Travel Ball Star? Whoa! Bust Out the Confetti!

It’s hard to put a definite description on me, but there are three things that truly define me: 1) I am the picture of perfect health. I turn 44 years old later this week, and I feel like I’m 18, despite the fact that I eat more pizza than each of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles combined (including Donatello). 2) I am patient and easy to talk to, ready to lend an ear and, when called upon, to give advice to help my fellow man. And 3) I am a compulsive liar on blogs.

So I recently visited my favorite ethnic health food restaurant to partake in one of my favorite dishes, named after a great military leader (I believe his name was General Tso) when in walked a family of five. What stood out was the youngest member of the group: A girl, maybe 9-10 years old, wearing a softball uniform. The family members were holding the dual glass doors for her, and she entered with one of those pre-teen smirks on her face. It really looked more like a young movie star and her entourage -- only she forgot to leave her costume at the Bad News Bears set.

Real bears do their bad news elsewhere.

As I waited for General Tso to get his butt in gear and give me my food already, the oldest person in the group starting bragging on the girl. “She hit a home run today,” he said with, I must note, what looked like a miniature celery stalk in his front teeth. “She hit two yesterday. She leads her team. She’s supposed to play in 10U, but they bumped her to 12U, because she was just that good. Her first at-bat she hit a triple. She stopped while rounding the bases to heal a leper. Then she flew in the air and the team built her a ziggurat etc. etc. etc.”*

I wanted to take those little red peppers that came with my dinner and shove them in his eyes. But I couldn't. His eyes were hiding behind the nose that was sticking way up in the air.

It was another case of a family going way too out of its way to make a girl play softball on some traveling team whose only purpose is to make money enrich the lives of the players. I see it all too often: Little Jimmy is hitting .600 or .750 or 1.500 and has like 8 thousand jillion home runs. Unfortunately he has to miss the big family cook out because we’ll be in Hakensak, New Jersey, at some national-level tournament which, if his team places in the top four**, they’ll qualify for this other national-level tournament in Talequah, Oklahoma, and then qualify for another national-level tournament in Fargo, North Dakota, and so on.

 Then, for fun, we'll all try to fit inside our coach's uniform.

These kids are playing the sport they love and going to all these exotic places. They’re traveling the country! No expense is too great, because in the end, Jimmy will get his college paid for and then go on to be a really big star in the majors.

At least, that’s what they want you to believe.

In reality, Jimmy is miserable. He’s already burned out from baseball because all he does is get up, swing his bat, eat breakfast, throw into a net, bat some more, lunch, pitch into a net, hit off a tee, dinner, run bases, go to bed. Twelve months a year. He plays for his school team. He plays for two travel teams -- one in the spring, one in the fall. In the winter he plays in an indoor gym baseball league.

Jimmy would love to play some hoops with his friends, or hang out at their house, or play Madden. But, no, none of those things will help Jimmy get to Baseball U. so they’re completely worthless. Quit letting your mind wander, Jimmy***. Time to think about polishing your glove. And while you're at it, lift that nose a few inches.

Nobody told Jimmy that just about every coach in every major league in the country recommends multiple sports at his age. No one in his family ever thought, “You know, if I hand him his basketball, maybe he’ll enjoy baseball even more when he does get to play it.”

In this past NFL draft, 28 of the 31 first round draftees lettered in more than one sport in high school. Twelve of them actually lettered in at least three, including Jared Goff, who played football, baseball and basketball.

No one told Jimmy that I’ve seen a lot of kids who had parents focus on one sport only, and have yet to see a single one of them sign for a scholarship at the NCAA Division I level. Or even Division II, for that matter. I’ve seen a few D-III athletes, but they earned scholarships with academics, because the NCAA doesn’t allow athletic scholarships at that level.

Even if you ask nicely.

A recent study by USA football concluded that D-I college athletes began focusing on one sport at the average age of 15.4. For all other students who participated in high school sports, that average dropped to 14.1. The study sites, over and over, how learning skills in one sport translate to other sports, and build the player’s overall skill level, not to mention their confidence.

