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.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
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.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
A 51-year old movie offers a lesson is still very pertinent today
For moviewatchers, this is the best time of the year. With the Oscars coming up in a week, there are a slew of wonderful, rarely seen movies on the cable airwaves. TCM offers some particular treats this month -- movies that, in some shape or form, were nominated for or won Oscars. Yesterday morning, it was "Inherit The Wind", the 1960 version of the story written based on the famous Scopes Monkey trials held in Tennessee in 1925.
In addition to watching some great actors chew up the scenery (who knew Gene Kelly could play such a hardass, cynical reporter? Or that Dick York could play such a serious, thoughtful role? And it is always fun to see Spencer Tracy and Fredric March strut their stuff.), the story offered up a moral tale that is still very relevant today.
The basis of the movie is York teaching a high school class about Darwin's theory of evolution. That is an issue for another day of discussion, however. The key here is what happens when York is put on trial for even offering the idea as a theory. Tracy has the Clarence Darrow role of being his defense attorney. He isn't any more sure that Darwin got it right than anybody else. But he will defend to the death the idea that the theory should not be squashed out of hand. It can be debated and decided.
March is the William Jennings Bryan character. He believes the Bible has to be taken literally. And that means that no theory that even hints against anything in the Bible can be allowed into the public forum. In theory, he wins because York is indeed convicted in court. (The state law forbid the teaching of evolution) But, when the time comes for the sentence, the judge (Harry Morgan had fun in this role) doesn't waste any time to hear arguments on sentencing. He fines York $100 instead of sending him to jail and skedaddles. Tracy, of course, says, he will appeal because his client has done nothing wrong. March, who had been waiting for his big moment to give a dramatic speech, is stunned. He gets up to give his speech anyway as the courtroom begins to clear. Nobody is listening to him anymore. It is too much for him to handle. He has a heart attack and dies.
Tracy, who had been a longtime friend, is sympathetic. When Kelly presses him to say something mean (and this very newsworthy), he refuses. Instead, he says simply, "He was a great man. He just got lost at the end."
How is this pertinent today? Well, look at what is going in Wisconsin. In theory, this is a battle between two vastly differing fiscal views. The governor says he simply wants to balance a budget and that he is not interested in how it happens. But nothing is that easy. If we don't sit down and listen to each other (and only listen to people who agree with us), we are doomed as a country. Yes, there are laws that need to be obeyed and followed. That has never changed.
But we got to be a great country by admitting that past actions weren't always correct or needed to be altered to fit into today's times. There was a time where slavery seemed like a reasonable idea. Today, or course, we know better. There was a time where women couldn't vote. Again, we corrected a mistake.
And we got there because somebody was willing to listen to the other side.
That isn't happening in Wisconsin. The governor has said he won't negotiate on anything. From this distance, he sounds like the March character in the movie. In essence, he is saying, "I know what I believe. No fact or reasoning can get me to change my mind. So, this is my decision and to hell with everybody else.'
That kind of attitude plays well with the base and looks good on television. (In this case, it is the right wing. But it could just as easily have been the other way.) But we get things done in the real world by working together. We may never agree with them but, if we don't at least consider their point of view, we are truly lost. In the end, that is what happens to March in the movie. He got caught up in his own fire and fury. If TV had been around in the 1920s, they would have been berserk with joy promoting one point of the view or the other. But it would have offered nothing to the debate and would only have inspired the other side to be meaner and nastier.
That's why this movie is so important and should be watched by everybody. We need to see what happens when you can't see the forest for the trees. Simply put, we need more Spencer Tracys and fewer Frederic Marchs in this world.
But the talkies and bloggers don't want that. They want controversy and they don't care if there is collateral damage along the way.
