Quite A Parent

There were a lot of high points in Cooperstown last week.

There were a lot of low points too.

The 18-0 loss.

The 15-2 loss.

The 22-0 loss.

The 16-2 loss.

The 6-5 loss.

In extra innings.

Don’t forget the 15-0 loss.

Those were all low points.

But the lowest of the lows for me was when I got called out by an umpire.

It didn’t happen on the field.

Or in the dugout.

It happened right in the middle of the complex.

We had just finished the 15-0 loss when I decided to give my son a piece of my mind.

Timing is everything.

It had nothing to do with the 15.

Or the 0.

Or the loss.

It had to do with his character.

He had done something that I really had a problem with.

And I felt like he needed to hear what I had to say.

So I pulled him aside and started chewing.

Unfortunately mid-chew an umpire walked right past us.

“Son, are you having fun?”, he said.

“Not at the moment,” I responded.

“Yeah.  I can tell,” said the umpire.

Who just kept walking.

Not much of a conversation.

But it said a quattuordecillion words.

If you knew what I was mad about, I have no doubt you would understand why I felt the way I did.

And you might even agree with my choice of feedback.

But despite my effort to pull my son aside.

My lecture was way too public.

For me.

And I’m sure for him.

I wasn’t looking for an audience.

And I definitely didn’t need someone to officiate.

But the whole thing ruined the rest of my day.

I can only image what it did to my son.

I’ve never claimed to be the father of the year.

Well there was that blog back in February.

But I really didn’t mean it.

That was sarcasm.

But to publicly make my son feel bad.

Even if the public was just one guy.

That was terrible.

I deserved to be ejected.

The guilt I had was stomach-aching.

The pain I felt was heart-breaking.

I know what I said was right.

I also know the way I said it was oh so wrong.

Being a parent is the hardest job I have ever had.

Well working in that law office was a hard job too.

But they fired me before I did too much damage.

Parenting is the one job that keeps on giving.

Giving you love.

Giving you a headache.

Giving you a second chance.

Or a third chance if you need it.

Fortunately my son bounced back pretty quickly after the tongue lashing.

It took me a lot longer.

But we both moved on.

And enjoyed the rest of our time.

Together.

The timing of my most recent parental failure was especially disappointing.

We had just finished our game against a team from Tennessee.

That was the 15-0 loss.

Honestly it could’ve been 150-0.

They had kids who were big enough to eat our players.

Their third baseman stood six foot something.

Must’ve weighed 200 something.

And he’s 12.

I didn’t see him say a word during our entire game.

He let his bat.

And his glove.

And his right arm.

Do all his talking.

There is no doubt we will see him play for a very long time.

Unfortunately his mom will not.

She was working in the local post office last October.

When a father and son walked in.

With a gun.

They were there to commit a robbery.

When they left, two people were dead.

Including the mother of the third baseman.

We were told they got away with $68.

But they didn’t get far.

Fortunately they were caught.

But that’s hardly a happy ending.

I didn’t get a chance to talk to the third baseman.

I don’t really know what I would’ve said.

But I was thrilled to see his dad at the game.

Cheering.

And smiling.

And supporting his boy.

The way it should be.

Yes They Can

There have been a lot of success stories in the history of baseball.

Too many to count.

But the story of Jim Abbott may be my favorite.

At 6-foot-3, 200 pounds, Abbott was a standout pitcher.

And quarterback.

At Flint Central High School in Michigan.

Where he hit .427 as a senior.

With seven homers.

He played his college ball in Ann Arbor.

At THE University of Michigan.

Where he became the first baseball pitcher to win the James E. Sullivan Award.

As the top amateur athlete in the United States.

He represented our baseball team in the 1988 Olympics.

Where he pitched the final game.

And we won the gold.

He was the Big Ten Athlete of the Year.

Selected in the first round of the draft.

Made it to the majors. 

Without playing a game in the minors.

Won 87 games.

Pitched a no-hitter.

For THE New York Yankees.

In Yankee Stadium.

Oh, did I mention...

...Jim Abbott was born without a right hand.

I can’t remember the first time I saw him pitch.

But I can remember thinking there was something wrong.

Turns out everything was right.

As right as right could be.

Abbott was an inspiration to anybody who ever saw him play.

An inspiration to anybody who ever tried to play.

An inspiration to anybody who was ever told, “no you can’t.”

Abbott can.

And he did.

And how he did it was truly amazing.