My daughter plays softball. It's the only sport she's played, save one (very embarrassing) season when she played soccer and basically spent the entire year chasing the ball around.

Apparently, soccer hooliganism is frowned upon in 5U.

If my daughter wants to play something else, I'll sign her up in a second. But she's content with just softball. And I think it's because I haven't even suggested driving her 2 hours one way to try out for a team she's never heard of, and has no allegiance to. With players who have tall noses.

As I watched that family get seated at the table of my favorite ethnic health food restaurant, I couldn’t help but to think of the irony. Someday, she’ll have a coach call her about that. And, after the coach asks her about those three home runs in two days, the next question will likely be, “Did you figure the tip?”

P.S. The General Tso was yummy.




*--He did not actually say “etc. etc. etc.” It was more like “et cetera et cetera et cetera.”

**--Out of five.

***--Now that I think about it, his name may not be Jimmy. So, from this point forward, I’ll call him Jimmy.

RETURN OF THE LEGEND!

My nickname came about 16 years ago.

I was visiting my best friend in Indianapolis who was engaged to be married. (As opposed to engaged to be what, exactly?) He opened the door and said, “Here’s my fiancee.”

She looked me up and down. “I’m going to find out.”

Wow. Forward.

“Your middle name,” my friend quickly blurted out. “She wants to know your middle name.”

It’s L.

Just the letter.

This wasn’t good enough for her.

We spent the evening together having a good time. Beers were involved. When the night was through, I took my leave and went home. The next morning my friend called me.

“She figured it out,” he said.

Okay.

“The L stands for ‘Legend’,” he said. “Because you don’t meet Bill. You experience him.”

That nickname has cropped up off and on over the 16 years since. It’s pretty much retired -- there’s not much room for personal ego when you have three kids -- but, every now and then, I like to remind my wife that she’s married to the Legend.

And then she reminds me that she has the ability to roll her eyes so far back she can actually see her own brain.

I haven’t blogged in years. I did it sporadically about eight years ago, but I didn’t really enjoy it. I didn’t feel like there was anything inside me that I wanted to let out. (Insert own multiple beer joke here.) But, recent events have led me to realize that, unless I get some things off my chest, I’ll never feel right.

So here we go.

I’m a sportswriter in Mount Vernon, Ohio. Actually, I’m the sports editor. Which carries about as much weight in this town as being a head waiter at a Burger King. I digress. I married my beautiful wife 11 years ago, and have produced three wonderful kids with her. (To be honest, she did most of the work. I simply contributed the raw materials. She ran the factory.) I’ve lived here for seven years. Before that, I lived in 15 different cities in seven different states.

Never went too far north at least.

Not long ago, I had a really bad bout with depression. It’s a diagnosis I don’t take lightly, and I haven’t had a bout like that one in years. But I found out who my friends are. (Read: almost none.) Which is okay, as that’s been a running theme for a guy who grew up getting moved from one school to another because your parents are in real estate.

Since I have few friends, but a lot of thoughts, I plan to take advantage of both with this here electronic diary blog. I’ll fill you in on what’s happening in the world of sports, movies and life as I see it. As you read in the coming weeks and months, you’ll get some laughs. You may think a little bit. (Very little.) And I guarantee, at some point, you’ll be pissed off.

So pull up a chair. Share your thoughts with me. I’ll respond. And come see what I’m made of.

See what I mean? You just experienced the Legend.

Yeah, okay. Lame. I’ll do better next time.

Gee Whiz! (My reflection on OSU's president and other ramblings)

You know, if he’s not careful, Gordon Gee’s going to end up offending someone.

Apparently, the list of people he has it out for is growing exponentially. In case you don’t know the backstory, it goes like this: In January, at a meeting with some top sports bigwigs at The Ohio State University (there are rumors that there are, in fact, sports bigwigs at OSU involved in sports other than football) Gee said he negotiated personally with Notre Dame to get them to join the Big Ten but he ultimately didn’t “trust those damn Catholics.” Then he bashes the SEC (the Southeastern Conference, not the Securites Exchange Commission -- come to think of it, has anyone ever bashed the Securites Exchance Commission?) saying they need to learn to read and write. THEN he referred to Louisville as not being a “learning institution.” (He said the same thing about Kentucky, but, well, come on now.)