There is a great moment at the end of the movie. WGN radio had placed a microphone in the courtroom to get the verdict live. After the judge does so, the technician starts to put things away. The microphone is disconnected. March's speech simply is wild yelling into the air with nobody in the courtroom ... or across the country ... listening. It is sad to watch. But it reminded me of many people I see on cable TV these days. They are simply babbling talking points but they have no idea what many of those points actually mean. In that way, they are already dead in the head.
In addition to watching some great actors chew up the scenery (who knew Gene Kelly could play such a hardass, cynical reporter? Or that Dick York could play such a serious, thoughtful role? And it is always fun to see Spencer Tracy and Fredric March strut their stuff.), the story offered up a moral tale that is still very relevant today.
The basis of the movie is York teaching a high school class about Darwin's theory of evolution. That is an issue for another day of discussion, however. The key here is what happens when York is put on trial for even offering the idea as a theory. Tracy has the Clarence Darrow role of being his defense attorney. He isn't any more sure that Darwin got it right than anybody else. But he will defend to the death the idea that the theory should not be squashed out of hand. It can be debated and decided.
March is the William Jennings Bryan character. He believes the Bible has to be taken literally. And that means that no theory that even hints against anything in the Bible can be allowed into the public forum. In theory, he wins because York is indeed convicted in court. (The state law forbid the teaching of evolution) But, when the time comes for the sentence, the judge (Harry Morgan had fun in this role) doesn't waste any time to hear arguments on sentencing. He fines York $100 instead of sending him to jail and skedaddles. Tracy, of course, says, he will appeal because his client has done nothing wrong. March, who had been waiting for his big moment to give a dramatic speech, is stunned. He gets up to give his speech anyway as the courtroom begins to clear. Nobody is listening to him anymore. It is too much for him to handle. He has a heart attack and dies.
Tracy, who had been a longtime friend, is sympathetic. When Kelly presses him to say something mean (and this very newsworthy), he refuses. Instead, he says simply, "He was a great man. He just got lost at the end."
How is this pertinent today? Well, look at what is going in Wisconsin. In theory, this is a battle between two vastly differing fiscal views. The governor says he simply wants to balance a budget and that he is not interested in how it happens. But nothing is that easy. If we don't sit down and listen to each other (and only listen to people who agree with us), we are doomed as a country. Yes, there are laws that need to be obeyed and followed. That has never changed.
But we got to be a great country by admitting that past actions weren't always correct or needed to be altered to fit into today's times. There was a time where slavery seemed like a reasonable idea. Today, or course, we know better. There was a time where women couldn't vote. Again, we corrected a mistake.
And we got there because somebody was willing to listen to the other side.
That isn't happening in Wisconsin. The governor has said he won't negotiate on anything. From this distance, he sounds like the March character in the movie. In essence, he is saying, "I know what I believe. No fact or reasoning can get me to change my mind. So, this is my decision and to hell with everybody else.'
That kind of attitude plays well with the base and looks good on television. (In this case, it is the right wing. But it could just as easily have been the other way.) But we get things done in the real world by working together. We may never agree with them but, if we don't at least consider their point of view, we are truly lost. In the end, that is what happens to March in the movie. He got caught up in his own fire and fury. If TV had been around in the 1920s, they would have been berserk with joy promoting one point of the view or the other. But it would have offered nothing to the debate and would only have inspired the other side to be meaner and nastier.
That's why this movie is so important and should be watched by everybody. We need to see what happens when you can't see the forest for the trees. Simply put, we need more Spencer Tracys and fewer Frederic Marchs in this world.
But the talkies and bloggers don't want that. They want controversy and they don't care if there is collateral damage along the way.
There is a great moment at the end of the movie. WGN radio had placed a microphone in the courtroom to get the verdict live. After the judge does so, the technician starts to put things away. The microphone is disconnected. March's speech simply is wild yelling into the air with nobody in the courtroom ... or across the country ... listening. It is sad to watch. But it reminded me of many people I see on cable TV these days. They are simply babbling talking points but they have no idea what many of those points actually mean. In that way, they are already dead in the head.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Battling an unseen enemy is ... well ... really hard
Like all good attackers, this one slipped in during the dead of night. It was a week ago in the middle of the night when the enemy invaded. It came in slowly, infiltrating my system while I slept.
