My Favorite Pitcher Turns 300

Thanks, Tom!
I'm grateful for the way you have gone about your whole career, and since you spent the bulk of it with the Braves, I've seen the whole thing. You and Smoltz started out together, kids on a terrible, terrible team. But Hank Aaron saw something when he was head of Player Development. Bobby Cox saw it when he came back south from Canada as the Braves' General Manager; it was enough to make him leave the desk job for John Schuerholz, and return to the dugout.
It started with a cup of coffee in 1987. Then came the dreadful 1988. You weren't ready. The team around you was a joke, and not a very funny one. Terry Blocker? Dion James? Andres Thomas? Anyone? Anyone? You were only 22 years old. But you went out there every time they gave you the ball, and you showed the grit and determination that are the keys to your professional life, qualities that have taken you to two Cy Young Awards, five twenty-win seasons, and now, your 300th victory.
I always preferred you. John had, and on the good days still has, the fire. He could rain down strikeouts on any team any time. Maddux was the diva. Grace in motion. Perfection around the next corner. But through his whole pitching life, when Greg feels like he's through, he's through. There were times when it looked like he told Bobby Cox that he wanted out. Not you.
When Bobby came to remove you from a game, he had to bring a crowbar. You never willingly let go of the ball. Because you believed (and still do) that you can get it done. You looked disgusted when Willie Randolph came calling last night, one out and one hit into the seventh inning. Classic Glavine.
You didn't blow anyone away. You never pitched a 76 pitch complete game. You just poured your whole heart and soul into every game, because when you're on the mound, it's you taking on the world, and you mean to win. And because you've been smarter, more committed and more determined, you are now the 23rd pitcher, and only the fifth left-hander, in baseball history to accomplish 300 wins.
You have indicated pretty clearly that this will be your last season. I hope not. But if it is, I will be marking my calendar, in ink. I can never remember how the Hall of Fame keeps time, but I believe that the clock starts on your five year wait on January 1, 2008. If that's accurate, I'll be vacationing in Cooperstown, NY, in late July or early August of 2013. But don't worry; whatever year you become a first-ballot Hall of Famer, I'll be there to celebrate with you and all your fans. Fans of a guy who brought hockey player toughness to the pitching mound, and made us all proud.

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.

My Old Boys

The season started out very, very well. The over-40 crowd was representing, bit time. Curt Schilling, Tom Glavine, Barry Bonds, Greg Maddux, Jamie Moyer and John Smoltz all looked great early on. There were lots of comments from adoring announcers and analysts about the turning back of the clock, the defeat of Father Time and so forth. All that, and the Rocket was on the way!
Now, we're edging toward the half-way mark of the season. Smoltz may be headed to the DL with shoulder trouble. Glavine and Schilling are suddenly looking like they are very, very tired. Curt has been particularly bad in the starts since he carried the no-hitter into the 9th, giving up 5 earned in 5 innings and 6 earned in 4. Maybe pitchers in their 40's need to be six inning pitchers, period. Moyer's team is so bad you can't tell if it's him or them. Bonds' knees remembered how fragile they really are. Clemens' return was delayed by a barking groin, the same issue that has plagued him for the last two seasons.
April was a blast, but June is getting hot and humid and hard. And Dan Haren (26), Josh Beckett (27), Mark Buehrle (28) and Carlos Zambrano (26) are looking a whole lot better than the old guys. And Prince Fielder (23) is pointing the way, not Bonds. Experience matters. They have to learn how to play. But baseball, like much of life, is a young man's game.
Hang in there, my 40-plus brothers! The rest of us need you to tell us we're still young (enough), too.
And God Bless Julio Franco!

Tired of Fighting

I was once, briefly, that neither-fish-nor-fowl creature known as an Associate Pastor. I wouldn't wish that curse upon anyone, but this week a statement from that year kept coming to mind. The church in question is one of those that has spent most of its life at war with itself. My authority is a now deceased colleague who sought to comfort me during that time with the assurance that it wasn't me, it was them. "I was their pastor during World War II," he said in the late 1980's, "and they were doing the same thing then." The reason for the conversation was that when the rabid of the congregation failed to muster the required vote to dump the Senior Pastor, they decided to punish him by getting me. That worked. And he was sad. But I was crushed.
Shortly after the committee vote, one of the very fine members of that church came by my office and apologized. "I'm sorry, but we're just tired of fighting," he told me with tears in his eyes, explaining why the good folks let the thing happen. Then, at 28, I couldn't imagine what he was talking about. I probably felt worse about him in that moment than I did about the lout that had pushed the whole thing.
Now, at 46, I already understand. And I'm nowhere near the 74 years of age that the tired old man was when he came to speak with me.
Annual Conference makes me tired. It is migraine week, every year. I don't want to spend hours at a time arguing about which motion has to be made first to suspend a Standing Rule that should only be suspended in moments of genuine import, not whenever one of our Permanent Dopes has a "Gee, I haven't been to the microphone yet" moment, and wants to reinvent the cross. I'm fed up with those who try, every year, to find some point over which to attack our Treasurer, or one of the Superintendents, or the Bishop. In spite of my perpetual frustrations with many of those people, trying to embarass them on the floor of Annual Conference is just rude, and it always has the impact that a divorced mom or dad has when badmouthing the other parent to the kids: it just makes the talker look awful.
And I'm tired of people who either don't have a clue what they are talking about, or are pandering to the base. Case in point: our debate on Global Warming. The guy who brought the motion is one of those important people who thinks that we can't vote on anything without everyone knowing how he feels about it. (I don't speak on the floor of Conference, ever, period!) For once, however, he had something right. There is, or course, Global Warming. We are, of course, aggravating the condition terribly. We must, of course, stop it. That's pretty much all the darned motion said. A colleague who I've always considered a bright guy jumped up and proposed castrating the already impotent motion because "there is debate over the science."
There is also debate over the relationship of smoking to lung cancer. Among the "scientists" bought and paid for by the Tobacco Institute. And debate rages over the presence of WMDs and pre-9/11 al Qaeda in Iraq. Between Cheney and the rest of the world. And in the year when even the Kansas legislature sobered up and stopped their creationism over evolution hysteria, the question is heavily debated, between the real world and the goof in Kentucky who has opened a (I kid you not) Museum of Creationism.
I don't know if our guy is serious (scary) or just pandering to where he thinks his bread is buttered (disgusting). He is a ladder-climber, always dressed and coiffed like a preacher, and wearing the bemused face of the televangelist. Another colleague was once asked, in my presence, where he was going to lead the congregation he was about to be appointed to serve. "Where ever they want to go" was the sickening answer. The statement might be the motto of this week's amender.
I'm afraid that we just like our semi-Middle Class lives a little too much these days. Hey, boys and girls, I've been moved at a salary loss in each of my last three moves, a total loss of over $30,000. It hasn't been fun, economically. But I haven't had to go searching for my lost integrity, not even once. And when I have had trouble sleeping at night, it hasn't once been because I was afraid I had sold out to get ahead.
We are called to be faithful. Sometimes that means prophetic. And by definition, that means we are going to get into trouble with some people. I'll let you in on a little secret: you want to be in trouble with those who will be angry with you for being faithful. Once while on the staff of our retirement homes, I was with one of our site managers while she counseled a resident about his racial abuse of some of our staff. My friend, one of the great people I've ever known, was about 50, and a beautiful African-American woman. She was patient and thorough with the man. He waited until she was finished, looked the two of us over, and told us that he could straighten out all of this "race business" if we would just let him bring his nephew up from Alabama to talk to us. Seems his nephew was the Grand Dragon of the Klan in good ol' Bama. She didn't blink, didn't take the bait, so he turned to me. "So you're just a n-lover" he accused in one of the South's nasty little endearments. My always gracious response: "You just violated the rules as they have been shared with you, sir, so as far as I'm concerned, you are evicted!" At that point, he took a step toward me, as menacingly as an 82 year old man can muster. In that moment, I genuinely wished that he had hit me. In a moment of a complete lack of Christian charity, I told him to go ahead, but his first punch better be a good one. I was sick of listening to him call my staff people every vulgar name in the book, hit them with his cane, accuse them of stealing from him when he was just too old to remember where he had put anything. "You ain't much preacher" he told me. I thanked him. He said it wasn't a compliment. I told him it was. He asked how. I explained that as far as I was concerned, what I would have to be to be a good preacher in his eyes made it a compliment for him to acknowledge that I wasn't that. He never did get it.
Neither do far too many of my clergy brothers. (Yes, brothers; overwhelmingly, my clergy sisters do get it) Either they have never allowed the gospel to change them, or they have, but don't want to rattle the cages of those loud ones who may try to move them for a prophetic witness. To those brothers: come on, boys, grow a set. It just isn't worth keeping any particular pulpit to sell Jesus Christ and his gospel down the river.
Wow. Maybe I'm not as tired of fighting as I thought I was.

