A Trade Worth Waiting For

The Atlanta Braves have traded for Mark Teixeira. The last week's rumors prove true. I'm amazed. Braves' GM John Schuerholz enjoyed the days when Ted Turner's only instruction was, "Get me a winner, boys." The checkbook was always open. Not so, after Captain Outrageous (remember?) sold his assets to Time-Warner. The mentality, once somewhere off-center, became corporate, and therefore by definition, restrictive and oriented to the bottom line alone.
And with restrictions still in place (as we await the departure of Andruw Jones after the season), John has pulled off a trade that gives the Braves the most formidable lineup in the National League, and arguably, in all of baseball. Namely:
Harris, lf
Renteria, ss
C. Jones, 3b
A. Jones, cf
Teixeira, 1b
McCann, c
Francoeur, rf
Johnson, 2b
As I read it, this is a lineup that could be played into the playoffs from top to bottom, or bottom to top. What if Willie Harris doesn't play the rest of the season as he has to this point? Swap him with Kelly Johnson. What if Chipper's health struggles recur? Yunel Escobar is ready to go.
And Schuerholz may well not be done yet.
Jared Saltalamacchia is the biggest name in the pool sent west for Teixeira and lefty reliever Ron Mahay. But the Braves had clearly decided that McCann was the better option behind the plate, and no one can seriously argue that Salty would be a better first base option than the switch-hitting Teixeira at this point. Elvis Andrus is the shortstop phenom that Braves' fans have been dreaming about for a couple years. Better than Escobar? I don't think so, plus, Yunel's performance raises the possibility of dealing Renteria for another quality starting pitcher (Jon Garland-type, if not actually Garland?). The attentive baserunning Escobar pulled against the Dbacks a couple of nights ago says that this kid has things that just can't be taught. Have you ever seen anyone steal second after reaching before another pitch is made? Me, either. The trade did not demand the top rung of pitching prospects, either. I can't find how this is a bad deal, and if Teixeira is a rental, he's a rental through 2008.
This looks to me an awful lot like the arrival of Fred McGriff in 1993, which helped lead to the 1995 World Series Championship. It may not take that long this time.
The Mets and all others who aspire to winning the National League won't sleep quite as well tonight. Or the rest of the season.

Therapeutic Ranting

We are in just one hell of a mess.
We have a Vice President who is a bald-faced liar, continuing to perpetuate the complete and total fiction that Iraq was in bed with Al Qaeda in the planning and execution of the September 11, 2001 attacks.
We have an Attorney General who is either profoundly brain damaged, or another bald-faced liar, contending through his obfuscation that the United States Congress has no oversight role in the function of our government.
We have a couple of new Supreme Court justices who have tipped the balance in favor of the lunatic fringe, laying the groundwork just this summer for a return to the idiotic principle of "Separate but Equal" that never, ever, for even one day, was, in the days of segregated schools.
We have a Congress that lacks the anatomy to do what they were elected to do last November, which was to remove our children from Iraq, and stop killing the children of Iraq.
And all of these points go back to the fact that we have an Occupied White House, held by a man who was never elected to his position, having subverted the constitutional electoral process in 2000 (Florida) and 2004 (Ohio); who appointed people throughout his government who have no discernable principle other than loyalty to their Fakir-in-Chief; who employs his Gomer Pyle persona to persuade the unbelievably gullible that he's just a good ole regular guy; who has destroyed America's historic standing in the world by the implementation of the bullying tactics of history's worst dictators, and who has made us into that pariah in the name of his bizarre interpretation of the Christian faith, which has no basis in scripture or over 2,000 years of tradition; who has, in violation of the Constitution that he swore to uphold, jailed American citizens without due process, counsel or trial; who has, in violation of the Constitution that he swore to uphold, used the CIA within our borders and the FBI outside them; who has, in violation of the Constitution that he swore to uphold, spied on American citizens while refusing to report his activities to the congress; who has, for the first and only time in our history, endorsed and encouraged the use of torture on prisoners in our custody; who has cried wolf over "Impending Terrorist Attacks" every single time that things have gotten a little sticky for him or any of his lackeys due to their abuses of power, incompetence, malfeasance, arrogance and just plain stupidity; who has continued to insist, about his half-assed, failed policy in Iraq, that we "just give it time" to work, and this, when his war has already lasted longer than it took FDR, Truman, Eisenhower and MacArthur to liberate Europe, Africa and Asia from the Axis Powers (the REAL Axis of Evil); and who persists in all this in spite of the fact that America has turned its collective back on him, declaring that he is the worst President we have ever seen.
And, perhaps worst of all, this gang of thugs and miscreants have gotten away with all of this because our Press has surrendered their obligation to inform, and therefore protect, the public so that they might cover Paris' latest sex tape, Lindsay's latest arrest, Britney's latest meltdown, and who's screwing who in Hollywood tonight. And for this meaningless crap, they forfeit the opportunity to expose the screwing that we, as a nation, have taken for the last six and one-half years.
God help us. Because we still don't seem to feel like helping ourselves.

