Today is the day that a friend of mine, a non-baseball person, struggles with the most. Today is the official start of the 2011 baseball season. There are a half dozen games on tap across the land. People will smile a little more today. I can't tell you why for sure. It just is.
In theory, this should be no big deal. After all, the season lasts 162 games. What's one game against that backdrop? But what my friend doesn't realize is that Opening Day is like the bear waking up from his winter snooze to go outside his cave again. Even if we head to the ballpark in a parka, we know that we soon won't need them anymore. We know that everybody from the world champ Phillies to their obscure neighbors the Pirates start even today.
Opening Day is about hope more than anything else.
I only went to one OD at Tiger Stadium. In retrospect, it was a rather tame, unmemorable affair. The Yankees beat Detroit, 3-0. As was his wont, Mickey Lolich pitched the whole game but his teammates offered tepid support. I sat in the upper deck behind home plate and remember it was cold but sunny.
But, as often happens, there were some unusual happenings. Gary Sutherland, a foot soldier who managed to play a dozen years in the bigs despite hitting only .248, had four hits that afternoon. Roy White, who was a helluva good outfielder for years for the Yankees, was the dh for the first time in his career. (I looked it up. White played 1600+ games in his career and only DHed about 100 times.) It was also the last Opening Day for Detroit's peerless Al Kaline, a once great right fielder who was now a fulltime dh.
I don't remember many games I went to at Tiger Stadium when the locals lost but I will always remember that one.
Upon arriving here for college, I went to a couple of Opening Days at Met Stadium. On one of them, Nolan Ryan pitched for the Angels. There was snow stacked up outside the stadium and only 13,909 attended the game. Ryan threw rockets past most of the Twins on a day when it couldn't have been 45 degrees. I remember Glenn Borgmann, of all people, drilled a bases-loaded double off the center field fence. But that was it. Angels won (7-3, as I recall). We wore parkas but still had a blast of a good time. it was just fun to be outside after a long winter.
Opening Day IS a big deal. Indeed, The Voice Of The Turtle can be heard (or at least imagined) again. The sun will stay out a little longer. People will smile a little more than usual. I feel bad for folks who -- even the non-baseball fans -- who don't get this concept. I don't claim to understand all of the reasons why Opening Day is special. I simply know it is.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Small town bb is fun
My friend Tom Elliott, who covers preps for the St. Cloud Times, threw me an accosting look yesterday. "Your sports blog has been headed in different directions lately," he said.
I started to protest that I said in the first effort that a lot of what goes on here would not have a lot to do with sports. But there are times where it is time to return to one's roots.
So, Tom, I hope you read this one. This is one of those times.
About a month ago, I rhapsodized about the pleasures that come with section hockey week. Today is another happy missive. This time, the subject is the MSHSL Class A boys' basketball tournament.
For the first 57 years of its existence, Minnesota had a one-class BB tournament. In 1970, it went to a two-class event. 25 years later, it was expanded to a 16-team event. Two years after that, they went to the current four-class format. While the majority of games are played at Target Center, 10 first round games are played at creaky Williams Arena, the home of the University of Minnesota basketball teams since 1921.
The Class A teams play their quarterfinal games here. The last several years, I have been assigned the p.a. duties for two of those games. It is about as much fun as you can have for four hours on a spring afternoon.
When I walked in, a team called MACRAY, an amalgamation based in Clara City in southwest Minnesota, was in the process of taking apart a local school. A skinny 6-7 senior named Seth Hinrichs, who is headed for Lafayette on a hoop scholarship, was busy making shots from everywhere. (I wonder how Lafayette, which came one game from going to the NCAA tournament this year, found him. The small school is located in Easton, PA - not exactly on any beaten path from Minnesota.)
As this happened, the crowd of 3,000 or so seemed to be coming out of their socks with joy. MACCRAY eventually won and will be staying in town for the weekend.
Now it was my turn to go to work. In the first game, Chisholm, a small town in northern Minnesota, took on Fosston. The Chisholm coach is a fellow named Bob McDonald, who has only been on the job 56 years. Chatting with him before the game, one might have thought he was in his first year. "You never know how kids are going to react, do you?", he said. "We played well in the sections. I don;t have a feel for whether we will do so today."
McDonald's kids all look the same -- young, lean with short hair. If you didn't know better, you might have thought you were watching a scene from the movie "Hoosiers." They call officials "sir" and, when asked, go back to their benches to wait to report in as a sub. But these kids are no rubes. Adam Vake, a 6-3 forward with a very nice touch and a huge hunk of a center named Sioka Latu were simply too much for Fosston to handle. The Bluestreaks played some nasty defense and won solidly, 51-39.
It was a fun game but it paled compared to the second game which pitted Springfield against Upsala. Springfield, located in the southwest corner of the state, boasts a population of 2,215. That makes it a booming metropolis compared to Upsala, which listed a total of 424 residents in the 2000 census.
"But it has a barbershop, a post office, a bar, a gas station and a grocery store. They also have a new gym," Elliot informed me. (The hamlet is in the SC Times coverage area.)
Both schools had marching bands that would be right at home in the Rose Bowl Parade. Just about Class A school has one like that. At Williams, we sit below the crowd. So, the bands sounds as if they are coming out of the skies. Trying to talk over them is trying to talk over the women of "The View." After a while, you simply give up trying and learn to wait them out.