A week ago, I called it a night feeling hale and hearty. Woke up the next morning with a stuffed nose.
As it turned out, it was the initial move in an all-out assault that succeeded. Within two days, I was a composite of cold, water and medicine. I fought the intruders with nearly tool available -- aspirin, cough syrup, honey, tea, warm water and various tablets supposed to contain good stuff in it -- but a cold is an opponent with a track record that would make any sports team blush with envy.
On Thursday, I could feel what the late Steve Cannon used to call "the aliens invading my body" making their move. The cold began to take up residence in my head and then moved south to claim more territory. By Friday afternoon, my voice began to sound like the little girl in the movie "The Exorcist." The bad voice soon gave way to sneezing fits that polluted half of Ramsey County.
I managed to work a hockey game Friday night and a basketball game Saturday afternoon before giving way to unconditional surrender. By Saturday night, the enemy claimed complete victory as temp soared to 102.5. You could have held a weiner roast on my ears. A hot bath provided a temporary balm. By late in the evening, the fever was in fine fettle, running up and down by my body with unrequited glee.
When that happens, you simple feel helpless. We can understand when we are felled by the flu or something like pneumonia. They may be intangibles but they sound forceful. You tell someone you have the flu and they understand you are going to be on your back for a couple of days. But tell them you have a cold and they expect you to take a cough drop or a pill and quit hacking.
If it was only this easy.
I managed to get out for a brunch Sunday afternoon but still felt in a fog. That is the worst part of having a bad cold -- it makes everything else around you seem an out of body experience.
The new week brought some welcome relief. My temp finally went down to double digits and stayed there. I'm down to only one new handkerchief per 24 hours. The coughing is a little less each hour. After ingesting four bottles of cough syrup, a dozen Advils and half a dozen Mucinexes, I can actually taste food again. My nose is still in rugged shape but I can now breathe in and out and not sound like the old Bob-Lo boat as it was leaving for its daily trip past Amherstburg. (Ask an old Detroiter about that one.) Life isn't great. But it is a helluva lot better than it was a week ago at this time.
Unfortunately, this rosy scenario is only true for one member in our household. Being a good, supportive, sharing spouse, I think I passed on my condition to my unsuspecting wife.
She ended up missing two days of work this week with various difficulties. In this case, it was probably better to receive and not give back. Sorry, dear.
Amazingly, the dog managed to avoid being infected (or is that affected?). Just what do they know we don't?
A week ago, I called it a night feeling hale and hearty. Woke up the next morning with a stuffed nose.
As it turned out, it was the initial move in an all-out assault that succeeded. Within two days, I was a composite of cold, water and medicine. I fought the intruders with nearly tool available -- aspirin, cough syrup, honey, tea, warm water and various tablets supposed to contain good stuff in it -- but a cold is an opponent with a track record that would make any sports team blush with envy.
On Thursday, I could feel what the late Steve Cannon used to call "the aliens invading my body" making their move. The cold began to take up residence in my head and then moved south to claim more territory. By Friday afternoon, my voice began to sound like the little girl in the movie "The Exorcist." The bad voice soon gave way to sneezing fits that polluted half of Ramsey County.
I managed to work a hockey game Friday night and a basketball game Saturday afternoon before giving way to unconditional surrender. By Saturday night, the enemy claimed complete victory as temp soared to 102.5. You could have held a weiner roast on my ears. A hot bath provided a temporary balm. By late in the evening, the fever was in fine fettle, running up and down by my body with unrequited glee.
When that happens, you simple feel helpless. We can understand when we are felled by the flu or something like pneumonia. They may be intangibles but they sound forceful. You tell someone you have the flu and they understand you are going to be on your back for a couple of days. But tell them you have a cold and they expect you to take a cough drop or a pill and quit hacking.
