This is Beyond Baseball

It’s not every day that you get a phone call from the bleachers at Wrigley Field.

But that’s what happened to me today.

The call came from my son’s baseball coach who was in the middle of an 11-day baseball tour with his 11-year old.

About a month ago the coach told me about his plans and with each detail I became more and more envious.

The nine games they were going to see.

The trip to the real Field of Dreams.

Eleven consecutive days with just father and son.

Every detail was more perfect than the previous one.

Their trip began nearly a week ago when they hopped in the car and headed east.

One of the first stops was a minor league game in Cedar Rapids, at Perfect Game Field.

Unfortunately Mother Nature didn’t cooperate, but everything else was… perfect.

Well nearly perfect.

Cedar Rapids pitcher Stephen Locke, the 681^st player selected in the 2009 draft, walked one hitter, but didn’t allow any hits to treat the coach and his son to history.

There’s an old baseball saying that every time you come to the field you see something new.

But to see a no-hitter, live and in person, is something not many people experience, at any level.

Rain shortened the game to just five innings, but that didn’t take away any of the excitement.

In fact, during the long delay, the coach and his son were interviewed for more than 30 minutes by the local radio broadcast team, talking about the cross-country trip.

A no-hitter is a moment that movies are made of and when it comes to baseball and movies is there anything better than Field of Dreams?

When mapping out the trip, the coach and his son made sure the famed field in Iowa was part of their journey.

They spent nearly three hours there living out a real-life fantasy.

They played catch on the infield.

They both hit a ball into the cornfield.

Aside from a guest appearance by Joe Jackson or even Ray Liotta, it was another perfect day.

And I can’t think of anyone who deserves it more.

This is a man who treats each boy on our team like they are his.

He spends countless hours passing along the 411 that helped him play at the major college level and coach several years of high school baseball.

Our coach believes that winning a game at age 11 is not nearly as important as learning how to play the game, the right way.

He believes that his greatest victory will be watching the boys play at the next level, and beyond.

Amen.

His faith in the boys in only matched by his overall faith.

Those are not his words, just mine, but if you are around him for five minutes you will see a man who respects every moment of his life.

And he certainly understands how quickly it can be taken away.

During our first year with the team, our coach lost his wife to cancer.

His daughter and son lost a mom.

During that time, a time that must’ve been the most painful of his young life, I never saw anything but a smile come from his face.

I never heard and have NEVER heard a negative word come out of his mouth.

He finished that year, when nobody would’ve blamed him for doing anything but.

If Charles Barkley doesn’t want to be a role model, that’s fine with me.

My son has his.

(After me, I hope.)

Our coach has moved on in his life and has married a wonderful lady who suffered through similar misfortune.

But together they have continued to provide the love to their family (and ours) that one can only dream of.

I thought of the coach and his son last night while monitoring the game from Wrigley Field.

I knew they were there to see his favorite team.

The Cubs.

What I didn’t know is that they would see a power-packed game with 18 runs and 26 hits.

And I didn’t know they would see a game with five homers.

And I didn’t know they would see a game with a player stealing home.

You never know what’s going to happen at the ballpark.

The Boys of Spring... and Summer

My dad always said that a bases-loaded triple was the most exciting play in baseball.

As someone who worked for several Major League teams and saw literally thousands of games, he knew what he was talking about.

I remember him telling me that on that play, unlike any other, everybody on the field was moving.

It’s really a shame that my dad didn’t live long enough to see my son play because I have a feeling 11-year old baseball would’ve replaced the majors as his favorite game.

Through the four months of March through June, it pretty much consumes every weekend for us.

Yesterday marked the end of our season, but it wasn’t by choice.

We were playing in the State Tournament, with one game on Friday night and two on Saturday.

If we won two of the three, we would advance to the next round.  

Anything less and we would go home.

For eight months.

The odds were definitely against us.

This year our team played in the 11-year old triple-A division, but our first two games in the tournament were against teams who played in the 11-year old Major League division.

To keep these games on a schedule, we play six innings or an hour and 45 minutes, whichever comes first.