A Beautiful Moment in a Lousy Sports Week

Want to be a Major Sport Commissioner? Really? Who would have thought on Opening Day that baseball's boss had the best job? Somehow, steroid-taking baseball players don't seem the worst when grouped with dog-fighting football players and game-throwing basketball referees.
Need a shower? A little sweetness and light? I got you covered!
Jon Lester won tonight. Oh, sure, he had a "W" by his name when the game was done, but he got the win just by taking the mound in the bottom of the first in Cleveland.
Eleven months ago tonight, Lester won the seventh game of his rookie season for the Boston Red Sox, against only two losses. After the next day's game against the Angels, the Sox flew to Lester's hometown, Seattle, for a series with the Mariners. His dad met him at the airport, took a look at him, and wanted to know what was wrong. His back was hurting. Probably just strained something. The next morning, it was worse. And, thank God, John Lester decided that his son was going to the doctor. The doctor was Mr. Lester's brother, an MRI was quickly ordered, and the problem was identified: Jon Lester, 22 year old Rookie of the Year candidate, had anaplastic large cell lymphoma.
How does a 22 year old kid deal with that news? How do parents deal with hearing that news about their kid? Very, very well, it turns out.
Jon began a treatment regimen that meant six rounds of chemotherapy. And more prayers than can be counted by anyone who wasn't the recipient of those pleas. And a committed determination that he would be ready for Opening Day.
Cancer-free by December, he reported to Fort Myers in February. Theo Epstein and Tito Francona showed their integrity by telling Lester that they would not put him on the major league roster until everyone was sure that he was ready. He didn't need the extra pressure. He just needed to be well.
Tonight, he was.
The fine, attentive fans of the Cleveland Indians applauded the opposing pitcher when he came out for the bottom of the first. They knew he won just by walking out between the white lines.
His parents, John and Kathie, were on ESPN 2 almost as much as Jon was tonight. Dad's adam's apple was shaky all night, while mom's face spent a lot of time in her hands. They knew, better than anyone, that he won before he ever threw a pitch.
At the end of the evening, the linescore was great, but almost meaningless. The transforming journey from Jon Lester, cancer victim, to Jon Lester, cancer survivor was complete. And that of Jon Lester, disabled lister, to Jon Lester, starting pitcher for the Boston Red Sox.
He was Jon Lester, Winner, before the final score was ever posted.
Thanks, Jon, from all the sports fans in America! We needed you tonight. In the middle of a dark time, your story is a beacon of light that is everything that's good about sport and life. Keep going, kid!