There appeared to be nobody left in either town by gametime. The Springfield section behind me made a constant racket. I was distracted early by a fellow who seemed to believe the officials (none of whom came from anywhere near either city) were engaged in some sort of criminal conspiracy against his Tigers. At one point, he hollered, "You guys owe us eight calls." This would establish a new record for even upness.
As it develops, the enthusiasm occasionally went overboard. The first Upsala free throw of the afternoon was greeted with a shrieking airhorn, a definite no-no at prep games. The conspirator, however, must have been given a hint. He did it once but never repeated it. At halftime, a security guard told me he knew where the general direction where the perpetrator was hiding. Apparently one nasty look is enough at these games.
These may be small schools but everybody, it seems, has some big boys on it. Springfield's big fella is Tyler Marx, who is 6-8 and is built like a mountain. At one point, he simply glared at an Upsala shooter, who decided it was time for a pass instead of a shot.
The Cardinals may come from a small town but they made some very big plays to keep the game close for a long time. A freshman named Christian Pekarek caught my eye early. He dove for a loose ball and ended up off the raised court out of view from all of us. He emerged seconds later smiling. Later in the first half, he dove for a ball and crashed directly into the on-court possession clock, making a dent in it that looked like it had been hit by a baseball bat. He landed on top of me and Ron Cadwell, who was helping handle the official scoring. He also flattened a water bottle that drenched the official scorebook. Fortunately for your Mr. Pekarek, I was able to brace his fall and keep him from bouncing off a railing behind me. Ron and Kingsley Wilson, the official scorer, were not so lucky. Ron spent the rest of the game with ice on his hand and Kingsley needed a bandage to close his wound.
The small school kids play for keeps here. (Don't take my word for it. Go to the Friday St. Cloud Times website and check out the pictures from the game. Great stuff.)
Pekarek was not done. Later, he ended up in a pile behind the Springfield bench and nearly landed in the band section at the end of the court. While on the court, he made some great passes and a a few good steals. "If he lives to be a senior, he'll be a helluva player," one guy noted. My own view was there must be no walls in the Upsala gym.
The action wasn't always highly skilled. But it was always highly intense. Bodies flew everywhere all game. "We had more guys fly off the court in this game than we have seen all season in college games," said one Williams worker. At one point, I spotted Upsala coach Vern Capelle, who has only been on the job for 25 years, jumping high in the air to get his team's attention to call a timeout. (In case you're wondering, Class A coaches do not have show contracts. I remember a few years ago one head coach stopping in the middle of his timeout discussion to tie his shoe. He got up and said "Now where was I? Oh, yes, now you have to cover ...")
There was one point in the second half where, with the game still in doubt, the entire Springfield bench closed their eyes as Upsala took a free throw attempt. They only opened them when the crowd roared behind them the shot was missed.
Later, I recorded another bb first. Cody Milbrath, perhaps Springfield's best player, had to depart the game at one point because he somehow managed to get blood on his back. It required him to change jerseys with Shawn Anderson, a sophomore who apparently wasn't going to see the light of day. I've seen a lot of blood on players but never a cut on the back. Have no idea how that could have happened.
On the court, Upsala hung in there as long as it could. But Springfield was a little bigger and, frankly, a little better. A 5-9 guard named Jesse Kieper nicely complimented Milbrath, who is 6-5 and the aforementioned Marz. Eventually, this wore the Cardinals down for a 10-point win. But such is the small town pride that, when, as part of the post-game ritual, it was announced that Upsala ended the year with a 25-4 mark, their crowd stood up and cheered one last time.
Everything moves to Target Center from here. That's somewhat understandable. After all, playing in a NBA arena has to be a juicing experience.
But there is something magic about the Class A games at Williams. Granted, the winners would probably get waxed if they played Hopkins, the big school power who is favored to win another AAAA crown Saturday night. There were some awkward moments near the rim and a few three-point attempts that were better left untried.
But that's off the point. High school athletics is, in part, about the chase. In this case, you have small towns who often face an opponent they know nothing about. (In many cases, it is a town they never heard of.) So they simply go about and run the plays they have done all year The fans yell their lungs off (even if they do make idiots of themselves on occasion.)
It is not always artistic basketball. But it is fun to watch and very intensely played.
That's what it is supposed to be about, right?
I started to protest that I said in the first effort that a lot of what goes on here would not have a lot to do with sports. But there are times where it is time to return to one's roots.
So, Tom, I hope you read this one. This is one of those times.
About a month ago, I rhapsodized about the pleasures that come with section hockey week. Today is another happy missive. This time, the subject is the MSHSL Class A boys' basketball tournament.
For the first 57 years of its existence, Minnesota had a one-class BB tournament. In 1970, it went to a two-class event. 25 years later, it was expanded to a 16-team event. Two years after that, they went to the current four-class format. While the majority of games are played at Target Center, 10 first round games are played at creaky Williams Arena, the home of the University of Minnesota basketball teams since 1921.
The Class A teams play their quarterfinal games here. The last several years, I have been assigned the p.a. duties for two of those games. It is about as much fun as you can have for four hours on a spring afternoon.
When I walked in, a team called MACRAY, an amalgamation based in Clara City in southwest Minnesota, was in the process of taking apart a local school. A skinny 6-7 senior named Seth Hinrichs, who is headed for Lafayette on a hoop scholarship, was busy making shots from everywhere. (I wonder how Lafayette, which came one game from going to the NCAA tournament this year, found him. The small school is located in Easton, PA - not exactly on any beaten path from Minnesota.)
