Yahoo! Sports writer Gordon Edes thinks it is time to introduce the Satchel Paige Award -- or, more specifically, rebrand the existing Cy Young Award. He proposes taking Young's name off the Baseball Writers Association of America-sponsored annual awards for the best pitcher in each league.
I disagree (and emailed Edes to tell him so; no response), but did think that a Paige Award is a good idea, and obviously it would have to be some sort of pitching honor. So I took a page (heh) from what the World Science Fiction Society occasionally has been doing over the past few years -- retroactive awards.
The WSFS is purely a fan-driven organization, with the primary activity of running the annual World Science Fiction Convention, or WorldCon. One major event that occurs during the WorldCon is the announcements of that year's Hugo Award winners, recognition bestowed for outstanding achievements in various Sci-Fi related media categories. The Hugos are widely considered to be the highest honors in the field of science fiction. However, the Hugos were first awarded in 1953, and did not becoming a continuing, annual event until 1955 -- meaning some of the early years were left out. About 15 years ago, the WSFS decided to allow the WorldCon organizing committees to decide if they wanted to have Retro Hugo Awards, additional ballots for recognizing eligible works from pre-determined, as-yet-unhonored years. So far, three sets of Retro Hugos have been voted on. The process has not been perfect, but it is an earnest and worthy idea, and a bit of fun as well.
As science fiction, why not baseball?
The BBWAA introduced its Cy Young Award in 1956, named in honor of Hall Of Famer Young, who still holds (by a huge, unapproachable margin) the major league record for pitcher's wins. (He had also died the previous year, meaning no royalties would need be paid for using his name.) The BBWAA distributed one Award for all of Major League Baseball from 1956-66, and one Award for each league beginning in 1967.
That leaves a lot of past seasons during which no pitcher or pitchers was recognized for having the outstanding season in his league.
Why not introduce a Retro Cy Young Award, and name that the Satchel Paige Award? And, think about it, if an award is to be introduced that honors overlooked olde-tymers, naming it after Paige fits like a batting glove.
Let's think about the scope, eligibility, process, and electorate.
Scope
Looking back in time, Satchel Paige Awards could be voted on for American League seasons 1901-55, National League seasons 1876-1955, and whichever league did not win the MLB-wide CYA in 1955-66 (which would amount to seven AL SPAs and four NL SPAs). That works out to 55 + 80 + 11 == 146 new awards, eventually. (There are other, short-lived major leagues buried in history, which could also serve as fertile ground for retroactive awards, but let's keep it simple with just the AL and NL for now.)
Think about 146 new, historical awards! Long overdue recognition for outstanding seasonal performances! Something new to discuss and debate!
Eligibility
Any player who pitched during the championship season and relevant league. Relief pitching being far from the specialized role it is today, I could see imposing a minimum innings pitched requirement, say 100.0 IP, but that probably isn't necessary, though it would help narrow the field.
Process
With 146 awards covering 91 major league seasons, simply starting at 1876 and moving forward at a one historical year per year rate would not be the best option. One, it would take forever to complete, and two, it would necessarily deny any living potential honorees from getting to enjoy their spoils should they be voted an Award. So the entire 146 awards needs to be broken up. I do think that retro awards should start at some point and move forward, not backward, in time, as it simply is an easier idea to grasp.
HOFer Bob Feller is the oldest living pitcher I can identify who had at least one season of 100+ IP. Now, it just happens to be Feller, and I was using 100 IP as a fast filter to pick out likely potential SPA candidates. But even a casual glance at Feller's stats shows that he would be an excellent candidate for one or more of our theoretical Satchel Paige Awards, and it would be nice if he were still drawing breath if and when his name was announced.
Feller first pitched in the majors in 1936, and while I don't want to set up a voting schedule for the SPAs that looks like one or more are going to be handed to Feller, 1936 certainly makes for a reasonable break point in the voting schedule in order to make the entire historical reach of the SPAs something that can be accomplished within the lifetimes of many of today's fans.