Frank, Junior and Arod: A Hero, Missed Opportunities, and All That's Wrong with Sports Today

Frank Robinson has dropped another spot on the All Time Home Run list. Forever, in my baseball life, the names and numbers were as familiar as the back of the proverbial hand: The Hammer, 755; The Babe 714; The Say Hey Kid, 660; and Frank Robinson, 586. Frank Robinson didn't have a nickname. He didn't need one. Probably wouldn't put up with one. You see, Frank is the definition of the no-nonsense guy. If Hank Aaron is a "What you see is what you get" person, then Frank would extend that to say, "And if you don't like it, that's your problem." Frank was, and is, tough. He was born in Beaumont, TX, in 1935, and grew up in Oakland, attending High School with basketball's absolute version of himself: Bill Russell. Frank spent his productive years in Cincinnati and Baltimore, two hard-working, blue collar cities with the same work ethic he embodies. He was a black player in the still-early days of black players in both cities. Near the end of his playing days, he landed in Cleveland, another tough town. There, a year after Hank Aaron broke Babe Ruth's record, Frank became the first black manager of a Major League Baseball team. The Indians weren't very good, but under Frank, they played hard and they played the right way. He wouldn't accept anything else. He managed beyond his 70th birthday with the Washington Nationals. He wanted a three year contract after the 2006 season. The new ownership wanted a younger man. How's that working out for you?
Frank Robinson won Rookie of the Year in 1956. He was National League MVP in 1961, and American League MVP in 1966. He remains the only man to win the award in both leagues. He won the Triple Crown in the American League in 1966, and was World Series MVP in that year. A twelve-time All Star, he was MVP of that game in 1971. And was fourth on the Home Run list.
Now, he has been passed by Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa and Ken Griffey, Jr., but only on the Home Run list. Because on the All Time Quality Human Being list, there may be others there tied with him, but Frank Robinson will always be on top.
Bonds is about the pass Aaron for the most homers. It should have been Junior.
Ken Griffey, Jr. had it all. He grew up in the game, spending his childhood in the clubhouse of The Big Red Machine. Not bad training for a future big leaguer! He looks like a movie star. He arrived in Seattle as one of the genuinely charming people in the game. Always smiling, always having fun playing a kid's game. He was a kid at the start. He played the outfield next to his dad. They homered back to back one night. It was hard to tell who was happier, the father basking in his son's accomplishment, or the son proving to dad he belonged.
He was blessed with that beautifully fluid swing that seems to grace one or two left-handed hitters per generation. Natural power, as though he had memorized Ted Williams' The Science of Hitting with its evangelistic call to practice that slight uppercut to unleash the long ball. And he was, if anything, more spectacular to watch in the outfield than in the batters' box. Speed, agility, that instinct for reading the ball off the bat that mere mortals cannot comprehend. Griffey, like Mays earlier, and Andruw Jones later, seemed to hear the ball strike the bat before it happened, seemed to be in motion as the pitcher released his offering.
He just can't stay healthy. Junior has played in 150 games only six times in his now 19 year long career, and not once since 1999. He has had many seasons cut short, seasons when he has missed 20, 51, 90, 22,51, 92, 109, 79, 34 and 53 games. That's 601. For all intents and purposes, that's four years. And four more full seasons at his level of performance means he shouldn't just now be passing Frank Robinson; he should have been looking back at Aaron, and Bonds, for the last year and a half.
Again, Whittier is appropriate: "For all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these 'It might have been'."
And Mr. Rodriguez. I'll lay aside the MFY issues. How much is enough?
Alex is a great player, probably the one who will ultimately put the Home Run record out of reach for several generations, and by all accounts will do it honestly and legally. But he's already the highest paid player in the game, on the highest paying team in the game. He is in the city that is the center of the sports, and business, universe, on the greatest team in professional sport anywhere on earth. And it doesn't seem to be enough.
It's easy to blame things on the agent. Especially when that agent is Scott Boras. The only faces that make me turn my television quicker than Boras' are those of his fellow destroyer of sport, Drew Rosenhaus, and our dear Moron-in-Chief. Boras is a lousy human being, one who makes Gordon Gecko (Michael Douglas' character in Wall Street) look like a big cuddly teddy bear. But none of those guys make the athletes do anything. All decisions are approved by the client.
Arod should honor the contract. It just ain't like he's suffering. When you are still the highest paid player, years after Tom Hicks' brain fart caused him to outbid everybody else by 8 or 9 million dollars PER YEAR, it just out to be adequate.
Just play the game. You have resented how people-press and fans-have focused on the money. If you opt out, you're going to reveal yourself as even more of a hypocrite. It will declare for all time that the money is all that ever mattered to you, too.
Just play the game. You still have time to make us all forget the contract. I expect that the baseball world will be rooting hard for you to replace Bonds atop the Home Run chart. And you can do it. Barring catastrophic injury, you'll get there with years to spare. You can't spend all the money you've already made. Hell, your great-grandchildren can't spend all the money you've already made. Unless you keep getting photographed with women who do not resemble Mrs. Rodriguez in the least. In that case, you might want the number for Kobe Bryant's jeweler. But let this cash grab go. We know it's not just Boras. If it happens, it is clearly what you want. And for God's sake, you're playing for Steinbrenner. He won't allow anyone to fork over a bigger pile of cash than his. Fulfill your contract. Be the first Yankee, apart from Joe Torre, to show some character since Yogi walked away in the 80's.