God Told Me

I frequently feel that I'm a man without a country. I'm a Red Sox fan in Cardinals' territory. I'm a profoundly Blue State person in an incredibly Red Community and State. And I'm a suspicious Christian or a Christian skeptic, whichever you prefer.
I'm not proud of this last. I have, throughout the adult portion of my life (which really did begin sometime before noon today) struggled with the problem of being a connectional Christian who thinks for himself. There is, deep in my bones, a sense of "ought to" when it comes to trusting my superiors. I just can't bring myself to do it. Another argument jumped atop my woodpile yesterday.
My cousin is one of a handful of brilliant, genuinely brilliant, minds in our Conference. She is an effective preacher. She is a dedicated and thorough pastor. She is precisely the kind of person you want right there if your kid just had a car crash, your spouse just bailed on you, or a doctor had bad news about that lump you found in the shower this morning. She is one year into a pastorate where the congregation has accepted her (no small issue for a woman pastor in a southern state), and she loves them.
In his infinite wisdom, our leader is moving her. He needs a place for a goober who can't get along with anyone, can't preach a lick, doesn't particularly want to work and doesn't have a clue why that's a problem. My cousin, meanwhile, is being sent to the most intolerant county in our Conference, a place where blacks, hispanics and Jews are not welcome, Catholics are barely tolerated, and women pastors are automatically stigmatized.
This is the reward for being an effective servant of the gospel? This is the return for a good year's work in a difficult church? Some will answer, well there is that "take up your cross" thing. But there is also an issue of justice. And an issue of trauma to a church that has had a tough history. And a family that just moved a year ago.
Of course, life is complicated. Our Supreme Leader likes to appoint women to "historic" work. Oddly, it seems to be physically attractive, petite-sized women that this 60-ish fellow likes to put in "historic" work. My cousin, like me and much of our family, isn't small, nor is she a cute girly-type woman who knows (or cares) how to make middle-aged men feel good about themselves. So she is jerked out of a church that wants to keep her--again, after one year--serving under this bishop who has proclaimed that he is appointing us for five year terms, barring something catastrophic. Like needing a place for the goober described above, I guess.
The man's explanation for everything he does, and he has done a lot and some of it much worse than my particular family issue with him, is that God tells him what to do. We are of a tradition that believes in conferencing together, and, as the family of God, discerning together. This is why our bishops have cabinets to help them make our appointments. Because we believe that multiple minds, always and inevitably, are better than one.
"God told me" is a shield that says, "You can't question me," "I can't be wrong because it's God's instruction," and "Do you really want to challenge God?" In other words, it's a load of crap.
People in leadership positions who refuse to own their decisions and instead hide behind God's coattails are beneath contempt. They should not be trusted. They cannot be trusted. They are not faithful to our identity. They should be removed from positions of authority. And when he talks about the problems in our Conference and morale problems among the clergy, he really should realize that he is the cause of a great many of them.

Memorial Day Checkup

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.

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.

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.

What a Weekend!

I don't remember the last weekend that was as good as this one. Friday: 7-6 Red Sox; Saturday: 7-5 Red Sox; Sunday: 7-6 Red Sox. Oh, by the way, the losers in each of those games: the New York Yankees!
Sunday was the capper. The script read a bit differently than it played out. Daisuke Matsuzaka was making his first start against the hated eternal rivals. He was supposed to win a taut, tense 1-0 shutout. Didn't work that way. In fact, he trailed going into the bottom of the third, 3-0. Then, the ghost of Ted Williams (head intact) reached down and touched the bats. After Youk and Papi went quickly (6 pitches total) and quietly (easy flyouts to Abreu and Cabrera) to Yankees' ace, Chase Wright (Chase Wright?), Manny blasted his second home run of the season onto the Mass Turnpike. And then JD Drew visited Williamsburg's outer suburb. And then Mike Lowell drove the Turnpike. And then The Captain continued his awakening by bombing the back row of the Monster Seats. Four batters; four home runs. Not done since the Dodgers' bottom of the ninth performance late last season. Not done against one pitcher since Terry Francona's dad, Tito I, participated as a Cleveland Indian in 1963. Poor Paul Foytek. He gets remembered once in the 18 years of Sunday Night Baseball on the Worldwide Leader, and it's for giving up Back-to-back-to-back-to-back homers. To a group of immortals like the aforementioned Tito Francona, pitcher Pedro Ramos (yes, boys and girls, the American League used to play real baseball!), Woodie Held and Larry Brown. But at least Brown went on the be a fairly successful basketball coach. Or maybe that's a different guy.
Anyway, the Yankees Sucked, and I thoroughly enjoyed it!
Results: the Red Sox are 12-5; the Yankees are 8-9. And all is well in God's universe!
At least until next weekend at the Stadium.

How?

How does a 23 year old man decide that life isn't worth living?
How does that 23 year old become so angry that he decides to take as many people with him as possible?
How does a college president fail to close his school after two murders in a dormitory?
How does that college president keep his job after that failure to close results in 31 more deaths?
How do college-aged people ever learn to trust and feel secure after watching friends and teachers gunned down before their eyes?
How do parents get through a day when they know there are multiple murders on their kid's college campus, but they can't get hold of their kid or get the names of the dead and wounded?
How do we call ourselves civilized when we continue to tolerate this sick, sick, sick gun culture?
How does God let it happen?
How do you counsel the survivors?
How do you stick a camera and microphone in their faces and ask young people how they feel after witnessing such a thing?
How do you explain it all to children?
How do we get better?
How do we do better?
How do we fix our souls?
How do we pray?
How do we not?
God, be with the Virginia Tech family today.