If it was only this easy.
I managed to get out for a brunch Sunday afternoon but still felt in a fog. That is the worst part of having a bad cold -- it makes everything else around you seem an out of body experience.
The new week brought some welcome relief. My temp finally went down to double digits and stayed there. I'm down to only one new handkerchief per 24 hours. The coughing is a little less each hour. After ingesting four bottles of cough syrup, a dozen Advils and half a dozen Mucinexes, I can actually taste food again. My nose is still in rugged shape but I can now breathe in and out and not sound like the old Bob-Lo boat as it was leaving for its daily trip past Amherstburg. (Ask an old Detroiter about that one.) Life isn't great. But it is a helluva lot better than it was a week ago at this time.
Unfortunately, this rosy scenario is only true for one member in our household. Being a good, supportive, sharing spouse, I think I passed on my condition to my unsuspecting wife.
She ended up missing two days of work this week with various difficulties. In this case, it was probably better to receive and not give back. Sorry, dear.
Amazingly, the dog managed to avoid being infected (or is that affected?). Just what do they know we don't?
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Remembering what was is not a bad thing
Sergeant Shriver died the other day at age 95. He was an honorable fellow who took on many unpleasant but noble government-type duties in the 1960s and 1970s. President Kennedy tapped him to start and run the Peace Corps. He did great work for President Johnson, too. Later, he ran for Vice President. All in all, a very good man.
For the last several years of his life, he battled Alzheimer's disease. Understandably, on the few occasions he was seen in public, he didn't look anything like the handsome man I remembered as a kid. I shuddered when I saw those pictures.
The other day, most of the pics ran in accordance with stories about his life, were from the 1960s and 1970s. But one network (I can't remember which) ran a terrible shot taken a few years ago. His hair was messy and he looked confused. It is, sadly, what often happens with patients who suffer from Alzheimer's. I had that old feeling. Wy do this to a good man? Did we really need to see this picture? Of the literally thousands of pictures of this public man, what was gained by running one that showed him in a less than complimentary light.
A year ago, Lynne and I were in California for a few days. One morning, we drove up to see an old woman who was a longtime friend of Lynne's family. She lived by herself near Yucaipa. She seemed to be doing okay for a woman of her age. We had a wonderful visit. I asked Lynne if she wanted to take a picture with the woman to bring home to show to her sisters. Lynne sighed and said no. She had a good picture of her already that she was taking home with her. The woman we were looking at now was not the woman she knew as a kid. She preferred to remember her that way.
It was a kind and thoughtful gesture. We are entitled to remember things our way.
The fact is we will grow older. We will not look as good as we did when were younger. Fine. But we are also entitled to our dignity. And when (or if) the time comes when we don't look so good, well. we can only hope folks with cameras will be judicious in their choices of pictures.
In my mind's eye, for example, Rocky Colavito, a terrific ballplayer for Detroit in the 1960s, will always be a sleek fellow with a full head of coal black hair who had a great arm and swung a solid bat. He will always be 30 years old.
Colavito is now 77 years old. A little part of me would love to sit and talk with him about his days in Detroit (and Cleveland). However, another part of me has no desire to see a current picture of him ... or worse, see him in person. I am afraid to discover he has a pot belly, is bald and wears coke-type glasses.
If so, it would be too heartbreaking to know.
Like my wife wishes to remember her old family friend, I want the Colavito in my mind's eye.
Anybody think that is a bad thing?
For the last several years of his life, he battled Alzheimer's disease. Understandably, on the few occasions he was seen in public, he didn't look anything like the handsome man I remembered as a kid. I shuddered when I saw those pictures.
The other day, most of the pics ran in accordance with stories about his life, were from the 1960s and 1970s. But one network (I can't remember which) ran a terrible shot taken a few years ago. His hair was messy and he looked confused. It is, sadly, what often happens with patients who suffer from Alzheimer's. I had that old feeling. Wy do this to a good man? Did we really need to see this picture? Of the literally thousands of pictures of this public man, what was gained by running one that showed him in a less than complimentary light.
