The AL East standings, before the games of Monday, May 28:
Boston 34-14, --
Baltimore 23-27, -11.5
Toronto 22-27, -12
NYY 21-27, -12.5
Tampa Bay 20-28, -13.5
Beautiful!
But no one in Red Sox Nation is calling anything done, not even those doing the biggest, surest talking right now.
The joy that I harbor deep in my heart is that these guys who comprise the 2007 team don't know that Bucky F. Dent ever existed. Heck, most of them don't even know about his cousin, Aaron F. Boone. Forget Denny Galehouse, Pesky's slow throw (which wasn't), and all the rest? They can't forget it; they don't know those things ever happened!
You and I know that baseball lives in its history, but it's just fine with me if these guys are blissfully ignorant of all of it. You can't feel the weight of a particular 1920 transaction if you never heard of the people involved.
All these guys know is that they won in 2004. And if they won just three years ago...
But it is just Memorial Day.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Sunday, May 27, 2007
Out of the Child Business
I am no longer the parent of children. The Baby graduated from High School this afternoon. Weird. I've known that this was coming, of course, for eighteen years. I had a warmup, when The Elder graduated three years ago. But first is different, and The Elder (much like the dad she so closely resembles had done for his parents a generation earlier) did a remarkable job of preparing her parents to be ready to let her go. The Baby is different. I guess that she is more of a symbol, and of a lot of things.
Clearly, any last delusions of youth that I have harbored are shot. My girls are both adults. When it was just one, well, I still have The Baby. Now she is heading to college, and I'm not a young guy anymore and there's a lot more proof than just this gray hair. I am really glad that the big, strong, young boyfriend will be there when we move her into the dorm in August. I just wish he'd go away after that.
This transition changes one of most complicated relationships of my life. I will be much less involved with the girls' mother now. In the 14 or 15 years since our divorce we found a way to parent together pretty well. It took a while, but we finally became much more tolerant of each other than we were when we lived under the same roof. We have been through all of the normal ups and downs of children, and a few extras, but for the most part we've tried to stay on the same page and put the kids first. Until the wedding plannings hit (and that will be temporary), we won't need to be in the same close consultation that at-home teenagers have required. For good and bad, up and down, married and divorced, and always parenting, we have been in virtually daily contact for a quarter century. It's time to move on. Good luck, and God bless.
All this also means redefining the relationship with The Baby. Always my little girl just like her sister, they are both, now, adult young women. Foxworthy had a great bit about how easy it is to be SuperDad to little kids. Father and child were riding in the car when the little one spotted something out the window and pointed with a confused look on his face. "See that, Billy? That's a cow!" pronounced SuperDad. It's fun while you know everything, can answer every question, can fix any hurt. But now the relationships get real and far, far, far more even. Now it's comforting when they still ask, even though they long ago realized that I never did know everything. And for a while, didn't know anything.
But I think, just maybe, that this is going to be even more fun than all that's gone before. And before has been pretty wonderful. My experience of relationship with my parents grew immediately richer and more rewarding when I grew up and started carrying my end of things from time to time. I pray that I can have with my adult kids what I've enjoyed with Mom and Dad. I love both of my adult daughters dearly, and do not care to even imagine a moment when they wouldn't be my first thoughts in the morning, and last in the evening, along with this girlfriend of mine.
I just ask a little time and patience now and then for a frequently misty-eyed, sentimental old fool to get to treasure the memories of their births, first steps and words, toothy and toothless childhood smiles, hugs, paintings, kisses, bicycle experiments, plays, dances, band concerts, choir concerts, field trips, and school years begun and ended, including this last one in High School. And a million other things that live in my heart.
I'm even going to let them think that I see them as adults whenever I look at them. But I don't. And I won't. I don't have to tell them, but in my eyes, my mind and my heart, they will always be those two little angels, fallen asleep leaning against each other in the recliner, one with a pacifier, the other a thumb, smiling from sweet dreams, waiting for daddy to carry them to bed. That's what I see when I look at them. And if God has any grace left, that's what I'll always see.
Clearly, any last delusions of youth that I have harbored are shot. My girls are both adults. When it was just one, well, I still have The Baby. Now she is heading to college, and I'm not a young guy anymore and there's a lot more proof than just this gray hair. I am really glad that the big, strong, young boyfriend will be there when we move her into the dorm in August. I just wish he'd go away after that.