The I-Man and Me-Man

Don Imus has been fired. Yesterday, MSNBC ended its simulcast; today, CBS Radio and WFAN ended his radio program. If you don't know what Imus said, you haven't been in the country the last week.
This is a tough one to figure. Imus has done the same show for...decades. He has routinely characterized people by ethnic and gender stereotypes for as long as I have been aware of him. And still, over the last 15 to 20 years, the I-man turned into a player. The guests on his program have been a Who's Who of American politics (from Clinton to McCain and everyone in between) and journalism (from Jeff Greenfield to the Newsweek team to anyone else who had a book to sell). Because Imus has drawn listeners who vote and read and have money.
We have told ourselves that racism and sexism has become limited to the ignorant, illiterate and poor. But as Willie Shakespeare said long ago, "The truth will out." And now it has.
Imus' act hasn't changed. But he'd become accepted, and influential. While everybody knew what he is. But somehow when he said it about Gwen Ifill or William Rhoden, it didn't generate heat.
Then he attacked the Rutgers University women's basketball team. You know, the national runners-up to the University of Tennessee. Coached by one of the genuinely courageous women I have ever heard of. Imus used one of the crassest characterizations of that group of young women that he could have possibly found. One that had no connection to any reality those young women are living. Hey, I couldn't have gotten into Rutgers. I bet Imus couldn't have, either. So he crudely dismissed them as something less than acceptable, and became a pariah in the process.
I hate to admit it, but I have heard worse terms than Imus' used in regard to people of color in Fellowship Halls and Sanctuaries of churches I have pastored. Imus has protested that he is a good man who did a bad thing. I don't know if he is, or isn't. But I have heard people who lived exemplary lives in every other area use the crudest of terms in telling jokes or relating some perceived advantage that a member of a minority group had "unfairly" received because of some preference. And I have rarely done what I should have in those instances, preferring peace to justice. May be that old Don isn't the only one with issues to deal with.
We are still a racist society. That doesn't mean that white people schedule time each day to spew bigotry and hatred at the non-white. It does mean that there are still inherent advantages for the majority, and disadvantages for the minority, that are too blatant to be denied. And leaving all of the protesting of that fact to the minority evidences the majority's comfort with the way things are. In other words, I'm not bad because I'm white, but I sure am suspect if I willingly accept the benefits of being white in America, and don't raise my voice to speak truth to power on behalf of those who do not share my advantage.
It is fascinating to me that Imus' downfall came after attacking athletes. This Sunday, April 15,
is Jackie Robinson Day in Major League Baseball. 60 years ago, Jack Roosevelt Robinson broke baseball's unwritten Iron Curtain and played for the Brooklyn Dodgers. Baseball was 7 years ahead of America (in the Brown v. Board of Education ruling) in doing the right thing. Sports led the way then, and may be doing so again.
It has been moving to hear the build up to Sunday's recognition of Mr. Robinson. Several significant players will be wearing his universally retired 42 in Sunday's games. The Dodgers have chosen to have all their players wear Jackie's number. So have the Houston Astros. The Dodgers' decision is obvious, but there were no Houston Astros when Robinson broke the color barrier. The Houston franchise wasn't awarded until after Robinson's career was over. Could their desire to dress up in Jackie's number have anything to do with the fact that the Houston Astros do not have any African-American players on their team? And that they probably would prefer that no one notice that on Jackie Robinson Day?
Jackie Roosevelt led. The Rutgers University women's basketball team is leading. But that still doesn't mean everyone will follow.
I come, proudly, from a liberal family. My father was one of those rabble-rousing pastors who marched to Mayor Loeb's office in 1968 to ask for justice for the sanitation workers. I love the famous picture, taken from behind the Mayor's left side, that reveals his shotgun at the ready under his desk should those rowdy preachers have gotten too far out of line. My grandfather received death threats when, as pastor of St. Luke's Methodist Church, he seated the group of black Memphians who were visiting the great white churches to see if their proclamation of the gospel had any real meaning. It did at St. Luke's! I love that heritage, and embrace it. I raised my children to believe that "in Christ there is no slave or free, Jew or Greek, male or female" and that, in America, "all [people] are created equal."
Then one day, my older daughter, then teen-aged, asked "Dad, would it bother you if I dated a black boy?" I guess that I could have lied and looked good. But I confessed. "Yeah, I know that it shouldn't, but it probably would."
The I-man isn't what he should be. And neither is the Me-man. Or most of those who have decried Imus this last week.
"But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep."

This Just In...

Some rich guy is buying the Tribune Company, which apparently means that the Cubs will be spun off after this season, like some failed corporate division. This is news. This is big.
Mark Cuban wants to buy the Cubs.
I love the Red Sox. I am passionate about the Cardinals and the Braves. I deeply enjoy the Giants (due to Jon Miller's work). But if Cuban buys the Cubs, all bets are off.
If you've been in a cave, Cuban is the boy wonder who invented some internet audio streaming system while sitting around in his dorm room during college, while most of the rest of us were drunk at the fraternity house. Cuban and his partner, whose name I cannot recall, sold their invention to some larger .com during the boom for about a bazillion dollars. The partner must have bought a remote South Pacific island and disappeared. Cuban invested a miniscule amount of his serendipity in the then-woeful Dallas Mavericks. You know, the Mavericks? Who employed Roy Tarpley, the Steve Howe of the NBA. The Mavs, who signed some skinny German kid, Dark...Dork...maybe Dirk something. The Mavs, with cranky old Don Nelson coaching them and trading away Steve Nash.
Yeah, that'd be the Mavericks, who lost the NBA Finals to the Miami Wades last Spring, and are far and away the best team in the league this year. Because of their owner. He's smart. He has learned. Fast.
Cuban is also crazy. He yells at referees. He challenges David Stern. He tells the truth. He couldn't care less about fines for all of the above, because, again, he has half a bazillion dollars.
And Avery Johnson. And Dirk Nowitski. And Josh Howard, Jason Terry, Jerry Stackhouse, Erick Dampier and Devin Harris. And, in all likelihood, an NBA title in his near future.
I want Cuban in baseball. I want Cuban in Chicago. I want Cuban ruling Wrigley. I want Cuban to include his friend, Bill Murray, in his ownership group. Why? Have you seen the Pebble Beach Golf Tournament? The ghost of Bill Veeck lives in Bill Murray's soul (via Veeck's son, Mike, a Murray partner in the St. Paul Saints of the Northern League). Baseball needs that spirit. And I want Cuban to make friends with Steve Stone, and bring him back in whatever role Stoney wants. Baseball needs passion and intelligence like Steve Stone's. And I don't ever want to hear of another stuffed suit on a high floor of the Tribune Building making any decision that impacts Wrigleyville, the Cubs, or the longest-suffering fans in the world (even before the Red Sox and White Sox ended their droughts).
Let Mark Do It.
That's the only campaign slogan I want to hear this year. Sell the Cubs to Cuban. He will know what to do with them. And if he doesn't, he'll learn. And it will be fun. And the Cubs will win a World Series. Because Cuban is the most dangerous thing in sports ownership: a passionate fan with half a bazillion dollars. I love him. He's me, and all of us, with bucks. He's just the guy to entrust with a public trust like the Cubs and their Friendly Confines.

The Saddest Words...