As this happened, the crowd of 3,000 or so seemed to be coming out of their socks with joy. MACCRAY eventually won and will be staying in town for the weekend.
Now it was my turn to go to work. In the first game, Chisholm, a small town in northern Minnesota, took on Fosston. The Chisholm coach is a fellow named Bob McDonald, who has only been on the job 56 years. Chatting with him before the game, one might have thought he was in his first year. "You never know how kids are going to react, do you?", he said. "We played well in the sections. I don;t have a feel for whether we will do so today."
McDonald's kids all look the same -- young, lean with short hair. If you didn't know better, you might have thought you were watching a scene from the movie "Hoosiers." They call officials "sir" and, when asked, go back to their benches to wait to report in as a sub. But these kids are no rubes. Adam Vake, a 6-3 forward with a very nice touch and a huge hunk of a center named Sioka Latu were simply too much for Fosston to handle. The Bluestreaks played some nasty defense and won solidly, 51-39.
It was a fun game but it paled compared to the second game which pitted Springfield against Upsala. Springfield, located in the southwest corner of the state, boasts a population of 2,215. That makes it a booming metropolis compared to Upsala, which listed a total of 424 residents in the 2000 census.
"But it has a barbershop, a post office, a bar, a gas station and a grocery store. They also have a new gym," Elliot informed me. (The hamlet is in the SC Times coverage area.)
Both schools had marching bands that would be right at home in the Rose Bowl Parade. Just about Class A school has one like that. At Williams, we sit below the crowd. So, the bands sounds as if they are coming out of the skies. Trying to talk over them is trying to talk over the women of "The View." After a while, you simply give up trying and learn to wait them out.
There appeared to be nobody left in either town by gametime. The Springfield section behind me made a constant racket. I was distracted early by a fellow who seemed to believe the officials (none of whom came from anywhere near either city) were engaged in some sort of criminal conspiracy against his Tigers. At one point, he hollered, "You guys owe us eight calls." This would establish a new record for even upness.
As it develops, the enthusiasm occasionally went overboard. The first Upsala free throw of the afternoon was greeted with a shrieking airhorn, a definite no-no at prep games. The conspirator, however, must have been given a hint. He did it once but never repeated it. At halftime, a security guard told me he knew where the general direction where the perpetrator was hiding. Apparently one nasty look is enough at these games.
These may be small schools but everybody, it seems, has some big boys on it. Springfield's big fella is Tyler Marx, who is 6-8 and is built like a mountain. At one point, he simply glared at an Upsala shooter, who decided it was time for a pass instead of a shot.
The Cardinals may come from a small town but they made some very big plays to keep the game close for a long time. A freshman named Christian Pekarek caught my eye early. He dove for a loose ball and ended up off the raised court out of view from all of us. He emerged seconds later smiling. Later in the first half, he dove for a ball and crashed directly into the on-court possession clock, making a dent in it that looked like it had been hit by a baseball bat. He landed on top of me and Ron Cadwell, who was helping handle the official scoring. He also flattened a water bottle that drenched the official scorebook. Fortunately for your Mr. Pekarek, I was able to brace his fall and keep him from bouncing off a railing behind me. Ron and Kingsley Wilson, the official scorer, were not so lucky. Ron spent the rest of the game with ice on his hand and Kingsley needed a bandage to close his wound.
The small school kids play for keeps here. (Don't take my word for it. Go to the Friday St. Cloud Times website and check out the pictures from the game. Great stuff.)
Pekarek was not done. Later, he ended up in a pile behind the Springfield bench and nearly landed in the band section at the end of the court. While on the court, he made some great passes and a a few good steals. "If he lives to be a senior, he'll be a helluva player," one guy noted. My own view was there must be no walls in the Upsala gym.
The action wasn't always highly skilled. But it was always highly intense. Bodies flew everywhere all game. "We had more guys fly off the court in this game than we have seen all season in college games," said one Williams worker. At one point, I spotted Upsala coach Vern Capelle, who has only been on the job for 25 years, jumping high in the air to get his team's attention to call a timeout. (In case you're wondering, Class A coaches do not have show contracts. I remember a few years ago one head coach stopping in the middle of his timeout discussion to tie his shoe. He got up and said "Now where was I? Oh, yes, now you have to cover ...")
There was one point in the second half where, with the game still in doubt, the entire Springfield bench closed their eyes as Upsala took a free throw attempt. They only opened them when the crowd roared behind them the shot was missed.
Later, I recorded another bb first. Cody Milbrath, perhaps Springfield's best player, had to depart the game at one point because he somehow managed to get blood on his back. It required him to change jerseys with Shawn Anderson, a sophomore who apparently wasn't going to see the light of day. I've seen a lot of blood on players but never a cut on the back. Have no idea how that could have happened.
On the court, Upsala hung in there as long as it could. But Springfield was a little bigger and, frankly, a little better. A 5-9 guard named Jesse Kieper nicely complimented Milbrath, who is 6-5 and the aforementioned Marz. Eventually, this wore the Cardinals down for a 10-point win. But such is the small town pride that, when, as part of the post-game ritual, it was announced that Upsala ended the year with a 25-4 mark, their crowd stood up and cheered one last time.
Everything moves to Target Center from here. That's somewhat understandable. After all, playing in a NBA arena has to be a juicing experience.
But there is something magic about the Class A games at Williams. Granted, the winners would probably get waxed if they played Hopkins, the big school power who is favored to win another AAAA crown Saturday night. There were some awkward moments near the rim and a few three-point attempts that were better left untried.