A year ago, Lynne and I were in California for a few days. One morning, we drove up to see an old woman who was a longtime friend of Lynne's family. She lived by herself near Yucaipa. She seemed to be doing okay for a woman of her age. We had a wonderful visit. I asked Lynne if she wanted to take a picture with the woman to bring home to show to her sisters. Lynne sighed and said no. She had a good picture of her already that she was taking home with her. The woman we were looking at now was not the woman she knew as a kid. She preferred to remember her that way.
It was a kind and thoughtful gesture. We are entitled to remember things our way.
The fact is we will grow older. We will not look as good as we did when were younger. Fine. But we are also entitled to our dignity. And when (or if) the time comes when we don't look so good, well. we can only hope folks with cameras will be judicious in their choices of pictures.
In my mind's eye, for example, Rocky Colavito, a terrific ballplayer for Detroit in the 1960s, will always be a sleek fellow with a full head of coal black hair who had a great arm and swung a solid bat. He will always be 30 years old.
Colavito is now 77 years old. A little part of me would love to sit and talk with him about his days in Detroit (and Cleveland). However, another part of me has no desire to see a current picture of him ... or worse, see him in person. I am afraid to discover he has a pot belly, is bald and wears coke-type glasses.
If so, it would be too heartbreaking to know.
Like my wife wishes to remember her old family friend, I want the Colavito in my mind's eye.
Anybody think that is a bad thing?
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Thanks, Jon. That was well said.
It has been three days since our nation's sensibilities were shaken ... again. The terrible business that occurred last Saturday in Tucson still seemed unreal ... even to those of us who have gone through a series of assassinations that robbed us of some of the country's brightest and best.
What happened in that store was bad enough. What happened next -- the bad reporting and the sadly predictable blaming of each side for the acts of a madman -- probably surprised no one.
Take the reporting first. Yes, it was a Saturday afternoon -- when the TV version of the backup catchers were on duty. That still doesn't excuse the cable folks who reported people were dead when they weren't. I could only imagine Chet Huntley, David Brinkley, Walter Cronkhite and all the brilliant journalism teacher (like my college prof, Father Whalen) shaking their heads in disbelief as they watched from above. TV cable news offers little journalism these days. Instead, they are entertainers with political points of view ... and those points of view seem to always come first and foremost before giving us the facts.
As for the blame game, what did we expect? Did we really think that Sean Hannity or Rush Limbaugh or Glenn Beck would miss a chance to nail those who disagree with them with a form of blame? Did we really think that a gasbag like Ed Schultz or the many bloggers who lean left would resist the urge to blame this on the wild, biased rhetoric Fox spins out? The answer, of course, is no. Most of today's talkers are interested in only one thing -- getting attention for themselves. Getting attention gets them ratings. Ratings translate into money. The rest of it is simply collateral damage ... something they can find a way to ignore.
It is likely most of the talkers wouldn't know Gabrielle Giffords, the Arizona congresswoman who was shot, from Frank Gifford, the former football player. (Well, some of them might know Frank is married to Kathie Lee.) Nor would it matter to them. The names are interchangeable. It is the policy and the ideas -- whether they be conservative or liberal -- that seem to matter most.
Because this happened on a Saturday afternoon, it took a while to get the network anchors in action. When they got on the job, a form of sanity returned to the airwaves. There is a reason why guys like Bill O'Reilly and the rest of the cable bombthrowers don't work for ABC, CBS, NBC, or PBS. (Some of them used to.)
Their shtick wouldn't pass muster there.
Ironically, it was Jon Stewart, who works for Comedy Central, who offered the proper perspective n how we should view this situation. His opening monologue on Monday was one of the best speeches I have heard in a long time. (The link is here: http://tv.gawker.com/5730178/watch-jon-stewarts-poignant-speech-on-the-arizona-shooting.) It ranks up there with Ronald Reagan's speech the day of the Challenger disaster and Bobby Kennedy's speech the day after Martin Luther King was killed.