Kerry Wood is hurt. Again. Still. I don't even know anymore.
He is, of course, the Cubs' savior. And greatest disappointment. And hope. And heartbreak.
It was breathtaking to watch Wood's arrival in 1998. He seemed to have a cannon attached to his right shoulder, and a curve that was simply unhittable. He posted 20 strikeouts against the Astros on May 6, a cold, raw day at Wrigley, and everything seemed possible. Maybe it finally was Next Year! Then he wrecked his shoulder, and didn't pitch at all in 1999.
Since then, it has been moments of brilliance like few pitchers can even dream about, alternating with crushing reports of elbows, shoulders, tendinitis and surgeries. Wood has managed 30 or more starts twice: 2002 and 2003. No coincidence, these were the Cubs' best seasons since Leon Durham missed a ground ball in the 1984 NLCS, and the Padres went to the World Series.
The Cubs have finally come to grips with the fact that they cannot count on Wood, or Mark Prior, to be significant contributors. Oh, we've hoped for a full season for the Glimmer Twins, just to see. But coming off another surgery, Kerry fell getting out of his hot tub at home before Spring Training began. He had a couple of "minor setbacks" in the words of Lou Piniella-who hasn't been there long enough to understand that when it comes to Kerry Wood every setback is MAJOR!
They decided to make him a reliever to lessen his innings. That misses the point entirely. As a reliever he will have to warm up dozens of times more than a starter would. He'd have to be available day after day, not just every fifth. That aggravates the problem. Because the heart of the matter is that pitching is what destroys Kerry Wood. He doesn't do it right. Never has. Tragically, never will.
If you want to know how to pitch get some video. Look at Greg Maddux and Tom Glavine. Smooth, easy, every body part working together in harmony. Need a power pitcher? Go back to Tom Seaver. The drive with the legs. The fluid motion. Nothing flying out on its own. Picture the golf swing of Tiger Woods, or Jack Nicklaus back in the day. Not John Daly. No flailing.
That's Kerry's problem. He pitches like Daly hits a golf ball. When it just happens to fall into sync, it's awesome. 350 yard drives and 20 strikeout games! But most of the time the potential for an 8 on a par 3 is just around the next dog leg. Big John just walks off the course and leaves his scorecard unsigned when he's screwed up. Kerry needs another operation or two, and a year's rehab, when he gets a little off.
Kerry Wood will turn 30 this June. And it's over. He will begin the 2007 season on the Disabled List. Another setback. Stiffness in his shoulder after a couple of relief outings. He'll probably end the season the same way. Soon, the Cubs will move beyond not counting on him to no longer waiting for him. He'll spend his 30's bouncing around with two or three other teams so bereft of Major League arms that they will take the chance, and then, eventually, he'll give up too. So sad.
May I paraphrase Whittier? "For of all sad words of mound or pen, the saddest are these, 'It might have been.'"

He's At It Again

The President of the United States is now, through his Iraq war, responsible for more American deaths than is Osama Bin Laden for the September 11, 2001 attacks. He has waged this war for longer than US forces were in World War II. He has consistently lied to National Guard members and Reservists about the length of their service, and to Army personnel about their number of rotations. And now POTUS has the anatomy to berate the congress for not supporting the troops.
Now, we all know at this point that the English language is not Mr. President's friend. That being said, how does one work it around in his mind that it is supportive to keep battle-fatigued, under-equipped men and women in harm's way, while holding that it is non-supportive to bring those same persons home, intact, to their families and lives?
Mr. President tells us that we must stay the course until we institute democracy in Iraq. If Mr. President believed so deeply in democracy, he would have told his brother not to cheat in November, 2000, and would have retired to his ranch to do Viagra ads, make speeches, and do whatever else failed candidates do when they have been defeated. Ah, but he believes that God chose him to be Mr. President in these difficult days.
Sir, if God wanted you to be Mr. President, God would have found other means than stealing two elections to make that happen. You see, and I know these will be foreign concepts for you, God operates openly, and with integrity. You might try those approaches yourself, sometime.
The congress is simply recalling that we elected them, legitimately for a change, to make changes in your war. It is a rare action called acting on the will of the people. Look it up, Mr. President; an old guy named Jefferson had a lot to say on the subject. We have had it with the pointless deaths of our young women and men who are only trying to serve honorably and faithfully. Again, sir, concepts you might want to try sometime.
We have understood your problem for some time. Maybe this will help: OK, we're convinced: you are a tougher, stronger man than your dad! Happy now? Good. Bring the kids home. Now. And, by the way, that would be the greatest show of real strength that you could make, you buffoon. The only thing you have accomplished in Iraq is killing more than 3,200 of our people and God only knows how many of theirs. You got rid of Saddam? Hallelujah! Now, when we finally leave, they will wind up with somebody as bad if not worse, to keep order amongst all the factions who want to kill each other.
You are a joke. Your Presidency is a sham. Your Administration is hopelessly corrupt. You have guaranteed that the children and grandchildren of people you have killed in Iraq-people who had no warmth for Saddam Hussein-will be looking for opportunities to kill my children and grandchildren as long as they live. You have turned the nations of the world against us. Even Tony Blair can't stick with you anymore. You are bankrupting us. And you are so stubborn that you will never change directions.
This is why I struggle with all your faith talk. Because conversion means that a person recognized that the direction they were headed in was wrong, and that they needed to move in another direction. You display no evidence of having learned that lesson. Hey, give it a try. It works. I have lived it. So have billions of other people who've come to grips with God's claim on our lives. Even you can learn something! Lent is a really good time for this. Repent, sir, for you have sinned and sinned grievously. A week from Friday we will mark the moment when Christ took all of our sins on himself, and destroyed them on the cross. Turn this over to him. End this war. End this killing. Bring our people home before another IED blows up, before another boy comes home with half his head blown off, or before another family has to bury a young daughter. Parents shouldn't have to bury their children. But of course, you know that; you've sure kept your kids far, far away from this damned war.
If I had my way, for just a day, I would put your kids, and Cheney's, and Wolfowitz' and Rumsfeld's too, on the front lines. Because if all you guys think the war is so right and proper, you should have sent your own kids before you asked for mine, or anyone else's. But you didn't, because you don't. You know the truth. You just disregard it. And that's inexcusable.
Shame on you!
And thank God for a majority in the Congress that now actually, really, supports the troops.

Sleep Well, Sweet Prince of the Bullpen!

Jonathan Papelbon said he hasn't been sleeping well. He'd become obsessed with the idea of dropping this notion of becoming a starting pitcher, and going back to the Red Sox' bullpen to pick up where he left off as the best closer in the American League last year. Perhaps Pap knows that we card-carrying (yes, I mean this literally) members of Red Sox Nation (member number: 21709) haven't slept well since we were informed that Joel Piniero would be our closer in 2007. Or Mike Timlin. Or Craig Hansen. Or me. Or you. Or maybe Tito Francona's dad would stage a comeback and close games for a while. OK, that's slightly over-dramatized. But not much.
Now, we will thrill to the work of Schilling, Beckett, Matsuzaka, Wakefield and probably Julian Tavarez, marvel at the exploits of Papi and Manny, and rest secure knowing that Pap will be there at the end to blow away any potential threats in the ninth.
Oh, and Tito: it better be only the ninth, and if you get him up you better use him. Because it really doesn't matter if you were the manager who broke the curse. You mess this kid's arm up, and you're dogmeat. Because I wouldn't be surprised if that voice that's been whispering in Pap's ear that he really should be in the pen, the one that's been keeping him up nights, sounds an awful lot like your voice.
But we're all right there with you, until it blows up. Like they say across the SEC in the Fall, "We're right behind you, skip, win or tie!"
If that 26 year old right shoulder holds up, we will win the division! Thus Saith The Blogger!