I suggest four concurrent voting schedules. When one reaches its endpoint, so be it, the remaining ones continue on.
Schedule A: National League, 1876-1900, 25 seasons, 25 SPAs.
Schedule B: American & National Leagues, 1901-35, 35 seasons, 70 SPAs.
Schedule C: American & National Leagues, 1936-55, 20 seasons, 40 SPAs.
Schedule D: American & National Leagues, unawarded, 1956-66, 11 seasons, 11 SPAs.
Schedule D allows for living potential recipients who had a CYA-class season but didn't get the single Award their chance to be honored, while still alive, without having to wait an extra 20 years for Schedule C to catch up.
This is just one suggestion. It could be broken up by decades, or pairs of decades, or whatever. The master schedule should serve three purposes, I think:
1. Have a reasonable endpoint within the expected lifetimes of current fans (91 years being unreasonable for this purpose).
2. Not overdo it; three or four, maybe five, retro awards per year keeps it interesting without hitting saturation. Keep the separate schedules wide enough that different eras, and different pitchers who were excellent in those times and specific seasons, get some well-deserved attention, albeit long after the fact. History is important in baseball.
3. Give living potential SPA winners the opportunity to still be alive to enjoy the honor. Feller's career pretty much demands being allowed to define this one break point in the individual schedules.
Hold to these purposes, acknowledge some of the natural break points that baseball's history provides (the founding of the AL in 1901; that quirky 1956-66, one CYA era), and an agreeable master schedule can be established without too much fuss. (And hurry up, because Bob ain't getting younger.)
Electorate
The primary reason I hand the sponsoring of the Satchel Paige Award over to the BBWAA is that the awards they currently vote upon and bestow are, far and away, the most respected annual awards in baseball. Sure, there are plenty of other ones out there -- Silver Sluggers, Gold Gloves, other MLB-recognized prizes -- but only the BBWAA Awards command top attention. (That much of that attention comes from the print media is no coincidence, no. But it's not merely back-patting. Just the annual debates over the Most Valuable Player Awards and "what MVP means" never settle down. Fans care about the BBWAA awards.) So to get the Satchel Paige Awards the spotlight they deserve would require getting the BBWAA involved.
The current voting method for the CYAs -- two votes per league city -- works well enough for current awards in real time, but past seasons are in the book, the ink long since dried. Anyone can review them at leisure, and there's little urgency in casting a ballot before the postseason begins. So, SPA voting should be more open -- much more open -- and expanded well beyond the 28 or 32 ballots that decide each year's Cy Young Awards.
My first thought is, open up the voting to the entire BBWAA membership. Such a thing could be coordinated with the annual Hall Of Fame voting, or be moved to a different point on the calendar, perhaps in time to allow the SPAs to be announced at the All-Star Game festivities.
My second thought is, No, that's still not good enough. No one owns history; there should be a fan component to the voting. I don't know how this would work exactly, but with the power of the Web, there has to be a workable solution. One fan, one vote, should be feasible. Make the total fan input equivalent to a limited percentage of the final voting, analogous to the presidential electoral college, if needs be -- but give fans a voice. If for no other reason, to prevent Satchel Paige Awards from simply devolving into a popularity poll about which pitcher had the most wins in a given season. Statistical analysis is more advanced today than ever before, and we can dissect the stats better and not just look at one or two numbers.
And think about it, wouldn't you like to see, say, Walter Johnson, be voted the 1913 American League Satchel Paige Award, and know that you cast your vote for him? I'd enjoy that.
The exact ballot format -- three places, 5-3-1 points -- is fine, though perhaps expanding it to five places and modifying the point values would make it a bit more fun.