But that's off the point. High school athletics is, in part, about the chase. In this case, you have small towns who often face an opponent they know nothing about. (In many cases, it is a town they never heard of.) So they simply go about and run the plays they have done all year The fans yell their lungs off (even if they do make idiots of themselves on occasion.)
It is not always artistic basketball. But it is fun to watch and very intensely played.
That's what it is supposed to be about, right?
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Goodbye, Lefty
This getting older business has its good and bad sides. One of the good is the older you get, the quicker you are to recognize nonsense when you see and hear it. Yes, we still get fooled by people on occasion. But it is not as often as when, say, you are 25 years old.
The bad is you have to say goodbye forever to a lot of people you liked very much ... even if you didn't know them all that well. I noted last week the passing of one of those guys, Glenn Gostick. Today, it saddens me even more to note the passing of Dan Carey.
Not that this was unexpected. No, we knew this day was coming for 13 months ... even since it was discovered (via a CT scan) that Dan had a brain tumor.
But I hoped against hope this new treatment Dan was undergoing would somehow produce a miracle and we could resume our friendly discussions about baseball and life in general.
Like Gos, I didn't know Dan that well. (For example, I never knew his nickname was "Moose" until he went into the hospital.) I would run into him most of the time at St. Thomas athletic events (he was a professor there). We talked often about his days as a Mets minor league farmhand. Since he had been a left-handed hurler himself, Dan was very knowledgable about what made (and did not make) a good pitcher. Occasionally, the conversations drifted into other areas but, for the most part, baseball was our topics.
But there was something else about Dan that I found quite remarkable. He had the amazing ability to disagree with you on a subject without being disagreeable himself. I discovered he was a fellow who despised conflict. He thought it was basically unnecessary. Most disagreements could be reasoned or discussed out. I only saw him upset once. A student who thought he deserved a better grade had come into Dan's office and yelled at him long and hard about it. Dan was genuinely puzzled as to how the student could really think this would get him to reconsider his decision. To Dan, you could have strong opinions -- even sharp disagreements -- without turning into one of the screaming folks you often see on cable television. It didn't make sense to him at all.
There are those who knew Dan Carey much better than I did. I am sure they probably feel a deeper sense of personal loss than I ever could. But I found myself in church Sunday lighting a candle to him and saying a silent prayer. And I will go to the funeral home tonight and pay my respects ... even I don't recognize a single person there (I know he had a couple of siblings. But I have never met them.). Fact is, Dan Carey was one of the nicest, kindest people I have ever met in my 57 years, 10 months and one day on this earth. It is a pleasure to say so publicly.
I find myself hoping that Dan knew I (and many others) felt this way about him and whether that was a comfort to him in his final days. I want to think so.
But it makes a fellow wonder, though. Is there anybody out there who feels that way about me? If so, what did I do to deserve such high praise? If not, is there anything I can do to change people's opinions?
The bad is you have to say goodbye forever to a lot of people you liked very much ... even if you didn't know them all that well. I noted last week the passing of one of those guys, Glenn Gostick. Today, it saddens me even more to note the passing of Dan Carey.
Not that this was unexpected. No, we knew this day was coming for 13 months ... even since it was discovered (via a CT scan) that Dan had a brain tumor.
But I hoped against hope this new treatment Dan was undergoing would somehow produce a miracle and we could resume our friendly discussions about baseball and life in general.
Like Gos, I didn't know Dan that well. (For example, I never knew his nickname was "Moose" until he went into the hospital.) I would run into him most of the time at St. Thomas athletic events (he was a professor there). We talked often about his days as a Mets minor league farmhand. Since he had been a left-handed hurler himself, Dan was very knowledgable about what made (and did not make) a good pitcher. Occasionally, the conversations drifted into other areas but, for the most part, baseball was our topics.
But there was something else about Dan that I found quite remarkable. He had the amazing ability to disagree with you on a subject without being disagreeable himself. I discovered he was a fellow who despised conflict. He thought it was basically unnecessary. Most disagreements could be reasoned or discussed out. I only saw him upset once. A student who thought he deserved a better grade had come into Dan's office and yelled at him long and hard about it. Dan was genuinely puzzled as to how the student could really think this would get him to reconsider his decision. To Dan, you could have strong opinions -- even sharp disagreements -- without turning into one of the screaming folks you often see on cable television. It didn't make sense to him at all.
There are those who knew Dan Carey much better than I did. I am sure they probably feel a deeper sense of personal loss than I ever could. But I found myself in church Sunday lighting a candle to him and saying a silent prayer. And I will go to the funeral home tonight and pay my respects ... even I don't recognize a single person there (I know he had a couple of siblings. But I have never met them.). Fact is, Dan Carey was one of the nicest, kindest people I have ever met in my 57 years, 10 months and one day on this earth. It is a pleasure to say so publicly.
I find myself hoping that Dan knew I (and many others) felt this way about him and whether that was a comfort to him in his final days. I want to think so.
But it makes a fellow wonder, though. Is there anybody out there who feels that way about me? If so, what did I do to deserve such high praise? If not, is there anything I can do to change people's opinions?
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The one ... and only Gos
"K is for Keeler,
As fresh as green paint,
The fastest and mostest
To hit where they ain't."
That is one of the verses of Ogden Nash's 1949 poem: "Line-up for yesterday: An ABC of Baseball Immortals." Glenn Gostick, who was found dead in an apartment in Colorado yesterday, used be recite that stanza ... and the 25 others in Nash's poem by heart.