Renewal Again

The Bishop is really pushing this Renewal Leave. He says, and I can't dispute him, that we are abnormally at risk for burnout. I've seen the data on our divorce rates, alcoholism/drug abuse rates, and all that jazz. Most of these issues arise because, plain and simple, we are the people who take on others' burdens, and have no one to share ours (and, with confidentiality rules, all of theirs) with. We are the people who are expected to count God's promises of the Kingdom as a substitute for income, but last time I checked, God doesn't write checks for our kids' college expense. We are supposed to be available, period. No partners in the practice to take the other three weeks of the month. All the time. My family has had 6 vacations cut short by deaths or other emergency situations, and one cancelled for the same reason. Growing up, another 8 or 9 were affected likewise. (My current practice in response to that problem is to go so far away that there cannot be any expectation of return.)
My current assignment is publicly spectacular. We take in members, our budget grows (we're almost $1,000 per week ahead of last year), we meet our obligations in full. By any measure, things have gone remarkably well. Then there's the private side. I am currently at the lowest income I have had since 1993. And the high was almost $70,ooo in 1998. Less than $50,000 in 2007 doesn't match up, and $9,000 of that is the expense account required to do the job. Churches like mine in our fair area average right at $67,000, so we are significantly behind. For the first time in my 23 years under appointment, I received the Christmas gift that the Annual Conference gives to the lowest paid preachers. Life without a secretary (for the first time since 1991) doesn't get it, either. Or the other staff members that make a growing church keep going. The last time I was the whole deal, I was 28 years old. I'm not that any more, not by a long shot. I am the pastor, the secretary, the receptionist, the errand boy, tables and chairs set up crew, sometime custodian, children's worker, sometime youth worker, Seniors group leader, preacher, choir member, evangelism worker, and so on. And I'm good at all of them. The only problem is that I'm also a father and husband, son and brother and uncle, and I haven't been very good at any of those over the last 19 months. And I have a good situation, because I get to see positive results for my work. Most of my colleagues make more money, and have more help, but don't have the things to show for their work that I do.
My Summer off in 1995 came at a good time. I had just about had it. Three years of fighting with old folks about the mission of their church is wearing. Especially when their notion is that the church's mission is to hold their hands until they die. I was about done, and needed that break. I hope that the Bishop is able to put through his program. It would literally extend the lives of some of my brothers and sisters in the clergy. But I'm not sure that an adequate clergy care program can stop at a quadrennial month to get your head on straight again. There are a lot of months in between projected Renewal months...

Several, Briefly...

A. We had a health scare last week. Mom had some cranky tests that proved to be, blessedly, benign. This is the downside of being 46. Mom turned 69 in February; Dad will be 70 in June. They are well, active and vital. That makes this a great time to be alive. But I'm no longer a kid, and whether I like it or not, the years are moving along. Enjoy today, friends, enjoy today!
B. Garrison Keillor played the Cannon Center Sunday night, and the wife and I gave the folks-Dad-an early birthday/Father's Day gift. Mr. Keillor is amazing. He performed for two and a half hours, taking no breaks. He led a singalong during the "intermission" and broke up his monologue several times to sing with Robin and Linda Williams, accompanied by Rich Dworski on piano. He talked for, probably, two hours, allowing for the musical interludes. I know what's involved in doing my little 20 minute monologues on Sunday mornings. I can barely comprehend what I witnessed the other night. And, oh yeah, he may be the funniest person on the planet. His genius, for 35 years, has been capturing small town American life. His vocabulary is unlimited, his inflection is everything, and if he doesn't leave you doubled over with sore ribs, you just don't have a sense of humor. My dear friend Edirol captured my father's laughter and my mother's singing amidst my braying. Treasure. What an evening.
C. Sammy Sosa made the club! Sammy will be on the opening day roster when the Rangers break camp. He's had a great Spring. I hope he has a tremendous season. I know the problems, but I love the guy. I witnessed firsthand, on many occasions, the joy the man found in the game. I'm glad he's recovered his smile and his enthusiasm. Baseball is better with Sammy in it.
D. The first day of the NCAA Tournament passed without incident. A couple of 9's beat 8's, but those are hardly upsets. Duke went out to Virginia Commonwealth, a 6 to an 11, but if you saw Duke this year, you know this wasn't an upset. No worry; Coach K (you're right, I don't know how to spell it) will be back and as good as ever.
E. Our Bishop is concerned with our well-being. I am as naturally skeptical as anyone I know, but I think he actually means it. He will require us to take a month's Renewal Leave in each quadrennium (a four year period that isn't called that by anyone who isn't United Methodist), and if we don't he will declare us unappointable. He does things differently from any leader we've had in my lifetime. That makes most of us who serve under him nervous from time to time, because he isn't predictable and seems to have no use for old standards like tenure and salary level. But I like the guy. If I were to be required to have dinner and spend an evening with any of the episcopal leaders I have served under, there's no doubt that the current one would be my choice. But he will have one hell of a fight on his hands to sell this notion to the churches. Renewal will sound to them like vacation, and we have clearly stated policies about vacation. But I won't bet against him making it work.
F. My younger daughter called, wanting to have lunch yesterday. Talk about making a rapidly aging dad feel great! She didn't want anything. Just wanted to spend a little of her last High School Spring Break hanging out with dad. I don't know when I felt so flattered. She is a tremendous young woman. She intends, at this point, to study education and early childhood development. Maybe she can straighten out the Memphis City Schools. Don't bet against her, either. She is just the right medicine for what ails us: intelligent, decent, generous and a genuine love for kids. I would be thrilled if that proves to be her calling in life.
G. One of our church families has quadruplet boys who just turned 3. Another family has a two year old boy. We had lunch with those families last Sunday. To borrow a phrase, That's Entertainment! The best part of a lot of good parts is watching four parents who are dedicated to being parents. All too often the kids are turned loose now to raise themselves, and they just can't do it. They don't have the tools, and there is absolutely no way that they could have them. And yet, in so many instances, even little ones are pushed out there with a hearty "Good Luck" and little else. Why are people afraid to be parents? Children need their parents. Strong, decisive, gracious and loving parents. Who know how to say "No" often, and mean it. Kids just don't need everything they want simply because they laid eyes on it. They are done a disservice when they are lied to and allowed to believe that life will hand over every whim that their hearts ever desire. Boundaries matter. Rules are important. I am proud of my parishoners who work hard at raising their children. And it is hard! The only thing harder is not working at raising the children.
H. Go Tigers Go! Ten hours to tip-off against North Texas State.

Spring Training

I read a piece yesterday by a Bitter Old Man who was bemoaning the loss of the Spring Training of his youth. You know, the one where the Boston Braves played the Brooklyn Dodgers for $1.25 tickets, quarter hot dogs and so forth. That, from the days when a new Ford was $800, Toyota was thought to be a serious medical condition, and average household incomes hovered around $6 per year.
I just had my first experience of Spring Training. My Compulsively Generous Friend called with news of a business meeting he had to make that would allow Me the Moocher to visit several Fields of Dreams in a couple of days. Well, Fields of Dreams for the Phillies, Pirates, Reds and Indians. For the Devil Rays, it would be Field of Fantasy, and for the Yankees, Field of Heavy Expectations.
It was awesome.
I grew up with an understanding of, and participation in, the Redneck Riviera of Destin, Panama City and Pensacola, but I hate Florida in the Summer. I wrestle with whether the God of Love could actually create and sentence people to a place like the traditional Southern (Baptist) notion of Hell, but if it exists, I believe that the temperature and overcrowding will approximate Panama City in mid-August.
But mid-March in Florida is glorious. Brilliant sunshine chasing my Mid-South Winter gray right off of my hide, hot dogs at the park, polite kids newly bitten by the baseball bug begging autographs off of young guys trying to act like the Major Leaguers they desperately want to become. Heaven!
Today, the ticket prices are close to those at the big league parks. The concession prices rival those of the regular season. But then again, I make a little more today than I did in 1964. When I was 3. When the average home price in my community is $228,000, and new car prices are averaging close to $30,ooo, $15 for three hours of Joy seems downright cheap.
My Compulsively Generous Friend gave me my two visits to the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum, an afternoon in a Turner Field luxury suite, my trip to the park previously known as PacBell, and my visits to Fenway Park and Yankee Stadium. Once more, he has provided an experience that I will now be striving to repeat as often as possible. Everybody should be so fortunate as to have a friend like mine. Because that's another great thing about baseball: it is a communal game. It is designed to be shared by people who know some of its history, most of its rules, and carry a deep faith that something amazing will happen in the next inning, even if that inning will be played by guys wearing numbers that are more common to tight ends and offensive linemen. People who like to share those old stories, and the new dreams that keep the game fresh and exciting every year; that's what baseball is all about.
Thanks, again, Mike, for everything!