We led our first game 10-4 at one point, but little-by-little the other team battled back.

It was a 10-9 game in the bottom of the 5th inning when the clock struck an hour and 44 minutes and 30 seconds.

30 more seconds and that would officially mark the last inning of the game.  

We would still need to get the final out to win or they could score two more runs to do the same.

But the game would be over at the end of that inning.

Well, not so fast.

With the tying run on third base and two outs, the coach of the other team went DEEP into the rule book to take baseball to another level.

With time running out, he ordered his batter to sprint from the batter’s box into the dugout.

Once he reached the dugout, he was called out, for the third out of the inning.

But since he did it, before time ran out, the game would not be over and we would continue for another inning.

Honestly, I’ve watched A LOT of baseball in my life and I have NEVER seen anything like this.

The 11-year boy, who had a chance to be a hero, was told loud and clear by his coach:

YOU ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH TO GET A HIT.  GET OFF THE FIELD. 

NOW!

The boy heard it, so did his parents and so did everybody else watching the game.

Unfortunately the bad guys rallied for two runs in the bottom of the next inning to beat us 11-10.

Their coach must be so proud.

The second game of the tournament was equally heartbreaking for us.

We entered the final inning down 6-3.

We scraped together two runs then loaded the bases with one out.

Our cleanup hitter was up and all we pretty much needed was for him to put the ball in play and the game would be tied.

Well, put it in play anywhere but where he did.

He smashed the ball right back at the pitcher, who stabbed it, threw home for one out and then the catcher threw to first for a double play.

1-2-3.

Just like that, our chances of advancing were over.

I know it’s just a game.

And it’s all for fun.

And blah blah blah.

But these games do mean a lot.

To the kids.  To the coaches.  To the parents.  

To me.

With all of the time and energy we invest, this team has truly become a part of our life.

Without getting too emotionally off track here, those two devastating losses just felt like another spoiled cherry on top of my melted sundae.

I am really looking forward to celebrating something, anything, before my clock runs out.

Maybe I should grab my bat and run off the field as quickly as possible to start another inning.

Ok, the pity party is over, now back to the action.

Fortunately (or unfortunately) we still had one game left in the tournament, where, as our coach told the kids, we were “playing for pride.”

As was the other winless team.

We kinda walked through the motions for the first few innings, then kicked it into high gear.

In my son’s second at bat, he got beaned in the foot.

It was the eighth time in the last eight games he had been hit and the 12th time this year, an amazing run of bad luck which had become a running joke on the team.

After getting hit this time, my son turned to the bench, from his knees, and held up one finger with his right hand and two fingers with his left.

And he smiled from ear-to-ear, making sure everybody knew that he had reached a dozen, and that he was ok with it.

The game would go on, as it always does, and we would eventually grab a pretty good lead, something like 8-2.

The next time my son would come up would be his final at-bat of the season.  

After all, the clock was ticking.

The bases were loaded and whatever happened would be my son's lasting impression of his 11-year old baseball season.

The count would become full, three balls and two strikes.

And then.

KABOOM!

A high-flying blast down the left-field line.

After it finally landed, it would roll within a few feet of the 305 foot sign at the fence.

Everybody was in full motion.

When the play had ended, all three runs had scored and my son was resting on third with a stand-up triple.

A bases-loaded triple, the most exciting play in baseball.

Somewhere my dad is smiling.

A Day In The Life

Disclaimer:

If you are a parent, you will probably do a lot of nodding during this blog.  

If you don’t have any kids, you will probably do a lot of nodding off.

Either way, I hope you enjoy it. 

It is Sunday night and we just completed a marathon.

Not a real marathon, that’s too much work, but...

It all began Friday night with game one of my son’s weekend baseball tournament.

Following a satisfying win and an even more satisfying meal with the family, we got back home at around 9:30.

It was a quick lights out as the alarm clock was scheduled to go off at 5:50am to get us ready for game two.

A quick lights out for everybody but me.

I’ve always been a night owl and no matter what is scheduled for the next day, I always have a hard time getting to bed early.