This transition changes one of most complicated relationships of my life. I will be much less involved with the girls' mother now. In the 14 or 15 years since our divorce we found a way to parent together pretty well. It took a while, but we finally became much more tolerant of each other than we were when we lived under the same roof. We have been through all of the normal ups and downs of children, and a few extras, but for the most part we've tried to stay on the same page and put the kids first. Until the wedding plannings hit (and that will be temporary), we won't need to be in the same close consultation that at-home teenagers have required. For good and bad, up and down, married and divorced, and always parenting, we have been in virtually daily contact for a quarter century. It's time to move on. Good luck, and God bless.
All this also means redefining the relationship with The Baby. Always my little girl just like her sister, they are both, now, adult young women. Foxworthy had a great bit about how easy it is to be SuperDad to little kids. Father and child were riding in the car when the little one spotted something out the window and pointed with a confused look on his face. "See that, Billy? That's a cow!" pronounced SuperDad. It's fun while you know everything, can answer every question, can fix any hurt. But now the relationships get real and far, far, far more even. Now it's comforting when they still ask, even though they long ago realized that I never did know everything. And for a while, didn't know anything.
But I think, just maybe, that this is going to be even more fun than all that's gone before. And before has been pretty wonderful. My experience of relationship with my parents grew immediately richer and more rewarding when I grew up and started carrying my end of things from time to time. I pray that I can have with my adult kids what I've enjoyed with Mom and Dad. I love both of my adult daughters dearly, and do not care to even imagine a moment when they wouldn't be my first thoughts in the morning, and last in the evening, along with this girlfriend of mine.
I just ask a little time and patience now and then for a frequently misty-eyed, sentimental old fool to get to treasure the memories of their births, first steps and words, toothy and toothless childhood smiles, hugs, paintings, kisses, bicycle experiments, plays, dances, band concerts, choir concerts, field trips, and school years begun and ended, including this last one in High School. And a million other things that live in my heart.
I'm even going to let them think that I see them as adults whenever I look at them. But I don't. And I won't. I don't have to tell them, but in my eyes, my mind and my heart, they will always be those two little angels, fallen asleep leaning against each other in the recliner, one with a pacifier, the other a thumb, smiling from sweet dreams, waiting for daddy to carry them to bed. That's what I see when I look at them. And if God has any grace left, that's what I'll always see.
Saturday, May 12, 2007
Happy Birthday, Yogi!
Yogi Berra is 82 today.
My kids and millions of other young Americans know Yogi as the AFLAC duck's partner in a cute commercial that plays on the stereotype of him as something less than the sharpest knife in the drawer. A recent book of "Yogi-isms" was published to make a little money off of that image. I understand why Yogi lends himself to these kinds of things; players didn't make today's money when Mr. Berra was on the field. But "Yogi the dope" sells him short.
Yogi's teammate, Joe DiMaggio, is described as elegant, poetry in motion; all kinds of rapturous recollections are available. He had the great resume, the carefully tended public image. The Great DiMaggio was, however, a wretched human being personally. He wouldn't appear unless announced as "Baseball's Greatest Living Player." His contracts even specified that he would be paid a dollar more than Ted Williams whenever they appeared together, and that he be allowed space to sign larger than Ted's name whenever presented with a picture of the two legends. Dominic DiMaggio is universally acknowledged to be one of the truly gracious and decent people anywhere, but Joe was arrogant and insufferable. He was a sorry man, and wasn't the Greatest Living Player, either. Ever. Ruth lived until 1948; Williams until 2002.
And Yogi Berra is still with us.
Yogi is the Greatest Living Player by one basic, undebateable standard: Yogi Berra has ten World Series rings. No other player, living or dead, can match Yogi's credentials as a winner.
Yogi won three MVP awards. DiMaggio had three, but two of them, 1941 and 1947, were only his because the writers hated Ted Williams, who hit .406 in '41 and won the freaking Triple Crown in 1947, only to be denied the award each time. In fact, Teddy Ballgame would have been the only player until Barry Bonds to have won 5 MVP awards if he had had any relationship with the Knights of the Keyboard. They gave the trophy to Joe Gordon when Ted also won the Triple Crown in 1942. But Ted is another column.