Santo Revisited, Revisited

Nice going guys! I guess you 25 who didn't vote for Ron Santo feel much better about yourselves now. You must be much prouder of your Hall membership for keeping Santo waiting. Shame on each of you!

Vote Santo into the Hall...NOW!

Tomorrow the ballot of the Veterans' Committee of the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum will be announced. The odds are overwhelming that if anyone is elected it will be Ron Santo and/or Gil Hodges. I'm not a Dodger guy, but honesty compels me to say that Hodges doesn't cut it among first basemen in the Hall. There are 18 players identified as first basemen in the Hall's accounting-leaving out those such as Aaron, Banks and Musial who spent time there, but are pricipally identified with other positions. There are three others who played in the Negro Leagues, which, tragically, means that their statistical records are incomplete, and therefore cannot be used in a comparison like this. Hodges doesn't stack up. Sorry. Good man, great leader, pretty good manager. Not a Hall of Famer.
But then there is Ron Santo.
Santo is said to fail the Hall test due to his .277 lifetime batting average. Let's take a look at the numbers. There are 10 players in the Hall identified as Major League third basemen. It's a pretty darned impressive group: (in no particular order) Brooks Robinson, George Brett, Wade Boggs, Mike Schmidt, Eddie Mathews, Pie Traynor, George Kell, Jimmy Collins, Frank "Home Run" Baker, and Freddie Lindstrom. (For the sake of brevity, I will speak as though Ron is in.)
Games Played: Ron comes in sixth of the eleven;
At Bats: again, sixth of eleven;
Runs Scored: Ron lands seventh;
Hits: sixth;
Doubles: seventh;
Triples: eighth;
Home Runs: Ron is third-and most of his hit during the best pitching years of the modern era;
RBI: fifth-see the previous comment about the 1960's;
Batting Average: eighth;
Slugging Percentage: fourth;
OPS: fifth;
Ron, not surprisingly, trails Mike Schmidt, Eddie Mathews, George Brett and Wade Boggs in most offensive categories, although Ron leaves Boggs in the dust in the power categories. Santo is comparable, offensively, to Brooks Robinson, and bests Robinson by ten batting average points. In fact, Ron's BA is better than Brooks', Schmidt's and Mathews'. And, again, batting average is the primary issue cited against voting him in. Once more, Santo was batting against Bob Gibson's 1.12 ERA, Sandy Koufax' no-hitters, Don Drysdale's brushbacks, Juan Marichal's kick and toughness, and all of them and more throwing from the higher mound. None of the third basemen in the Hall had to take most of their career ABs between 1960 and 1968, and Santo STILL put up those numbers! Remember, Yaz won the AL batting title in 1968 with a .301 average.
Santo beats Kell, Traynor, Collins, Baker and Lindstrom in most all of the categories.
Oh yeah, there's one more measure: defense.
The Gold Glove award isn't perfect, but it certainly is one standard. Only four of these eleven men won multiple Gold Gloves. Brooks Robinson, of course, is the gold standard with 16. Michael Jack Schmidt claimed 10. But then it's Ron Santo next, with 5. (Wade Boggs won 2).
Ron says that he doesn't want to be elected to the Hall of Fame because he's a great guy and a legitimate inspiration, having played his entire career as an insulin dependent diabetic, who has now lost the lower portions of both legs to this vicious disease. My wife has been an insulin dependent diabetic from about the same age as Ron. It is a challenge for diabetics to make it through each day with the balancing of food, exercise and insulin, much less perform as a top-flight professional athlete while doing all of that. And this isn't even to mention that Santo is one of the genuinely tremendous human beings on the planet. He routinely, without cameras and microphones, make calls and visits to children who are newly diagnosed with diabetes, and hosts them and their families in the WGN radio booth at Wrigley. Because he wants those strangers to know they are not alone in their fight, and that they can persevere and realize their dreams, because he did.
Ron Santo doesn't need a sympathy vote to get into the Hall. He doesn't need a hero's respect to get in. Ron DESERVES, on the merits of his career, to be voted into the Hall of Fame. The problem with the new Veterans' Committee procedure is that giving the vote to the living HOFers encourages them to see themselves above anyone not elected by the BBWAA. They want Cooperstown to be exclusive, because the more exclusive the club is, the better they must have been to have gotten in. To quote the legendary Col. Sherman Potter, "Horse Hockey!" It doesn't demean George Kell or Frank Baker or even Mike Schmidt to give Ron Santo what he earned on the field.
And I have no doubt that Ron Santo will one day be elected. If his disease and personality play any role in this consideration, it is that it would be a crime to wait until Ron has passed from the scene to induct him. The Hall of Fame is poorer for Ron's absence. And that should be corrected when the vote is announced on Tuesday. Don't take the chance of leaving it to the next Veterans' ballot in 2009. Take care of this injustice now!

