Subdivided We Stand Meets Marathon Man

Brush With Greatness

Ok, so the Steeler game was a little dull on Saturday night.  I amused myself with three return trips to the pre-game buffet, which marked a personal best in press-box gluttony.  Next week I go for four.  And then, one for the thumb.

I also set a new personal record for trips out onto the field -- four.  If you noticed a handsome guy on the sidelines in a yellow tie, that was me. 

But the high point, and perhaps the high point of my life this far, was coming face-to-face with none other than...

I ran into him just outside of the locker room, as he was getting ready to make an entrance.  Now I'm no expert on body language, but I have to tell you that Steely seemed...a little tentative.  Like the look of somebody who's going to go out and get abused by 57,000 people.

Integrity of the Game

What's the best thing you ever received in the mail?

Hands down the best thing I ever received was postmarked in Atlanta, Georgia in January 1974. 

I can still recall the thrill of it, of feeling the weight, the stiffness of the envelope, guessing and knowing what was inside.  Of carefully tearing it open and my eyes widening at the crisp colorful picture that was inside.  The bat on the shoulder, the deep blue and stark white uniform.  His smiling eyes looking right at me.  The number 44.

And most important of all, the simple way he signed it.

Best wishes to Joe.

Hank Aaron.  Hank Aaron wrote back to me.

It was 1969 and I had the sports page sprawled out on the floor of our new house, and my dad was sitting up on that side of the couch where he always sat. It didn't provide my dad the clearest view of the TV, but it used to provide him easy access for his wheelchair and that's why he chose the spot. He said, "You see that picture of that ballplayer there?"

That one?  I pointed at the picture.

"You should follow him.  Someday he's going to break Babe Ruth's home run record."

That's all I needed to know.  From that point on I closely followed Hank Aaron.  I tracked his progress daily during the baseball season.  I watched as he surpassed Willie Mays, and hit 600 homers, then 700.  And got within striking distance of the Babe right before the 1973 season ended. I followed him with my dad.  And when my dad died in 1973 I kept my eyes on Hank Aaron.  Got a dog that year, just a month after my dad was gone.  My mom knew I needed some company coming home from school to an empty house.  His official name on the papers: Henry Aaron Kelly.

I called him Hank.

That's what I told Hank Aaron in the letter that I wrote to him after the 1973 season had ended.  When he had reached 713.  I hoped he didn't take it the wrong way, my naming my dog after him.  My dog Hank was the most important thing in my life. And following Hank Aaron and pulling for him was my passion.  I wished him good health and a successful spring training to be strong and ready for the 1974 season.

I knew later that he received many letters that year, many supportive letters just like mine.  And he and his secretary opened and answered every one.  He received many hateful letters, too.  His secretary wished he didn't read those.  But he did.

It's good to have a hero.  Especially when the hero is strong and true and won't let you down.

I was in my jammies that April night in 1974 and feeling fortunate that the Dodgers and Braves game was nationally televised.  He would do it.  There'd be no doubt.  I remember sitting in that same place my dad would sit, that corner of the couch. 

Watch him turn on the ball from Al Downing.  It's gone in a moment.  Watch the guys in the Atlanta bullpen leap up and down.  One of them, Tom House, grabbed the ball and returned it to the man.  Watch him round second, heading for third, and the two young white guys running up behind him. Look at the immediate relief on his face when he sees that they aren't there to harm him. He's exhausted and drained and not at all sorry to know that it's over.  He reached the top.  Right on time.  Delivered as requested.  Live through what he lived through, the threats, the hate.  The commissioner wasn't there in Atlanta to see it happen.  Balance that with the overwhelming support and love from his fans and teammates. He was there powerfully alone.

I've heard that he's been recently called a coward by sportswriters, by sports talk radio hosts and listeners.  Because he won't happily jump on the Barry Bonds performance enhancement comprising bandwagon. I would like the chance to meet the man who would call Hank Aaron a coward.  I would like to see the man say it to his face. Better yet, I would like to hear him say it in the presence of my kids.  He would know the meaning of the word apeshit as it rains down on his ass.