Stewart came out and said what many of us felt. The time has come to simply admit madmen were just that ... nothing more, nothing less. Furthermore, there have been madmen before and there will be madmen in our future. We simply cannot escape them.
But we can do something to limit their access. We can quit using rhetoric that gives them ideas. We can have civil dissent, dammit. It's isn't sexy and it doesn't produce ratings. More than ever, however, it is what we need to do these days.
Thanks, Jon, for injecting a note of common sense. After two days of bluster and blame, his should be the only cable comment we should be listening to.
What happened in that store was bad enough. What happened next -- the bad reporting and the sadly predictable blaming of each side for the acts of a madman -- probably surprised no one.
Take the reporting first. Yes, it was a Saturday afternoon -- when the TV version of the backup catchers were on duty. That still doesn't excuse the cable folks who reported people were dead when they weren't. I could only imagine Chet Huntley, David Brinkley, Walter Cronkhite and all the brilliant journalism teacher (like my college prof, Father Whalen) shaking their heads in disbelief as they watched from above. TV cable news offers little journalism these days. Instead, they are entertainers with political points of view ... and those points of view seem to always come first and foremost before giving us the facts.
As for the blame game, what did we expect? Did we really think that Sean Hannity or Rush Limbaugh or Glenn Beck would miss a chance to nail those who disagree with them with a form of blame? Did we really think that a gasbag like Ed Schultz or the many bloggers who lean left would resist the urge to blame this on the wild, biased rhetoric Fox spins out? The answer, of course, is no. Most of today's talkers are interested in only one thing -- getting attention for themselves. Getting attention gets them ratings. Ratings translate into money. The rest of it is simply collateral damage ... something they can find a way to ignore.
It is likely most of the talkers wouldn't know Gabrielle Giffords, the Arizona congresswoman who was shot, from Frank Gifford, the former football player. (Well, some of them might know Frank is married to Kathie Lee.) Nor would it matter to them. The names are interchangeable. It is the policy and the ideas -- whether they be conservative or liberal -- that seem to matter most.
Because this happened on a Saturday afternoon, it took a while to get the network anchors in action. When they got on the job, a form of sanity returned to the airwaves. There is a reason why guys like Bill O'Reilly and the rest of the cable bombthrowers don't work for ABC, CBS, NBC, or PBS. (Some of them used to.)
Their shtick wouldn't pass muster there.
Ironically, it was Jon Stewart, who works for Comedy Central, who offered the proper perspective n how we should view this situation. His opening monologue on Monday was one of the best speeches I have heard in a long time. (The link is here: http://tv.gawker.com/5730178/watch-jon-stewarts-poignant-speech-on-the-arizona-shooting.) It ranks up there with Ronald Reagan's speech the day of the Challenger disaster and Bobby Kennedy's speech the day after Martin Luther King was killed.
Stewart came out and said what many of us felt. The time has come to simply admit madmen were just that ... nothing more, nothing less. Furthermore, there have been madmen before and there will be madmen in our future. We simply cannot escape them.
But we can do something to limit their access. We can quit using rhetoric that gives them ideas. We can have civil dissent, dammit. It's isn't sexy and it doesn't produce ratings. More than ever, however, it is what we need to do these days.
Thanks, Jon, for injecting a note of common sense. After two days of bluster and blame, his should be the only cable comment we should be listening to.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Farewell, Foul Ball King
It was a small story neat the bottom of the page. "Ex-Manager, Player Steve Boros dies."
Sigh. Another blast from the past was no more.
Viewed in the overall scheme of things, Boros was no big deal. He only played a couple of seasons. His career batting average .242 was no great shakes. He hit a mere 22 home runs in 422 MLB games. He was an adequate fielder but nothing special.