For the Musically Uneducated: Essential Information

If you live in/near Memphis, TN, and don't care about music, I have just one question: Why?
Why are you here? Why are you wasting your life? Why don't you know what matters? Why don't you know you are living in the best place on earth? Why? Okay, that's six questions.
Mini-rant completed, here's a little hope/help for you.
Two words: DiAnne Price. That's all you need to know. She's all you need to hear to change your bereft existence and your apparently meaningless meandering through your alleged life. DiAnne plays at the downtown Huey's periodically on Sunday nights, she plays at the Vault on the Highland Strip on Wednesdays, and a Crosstown club called Sessions on Thursdays. More often than not, she is accompanied by some combination of Tim Goodwin on bass, Tom Lonardo on drums and Jim Spake on saxes. DiAnne's forte is barrelhouse blues piano with the appropriately smoky, incredible voice that goes with it. She knows every song every written, and no two shows are alike. DiAnne won the Memphis Magazine poll for Best Female Vocalist so many times in a row in the late 80's and 90's that they retired the category. Understand?
Her Boyfriends, as the gentlemen are known, are (not even arguably, really) the finest players on their instruments in this music rich city. Spake's discography is only surpassed by Jim Dickinson's (genuflection accomplished). Goodwin and Lonardo are everywhere with everyone of note, pun intended.
Full Disclosure: DiAnne has been my friend for 16 years, but don't assume any bias here. She is the best, she loves her audience, and by the end of an evening's performance, you will feel that you've known her forever, too.
Mack Orr is another treasure. The stage name is Daddy Mack. By day, hard-working mechanic. By night, a powerful singer and guitar player who decided as a middle-aged man that he needed to let the music out of his soul, and so began to study the guitar. The result is delightful. Mack fronts a band that includes local legends William Faulkner on drums and the brothers James (bass) and Harold Bonner (guitar). These guys have been participants in the fluid world of The Fieldstones over the years, and comprise the house band, as the Universal Blues Players, at the Blue Worm on Lamar on Friday and Saturday late nights. Mack plays all over, and is a warm, gracious man who puts on a great show. Look for him!
Venue: The Center for Southern Folklore, far and away. Judy Peyser maintains a little oasis a couple of blocks off of Beale that is much more authentic Memphis than just about anything you can find today on Beale. A daquiri bar, for crying out loud? Skip it. Go to the Center. No smoking in there, a great bowl of chili and hotwater cornbread, cold beer and real music. Daddy Mack plays there many Fridays. Judy puts on the best music festival in the city every Labor Day weekend (please-go back to including Mondays!). Everybody who's good performs, in every tradition, from the fun old pop of Smoochy and Hooch to the powerful harp of Big George Brock, from the inimitable Billy Gibson and David Bowen to the cool jazz of Renardo Ward's band The Promise, from the gospel of the Orange Mound Messengers to the country train songs of Roy Harper, to my pal DiAnne Price, there is absolutely something for everyone. The Beale Street Music Festival has the name; the Memphis Music and Heritage Festival has the musicians!
For radio, no question, it's WEVL, FM 89.9. My favorite is Cap'n Pete's Blues Cruise, 9 to midnite on Fridays. Delta to Chicago, oldest to newest, with just the right host. This is an education and joy every single week.
I still am waiting for Tater Red to get back on the radio. For years, the Beale Street Blues Show on Rock 103 was my Sunday night wind-down. But then Satanic media destroyers Clear Channel bought the station and wrecked everything good about it, Tater first. He moved over to 107.5, the Pig, an eclectic format, doomed for failure. We Memphians, as a group, don't like our own music. I can only surmise that we're too dumb to see (hear) what we consider a birthright. The Pig put Tater on mornings. Tater isn't a morning, sunshine, stupid cute banter guy. He's a late night, real blues, smokey room kind of guy. No body better at that. Come back, Leo! We need you!
Now, a bit of a left turn: on the internet, check out KALW out of San Francisco late on Monday nights. At 11 pm our time, they play Beale Street Caravan. They follow the Caravan with Mark Naftalin's Blues Power Hour. Then comes Fog City Blues, a really good show hosted by the improbably named Devon Strolovich. Go on Ebay, buy a pMarq stream recorder, set it for 180 minutes at 11 pm at cd quality. Thank me later! (any good audio converter will let you make the .wav file into an mp3, ready to be carried on your personal choice in players--just don't get anything in the abominable ipod line! Creative Vision:M, Creative Zen Micro or Zen MicroPhoto are all excellent, as are the iRiver iFP 799 or 899-I have them all, and recommend them all unreservedly-just stay away from the spawn of Satan ipod! Much like Andre Agassi, all style and marketing, no substance whatsoever!)
Now, take this information to heart, and go grow a soul!

Evangelism

We had a district preacher's meeting today. One of the issues on the agenda was evangelism. More specifically, the issue is the loss of membership in our district. The bulk of our district is the northern half of Memphis and Shelby County. We are a white, middle-class church. Memphis is an increasingly black, poor city. Our church has black congregations. For the most part, at least in our city, those congregations are very small. With the exception of a couple, their pastor's salaries have to be subsidized by the conference to provide something resembling a living wage. The couple that are larger and self-sufficient worship much more in the style of the white churches than the COGIC churches that dominate Memphis' black community.
With the exception of our one megachurch, our congregations in the city limits are old and shrinking. Most of our pastors, and I was one of them at two different churches, spend the majority of their time visiting hospitals and nursing homes, and holding funerals. Our people are good people. They have tried to live good lives. But the vast majority of them have turned the corner of life. I believe that our lives are shaped like diamonds. We spend a long period from the start with our world getting bigger and bigger. But at some point, we turn the corner, and our world starts to draw down again. As we age, deal with infirmity, and move toward the end, the world gets smaller and smaller. It is just not realistic to expect those whose world has become very small to find a way to change worship styles, change the identity of their church, and lay aside whatever biases have burdened their existence for 70, 80 or 90 years.
We predominantly white United Methodists don't relate well to African-Americans in worship. We don't relate well to hispanics in worship. Hell, we don't even speak their language. And the white people in the city of Memphis are moving out, if they are concerned about the school system or personal safety, or dying out if they feel that they are too old to move and start over. And our churches will continue to decline until all of them except for three or four wind up closed. And it has nothing to do with anyone's desire to do evangelism. It has everything to do with the cultural expressions of worship.
All this is frustrating.
What infuriates me is that I have been the same guy for the last 8 years. For the first six of those I was seen as a failure because my churches shrank and we did not pay our conference and general church apportionments. For the last two years I have been seen as stunningly effective and successful! My church is growing by leaps and bounds, and the finances are growing accordingly. We pay everything, and even turned a profit of $11,000 last year. I'm the same guy. I didn't have any sudden epiphanies that turned my performance around. I was just moved from a city neighborhood where there are very few options for the white church, to a bedroom community outside Shelby County where people-most all of them families with children-are flooding in to avoid putting their kids in the Memphis City Schools. Now I'm an evangelism expert!
One promise: I will never, ever, forget that so much of this is contextual. I have sat in workshops and presentations by colleagues who never did anything but get appointed to the communities that the white folks were running away to. They get so impressed with themselves for all their accomplishments. I was as good in 1999 as I am in 2007. No matter what the numbers said.
And shuffling the white folks from city to county and county to outlying area isn't evangelism.

Leave The Hammer Out Of It!

Henry Louis Aaron turned 73 a week ago. There is nothing that I can add to the reporting that has been done so ably on everything that Hank had to deal with in the run-up to April 8, 1974. That was the night that Al Downing grooved one, and the aging but still effective master pulled it over the left field fence in Atlanta-Fulton County Stadium. It was the 715th time The Hammer had parked one in the seats, and with it, the man from Mobile surpassed the greatest name in the history of American sport, seizing the most renowned record of all those held by athletes.
An awful lot of awful people did not want Hank to reach Babe Ruth's record, much less pass it. They were loud, profane and threatening in making their point. And in the face of all of it, Hank persevered.
Mr. Aaron has been a man of great dignity, grace and honesty for all of the years that his name has been known to the public. He has spoken truth to power on the opportunities for African-Americans in baseball, beyond the players' roster. He speaks with great credibility because Hank Aaron is not today, and never was, exaggerated. Hank didn't wear caps that were too small, so they would fly off in pursuit of fly balls. He is so smart that he positioned himself on defense so that he didn't need to dive for balls that were easily within his reach. He didn't swing so violently that he corkscrewed himself into the ground to ensure that everyone in the park would know how hard he was swinging. He knew that he could trust his magnificent wrists, and that maintaining control of the bat allowed him the best chance to hit the ball. Hank never struck out 100 times in a season. Reggie Jackson never had a season of 340 at bats without striking out more than 100 times. Hank never got the press that Willie Mays did; he just outplayed him in every facet of the game: 95 more home runs, almost 500 more hits, 101 more doubles, almost 400 more RBI, 112 more runs scored, 3 points higher in lifetime batting average, and 143 fewer strikeouts. Mays holds more Gold Gloves (12-3), but Hank played the bulk of his career up against the hot dog Mays, the manic Clemente and the elegant Curt Flood. Remarkable that the Home Run King won 3.
All of this matters because Hank Aaron is news again. If two creaky knees hold up, and the US Attorney's office holds off, Barry Bonds will break Hank's total of 755 homers this season. Bud Selig made news a few days ago when he let slip that he may not attend the games when Barry gets within a couple. I don't like Bud Selig, but Bud is a close and loyal friend to Hank Aaron, and has been since he brought Hank home to Milwaukee to end his brilliant career where it began in 1954. I appreciate Bud's feelings on the matter. I actually appreciate and respect his feelings on this matter. But I hope he goes. Otherwise, it will recall those days in 1973-1974 when former commissioner Bowie Kuhn had better things to do than respect Hank Aaron's accomplishment with his presence. Barry doesn't deserve to be cast in the role of victim.
Hank's presence, however, is a different story.
Ruth was long-since dead in 1974. There is no precedent in place, and that matters in baseball.
Charlie Steiner told on his marvelous XM Radio program, The Baseball Beat (channel 175, noon-2 cdt weekdays--plenty of reason enough to subscribe right there), of recently attending a dinner with Mr. Aaron. He posed the question, "Will you go?" Steiner reported that Hank sat quiet for a few moments, then responded that he expected he would be hounded with questions about whether or not Barry deserved the record, and that those questions would come whether he was in a succession of ballparks or at home. "I think I'll be more comfortable answering the questions at home," was the Hammer's final word.
And for all of us who wonder about Barry Bonds' place in the history of the game, Henry Louis Aaron's word is good enough for me. He earned the right to decide a long time ago.