There is no comparison between Hank Aaron and Barry Bonds.  It saddens me that there is little chance that the world will honor what Aaron did as his record is surpassed by Bonds and an asterisk.  I honestly don't have any ill feelings toward Barry Bonds.  He has had an amazing baseball career, through thick and thin.  I don't know what to believe, and with little more than overwhelming circumstantial evidence that he used steroids, I don't have a firm opinion about what to do with his records. He is emblematic of an era.  An era that looked the other way as the profits rolled in.

Notice the new mantra, the new rationalization as Barry Bonds approaches Hank Aaron's mark: He wasn't the only one using.  Bonds was merely the best one doing it.

We see people look the other way every day and absolve and reconcile cheating and bending the rules in order to avoid controversy and put winning above everything.  I've been watching it happen in business, in real estate deals, and even at the local little league baseball level.  Our local league leadership sanctions a year-round team of "selected" players and coaches to practice and play games outside of the league, and then allows the coaches and the players on that team to automatically become the post-season all-stars to represent the league in the international summer tournament.  Little League baseball doesn't allow that type of process under its rules.  The national organization believes that it's not fair and it undermines the regular league season, and marginalizes the majority of local players.  I think Little League is right.  The parents and coaches and league leadership know the year-round select team is not allowed.  They know it violates the rules.  But they allow it.  Here's why:

"Everybody does it."

In order to compete successfully, in order to have a shot at winning, we must do what everybody else does.  We must look the other way.

Maybe it's me.  Maybe I'm the one stuck in the past.  Maybe I'm not made for the Bonds era.  If the rules don't allow for winning, for superiority, for victory, for money, for getting ahead...then what good are they?

Records are made to be broken.  These days we need to bend the rules first in order to break them.

He was there for me when I needed him. I'll stand on the side that Hank Aaron stands on any day.

Another Season of (Yawn) Bucco Baseball

Let the sucking commence.

My prediction for the 2007 season?  A whopping 63 wins coupled with 99 losses.

Oh, sure, you could point out the addition of Adam LaRoche, and the effects of a full season of Freddy Sanchez and Ronnie Paulino, and the improvement of the starting pitching over the last half of the season, and the Bob Prince theory of hidden vigorish, but the fact of the matter is that this organization blows goats, and would prefer to continue blowing goats for profit over not blowing goats and possibly breaking the .500 mark.  Not one damn soul in that front office or on the field gives a rats arse about winning ball games.  The owners make a profit, and the players mark time in baseball Siberia until they're freed from their indentured servitude and can go play elsewhere.

All of which may be good news for area goats, but for those of us who prefer not to spend major league money on (at best) a triple-A product, we'll be staying home.

Last year marked the first year since 1969 that I did not attend at least one Pirate game.  During most of the intervening years, I'd say that I averaged between 15 and 20 games -- and in many of those years, I organized one or more group outings with upwards of 20 attendees.

Not no more, though.  If I get the urge to blow a big pile of money, I'll just take $100 and set it on fire in the backyard.  Not only will it be more entertaining than a Pirate game, the beer selection will be better.

All bets are off, however, if the Kellys (or any other out-of-town friends) come to town.  I enjoy showing off our beautiful ballpark to out-of-towners.  Too bad what goes on between the foul lines there is so dreadful.

The good news, though, is that if the Pens go deep into the playoffs, the Bucs will already be eliminated from playoff contention by the end of hockey season -- meaning that we can go straight from ignoring the Bucs due to hockey right into ignoring them because of Steelers mini camp. 

UPDATE:

Wow, great win last night!  I'm on the bandwagon!  Go Buccos.  Whoo!

The Bucs are goin'
all the way
all the way
all the way.
Yes the Bucs are goin'
all the way.
All the way this year!