This follows his previous bashing of Boise State, Penn State, Colorado, USC, the Little Sisters of the Poor, My Little Pony*, and any form of true fashion sense.

Here, Gee demonstrates the best attack posture when encountering a nun.

Gee (No, GTE!**) has since gone through some sort of sensitivity seminar, or something, and he’s all better now. Finally.

He’s been praised for being a great school president. He has raised standard at every school he’s run. And he makes a really mean mincemeat pie. But these things are an embarrassment. Especially at a school where, let’s face it, the fans are maybe just a TAD sensitive about how people treat the school.

I’ll be honest. If you start making fun of Ball State’s athletics, I’ll be the first one laughing. After all, I attended the first school that had a baseball player get credit for a home run on a strikeout.*** Once, during a football game, the other team simply tired of beating Ball State so bad and, after kicking off to them, walked off the field, leaving only the BSU offense on the field. Three plays later, Ball State scored a touchdown.*

On the other hand, say ANYTHING derogatory about Ohio State****, and you immediately get gang-raped by a wild, screaming scarlet and gray-clad group of octogenarians ready to smack you silly with their purses and bottles of Preparation H.

Frankly, he needs to go somewhere where they just don’t care what kind of transgressions might fly from your mouth, or your pen, or from any other body part.

I can see the headline now: Gordon Gee agrees to become new president of Rutgers.


On to other ramblings:

Robbie Rogers becomes first openly gay player in American male team sports. In the end, it wasn’t a Jackie Robinson-type thing after all. He came in, accepted his applause, played for a few minutes, then the game ended. Big whoop. Kind of like waiting for years for someone to make Star Wars Episode VII, only to finally go to the theater and find out the movie was made with sock puppets.

Frankly, it says something about our society that such a thing received little fanfare. It shows that, as a group, we’re ready. Even if most of the players aren’t.

(I still can’t get over the fact that one of the biggest anti-gay statements recently was made by a 49er. In San Francisco. Really.)

Actually, the first time I saw this story, I misread the headline and thought it was referring to Robbie Rotten, the villain in the LazyTown kids show. Now THAT would be an entertaining debut.

The clothes were a dead giveaway.

LeBron James fined $5K for flopping. Yeah, that’ll teach him.

Let’s do the math. According to Forbes, LeBum pulled in about $53 million dollars in 2011. He’s fined five thousand dollars. Proportionately, that would be like fining the top breadwinner in the average American household approximately $4.26.

Oooh. That has to hurt.

NBA looking into the fouls called in Game 4 of the Heat/Pacers series. What’s that? LeBron actually fouled OUT? What in the name of Tim Donaghy is going on here?

Keyshawn Johnson chases down a speeding Justin Beiber in his neighborhood. Rumors are not true that Keyshawn just wanted Beiber to “show him some damn ball.”

No, I don’t know what that means, either.

Parent demands apology after pro wrestler rips kids' sign. You read that right. Apparently an eight-year-old was ringside at a WWE event when heel wrestler Alberto Del Rio took a poster of his rival Sheamus out of the kids' hands and ripped it to shreds. Now she's demanding an apology because "Del Rio is a bully" and "he cried all the way home."

(Personally, I think he cried all the way home because he was forced to watch an entire Smackdown episode live, but that's just me.)

Anywho, Del Rio hasn't responded. Apparently, Del Rio's manager has. Ricardo Rodriguez's reaction via twitter: "lol blah blah blah."

Ricardo Rodriguez has just reached Bobby "The Brain" Heenan level on my personal manager-odometer.

That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

---------
*--I‘m guessing.
**--Been waiting for years to tell that one.
***--I’m not kidding. 1982. The catcher dropped the third strike, and the other team (Purdue) began to leave the field, thinking the inning was over. The batter ran the bases, sliding home just as the catcher realized what was going on.
****--Example: “Hey you silly-brain doo-doo dummy heads! Ohio State is really bad right?”