Gos was 83 and, I suspect, went out with a smile on his face. I hadn't seen him for many years but I am still a bit saddened by his passing. You see, Gos was one of last of a dying breed. He was an American original who did things his way.
He had no phone at his house in Minneapolis. I am not sure he drove a car. Yet he was one of the most informed people I ever knew. He had one of the best baseball memories of anybody I ever knew. I had been told this was the case when I met him. I decided to give him a test.
"Arlo Brunsberg," I offered tentatively.
"One of the very few Minnesotans who made his debut in home state," Gostick replied with annoyance. "Lined out to shortstop off Mudcat Grant. Went 1-for-3 in his career."
I only knew this because Brunsberg's brief career was with the Tigers. Indeed, Brunsberg, who was born in Fertile, MN only appeared in one more big league game, getting a hit off Paul Lindblad in the bottom of the ninth inning in the last game of the 1966 season. Had I asked, I am quite sure Gos would have told me that fact, too.
I didn't know very well. But I was always charmed by him. He umpired baseball well into his 70s, running a brisk game in which he expected players to be respectful and hustle.
For a while. he served as an official scorer for Twins' games. But that didn't last long because Gos expected major leaguers to make major league plays. A half-assed effort on a ground ball earned you an error in Gos' book. The big leaguers didn't cotton to that much and Gos was soon back umpiring and poring over statistics.
Their loss, he figured. He was right on that one, too.
He was adamant in his view that most sacrifice bunts were a waste of an out, offering up a study a Yale professor did in the early 1960s as evidence. He had equally strong views on Hall of Famers. He definitely thought Don Drysdale, for example, was undeserving of the honor and rode in on his charming personality and the fact he followed Sandy Koufax to the mound for several years.
To Gos, it was always about the numbers. They told the stories of most baseball games.
He was a trainer for years, working with Dick Siebert and the U of M baseball team and later, the WHA Fighting Saints' hockey team. he took the job seriously, often leading the charges on runs himself. Gos did nothing at half-speed. He liked it that way and couldn't understand that others didn't. (Or at least he pretended he didn't understand.)
The bottom line was simple: here was a man who, in Sinatra's words, did it his way all the time. How many of us get to say that today?
As fresh as green paint,
The fastest and mostest
To hit where they ain't."
That is one of the verses of Ogden Nash's 1949 poem: "Line-up for yesterday: An ABC of Baseball Immortals." Glenn Gostick, who was found dead in an apartment in Colorado yesterday, used be recite that stanza ... and the 25 others in Nash's poem by heart.
Gos was 83 and, I suspect, went out with a smile on his face. I hadn't seen him for many years but I am still a bit saddened by his passing. You see, Gos was one of last of a dying breed. He was an American original who did things his way.
He had no phone at his house in Minneapolis. I am not sure he drove a car. Yet he was one of the most informed people I ever knew. He had one of the best baseball memories of anybody I ever knew. I had been told this was the case when I met him. I decided to give him a test.
"Arlo Brunsberg," I offered tentatively.
"One of the very few Minnesotans who made his debut in home state," Gostick replied with annoyance. "Lined out to shortstop off Mudcat Grant. Went 1-for-3 in his career."
I only knew this because Brunsberg's brief career was with the Tigers. Indeed, Brunsberg, who was born in Fertile, MN only appeared in one more big league game, getting a hit off Paul Lindblad in the bottom of the ninth inning in the last game of the 1966 season. Had I asked, I am quite sure Gos would have told me that fact, too.
I didn't know very well. But I was always charmed by him. He umpired baseball well into his 70s, running a brisk game in which he expected players to be respectful and hustle.
For a while. he served as an official scorer for Twins' games. But that didn't last long because Gos expected major leaguers to make major league plays. A half-assed effort on a ground ball earned you an error in Gos' book. The big leaguers didn't cotton to that much and Gos was soon back umpiring and poring over statistics.
Their loss, he figured. He was right on that one, too.
He was adamant in his view that most sacrifice bunts were a waste of an out, offering up a study a Yale professor did in the early 1960s as evidence. He had equally strong views on Hall of Famers. He definitely thought Don Drysdale, for example, was undeserving of the honor and rode in on his charming personality and the fact he followed Sandy Koufax to the mound for several years.
To Gos, it was always about the numbers. They told the stories of most baseball games.
He was a trainer for years, working with Dick Siebert and the U of M baseball team and later, the WHA Fighting Saints' hockey team. he took the job seriously, often leading the charges on runs himself. Gos did nothing at half-speed. He liked it that way and couldn't understand that others didn't. (Or at least he pretended he didn't understand.)
The bottom line was simple: here was a man who, in Sinatra's words, did it his way all the time. How many of us get to say that today?
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Welcome back, Conny's!
When I was a youngster, there were several places you could meet your neighbors.
If we were rummaging for, say, a Paul Foytack or Charley Maxwell baseball card or just in need of a Brown Cow on a hot summer afternoon (Kids, ask your parents what Brown Cow is. Yummers), we would go to Schnelbach's Drug Store on about four blocks from home.
If you were hungry, you might head the other way on Grand River Ave to the Daly Drive-In, which advertised its 1/4 pound hamburgers as "The Biggest in Detroit."
If Mom sent you shopping for something that was needed to fix dinner, you might see a neighbor at Bill's Beer and Wine. It was a little convenience store that seemed to have everything. (No, I wasn't sent to buy beer or wine.)