But you never forget your first great love. And my first great baseball love was the 1961 Detroit Tigers. I remember them all -- from batting champ Norm Cash to sub Dick Gernert (whose only hit that season with the team was a pinch-hit home run against the Angels). The Tigers kept pace with the mighty Yankees most of the season, finally giving way in the last two weeks of the year. They finished the season with a gaudy total of 101 victories but eight games out of first place. Today, that would earn you a playoff spot and a chance at redemption. In 1961, all it got you was a handshake and a sincere wish to win more games next year.
Boros was the regular third baseman on that team. He was justifiably overlooked on a team that had two superb starting pitchers (Frank Lary, Jim Bunning), a dependable third wheel in Don Mossi and a solid finisher in Terry Fox. The outfield of Rocky Colavito, Billy Bruton and Al Kaline was top notch. (Charley Maxwell, the first backup flychaser, was no slouch, either.)
The infield was Cash, speedy Jake Wood at second base, the erratic but exciting Chico Fernandez at shortstop and the plodding Boros at third base.
Of all those players, Boros seemed to be the one who was cursed with the most dreaded of all baseball ailments.
He had potential.
He looked bigger than his listed height of six feet. He seemed to have broad shoulders. He was not a fast runner. But he didn't strike out much and drew a surprisingly high total of walks.
Oddly, I can't remember any of his hits that season. What I do remember, however, was that he hit some of the longest foul balls I have ever seen.
I can't place the date but I distinctly remember a Saturday afternoon that year when he hit three balls that went all the way over the left field roof at old Tiger Stadium. Naturally, they were slightly left of the foul pole and counted for nothing more than a loud strike. It may be 49 years ago but I can still see Boros simply sigh and resolve to do better next time. My memory is he didn't get a hit after any of those mighty blows. (In the 87-year history of the old ballpark, only three balls ever went over the left field roof in fair territory. Harmon Killebrew, Frank Howard and Cecil Fielder did the honors.)
To the unerring eye of a rabid eight-year old baseball know-it-all, it seemed that Boros was on the verge of joining Colavito as a 40-home run man. If only he could straighten a few of those balls out, the Tigers could catch Mantle, Maris, Whitey Ford and the rest of those hated varmints from the big city Yankees.
Of course, it didn't turn out that way. Boros only hit five home runs the entire season and finished with a .270 batting average. The next year, he showed more power (16 home runs) but the batting average fell to .228. (By then, I was 10 years old and infinitely more knowledgeable about baseball. I simply knew Boros was never going to amount to much. I suspect I said so to anyone who asked me ... or even if they didn't ask.)
Accordingly, no one was particularly upset when the Tigers shipped him to the Chicago Cubs and inserted a shopworn fellow named Bubba Phillips at third base. (Later that year, they called up a rookie named Don Wert. By the end of the season, he was the regular third baseman. He stayed in that role for the next seven seasons and is best remembered around town as the guy who singled in the winning run the night the Tigers won the 1968 pennant.)
But our first loves always stand tall in our memory. They will always be 25 years old or so. They will always have a smile on their face.
So it is that Rocky Colavito will always be the original Italian Stallion, a limber hitter with a gun for an arm in left field. Al Kaline will always be the mechanically sound fellow who ate fast balls for lunch and missed nothing in right field. Norm Cash will always seem to be lunging off balance as he swatted a ball into the upper deck in center field. Jim Bunning will always seem to be falling into the third base dugout as he threw a nasty curve ball past a hitter for strike three.
And Steve Boros will always seem to be standing tall and resolute as he walked back to the batter's box, determined that the next time he hit the ball, it would go three feet to the right of the foul pole for a home run.
That is the way I saw it in 1961.
50 years later, nothing has happened to make me change my mind.
R.I.P. Big Steve
Sigh. Another blast from the past was no more.