But it isn't "brand new" enough

But it isn't "brand new" enough...

Just saw that Arthur Blank, the owner of the Atlanta Falcons, managed to con the city of Atlanta into partially funding a new stadium for him.

According to the release, $200 million will come from taxation on things such as hotel rooms. $800 million will come from Blank himself. I guess that gift makes Blank into a bona-fide Rockefeller.

I won't go into the fact that, since Blank was easily able to put up 80% of the bill, then he could just as easily put up 100%. That's too easy.

Nor will I say what you and I both know: it won't stop at $200 million. Somehow, he'll get more out of the city. How? By holding the city hostage. NFL teams are a cash cow. The owners make tons of tons of money. (Not a typo). Cities make money off them. The fans make the city happier overall. Everyone's honky-dory. It's an REM music video.

No, what bothers me is something that sounds silly.

Why does Atlanta need a new stadium?

Think about it. The GeorgiaDome was built in 1992. I was fortunate enough to be in one of the first events ever held there: a national [religion withheld] youth gathering. More than 30,000 screaming, manners-challenged hormone bags running loose in Atlanta. Ah, the good old days.

Point is, the dome was new. And, really, it still is. There aren't any major problems with it. There's been the occasional partial renovation. But that's it. No, it's a victim of the idea that it's not "new enough."

The city of Indianapolis just went through the same thing. They willingly shelled out millions to build a new stadium because the ancient, decrepid RCA Dome was -- gasp -- 35 years old!

I didn't realize 35 years was old for a stadium built to last -- this is a quote -- "100 years or 100 wars." Sadly, it didn't live to see either.

This sounds like an old fogey talking, but, well, they don't make stadiums the way they used to. Old Comiskey Park lasted nearly 90 years. Tiger Stadium lasted even longer. Wrigley Field and Fenway Park are still there, and they were built before my grandparents were born.

New stadiums are good. They're comfy. They have state-of-the-art things like divided seat warmers to heat each bun independently, or a cell-phone access that allows you to "like" the upcoming play call the head coach just beamed into cyberspace, or wherever. But, where's the character?

Please, don't tell Chicago that 21 years is "old" for a stadium. And please don't tell my kids, either. I'm almost twice that.

From the desk of Dan Gilbert.

Dear LeBron,

I’m writing to you because a lot of people have misunderstood what I’ve been saying regarding you. Many people seem to think I have an issue with you. They point out, as an example, the tweet I sent to the Miami Heat congratulating them on winning the NBA title, yet stupidly doesn’t mention the best player on the team. Let me say, for the record, that there is nothing between us. I am proud of who you are and the man you have become.

You may not know it, but everything I’ve done in the past nine years I’ve done for you. I bought you a jet. I gave you a solid gold watch. I bought you the finest funny-looking European free agents money can buy. I even named my son LeBron Gilbert after you. And, after you betrayed me, I continued to look out for you. All those foolish statements about winning an NBA title before you, whining about how you let us all down, and generally behaving like a spoiled baby through all this - it was all to take the heat off you, LeBron. Yeah, it didn’t work. You’re still hated. But it was fun trying.

So, on that note, I’d like to congratulate you. You proved me wrong. I realize I have to eat crow regarding that proclamation. You know me, LeBron. I was sniffing glue, or drinking vodka, or something. Whatever. The point is, the Cavs didn’t win. You did.

So, congratulations on the wonderful job you’ve done since leaving the Cavs. You made yourself the most talked-about athlete in sports, which isn’t easy considering Tiger Woods keeps blowing leads. You proved that you don’t have to say “me” a lot to demonstrate an ego. And you demonstrated that, when the going gets rough, you have to pull your pants up (another Tiger reference) and do it all yourself. Which, if I recall, was the reason you left Cleveland in the first place.

No matter. Congratulations on being a role model for kids, something Charles Barkley didn’t want but who ended up being someone I’d much rather have my kids emulate. Congratulations on managing to tick off an entire city filled with your hometown comrades by telling them on national television that you're too good for them. Congratulations on demonstrating to an entire generation that, if you’re one of the best players on the planet, it’s okay to take shortcuts to win as long as you look good doing it. It’s a great lesson for impressionable youngsters like my son who, even now, is staring at his Kyrie Irving jersey and wondering how much he’d get for it if he forged a LeBron autograph on it.