Yogi played catcher. Obviously, that is the position that makes greater physical and mental demands than any other. Catching means that you can't lounge around in the outfield thinking about the opposing pitcher's strengths and weakness in between at bats. Yogi had to manage the Yankees' pitching staff when on the field, and those were the days when catchers actually called the game. Nobody on the bench told Yogi what to call for. He was one of the handful of truly great players.
He is also a man of great character. Yogi Berra is one of very few managers to win pennants in both leagues, AL in 1964 and NL in 1973. When others were willing to inhabit the Steinbrenner Circus of the 1970's and 1980's, Yogi excused himself. King George fired Manager Berra sixteen games into the 1985 season. 16. That's SIXTEEN. When the Reds humiliated their great slugger, Tony Perez, in 1993, they gave him 44 games to manage. At a time when Billy Martin, Gene Michael, Bob Lemon and others were perfectly willing to stand by in George's revolving door, Yogi said no thanks. He left the Yankees at great pain, and loss of income, to himself. And this greatest of Yankees stood by his decision. Because when Yankee class and dignity had been thrown out of the Bronx, Yogi Berra kept his. Only 20 years later, when Steinbrenner had repented of his earlier ways, did Yogi go back to Yankee Stadium.
Happy Birthday, Yogi! You have helped make Baseball great, and every fan is indebted to you for a lifetime well lived.
My kids and millions of other young Americans know Yogi as the AFLAC duck's partner in a cute commercial that plays on the stereotype of him as something less than the sharpest knife in the drawer. A recent book of "Yogi-isms" was published to make a little money off of that image. I understand why Yogi lends himself to these kinds of things; players didn't make today's money when Mr. Berra was on the field. But "Yogi the dope" sells him short.
Yogi's teammate, Joe DiMaggio, is described as elegant, poetry in motion; all kinds of rapturous recollections are available. He had the great resume, the carefully tended public image. The Great DiMaggio was, however, a wretched human being personally. He wouldn't appear unless announced as "Baseball's Greatest Living Player." His contracts even specified that he would be paid a dollar more than Ted Williams whenever they appeared together, and that he be allowed space to sign larger than Ted's name whenever presented with a picture of the two legends. Dominic DiMaggio is universally acknowledged to be one of the truly gracious and decent people anywhere, but Joe was arrogant and insufferable. He was a sorry man, and wasn't the Greatest Living Player, either. Ever. Ruth lived until 1948; Williams until 2002.
And Yogi Berra is still with us.
Yogi is the Greatest Living Player by one basic, undebateable standard: Yogi Berra has ten World Series rings. No other player, living or dead, can match Yogi's credentials as a winner.
Yogi won three MVP awards. DiMaggio had three, but two of them, 1941 and 1947, were only his because the writers hated Ted Williams, who hit .406 in '41 and won the freaking Triple Crown in 1947, only to be denied the award each time. In fact, Teddy Ballgame would have been the only player until Barry Bonds to have won 5 MVP awards if he had had any relationship with the Knights of the Keyboard. They gave the trophy to Joe Gordon when Ted also won the Triple Crown in 1942. But Ted is another column.
Yogi played catcher. Obviously, that is the position that makes greater physical and mental demands than any other. Catching means that you can't lounge around in the outfield thinking about the opposing pitcher's strengths and weakness in between at bats. Yogi had to manage the Yankees' pitching staff when on the field, and those were the days when catchers actually called the game. Nobody on the bench told Yogi what to call for. He was one of the handful of truly great players.
He is also a man of great character. Yogi Berra is one of very few managers to win pennants in both leagues, AL in 1964 and NL in 1973. When others were willing to inhabit the Steinbrenner Circus of the 1970's and 1980's, Yogi excused himself. King George fired Manager Berra sixteen games into the 1985 season. 16. That's SIXTEEN. When the Reds humiliated their great slugger, Tony Perez, in 1993, they gave him 44 games to manage. At a time when Billy Martin, Gene Michael, Bob Lemon and others were perfectly willing to stand by in George's revolving door, Yogi said no thanks. He left the Yankees at great pain, and loss of income, to himself. And this greatest of Yankees stood by his decision. Because when Yankee class and dignity had been thrown out of the Bronx, Yogi Berra kept his. Only 20 years later, when Steinbrenner had repented of his earlier ways, did Yogi go back to Yankee Stadium.
Happy Birthday, Yogi! You have helped make Baseball great, and every fan is indebted to you for a lifetime well lived.
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