I have this little unwritten rule in my head though, as long as I sleep five hours or more, I am fine.  

Four hours and 59 minutes or less and it is guaranteed to be a two coffee day.

For this night, my goal was Midnight 50.

This time I made it, but barely.

For the last five plus months, the highlight of my day is getting everybody to sleep so I can sit down at the computer and put together a new blog.

Hey whatever keeps you happy, right?

That process usually takes about an hour, but Friday night I was writing blog #100, so I wanted it to be extra special.

For this one I set aside 75 minutes.

Bottom line, I made it to bed just in time to satisfy the five-hour rule.

My son’s tournament was about 40 minutes from our house, so when you factor in a coffee stop and getting lost, we were up with the roosters.

Usually our coach wants the kids there an hour before each game, but with a quick turnaround, he said we could get to the 8:00am game by 7:30.

How does 7:42 sound?   Damn directions.

That was just the beginning of a Saturday to remember:

 5:50am -- Alarm clock goes off

 6:30am -- Try to leave for my son’s game

 6:55am -- Actual departure time

 8:00am -- Weekend baseball game #2

10:00am -- My wife leaves the baseball game to get my oldest daughter to her dance practice and my youngest daughter to her tee ball game

11:15am -- Dance Practice

12:00pm -- My son’s second baseball game of the day, third baseball game in 19 hours

1:00pm  -- My youngest daughter’s first tee ball game of the year

By 2:00pm I was ready for a nap, but there’s no time for that.

On the way home, my son and I stopped at my mom’s assisted living facility for a quick visit and to get her to take care of some monthly paperwork.

With my weekdays now being gobbled up by work -- what an inconvenience that is -- I needed to carve out some time this weekend for mom.

So my son and I stopped there, which was fortunately on the way home.  We spent about 20 minutes saying hello, how are you, sign here and be well.

From there, we made a quick pit stop at the gas station, followed by the grocery store to pick up some food to throw on the barbie.

Those errands got us home by 4:30ish, just in time to flip on the grill, make dinner for the family and inhale a meal.

But wait there’s more.

While cooking, the email came in from the other members of my new band, The Clearance Rack, that tonight was the night they wanted to practice.

Really?   Cool.

It would be pretty diva of me to say I was too tired for band practice, right?   Even though I am the lead singer and all that.

So after I got the kids to bed, I made a quick late night stop at Starbucks for a half-caf something or other and I headed to the studio.

(Well its actually a garage, but studio sounds more official.)

Two hours and three new songs later, practice was over.

By this point, the clock had struck, Sunday.

As in Sunday -- day three of my son’s baseball tournament, which brought another 5:50am wake up call.

If I left band practice immediately, I might’ve, just might've made it home just in time to get my five hours of sleep.

But nooooooooooooo.   We had to have a philosophical conversation in the parking lot about music.

That’s so Axl!

I love being in a band.

Thanks to the iPhone and youtube, we were able to watch and listen to both Nick Lowe’s Cruel to be Kind and Marshall Crenshaw’s Someday Someway without any interruption.

Of course by this point, the clock was ticking.

I got back in my car my Midnight 45ish, well aware that I would be lucky to get even four hours of sleep.

What an exhausting day!

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Batter Up

It’s amazing what you can learn at the batting cage.

You can learn how to keep your hands back.

You can learn how to keep your head in.

You can also learn all about psychology.

More on that in a moment.

A few days ago, my eleven year old son and I went to the batting cage to work on his swing.

It took him about one pitch to get frustrated.

Ok, maybe three.

That’s how I knew he was my son.

When I was his age, I had the maturity of... an eleven-year old.   

So watching his temper kick in feels like I’m watching an old black and white movie get re-made into color.

But this time I’m a supporting actor instead of the star.

God rest the souls of the wooden tennis rackets that lost their innocent lives about 32 years ago by being slammed into the concrete by an immature child.

Come to think of it, I was A LOT worse than he is.