Congratulations on winning your first title and making sure your press agent let everyone know that it came one year younger than Michael Jordan. Never mind that you’ve been in the league two more seasons. Oh, and it doesn’t matter that the flawed, suddenly-attainable Jordan never lost an NBA Finals, while you lost twice. I remember both times well. The first one hurt, but we were outmatched, and we both knew it. The second one hurt (you) even more, because I saw (your) tears and cried along with you (tears of laughter).

Finally, congratulations on finally being able to back up those boasts when you gathered with D-Wade and Bosh on that flashy, money-wasting stage that first time and declared, “not three, not four, not five, not six, not seven...”

One down. Seven to go.

Better get started.

Signed: Dan Gilbert

P.S. Jerk.

Enough with the PEDs already!

Philadelphia Phillies infielder Freddy Galvis is a druggie.

Alright, that’s not fair. He tested positive for a Performance Enhancing Substance. That’s the vague three-word term we give to that stuff that shrinks our balls to the size of raisins. I mean, besides cold swimming pools.

Okay, I confess. Before I went running a few days ago, I used a Performance Enhancing Substance.

It’s called a banana.

No, the PEDs that have every coach, sports commissioner and hall of fame voter nervous have never entered my bloodstream. The stiffest thing I’ve ever taken is a Tylenol-3. And I doubt that would disqualify me from playing on my church softball team - especially since it was taken three years ago.

PEDs won’t go away. The topic is a lot like kindergarten paste - it sticks everywhere, and the longer it stands around, the worse it tastes.

Take Lance Armstrong. The government tried for years to get him. After exhausting literally every avenue of investigation, including having White House reporter Helen Thomas rummage through Armstrong’s underwear drawer*, the government finally threw up its collective hands - after throwing up its collective lunch - and said “no mas.”

Of course, the government isn’t as persistent as the USADA which decided, after watching millions of tax dollars spent to take down a guy who rides bikes for a living, that it just wasn’t enough, dammit!

Roger Clemens is another example. He just got found not guilty of lying to Congress regarding PEDs. The irony is that Congress seems to have no problem lying to us, but that’s beside the point. The point is, Clemens said he never took the stuff. A former trainer came out and said, “What’s that in this old beer can?” And we went through the circus we went through. And, for the record, I firmly agree with Brian McNamee, particularly when he claimed the genetics inside the beer can will prove interesting. If I had a beer can sitting around for 11 years, I’m sure the genetics inside it would be fascinating.

Which brings us back to Galvis. The group that’s suspending him is the same group that was convinced, beyond any reasonable doubt, that a 150-pound NL Most Valuable Player was on steroids. Of course, Ryan Braun got off because the sample was “mishandled” - meaning, it wasn’t stored properly** - and didn’t get so much as an apology from MLB.

But what Galvis said kind of struck me funny. First, he said he absolutely “didn’t do it.” Fair enough. But then he said he doesn’t understand how it got into his system.

Let’s analyze that.

Have you ever been around a Major League Baseball player? Heck, have you ever been around anyone who dreams of someday playing for the Mahoning Valley Scrappers? Those guys are meticulous. Many of them carefully measure every fruit, every vegetable, every sports drink, every potato chip, every supplement - you get the idea. In other words, there’s no way something can get into their system without them knowing, unless it’s either 1) osmosis, 2) injected in the butt by a sneaky Helen Thomas***, or 3) beamed into them by the Starship Enterprise.

Which brings the next thing Galvis said into even more scrutiny: “I apologize to all my family and friends back home in Venezuela.”

For what, exactly? That they live in Venezuela? (just kidding.)

No, really. If he didn’t do anything, then there’s no reason to apologize. Unless he’s sorry that he let his guard down, if only for a few seconds, and allowed someone to inject him.