So, that's my ideas for a Satchel Paige Award. It doesn't have to be sponsored by the BBWAA, but that name lends some weighty imprimatur that would only help. It doesn't take the pitching award away from Young, whose memory doesn't deserve that (and the BBWAA chose him, so they should be stuck with him, and willingly. We also automatically avoid the sticky situation of possibly awarding Young a Cy Young Award.) Paige is worthily honored, as are many past pitchers. (And as with Young, Paige isn't likely to win his own award, based on his statistics.)
The Satchel Paige Award. An idea whose time is in the past, and has come at last.
How about it, BBWAA?
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
It was 20 years ago today...
In 1989, I was in my early 20s, single, had decent financial resources, and some free time. So did a few guys I knew from my college days. They planned out a baseball road trip and, with only the slightest of arm-twisting, got me to sign up for it. I was living in Massachusetts at the time, but when Friday night rolled around, I hit the road over to upstate New York, the Albany-Schenectady-Troy region, got together, and the next day we hit the road, a bunch of mostly-carefree 20somethings. I think Dennis did the scheduling and arranged the tickets, and I vaguely recall that we took Randy's car. We all shared the driving, pretty much picked out hotels on the fly (it was almost always a Red Roof Inn, except in Canada). The other traveler was Eric.
Our first stop, Saturday 24-June-1989, was in Cooperstown, NY, home of the National Baseball Hall Of Fame & Museum. It was my second (and so far, last) visit; we wandered around the exhibits for a few hours, drinking in the history of the game, and thinking ahead to our grand baseball adventure.
And then it was on to Rochester, home of Dennis' parents (free sleeping quarters!) Their bathroom was being redone, no shower curtain, so bathers had to be cautious not to spray the entire room. Rochester was also where Silver Stadium, home of the Rochester Red Wings, AAA-level affiliate of the Baltimore Orioles, was found. That night they were playing the Pawtucket Red Sox; prospect Eric Hetzel pitched for the PawSox, along the way he threw a four strikeout inning, Eric came up with a foul ball from a scrum (I was close; my hand was in the mix), and I recall the Sox were victorious.
Sunday 25-June, on to Pittsburgh early in the morning. Three Rivers Stadium, one of the "giant ashtray" designs from the early 1970s, was uninspiring, but it was a sunny hot day, and there were pretty girls in the stands. Final, Pirates 5 - Cardinals 3.
Monday 26-June found us in Cincinnati, Riverfront Stadium. Another giant ashtray. Pete Rose managing, less than two months before his permanent expulsion from baseball's good graces. 1988 World Series hero Kirk Gibson went deep for the visiting Dodgers, and the Reds got two from the home boys, Paul O'Neill and Bo Diaz, these last two saluted with fusillades of bottle rockets. Final, Reds 5 - Dodgers 3.
We drove on after the game that night, stopping near Indianapolis, and in the morning continued driving across Indiana. I was struck by the regional irony: corn grew on both sides of the highway, but at our breakfast stop, there was no cornbread on the menu.
Gary, Indiana, was the foulest-smelling town I have ever been through, at least on that day.
Chicago, the Windy City, and the prime motivation for the trip's schedule -- a rare convergence when both the Cubs and the White Sox were playing at home, for two days. Wrigley Field in the daylight, and Comiskey Park in the evening. My first and, so far, only visits to Chicago baseball. Wrigley is a gem to look at, though it was built in 1914 and so is primarily scaled for people sized to 1914 demographics. Comiskey was lovely, though clearly crumbling badly (it was replaced after the 1990 season). Despite Wrigley's reputation for being homer-friendly, we saw zero home runs over the four games, meaning we were also denied the Comiskey exploding scoreboard showing off its fullest effects. What's more, though the 1989 Cubs were a pretty good team and won their division, they had nothing working these two days, as the home teams went a collective 0-4, the Cubs dropping two to the Pirates, and the White Sox falling twice to the Rangers.
Tuesday 27-June finals: Pirates 5 - Cubs 4, Rangers 5 - White Sox 1.