After ten rounds in the cage -- which included me walking away, him yelling at me, me trying hard (and somehow succeeding) to not yell at him, me walking back, me yelling at him and him yelling back -- we calmly sat down in the car to talk about how it went.

At first, it sounded like Happy Hour at the Excuse Bar & Grill:

• I couldn’t see the ball
• The machine threw bad pitches
• It was going too fast
• It was going too slow
• You don’t help me enough

And that was just the first round.

Now before I continue, let me say loud and clear, my son is a GREAT kid and is quickly developing into an even better baseball player.

He loves the game, respects the game and most of all believes that he is going to be a major leaguer someday.

Just like we all did.

I’m not sure he understands yet the work that it’s going to take to play even high school ball, but I hope that I don’t get in the way of his dreams.

The good news is even after all of our battles, I still believe in him as a player and he still believes in me as a dad.

While we were sitting in my car, I had a flashback to one of my recent therapy sessions, where we discussed controlling what you can control and not wasting your time on the things you can’t.

What a simple concept.

What a difficult execution.

So I asked my son, "when you are in the batter’s box, what can you control?"

“Your swing,” he said.

Good start.

I asked if he could control where the pitch is going.

My mom once told me, never ask a question you don’t know the answer to.

“No,” he said.

So, then why are you so concerned about the machine throwing bad pitches?

If it’s a bad pitch, don’t swing at it.

Wow, if life was only that easy.

I learned when I was managing people, if you can set up bad news with a nugget of good news, it has a lot better chance of being accepted.

Managing kids is no different.

I told my son that when he kept his hands back and his head in, he really crushed the ball.

Which he did.

I then reminded him that we all have only a certain amount of energy and if we waste that energy on negative things or things we can’t control -- like making the machine throw better pitches -- we won’t have any energy left to do positive things, like crush the ball.

My therapist must be so proud.

I guess all that time I was staring at the wall, I actually was paying attention.

By the time my son and I were done with our conversation, there was so much bonding going on, you would’ve thought Sean Connery and Roger Moore were in the car.

I asked my son if he wanted to go take five more rounds.

Once again, never ask a question you don’t know the answer to.

Ten minutes later, we headed home, as a better hitter and better friends.

I’d call that a home run.

So What Would You Do?

It’s time to play the game that’s sweeping the nation:

• So What Would You Do?

A couple of days ago, I was playing a game of video baseball in the basement with my son.  He won 5-2 on an opposite field three-run homer in the bottom of the eighth.

Cheater.  But I digress.

As I’m headed upstairs, I notice that the area where my autographed baseballs are displayed looks a little empty.  

As I go to check it out, I notice there are three balls out of their cases, sitting in the open air on the counter.

One of the balls was signed by Joe Dimaggio & Mickey Mantle, one was signed by Pete Rose and one was signed by a bunch of people I couldn’t read.

As I headed that way, I could hear my son gasp.

These balls, handed down from my dad, hold some serious sentimental value, in addition to some serious financial value as well.

So seeing them on the counter with no protection really freaked me out.

• So What Would You Do?

Before you answer, here’s what I did.

I used my outdoor voice, inside my basement, to politely ask my son what happened.

I think he figured out pretty quickly, the video games were over.

He mumbled something about his older sister blah blah blah.

Within seconds, my wife heard the noise explosion and ran down the stairs faster than Usain Bolt.

For the next few moments, it sounded like an AM radio station around two in the morning. 

You could hear some words, but nothing made sense.

• So What Would You Do?

Well, I went nuts.  Crazy nuts!

I don’t recall the exact dialogue, but if the kids ever get a spelling test on the vocabulary of Andrew Dice Clay, they should do very well.

Not my proudest moment.  By far.

Of course I could blame my outburst on the stress of being unemployed, but I’ll save that chip for another blog.

Somewhere in the screaming, I heard more excuses than a session of Congress during the health care debate.

I heard son, daughter, nephew, niece, George Bush -- he’s to blame for everything, right?

Finally, the truth came out.  

The culprit was my six-year old daughter.

Apparently my sweet innocent little angel and future soccer star was kicking the ball in the basement a few weeks earlier.