If it was Saturday, I might find somebody I knew at Ray Guetschoff's butcher shop. We all had our weekend tasks. Mine often included treks to Guetschoff's. (Ray often sent me home with a bone for Shep, our collie. I still love the smell of a good butcher shop.)
That was then.
Now there are very few neighborhood places left. Fortunately, in our little part of the world, there is Conny's Creamy Cone. Even though there is still snow on the ground, Conny's opened for business for the year last Monday. My wife and I stopped there late in the afternoon to enjoy the first of many culinary delights. We sat in the sun and slowly enjoyed every good slurp.
Like a good neighborhood saloon, Conny's is a place where the nonsense that passes for bad news in the world is usually ignored and rarely discussed. One stands in line and often finds a friendly face nearby. Then, it is time to catch up on the kids and see who has a new dog. (Conny is a longtime friend who runs her place for about seven months of the year. She hires the local kids to work the counter. I don't know many of their names but I have seen their faces for years.)
There are two things great about her opening this week.
1) It means that spring is really on the way.
2) It means Pete, The Happy Dog can resume one of his favorite pasttimes. The vet said we could bring him down to Conny's once a week for a dish of vanilla ice cream. The Happy Dog is considered a regular customer. He is so much of one that the kids know instantly what to get for him. Watching him work his way through the ice cream is a sight many neighbors like to watch with fascination. (Apparently, dog don't get freezer burn on their brain. Out ice cream in front of The Happy Dog and he rarely stops to take a breath.)
Conny's is Switzerland, a truly neutral country. Our neighborhood has its share of punks. But even punks like ice cream. When they come to Conny's, they are always on their best behavior. It is an unspoken rule that was also true at the neighborhood places we frequented as youths. You don't screw around there or you will be invited not to return. It really is that simple.
So, welcome back, Conny. Your timing couldn't have been better. Frankly, we needed our little spot where we can convene and enjoy ourselves before sighing and getting back to the real world. There just aren't a lot of places like this left.
Pity.
If we were rummaging for, say, a Paul Foytack or Charley Maxwell baseball card or just in need of a Brown Cow on a hot summer afternoon (Kids, ask your parents what Brown Cow is. Yummers), we would go to Schnelbach's Drug Store on about four blocks from home.
If you were hungry, you might head the other way on Grand River Ave to the Daly Drive-In, which advertised its 1/4 pound hamburgers as "The Biggest in Detroit."
If Mom sent you shopping for something that was needed to fix dinner, you might see a neighbor at Bill's Beer and Wine. It was a little convenience store that seemed to have everything. (No, I wasn't sent to buy beer or wine.)
If it was Saturday, I might find somebody I knew at Ray Guetschoff's butcher shop. We all had our weekend tasks. Mine often included treks to Guetschoff's. (Ray often sent me home with a bone for Shep, our collie. I still love the smell of a good butcher shop.)
That was then.
Now there are very few neighborhood places left. Fortunately, in our little part of the world, there is Conny's Creamy Cone. Even though there is still snow on the ground, Conny's opened for business for the year last Monday. My wife and I stopped there late in the afternoon to enjoy the first of many culinary delights. We sat in the sun and slowly enjoyed every good slurp.
Like a good neighborhood saloon, Conny's is a place where the nonsense that passes for bad news in the world is usually ignored and rarely discussed. One stands in line and often finds a friendly face nearby. Then, it is time to catch up on the kids and see who has a new dog. (Conny is a longtime friend who runs her place for about seven months of the year. She hires the local kids to work the counter. I don't know many of their names but I have seen their faces for years.)
There are two things great about her opening this week.
1) It means that spring is really on the way.
2) It means Pete, The Happy Dog can resume one of his favorite pasttimes. The vet said we could bring him down to Conny's once a week for a dish of vanilla ice cream. The Happy Dog is considered a regular customer. He is so much of one that the kids know instantly what to get for him. Watching him work his way through the ice cream is a sight many neighbors like to watch with fascination. (Apparently, dog don't get freezer burn on their brain. Out ice cream in front of The Happy Dog and he rarely stops to take a breath.)
Conny's is Switzerland, a truly neutral country. Our neighborhood has its share of punks. But even punks like ice cream. When they come to Conny's, they are always on their best behavior. It is an unspoken rule that was also true at the neighborhood places we frequented as youths. You don't screw around there or you will be invited not to return. It really is that simple.
So, welcome back, Conny. Your timing couldn't have been better. Frankly, we needed our little spot where we can convene and enjoy ourselves before sighing and getting back to the real world. There just aren't a lot of places like this left.
Pity.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Living up to expectations
Turned out to be a helluva good week of hockey at the Coliseum. The Section semis were solidly played, including one OT game. The three section finals in the last two days were all one-goal affairs. Both games last night, pitting longtime rivals against each other, went overtime with the lower seed getting the winning goal.
Lot of tears (of joy and despair) all around.
In hindsight, however, there was something even more satisfying about the last two nights.
The current political discourse of "you are either with us or against society in general" has spilled into layers of athletics. However, I am pleased to say that this is still not the case in high school athletics.
Oh, there were plenty of hardnose cheering (and some borderline taunts) going back and forth from fans in the stands. But, when the games were over, people seemed to understand they were still watching kids play a game. The fans whose teams lost applauded their guys for a solid effort. The winners were, of course, overjoyed but respectful. But the most heartening sight of them all came from the players themselves.