This from a book titled, “Beating the Breaks: Major League Ballplayers Who Overcame Disabilities" by Rick Swaine:

Abbott pitched with a right hander's fielder's glove perched pocket-down over the end of his stubbed right arm. At the conclusion of his delivery, he would deftly slip his left hand into the glove and be ready to field the ball. After catching the ball, he would cradle the glove against his chest in the crook of his right arm and extract the ball with his left hand, ready to make another throw. 

You had to see it to believe it.

I hadn’t seen anyone do it before Abbott.

Or anyone since.

Until last week.

Before our games started in Cooperstown, there was a series of skills events.

To see who was the fastest.

To see whose arm had the best aim.

To see who could hit the most home runs.

And to see which team could fire the ball around the diamond in the shortest amount of time.

It went like this...

Pitcher to catcher to third to second to first to catcher to shortstop to right field to second base to center field to third base to left field to catcher.

That’s 1-2-5-4-3-2-6-9-4-8-5-7-2.

If you are scoring at home.

Or even if you are alone.

The winning time was an amazing 20 seconds.

Our team didn’t win.

And neither did the team from Ohio.

But there was something about that Ohio team that caught my eye.

It was their second baseman.

Right after he caught the ball, I saw it.

I saw him flip the glove from one hand to the other.

At lightning speed.

And then he threw the ball.

Perfectly.

To its next destination.

At first it looked like a mistake.

A moment later I knew I had seen this before.

I ended up sitting next to their coach at lunch a few days later.

I told him how impressed I was with their second baseman.

He said thanks.

And then informed me that the second baseman was his son.

His son who was born with a condition similar to Abbott.

He told me that opponents have tried to bunt to his son.

And his son always makes the plays.

Just like Jim Abbott.

And he told me that his son is a very good hitter.

Just like Jim Abbott.

And he told me his son has a great attitude.

Just like Jim Abbott.

We spoke for a few minutes.

Until the food ran out.

And then he headed out to his game.

To watch his son pitch.

A game his team won.

Just like Jim Abbott.

A Perfect Game

When I was 12 years old my dad and I went to the Catskills.

In Upstate New York.

We spent a few days (and nights) at Grossingers.

The swingin resort.

For Jews.

50 and older.

To say I stood out like a pre-teenager at a Jewish resort.

Would be an understatement.

32 years later, I still remember a few details about our trip.

One.

We were there when Yankees Catcher Thurman Munson died in a plane crash.

And two.

Grossingers served a lot of herring.

Pickled herring.

Creamed herring.

Smoked herring.

And we ate them all.

(I’m not sure I’ve had herring since.)

Last week my 12-year old son and I made our own trek to Upstate New York.

But there was no Scandinavian fish involved.

Just baseball.

100% baseball.

We were in Cooperstown, New York.

The home of baseball.

And we were there for a baseball tournament.

What else?

Actually this was not just “a” baseball tournament.

This was “THE” baseball tournament.

The most incredible week of baseball I have ever experienced.

And I didn’t even play.

For 12 weeks this summer, 104 “12 and Under” teams will make the trip to Cooperstown Dreams Park.

That’s 104 teams PER week.

For 12 weeks.

1,248 teams.

About 12 players per team.

14,976 players visiting a city with the population of 1,852.

To play baseball.

Add three or four coaches.

And a couple dozen parents.

Per team.

And we are approaching 50,000 visitors for the summer.

Do you think the Cooperstown Tourism Board is a fan of Dreams Park?

These teams are coming from all the country.

Alabama to Utah.

Houston to Hawaii.

To Florida.

25 teams from Florida.

1 from Delaware.

And that’s just last week.

It didn’t take us long to realize that we had no chance.

We come from a place where baseball is king.

From March through July.

The teams from Florida and Georgia and Texas and California play year round.

Or at least they could.

Our team entered this shindig with an 18-game winning streak.

That streak ended about six minutes into our first game.

Most of our boys are pretty good baseball players.

For 12 year old boys.

But compared to the man-childs we were facing.

We had no chance.

We faced a team from Tennessee where several of our players went up to the waist of several of their players.

No joke.

As long as you don’t turn 13 before May 1, you are eligible.

I’m sure most of the teams were on the up and up.

But we ran across several teams who brought in extra players just for this tournament.

I guess you could say there were more ringers than an AT&T store.

But this tournament is a big deal.

And the organizers definitely know what they are doing.

Every thing was first class.