A few WEEKS earlier.

One of her shots was just a bit outside when it broke three of the plastic cases with one shot.   

Now that’s a talent.

• So What Would You Do?

I think what fumed me more than anything was the cat and mouse game of trying to find out what had really happened.

Had I known right away that my youngest daughter had broke it like Beckham, I would’ve reacted a lot better.

Well, at least a little better.

After a few unpleasant moments, which felt like a lot of unpleasant moments, the volume of the discussion finally came down.

And when it did, with my blood still boiling, I headed straight upstairs to my daughter’s disaster, called her bedroom and I....

...cleaned her room.

Spotless.

I put all her toys away, folded her clothes and threw away a bags worth of trash. 

I’m not really sure how I ended up there, but it was the perfect therapy, giving me a chance to cool down.

About 30 minutes later, I reopened the door and moved on with day.

• So What Would You Do?

Take Me Out To The Ball Game

I’ve played a lot of ball in my day and one thing I learned at a very young age was not to be cocky.

I kinda learned it the hard way.

I was at a baseball camp when I was about 11 years old, the same age as my son, when we were doing a drill catching fly balls.

To this day, I can remember shooting my mouth off about how boring that drill was. 

Somewhere in the infield, a coach was loading the machine, launching balls our way.

When it got to my turn, I heard the sound, but I never saw the ball.  

The next thing I knew, it was a Batman episode.

Pow!!!... Bam!!!... Zonk!!!

The ball smashed directly into that soft spot between my eyes, right above my nose.

For whatever reason, it didn’t hurt me at all, but it sure destroyed my pride.

And definitely woke me up.

From that point forward, I have always made it a priority to shut my mouth.  I certainly have it in me to jab at people, but I always remind myself that what comes around goes around.

At last check, I am still human and unfortunately I still need a reminder from time-to-time.

Fast forward to last weekend, when my son and I went to go see a local major league baseball game.

It was a chilly day, but thankfully our seats were in the sun.

For the first inning.  

That meant for the second inning, we moved, back into the sun, right next to the foul pole.

As our luck would have it, within a pitch or two, a fly ball came our way and landed about 10 feet from us, just barely in foul territory. 

The left fielder came over, picked up the ball and flipped it right to my son.

That’s the good news.

The bad news is at the last second, some other kid ran over, reached out and grabbed the ball out of mid-air, putting my son into tears.

They were tears on the inside, ones that only a father could see, but it was like watching his heart get ripped out, right in front of me.

Strike one.

Like any supportive father, I put my arm around him and...

...gave him the speech about, “in life, you gotta want it.”

“That other boy wanted it more than you did.  You waited for the ball to come to you.  He went out and got it.”

As the words were coming out of my mouth, I was telling myself, SHUT UP, but I just couldn’t stop.

There are times for lectures, but THAT WASN’T IT!

Within another inning or so, the sun had disappeared again, so we moved to the other side of the stadium -- front row in the right field pavilion.

As our luck would have it, our right fielder threw a ball into the crowd at the beginning of each inning.

We were in the perfect place at the perfect time.

Within moments of sitting down, he locked in on my son and tossed the ball right at him.

This time, my son reached out and raised his glove high in the air to make the catch, but the ball went higher than he expected.

Fortunately I was there to make the play and save the day.

I lifted my hands up, but as I waited for the ball to get to me, yep, somebody reached out and snagged it away.

Like son, like father.

I looked at him, waiting for the “you gotta want it” speech, but I got nothing.  

Except for puppy dog eyes.

Strike two.

I could not believe it happened twice.  I could not believe we had nothing to show for it, but I really could not believe that my son didn’t rub it in.

Then again, he didn’t have to.

The good news is that there were still a couple of innings left, which meant hopefully one more chance to get a ball.

And sure enough, that chance came.

This time the throw was a little short, but my son was determined.

He reached out for the ball -- he REALLY wanted it -- stretching his arm out as far as it could go.

But the ball tipped off the front of his glove and deflected away from him.

Right into my hands.

It was teamwork at its finest.