There is an old hockey tradition that has spread to other sports. At the end of each Stanley Cup series, the teams line up and shake hands. This morphed into prep athletics years ago. The last two nights, however, there was more than handshaking. Each player in the title game -- win or lose -- gets a medal. And each time I called out a name, a player from the other side skated over for another handshake. In many cases, there were hugs and a few words of whispered support as well. In one case, two players from opposing schools paused to pose for a picture together before they left the ice. The player from the losing team managed a smile for the camera and seemed to have no problem putting his arm around the shoulder of a guy from a team that had just ripped his competitive heart out.
It was a gentle reminder of why we play games ... and why we enjoy watching others play them.
Look, I understand professional athletics is different. There, the players are trying to take bread off the other guy's table. So, you don't apologize for occasionally stepping over the line. That is the way it works in the non-athletic world as well.
But high school and college (at least in the D-III world where I work) should be different. It doesn't mean the games aren't taken seriously and are played at a top competitive level. (Indeed, White Bear Lake and Hill-Murray probably tossed more hard checks last night than I have seen all season combined.) But it does mean that those players know (better than some adults, as it turns out) the meaning of the word "perspective".
I imagine the losing teams are still hurting today. I know that next week, at the boys' hockey tournament, I will see many faces who will stare at the ice and wonder what might have been if that shot hadn't bounced off the post or if that damned puck hadn't deflected off the guy's skate and thus prevented a breakaway that could have ended the tie game. Those looks are part of why they play the game.
But I suspect (and, indeed, hope) that, for most of the guys I saw the last two nights, the sting of defeat will go away and what they will remember is the roar of the crowd and the thrill they must have felt when they the hit the ice to try to make the play that would send their team to the state tournament. I hope they will remember looking up and seeing the old Coliseum full.
The fact is that damn near every guy I see in the games I work will never get paid to play a sport. In many ways, however, they are more professional in their behavior than the guys who do.
Lot of tears (of joy and despair) all around.
In hindsight, however, there was something even more satisfying about the last two nights.
The current political discourse of "you are either with us or against society in general" has spilled into layers of athletics. However, I am pleased to say that this is still not the case in high school athletics.
Oh, there were plenty of hardnose cheering (and some borderline taunts) going back and forth from fans in the stands. But, when the games were over, people seemed to understand they were still watching kids play a game. The fans whose teams lost applauded their guys for a solid effort. The winners were, of course, overjoyed but respectful. But the most heartening sight of them all came from the players themselves.
There is an old hockey tradition that has spread to other sports. At the end of each Stanley Cup series, the teams line up and shake hands. This morphed into prep athletics years ago. The last two nights, however, there was more than handshaking. Each player in the title game -- win or lose -- gets a medal. And each time I called out a name, a player from the other side skated over for another handshake. In many cases, there were hugs and a few words of whispered support as well. In one case, two players from opposing schools paused to pose for a picture together before they left the ice. The player from the losing team managed a smile for the camera and seemed to have no problem putting his arm around the shoulder of a guy from a team that had just ripped his competitive heart out.
It was a gentle reminder of why we play games ... and why we enjoy watching others play them.
Look, I understand professional athletics is different. There, the players are trying to take bread off the other guy's table. So, you don't apologize for occasionally stepping over the line. That is the way it works in the non-athletic world as well.
But high school and college (at least in the D-III world where I work) should be different. It doesn't mean the games aren't taken seriously and are played at a top competitive level. (Indeed, White Bear Lake and Hill-Murray probably tossed more hard checks last night than I have seen all season combined.) But it does mean that those players know (better than some adults, as it turns out) the meaning of the word "perspective".
I imagine the losing teams are still hurting today. I know that next week, at the boys' hockey tournament, I will see many faces who will stare at the ice and wonder what might have been if that shot hadn't bounced off the post or if that damned puck hadn't deflected off the guy's skate and thus prevented a breakaway that could have ended the tie game. Those looks are part of why they play the game.
But I suspect (and, indeed, hope) that, for most of the guys I saw the last two nights, the sting of defeat will go away and what they will remember is the roar of the crowd and the thrill they must have felt when they the hit the ice to try to make the play that would send their team to the state tournament. I hope they will remember looking up and seeing the old Coliseum full.
The fact is that damn near every guy I see in the games I work will never get paid to play a sport. In many ways, however, they are more professional in their behavior than the guys who do.
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
The best ... and hardest ... time of the year
This is the busy season for me. Last week, I was fortunate enough to be one of the public address announcers for the state girls' high school hockey tournament during the day and some terrific college playoff games at night. This week, the focus turns to boys' sectional play at Warner Coliseum.
In one sense, it is the best week of the year. The winner of the sections head to the state boys' tournament next week. They will play in front of huge crowds (Xcel will be packed to capacity for the AA games. The Class A games are now filling up the lower bowl of the building -- 7-9,000 seats.) Even after doing this 25 years, the vigor and excitement of a section final still amazes me. I will work a section final doubleheader Friday night at Warner Coliseum and the place will absolutely rock.
It's a wonderful sight.
The flip side, however, is the loss in a section final is the hardest thing to watch.
If you get to the state tournament and lose, it stings. But you got there. You had your TV moment. You got your name announced over the p.a. system. You heard the roar of the crowd. You are often playing a school you know little about. You know only one team gets to win the whole thing. Oh, it hurts but you an usually deal with it.