23 baseball fields.

All with lights.

That work.

10 of those fields broadcast games live on the internet.

A couple dozen batting cages.

For teams to practice hitting.

Acres of perfectly manicured grass.

For teams to practice fielding.

Grounds crew at each stadium before EVERY game to re-chalk the field.

Concession stands where you didn’t need a gold card to buy a hot dog.

They have definitely found the formula.

And it works.

Which may explain why they just entered their 15th year.

So far, they’ve had 12,669 teams.

343,000 innings played.

210,000 home runs.

1.1 million runs scored.

One team in 2008 -- from Miami -- hit a record 73 homers in one week.

(We hit three.)

Several major league stars played here.

Before they were stars.

David Price of Tampa.

Matt Garza of the Cubs.

And Washington’s Bryce Harper, the #1 Overall Draft Pick last year.

Like the Olympics, the week starts with Opening Ceremonies.

Including skydivers.

Like the all-star game, we had a home run hitting contest.

And then the games begin.

Which was the worst part for us.

By far.

If you made me, I’m sure I could nitpick and find something wrong with the tournament.

No place to hang clothes in the barracks.

How’s that?

Yes, we lived in barracks for the week.

Ok, that’s a whole ‘nother blog.

But everything included, this was an incredible experience.

For everyone.

My best trip to Upstate New York.

By far.

Big Man, Big Loss

October 31, 1984.

The greatest night of my life.

I was 17.

And for four hours that night, I was in heaven.

I didn’t know it when I got there.

I didn’t know much when I got there.

But when I left.

My life was changed.

Forever.

I had become a man.

Thanks to Bruce Springsteen.

And the E Street Band.

At the LA Sports Arena.

It was my first Bruce show.

I had a chance to see Bruce in concert in 1981.

When I was 14.

But I passed.

Young and stupid.

I really didn’t know much about Bruce in 1981.

In fact, I didn’t know much about him until 1983.

That’s the year I walked into my 11th Grade English Class.

And on the first day, we learned about poetry.

My teacher handed us two pieces of paper.

On one sheet was a poem titled “Jungleland.”

On the other was a poem titled “Born to Run.”

I was well aware of Born to Run before he handed me the paper.

But I didn’t know the words.

Sure I would sing the song.

When I heard it on the radio.

But other than the first line or two.

The rest was mumbles.

I had no idea what the song said.

And I certainly had no idea what it meant.

To so many people.

After we were done reading the words on the paper.

My teacher brought out his cassette player.

And played us the poem in its natural form.

A song.

I had heard Born to Run before.

Many times before.

But never had I actually HEARD the song before.

The words.

The meaning.

It was incredible.

Jungleland was a different story for me.

I knew nothing about it.

I don’t think I had ever listened to a nine minute song before.

In its entirety.

But that day we did.

All nine minutes.

And 38 seconds.

From the opening keystrokes on the piano.

This was like no song I had ever heard.

It took me to a place I had never been.

And I didn’t want to leave.

The passion with which Bruce sang was unmatched by any artist I listened to at the time.

Or since.

And the music surrounding the lyrics was the definition of perfection.

About four minutes in, we heard something you don’t hear in a rock n’ roll song.

A sax solo.

Not just any sax solo.

This was the “Big Man.”

Clarence Clemons.

At the time that didn’t mean much to me.

I had no idea who Clarence was.

I had barely heard of the E Street Band.

But I realized quickly this was no ordinary band.

And Clemons was no ordinary sax player.

But listening to the music was one thing.

Seeing it in person was something else.

I have been blessed to see a lot of concerts.

Literally hundreds of them.

Many great ones.

Many not-so great.

But there is no concert like a Bruce Springsteen concert.

I knew that the first time I saw him.

October 31, 1984.

Back then he was playing four hours.

Every night.

But Bruce is 61 now.

And he is clearly slowing down.

His show I saw last year was “only” three hours.

But every night he gives you everything he’s got.

And so does his band.

A band that has pianos and guitars.

Keyboards and drums.

And the signature sax.

The sax of the big man.

6-foot-4 big.

250 pounds big.

The chemistry between Bruce and his band is special.

The chemistry between Bruce and Clarence.

Is perfect.

Was perfect.

Clarence died yesterday.

After a massive stroke.

For millions of Bruce fans around the world.

This is the day that the music died.

Bruce and Clarence were friends.

They were colleagues.

They were band mates.

They were what made me love music.

And poetry too.