Letterman and Me: 25 Years Together

I was 21 years old and almost exactly half of the way through college (yes, that's the 5 year plan) when one night Johnny Carson's genius was revealed to a new generation. I, well ok, all of us, met Dave and Paul. Actually we had some awareness of Paul. He had been on Saturday Night Live. The good version. But Dave was news. He spoke our language. He had our sense of humor.
Dave's favorite guest was Andy Kaufman. Andy may have been the strangest man who ever lived. And the funniest. Andy, like Dave, knew the world is full of crap, and deserves to be laughed at. It's the only way to get through without crying constantly.
Dave hired the ubiquitous Bill Wendell as his announcer. Wendell was old school TV. His voice, along with Don Pardo's (employed by Saturday Night Live) had introduced many, many shows for decades. He was reliable and predictable. He was a smokescreen for the mayhem to follow.
Pee Wee Herman, Harvey Pekar, Kaufman, Sandra Bernhart, Howard Stern-they were Dave's version of Carson's Benny, Hope and Groucho. Respect for traditions? I give you Larry "Bud" Melman!
One of my high moments was the night that the Andy Kaufman-Jerry Lawler feud found its way onto network television, with Jerry slapping the taste out of Andy's mouth after a run of classic wrestling promo insults. Andy responded with a totally bleeped diatribe, from behind Dave, where, theoretically, Lawler couldn't get at him. The classic Dave response followed Andy's rant: "I think you can say some of those words on tv."
Carson was rightly eulogized as the patron saint of three generations of comedians. Pryor, Carlin, Williams, Martin, and Letterman were all among those whose best early exposure was with Johnny. Now Dave has equalled if not exceeded Johnny's generosity. Dave still has Tom Dreesen on regularly. When did you last see Dreeson on any other show? Dave boosted Paula Poundstone, Jeff Altman, George Wallace, George Miller, Larry Miller, Steven Wright, Jake Johanson, Ray Romano, and a rat named Jay Leno.
When NBC betrayed Johnny Carson and David Letterman and promised the Tonight Show to the now spectacularly bland and unfunny Leno, Dave went to CBS and never missed a beat. He populated our world with Sirajul and Mujiber, Rupert Gee, Joe G from the pizza place and Grinder Girl and Hula Hoop Girl. He kept the brilliantly creepy Chris Elliot. Jay Thomas and Darlene Love make Christmas for me every year, with the quarterback challenge and "Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)" respectively. Who else could decorate a Christmas tree with a pizza, meatball, and miniature Empire State Building without drawing protests from the Ridiculous Right? And then knock the meatball off with a football the last show before Christmas?
We all hit middle age right behind Dave. His bypass surgery shook us all up. His hair changed color, and a lot of it departed, and we're all right there with him. He talks sometimes about the bad behavior of younger years, and we remember our own, thankful we survived it all. But still, he's funny.
Tonight, his 25th anniversary in late night tv, he again welcomed Bill Murray as his guest. Bill was the first guest on Late Night with David Letterman in 1982, the first guest on the Late Show with David Letterman in 1993, and many times in between. Bill's the perfect partner for Dave--same generation, same comic sensibilities, same staying power. Tonight they did a bit with CBS stuffed shirt Leslie Moonves. The masters even made that load funny.
Dave just re-upped through 2010. Interesting that NBC announced last year that Conan O'Brian will take over Tonight in 2009. Dave will continue beyond the man who owes his entire career to the best friend he stabbed in the back in 1992. Yes, Leno's ratings are higher than Dave's. But this is in the same country where Richard Nixon got more votes than Hubert Humphrey, Ronald Reagan beat Jimmy Carter, and George II was allowed to steal two elections from obviously superior men. Those voted Most Popular in High School often have difficult lives. Popularity means nothing in this country. Paris Hilton and Kevin Federline are, apparently, popular.
David Letterman is funny. My kind of funny. Has been for 25 years on late night tv. And my life has been better for his work. Through a divorce, work ups and downs, issues with teenagers, deaths of dear ones and all the other stuff that makes up the journey, I've been able to have a laugh before going to sleep. Thanks, Dave! Can I have another 25?

Sammy's Back!

Not very exciting, huh?
Can you believe that Sammy Sosa signing a new contract isn't exciting? Hard for me to imagine. If you've been under the sea for the last ten years, Sammy is the former Cubs' right fielder who has exceeded 60 home runs more than any other player in MLB history. He was the fan favorite who ran hard to rightfield every day. The guy who carried an American flag with him after 9-11. Who helped Mark McGwire through his grumpy days in 1998, and carried him to the most fun and most dramatic baseball duel in my lifetime.
But he's also the guy who used a corked bat. And is roundly suspected, if not presumed, to have used steroids to get to those heights. And, like McGwire, he wasn't helped by that day on Capitol Hill when Sammy forgot how to speak English. And that happened after he fell out with the Cubs and left the last game of 2004 while the game was just starting. Then there was the pitiful 2005 season in Baltimore.
Sammy is 38 now. He disappeared for a year. He has just signed a minor league deal with the Rangers. He's going home. The Rangers were his original organization. You may recall that a bone-headed owner in Texas once traded Sammy to the White Sox for a worn out, over the hill Harold Baines. That guy moved on to make bad decisions for the whole state of Texas, and is now responsible for the needless deaths of over 3,000 American men and women in a totally unjustifiable war in Iraq. It's a real, genuine shame that the people of our nation couldn't recognize that that buffoon couldn't run a baseball team, or any of several oil companies that he rode into the ground; why did anyone ever think this idiot could run a country? But I digress.
Sammy's gone home.
I hope he makes it.
I sat in the stands in Wrigley and watched Sammy charge out to right field. You can't fake that kind of hustle. I watched his reaction from the stands in Busch when Big Mac tied Maris, and then had the TV on the next night when Mac hit #62. You can't fake that kind of decency. I treasure that smile, bright enough to light a small city. You can't fake that kind of enthusiasm. Sammy was everything that's good about baseball.
I hope he can be again.
We Americans like to build people up. And then tear them down. But, perhaps most of all, we like to see them rise again. If people like Paris Hilton, who have never done anything but take up space in this world, can be forgiven to rise to great heights (she still ain't done nothing worth the air she uses up), then surely we can root for Sammy Sosa, the shoe polishing kid from the streets of the Dominican, who brought so much joy to so many people during his brilliant run with the Cubs. After all, Harry Caray defended Sammy relentlessly. And Harry's word was always good enough for me.
Good luck, Sammy. Here's one fan who's rooting for you, big time!