His apology may actually serve more as a warning than a true apology. It means all of us - including those of us who just distance run - have to watch our backs to keep away from that maniac Helen Thomas.****


*-may not have happened
**-Major League Baseball didn’t have any empty beer cans to store the stuff in
***-again, probably has never happened
****-very likely, actually

When Cleveland met Seattle...

This is a hypothetical account of what would happen when: a person embodying everything that is Cleveland, meets up with a person representing Seattle. How would their tales of woe be told? I think it would go a little something like this:

Cleveland: Seattle? Is that you?
Seattle: Hey buddy! Looking forward to another football season?
Cleveland: How can I? Another year with another interception king? It's like they don't even try to bring in winners here.
Seattle: Hey I feel ya. What do you think I'm going through, another year with Hasselbeck, a terrible defense, and an incompetent front office?
Cleveland: At least Hasselbeck can win you some games. We haven't had any consistency at QB since the Reagan administration.
Seattle: What about the care package I sent ya?
Cleveland: Call that a care package? You dumped Seneca Wallace on us.
Seattle: Yeah, well that was for forcing Charlie Frye on us!
Cleveland: Whatever.
Seattle: Hey, you didn't have a ref screw you out of a Super Bowl win. He just admitted it. Take it to the grave, indeed. How does he think we feel?
Cleveland: At least you've been to a Super Bowl. The Drive! The Fumble! The Mistake by the Lake! I don't want to hear it.
Seattle: You have no idea how miserable it is to be here. 55 degrees, every day, overcast all the time. We get revivalist galas whenever the sun comes out because everyone thinks it's a sign they've sinned.
Cleveland: Miserable? You weren't voted the most miserable city to live in in America. Housing market...
Seattle: Cold beaches...
Cleveland: ...a lake on fire...
Seattle: ...grunge music...
Cleveland: ...and it's grey here. Everything is grey. Even the Browns uniforms are terrible. They're the color of poop.
Seattle: Oh, you want to talk uniforms? Every team in my city's dressed exactly the same. Head to toe, the same color. What the hell is that color, anyway? Blue? Grey? Green?
Cleveland: Well, at least you weren't embarrassed on national TV in front of eight hundred million billion ESPN viewers. You didn't have the best player in your city in three decades tell Jim Gray he was taking his game to South Park.
Seattle: That's South Beach. And no, we didn't lose LeBron. We lost Durant. And the whole team.
Cleveland: Good, then you won't have to suffer any more long NBA seasons with no hope of a title.
Seattle: No, we do that in every other sport. At least you guys can hold on to a coach for more than two years...
Cleveland: Hold on, we're talking about Mangini here. That's no prize.
Seattle: ...while we just fired our manager and pitching coach. Since, if course, it's their fault we haven't had anyone hit over .320 in seven years and they're the reason Griffey couldn't lay off the donuts and kept nodding off in the dugout.
Cleveland: Hey, everyone nods off when Manny Acta's talking. Ever hear the guy at a press conference? He sounds like he's reading from the how-to section at Hank's Electrical All-Purpose Yard Tool and Twin Gear Shop.
Seattle: Does he have a deep southern drawl?  Our interim manager does.  Fits in well in the Pacific Northwest.
Cleveland: And we can't keep any good baseball players here. It's like a rite of passage -- as soon as a player starts hitting .300 consistently, we send him off for some AA prospect whose career highlight has been collecting Barry Bonds' rookie card. Prospects, must have more prospects. Apparently the GM that dies with the most wins, or something like that. At least you guys can keep your good players.
Seattle: Well, we can't keep them awake, that's for sure.
Cleveland: Alright, I'll admit, we got Holmgren. Course, we can't talk him into actually coaching...
Seattle: Yeah, thanks for stealing him away, by the way.
Cleveland: No problem. Hey, why'd you guys build a retractable roof, anyway?
Seattle: To give people a better view of the, uh, city... *sigh*. Well, now I'm depressed.
Cleveland: Me too. Let's just agree to disagree and call it a day.
Seattle: Yeah, I say we leave the table while we can. I think I just saw Detroit headed this way...

The previous account was fictitious. Any similarities to any actual persons, living or dead, is purely disastrous, and would subject the actual persons to needing a beer.