OK, So Life's Not Always About Baseball

I do love the game. It's just taken a back seat lately.
My daughters have moved home.
One is going to college this fall, and has issues with things at her other parent's house that have nothing to do with me, and no interest for me.
The other has come home after some time wandering in the wilderness.
And I am the happiest guy on the planet.
There was significant conflict, post-divorce, a few years ago. I appealed to our judge for relief. He appointed a guardian ad litem. That's a lawyer who can't make a living on his/her own, and has time on their hands to take assignments for the court. In our case, an African-American woman was assigned. She interviewed everyone in sight, including my children. Her report agreed that everything that I alleged had actually happened, and in specifically the way I alleged it had happened. In fact, more than I had alleged had happened. These extra facts only came to light because I had the good sense, and generous brother, to hire a good lawyer the second time through this case. I was given everything I asked for, EVERYTHING, but the final step of moving my children to my home. There was just no way, out of her culture, that the African-American woman with the time on her hands to be a guardian ad litem was going to remove two young girls from their mother's home. She was ok finding that they had been mistreated in all kinds of ways, but she wouldn't move them. So I did the best I could under the circumstances.
I have to say, I feel tremendously validated by my grown daughters' choice to live in my home.
The overwhelming majority of us stumble through life doing the best we can figure at any given moment in raising our children. I made my mistakes. I don't know anyone who hasn't. I'd love to revisit a few moments here and there and get another shot at some things. But on the whole, I am proud of my performance when it comes to my kids.
The whole time they were growing up, I sacrificed money and prestige to stay in the specific area where my girls were. I went on every field trip the older one had in school, and missed only one that the younger one had. I was almost always the only dad in sight. It was educational sitting in rooms while uncomfortable teachers addressed us parents as "Moms, thank you for coming today," "Ladies, we'll need to keep the children together," "Mothers, if you have any questions..."
I arranged my working life to have time, every day, to pick my girls up from school and spend time with them until their mother got home from work. 2:15 to 6 isn't full time, but it beats the heck out of every other weekend. I'm proud of that effort.
And now, I have pretty strong evidence that it means something to my daughters to have known that Dad is always here, always reliable, always with an open door. I haven't been willing to worship at the altar of "Don't damage their self-esteem no matter what." I have been honest with them at times when they didn't want to hear it, and when no one else in their lives would tell them the truth. I've been accused of being hard and tough. Guilty. Sometimes people in their late teens and early twenties need nothing in this world more than someone who will tell them the truth, even if it seems to interrupt the relationship for a while. Because in the end, they will learn who told them the truth and who didn't. And that matters. You can't trust people who don't tell you the truth.
I am grateful for all the blessings that have graced my life, and I know exactly where they have come from. But after the saving work of Christ, having my kids at home, under my roof at the end of the day, at a time when it is totally their choice to be here, is the greatest gift that I have ever received.