Scenes from a Little League Summer Part 2

We lost one kid to a beach vacation with his family.  Lost another kid who went on a trip to Europe.  Another came down with an asthma attack on the eve of our final game at the states.  All three were strong players.  My starting outfield. Our team was down to the minimum of just 9 guys.  Pretty pathetic circumstances for a team that's supposed to be trying to win the championship of a state in which they don't reside.

We were screwed and I knew it plainly.

So my pre-game speech was less, shall we say, enthusiastic than my previous pre-game speech when I equated our opponents with vermin.

"Guys.  This is like a birthday dessert with cake AND ice cream.  But in all the excitement about blowing out the candles and serving the cake...and by the way...it's not just any old store bought cake, it's a cake that somebody's mom made, and she's like a gourmet cake baker.  So it's really quite special.  Anyway, they serve the cake and midway through eating the cake somebody says, "Hey!  We forgot the ice cream." That's like us today.  We've already had the cake, and it was great.  Now...who wants ice cream?"

My son was pitching, and he throws the ball pretty hard.  He's one of our team's top pitchers.  In the first inning he walks a couple of batters and is beginning to lose it a little bit when a pitch gets away from the catcher and a runner scores.  But he calms down when he strikes out a batter. Then he had two strikes against a particularly big kid who was batting fifth but who seemed to be unable to catch up to my son's pitches. 

Until the third pitch.

The ball sails into the deep woods that surrounds the fence in the deepest part of center field.  It's a majestic, awe-inspiring, deflating shot.  We never witnessed something like that before.  Our team is done...and it's only the first inning.

I hoped that I didn't have to go out to the mound so early to give some words to calm my son down, but I did.  But wasn't really necessary that I went.  Our shortstop was there, too, and was already trying to buck up his pitcher.

"Come on, it's all right.  It's like this is our dessert, see..."

I went back to the dugout.  Situation managed by the players.

*****

"I don't want to be the last batter," the boy said.  But we had no choice.  "It's okay," I said.  "Give your best shot."  We were down to 9 guys, with two outs, runner on third.  Ten runs down.  The game was about to end early under the mercy rule.  Our number eight hitter that day was up, a tough, always smiling, goofy kid who was also our youngest guy and usually a substitute player.  But he's going to be a great player soon. He's a hacker, crowding the plate...always up there to swing.  Except for those times when he was hit by pitches this summer for, um, crowding the plate.

The kid gets up there and draws two quick strikes.  Then he proceeds to foul off pitch, after pitch, after pitch, after pitch.  Battling, getting so close to driving the ball and prolonging the game. 

Until he fouls the last one off into the catcher's mitt to end the game and end our summer run.

My fellow coach and I, and the team parents, are obviously relieved.  The heat is up around 100 and the prospects of sleeping another night far away from home in a distant I-95 exit motel is not very appealing anyway.  We were ready for this to end. 

But of course our feelings might've been different if we thought we had a chance to win.  It's a tricky dilemma.  Try to place it all in perspective and you remind yourself that winning isn't that important.  Playing is more important than winning.

Winning just makes everybody feel better.  That's all.  It's infinitely easier to tolerate than losing. Winning rarely deserves an explanation or summation.

As we pack up the equipment I see that our last batter, the battling kid who didn't want to be the last batter, sitting on the bench with his cap over his eyes.

"I don't believe what I'm seeing," I said.  "You?  The toughest kid on the team?  Upset?"

"I made the last out."

"I know.  Nobody wants to do that.  Nobody does." 

I told him how there was nobody else I'd rather see up there fighting, taking great swings, battling against the odds. 

"But you know what?  All of your teammates won't get to be here next year.  They'll be too old.  You've still got another year.  You'll be the experienced veteran.  And it'll be you who might have to put your arm around some 9 year old in a similar situation next year or some other time in the future and say...'You did really well and I'm so proud of you. And there's nobody else I'd rather see up there, taking great swings.'"