But the section tournament is different. Often, you are playing a team that is a season-long rival. Most of the time, you played during the regular season. Or, at the very least, you know who your opponent is. When you lose in the section final, you often feel as if all that effort you put in went for naught. It is the hardest loss to handle.
I feel badly for the coaches and the players on the losing side. I have been doing this long enough now that I know several of these coaches well. I went to college with some of them. I like a lot of them personally. I can see the hurt in their eyes when I hand them the scoresheet. I also know they have the tough job of walking in and comforting their kids. I usually make a quick exit and let them do what they need to.
The flip side, however, is the unbridled joy you see in the winners. It never gets old for coaches. Each team has a different personality to it. Even for schools like Hill-Murray, each title represents a conquest of a different type of challenge. And when you see a team that has come close in the past finally get to the top of the mountain, it is a beautiful sight, indeed.
I have been working section games for more than two decades now. It never gets old. When this week approaches, I always recall a happenstance that occurred a few years ago. It reminds me why this is the best week of the year.
I was sitting at a bar at the Golden Nugget in Las Vegas about 2 a.m. A guy comes up to me and says, "You are the p.a. announcer at the Coliseum, right?" I was a bit taken aback but said it was so.
"You did my game when I played for Harding," he said.
I looked up surprised. "Harding? They didn't come in very often."
He quickly came back to me, saying, "We played in the section final against South St. Paul."
"I remember that. You lost 2-1, right? The only thing I can remember about the game is a Harding guy got a breakaway late and the goalie stopped him cold."
The fellow brightened up more. "That was me who had the breakaway," he said.
I felt about six inches tall but tried to recover. "Goalie made a helluva save," I lamely offered in rebuttal.
The guy kept smiling, though. "I guess so but it doesn't matter much. It was just a blast being there. I'll never forget it. Thanks for being part of it." And then he went on his way, happy at the memory.
Since then, I have probably had another half dozen similar meetings. In talking to these folks, I have tried not to stick my foot down my throat again. But I have discovered that even if I do, the person who initiated the conversation doesn't seem to care. No, all he remembers is playing in a section game in front of a big crowd. If his team lost, he's over it. It is now a great memory for him. (The fact that he remembers a voice always amazes me. But isn't that the way it is with flashbacks? You recall the damnedest things sometimes.)
This is Christmas in March for a lot of people this week. The list includes those of us who are lucky enough to work the games, too.
In one sense, it is the best week of the year. The winner of the sections head to the state boys' tournament next week. They will play in front of huge crowds (Xcel will be packed to capacity for the AA games. The Class A games are now filling up the lower bowl of the building -- 7-9,000 seats.) Even after doing this 25 years, the vigor and excitement of a section final still amazes me. I will work a section final doubleheader Friday night at Warner Coliseum and the place will absolutely rock.
It's a wonderful sight.
The flip side, however, is the loss in a section final is the hardest thing to watch.
If you get to the state tournament and lose, it stings. But you got there. You had your TV moment. You got your name announced over the p.a. system. You heard the roar of the crowd. You are often playing a school you know little about. You know only one team gets to win the whole thing. Oh, it hurts but you an usually deal with it.
But the section tournament is different. Often, you are playing a team that is a season-long rival. Most of the time, you played during the regular season. Or, at the very least, you know who your opponent is. When you lose in the section final, you often feel as if all that effort you put in went for naught. It is the hardest loss to handle.
I feel badly for the coaches and the players on the losing side. I have been doing this long enough now that I know several of these coaches well. I went to college with some of them. I like a lot of them personally. I can see the hurt in their eyes when I hand them the scoresheet. I also know they have the tough job of walking in and comforting their kids. I usually make a quick exit and let them do what they need to.
The flip side, however, is the unbridled joy you see in the winners. It never gets old for coaches. Each team has a different personality to it. Even for schools like Hill-Murray, each title represents a conquest of a different type of challenge. And when you see a team that has come close in the past finally get to the top of the mountain, it is a beautiful sight, indeed.
I have been working section games for more than two decades now. It never gets old. When this week approaches, I always recall a happenstance that occurred a few years ago. It reminds me why this is the best week of the year.
I was sitting at a bar at the Golden Nugget in Las Vegas about 2 a.m. A guy comes up to me and says, "You are the p.a. announcer at the Coliseum, right?" I was a bit taken aback but said it was so.
"You did my game when I played for Harding," he said.
I looked up surprised. "Harding? They didn't come in very often."
He quickly came back to me, saying, "We played in the section final against South St. Paul."
"I remember that. You lost 2-1, right? The only thing I can remember about the game is a Harding guy got a breakaway late and the goalie stopped him cold."
The fellow brightened up more. "That was me who had the breakaway," he said.
I felt about six inches tall but tried to recover. "Goalie made a helluva save," I lamely offered in rebuttal.
The guy kept smiling, though. "I guess so but it doesn't matter much. It was just a blast being there. I'll never forget it. Thanks for being part of it." And then he went on his way, happy at the memory.
Since then, I have probably had another half dozen similar meetings. In talking to these folks, I have tried not to stick my foot down my throat again. But I have discovered that even if I do, the person who initiated the conversation doesn't seem to care. No, all he remembers is playing in a section game in front of a big crowd. If his team lost, he's over it. It is now a great memory for him. (The fact that he remembers a voice always amazes me. But isn't that the way it is with flashbacks? You recall the damnedest things sometimes.)
This is Christmas in March for a lot of people this week. The list includes those of us who are lucky enough to work the games, too.
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