I handed him the ball, but you would’ve thought it was the Hope Diamond.

I immediately told him had he not reached out to get the ball, it would never have hit his glove and would’ve never bounced my way. 

It was one of those special father/son moments that nobody can ever take away.

And he has a ball to show for it.

More Than A Game

I’ve never claimed to be a journalist.

Yes, I’ve worked in the “media” for the last quarter century, but the more you learn about the media, the more you learn that there are very few journalists left.

The new goal of the new media is plain and simple, promote and make money.

If you happen to break some significant story along the way, good for you, as long as you get ratings or sell papers.

My training, to not-be-a-journalist, began all the way back in high school, when I worked for the school newspaper...

... at the same time I played on the school baseball team...

... while writing the articles for the school newspaper...
... on the school baseball team.

If that’s not journalism, then I don’t know what is.

I was the guy who wrote the article when the third baseman made seven errors in one game.

Of course that third baseman was me.

Shockingly, there was no mention of any of those errors in the article.

Not journalism.  Check.

The reason I bring this up, is that I’m about to not be a journalist when writing about my son’s latest baseball game.

I'm going to be a dad.  A very proud dad.

This was no ordinary baseball game.

This was our chance to face the undefeated first place team.

And in the 11-year old Triple-A league, EVERY game matters, especially for the coaches.

I am in my second season as an assistant coach for my son’s team, one of the real perks of unemployment.

It’s basically my job to chew sunflower seeds, sit on the bench and hope that my son can carry out my unfinished dreams.

Well tonight, he hit a home run.

Not literally, but just about.

With our team trailing 8-1, the real coach put my son into pitch.

Normally he is the catcher, but he’ll play anywhere, as long as he gets dirty.  

He pitched nearly three innings giving up just one run and a couple of hits.

Meanwhile, the other team brought in their ace reliever to close the game.   I didn’t get a good view of his face, but his arm moved like a fifth grade Nolan Ryan.

On most days, you could probably get the car keys ready.

But not today.

We enjoyed a stretch where eight of ten hitters reached base scoring six times to make it a real game.

Then in our next at bat, down two with two out and two on -- the great Vin Scully would say that the deuces were wild -- my son came up to the plate with a chance to be a hero.

And a hero he was.

On the first pitch, he hit a booming fly ball to deep left-center field, landing just out of the reach of the center fielder, scoring both runners to tie the game.

My son’s final inning of pitching was a quick one, recording three outs on six pitches.

That set up the dramatic conclusion to this come-from-behind victory when we scored the game-winning run with two outs in the bottom of the inning on a double that landed just inside fair territory.

To paraphrase Harry Caray -- Bears Win, Bears Win.

Since we joined this team four years ago, we have had plenty of wins and plenty of losses, but the experience has been incredible.

We play for a coach who is not trying to make the next eight or nine or ten year old Barry Bonds, but rather he is trying to give each and every player on our team the opportunity to play high school baseball.

He teaches them the game.   He teaches them the signs.   He teaches them how to be a baseball player.

And why not.  In his previous life he was a high school teacher AND a high school baseball coach.

At not just any high school, but Columbine High School, circa 1999.

As his luck would have it, he was off campus exactly 11 years ago, when Columbine became the most famous high school in the world, for ALL the wrong reasons.

Our coach is one of the most caring and pleasant gentle men you will ever meet.

We are so lucky to call him our coach, but I feel even more fortunate to call him a friend.

But even with our great relationship, I have only had the guts to bring up the events of April 20, 1999 just one time.

We talked briefly about how he was at a seminar that day, the day that high school changed forever.

Grease was no longer the word.  Help was.

He’s moved on from Columbine, but I doubt Columbine could ever move on from him.

How could it.

When my son returned to the dugout after his game-tying hit, I gave him a hug.

To him, it was a sign that he had done well on the baseball field.

To me, it was a hug.  With my son.

If we learned anything from that most tragic day, it was hopefully to hug our kids.

It’s amazing what the game of baseball can teach you.

Final score, 10-9.   Good guys.