There were free hot dogs and drinks waiting for us at the concession stand.  And there was ice cream, too.   

Scenes from a Little League Summer Part 1

"I thought we were playin' the DC champion," the Little League tournament guy from the three county area in Southern Maryland said when our team arrived at the ball field.

The baseball team that I coached this summer of 9 and 10 year olds, including my youngest son, had in fact won the DC title and was set to play in unfamiliar territory on its way through the brackets of the Maryland state championship.  I was a little confused by the tournament fellow's remark, but I surmised the direction he was going.

"We are the DC team," I replied.

"Really?  Cause you don't look like a team from DC."

Let it sink in for a beat. 

Oh!  HA-HA!  I get it! That's some charming wit.

DC means BLACK people to this hick from Southern Maryland.  And we've got an all-white team.  We're back in George Wallace country again!  Maybe I should play along but I let it slide.

There's a coin toss to determine home and visitor.  You'd think that most teams that win the toss would pick home in order to get last at-bats.  But you'd be mistaken.  At this level many confident coaches want to get first at-bats so they can bury their opponent early.  I lose the coin toss, like I always seem to do, and our opponent coach grins at me and slyly says, "We'll be the visitor."

They must feel very confident.

During our pre-game warm-ups, Rebecca and my oldest boy are sitting at a covered picnic table area listening to this conversation between two of the opposing team moms who are speculating on the quality of the team their boys will be playing that day:

"Do you think they are any good?"

"I got a look at their line-up and there are a lot of Jewish names and you know THEY aren't very good at baseball."

I normally give a mild-mannered, let's be respectful of our opponents, let's keep everything in perspective speech to our players before games.  I took a different tact that day:

"What's the lowest creature you can think of?" I asked the guys.

"A bug."

"Worm!"

"A snake!"

"A rat."

"Vermin!"

"That's right!  Vermin," I say.  "The lowest form of crappy life that infects our planet.  They are pests, they serve no purpose but to bother us and cause trouble.  What do we do with vermin?"

"Crush them!  Destroy them!  Exterminate them!  Show them no mercy.  No respect.  No mercy!"

Our kids loved it. 

(Their parents who were standing behind the screen didn't necessarily appreciate it, though, I could tell.)

But hey. 

We swept that overly confident team in two games, exceeding our expectations (because we didn't have any expectations), and we went on to play in the Maryland state championship.

Tragedy in Steelers Nation

What's the proper way to show our grief over the injury to Big Ben?

My first thought -- self-flagellation with out Terrible Towels.  But while I'm sure there are people out there doing this at this very moment, I've decided it's a little extreme.  (At the other end of the spectrum are the people who, and I swear I'm not making this up, are actually tailgating -- with hibachi in full effect -- outside Mercy Hospital at this very moment.)

Perhaps a better, more positive way to show our support would be for us all to go out and tie yellow (and black) ribbons 'round our old oak trees.  That's a nice, empty gesture that always seems to make us feel better.

But then again, maybe it's a little too Tony Orlando and Dawn.

Then it hit me.  The perfect way to show our support for Big Ben.  Oh, perhaps it's been done before, but I say if something works, stick with it.

So c'mon, Pittsburgh.  Let's go throw garbage on Tommy Maddox's lawn.

Do it for Ben.

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In other news, my little bottle of Galliker's 2% reduced fat milk contains CALCIUM TO THE EXTREME!

Marconi Plays the Tamba

Been too busy to post much from out here in the City by the Bay^TM, the City Built on Rock and Roll, the City of the Aggressive Panhandler...will try to post a wrap-up tomorrow.  Pretty uneventful this time, actually, although my Golden Gate Park experience was interesting...

Anyhoo, until I get a few more seconds, I invite you to read this article from The Sporting News.  Even if you're not a sports fan, or a Penn State fan in particular, I think you'll agree that Tamba Hali is an amazing story. 

Last Supper

There's a restaurant in my hometown.  Pretty good place, at least by reputation -- and for years, people have come from all over to eat there.