Viewed in the overall scheme of things, Boros was no big deal. He only played a couple of seasons. His career batting average .242 was no great shakes. He hit a mere 22 home runs in 422 MLB games. He was an adequate fielder but nothing special.
But you never forget your first great love. And my first great baseball love was the 1961 Detroit Tigers. I remember them all -- from batting champ Norm Cash to sub Dick Gernert (whose only hit that season with the team was a pinch-hit home run against the Angels). The Tigers kept pace with the mighty Yankees most of the season, finally giving way in the last two weeks of the year. They finished the season with a gaudy total of 101 victories but eight games out of first place. Today, that would earn you a playoff spot and a chance at redemption. In 1961, all it got you was a handshake and a sincere wish to win more games next year.
Boros was the regular third baseman on that team. He was justifiably overlooked on a team that had two superb starting pitchers (Frank Lary, Jim Bunning), a dependable third wheel in Don Mossi and a solid finisher in Terry Fox. The outfield of Rocky Colavito, Billy Bruton and Al Kaline was top notch. (Charley Maxwell, the first backup flychaser, was no slouch, either.)
The infield was Cash, speedy Jake Wood at second base, the erratic but exciting Chico Fernandez at shortstop and the plodding Boros at third base.
Of all those players, Boros seemed to be the one who was cursed with the most dreaded of all baseball ailments.
He had potential.
He looked bigger than his listed height of six feet. He seemed to have broad shoulders. He was not a fast runner. But he didn't strike out much and drew a surprisingly high total of walks.
Oddly, I can't remember any of his hits that season. What I do remember, however, was that he hit some of the longest foul balls I have ever seen.
I can't place the date but I distinctly remember a Saturday afternoon that year when he hit three balls that went all the way over the left field roof at old Tiger Stadium. Naturally, they were slightly left of the foul pole and counted for nothing more than a loud strike. It may be 49 years ago but I can still see Boros simply sigh and resolve to do better next time. My memory is he didn't get a hit after any of those mighty blows. (In the 87-year history of the old ballpark, only three balls ever went over the left field roof in fair territory. Harmon Killebrew, Frank Howard and Cecil Fielder did the honors.)
To the unerring eye of a rabid eight-year old baseball know-it-all, it seemed that Boros was on the verge of joining Colavito as a 40-home run man. If only he could straighten a few of those balls out, the Tigers could catch Mantle, Maris, Whitey Ford and the rest of those hated varmints from the big city Yankees.
Of course, it didn't turn out that way. Boros only hit five home runs the entire season and finished with a .270 batting average. The next year, he showed more power (16 home runs) but the batting average fell to .228. (By then, I was 10 years old and infinitely more knowledgeable about baseball. I simply knew Boros was never going to amount to much. I suspect I said so to anyone who asked me ... or even if they didn't ask.)
Accordingly, no one was particularly upset when the Tigers shipped him to the Chicago Cubs and inserted a shopworn fellow named Bubba Phillips at third base. (Later that year, they called up a rookie named Don Wert. By the end of the season, he was the regular third baseman. He stayed in that role for the next seven seasons and is best remembered around town as the guy who singled in the winning run the night the Tigers won the 1968 pennant.)
But our first loves always stand tall in our memory. They will always be 25 years old or so. They will always have a smile on their face.
So it is that Rocky Colavito will always be the original Italian Stallion, a limber hitter with a gun for an arm in left field. Al Kaline will always be the mechanically sound fellow who ate fast balls for lunch and missed nothing in right field. Norm Cash will always seem to be lunging off balance as he swatted a ball into the upper deck in center field. Jim Bunning will always seem to be falling into the third base dugout as he threw a nasty curve ball past a hitter for strike three.
And Steve Boros will always seem to be standing tall and resolute as he walked back to the batter's box, determined that the next time he hit the ball, it would go three feet to the right of the foul pole for a home run.
That is the way I saw it in 1961.
50 years later, nothing has happened to make me change my mind.
R.I.P. Big Steve
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