double! – as
he rounds first, and the ball comes to a stop in the outfield grass

The boy playing right field for the opponents charges in, plucking
the ball from the turf where it has come to rest while in the same
odd, Quixotic-windmill motion he catapults it toward second base

Then it all happens so fast.

The boy has ducked his head rounding first, doggedly running
fast as he ever has or ever will, only looking up in time to see the
ball jutting from the webbing of the glove suddenly before him

the sight alerts the boy’s baseball instincts to his only option;
intuitively he launches his feet out from under him, left leg fully
extended, right leg tucked beneath him, curled at the knee

his left buttock slams into the dirt with a cloud of dust, his body
sliding to a stop a full foot in front of second base, he sees the
glove smack his shin, hearing a soft, excited voice; “You’re out!”

Lying there looking up into fading afternoon sun he can make the
silhouette of his vanquisher; arms raised in exultant triumph, ball
in one hand, glove the other, and a look of surprised satisfaction.

From flat on his back he lifts his head to focus, and through the
dissipating cloud of grit the face of his rival comes into soft focus
from beneth her frayed bent cap brim. No gloating countenance,

the gentle face is a wide smile, large eyes – framed by two tightly-
braided, long, dangling, swaying pig-tails; near the end of each
dangle shiny plastic barrettes the exact hue of her cap and jersey

There is an oddly comforting lilt to her voice saying “You’re out!”
He doesn’t hear moans of disappointment from his team’s bench.
Still on his back, chin on chest, he smiles, repeats; “You’re out.”

His head flops back on the dirt. She leans over him, still holding
the ball, hands on her knees, he again repeats, “You’re out.”
The girl nods. “Yep” she repeats with a broad smile, “You’re out.”

From that moment on, though he will often try, he can never quite
accurately articulate or explain to anyone (even himself) his inate
passion for baseball, his true love. His love of the game.

An anecdote for whatever ails ya’

The other night newly-minted sixth grader Sam and I were at a New Orleans Zephyrs game, enjoying an evening of decent AAA baseball. Mr. Baseball (Sam) had asked me to explain a quirky play that we had just seen, and I did my best to do so. Sam continued to watch the continuing action as I spoke, his eyes never leaving the field. I asked him if my explanation made sense.

“Well, in my defense…”

“What do you mean, ‘in my defense’?” I interrupted quizzically.

“That’s what I say to kids at school when the accuse me of things.”

“Annnnnnd…..what, exactly, do they accuse you of?”

Eyes still glued to game action below, he didn’t miss a beat: “Being devilishly handsome without a license.”

His deadpan delivery was punctuated by the thud of pitched ball hitting catcher’s glove.

“Being devilishly handsome without a license?”

“Yep.” Just a hint of a smile appeared at the corner of his mouth.

“Just plead guilty and pay the fine.”

“Okay.”

Play ball.