It's always been a source of pride to those of us in the community.  Sure, there are better, more successful restaurants -- but this one's ours, and we love it.

Over the years, we've had many, many memorable meals at our little restaurant.  Some forgettable ones, too, but that's what happens in a place that serves real food made by real people.  Sometimes, you get magic, and sometimes there's a little something lacking.  Maybe the chef had an off day.  Maybe the waiter had a fight with his wife just before coming in, and wasn't in the mood for the usual niceties.  But hey, you want perfection in your mediocrity, go to Olive Garden.  As for me, I'll roll the dice and suffer the inconsistencies in order to occasionally have a great meal.

But for a while, now, my little hometown restaurant has been slipping.  For years now, EVERY meal has been off -- sometimes just by a little, but more and more, by a whole lot.  And the service...well, it's slipped too.

Strangely enough, while the quality of my little place has gone down, it's popularity seems to have held steady.  They knocked down the ugly old building a few years back.  Put up fancy new digs, and that seems to keep people streaming in through the door.  Every time I see the crowds lined up, I want to go over and tell the lemmings about the glory days, before the pretty new building, when every now and then, you'd get a plate full of magic.

I kept going to my little neighborhood restaurant for years -- partly out of nostalgia, and partly out of a desire to help them through the tough times.  See, I KNEW there was still magic to be had out of that kitchen.  All we needed to do was keep the faith, keep the place propped up, and they'd turn it around.

Year after year, meal after increasingly lousy meal, I kept going.  Until finally, one day, I realized that I no longer went there thinking that I was going to get a great dinner -- no, I was simply going to support something that, quite obviously, didn't care whether I supported it or not.  Others of less discriminating tastes kept the coffers full and were quite content with the swill they were being served.  Profits had won out over magic, as they always do.

And that's why I stopped going to Pirate games.

Marilyn McWho?

Oh, sure -- maybe other cities feel the need to go out and get a "big-name" star, or a "famous" athelete, or somebody well-known in "this century" to serve as marshall for their Thanksgiving Parade.

But not us.  Nosirree. 

Pittsburgh is comfortable enough in it's own skin to say, "To hell with that," and to go out and get anybody we damn well please to reign over our parade. 

What's that you say?  Marilyn McCoo and Billy Davis, Jr. are free that weekend?  Sweet!  Sign 'em up!

You don't have to be a star, baby...to ride on our floats.

Happy Thanksgiving to one and all, from all of us here at Subdivided We Stand.

And speaking of turkeys, who was the local blogger who was calling for JoePa to resign about a year ago?  Gosh, I'll bet that guy feels pretty stupid right about now...

Click for larger version.

Ok, I admit it Joe.  You were right.  I was wrong.  And couldn't be happier to be so. 

Beat 'en, Bucs

And so we draw the curtain on another season of Bucco baseball.

Another sad....pathetic.....dismal....losing season of Bucco baseball.  That makes 13 in a row -- but who's counting?

Think about it though.  There are now kids in college who have absolutely no recollection of a Pirate team that even managed to break .500.

Pathetic.

Even more pathetic is that this was the first season since...let's see now...1968 that yours truly didn't attend even one game.  Over that time, I've generally attended an average of 15 or so a year -- but this year, not a one.

That's no so much by design, mind you.  I didn't PLAN on not going -- I just, well, never quite built up enough interest to go.  Oh well, maybe next year.

Meanwhile -- how 'bout those Nittany Lions!

The seemingly-endless project at work that has kept the bloggage short and, for the most part, lame lately is finally nearing an end.  If all goes well, and if I get my ISP problems sorted out, we'll be back up to snuff by October 24.  The Leviticus series will resume at that point as well.

But stop on back between now and then.  I'll have some short entries over the next couple of weeks -- and replay a couple of old favorites as well.

----
Update:  Today's "Steve Don't Eat It" from The Sneeze is one for the ages.