Wednesday 28-June finals: Pirates 3 - Cubs 1, Rangers 10 - White Sox 5.
Though we witnessed three Pirates games, featuring Barry Bonds before he became The Barry Bonds and, later, BONDS!, I don't really remember his playing in particular. Looking back over these box scores, there's a lot of players who became even bigger names (and many more who faded quickly, but they are down in the record books forever). Sammy Sosa, with the Rangers. Harold Baines. Kevin Brown. Others. I don't remember many specifics from these games, but I'm glad I attended.
Thursday 29-June had a relatively short drive to Detroit, home of fabled Tiger Stadium. Much has been written about this park, how sorely it is missed, and even now, abandoned since after the 1999 season, it is undergoing final demolition. Well, great ballparks are always remembered fondly. Tiger Stadium indeed felt inviting to the fans, bundling us in close to the field. But being entirely enclosed, it did not to me feel like it invited in Detroit much, and the girders, no matter how much character they added, were wretched. From our ticketed seats, each of us, sitting four in a row, were screened from seeing one base each -- I said we were blocked for the cycle. We moved; the park wasn't crowded. The visiting Yankees got a home run I don't remember from Roberto Kelly and one I do recall from Steve Balboni, to left field, about three rows deep (not where we were sitting). A nice park, an exciting game, a well-spent evening. Final, Yankees 7 - Tigers 6.
Our shortest drive of the trip took us to Cleveland, home of cavernous Municipal Stadium, built in hopes of winning the 1932 Summer Olympics bid (Los Angeles won and hosted). The visiting team was the defending AL champion Oakland A's, who would go on to win the 1989 World Series, and who had re-acquired Rickey Henderson from the Yankees just days earlier. We and many other fans shouted to Rickey as he warmed up in left field (actually, he mostly just stood there, ignoring any batting practice balls that came his way). Eventually he bantered a bit. It was a Friday night, the powerful A's were in town, and the Indians drew only 27,000 fans; and in the yawning abyss of Municipal, it looked like nothing. It was dreary, saved only by virtue of the baseball game on the diamond before us.
I had recently read the delightful (if now sorely dated) Dodger Dogs To Fenway Franks, a first person account of the author's tour of all 26 (at that time) major league ballparks in 1985. In it, he mentioned the Cleveland Indians drum man, John Adams. I made it a point to wander out to left field and speak with him for a minute; mostly I just wanted to say Hi. So I did, just to let him know his fame was spreading. He still drums at Indians home games today.
Final, Friday 30-June, Athletics 5 - Indians 0. This was no surprise.
After the game, we were hungry, and managed to find a very late night jazz club. Dennis, Eric, and I went in and had whatever they could find in the kitchen; Randy napped in the car. We had a long drive ahead of us.
I don't recall who had the wheel, but we lit out for Toronto, about 300 miles, and all the more urgent that we had a day game following our Cleveland night game. We pressed on. I remember I was awake as we passed through Buffalo, and caught a glimpse of darkened Pilot Field, home of the AAA Buffalo Bisons, and a cornerstone of the promotion of Buffalo as a Major League Baseball expansion city, as it was designed to be expandable to major league seating capacity. (The bid ultimately failed, as Denver and Miami were awarded the 1991 expansion franchises.) Buffalo was our tentative first stop on the trip, but we bailed out in favor of Rochester (closer, and Dennis' family). I've never been back, and so never have attended a game at Pilot.
We reached the bridge into Canada, but New York State sheriffs had set up a roadblock, probably to check for drunk drivers. He asked why we were going to Canada; we replied "baseball!" He shook his head, no doubt questioning our sanity, but finding no reason to detain us, waved us through. At the other end we reached the Canadian border; remember that these were more relaxed times in terms of international relations and traveling abroad. We all had to be awake and alert -- it was around 4 a.m., as I recall -- so the customs agent could know that everyone was entering Canada of their own volition. He asked from where we were coming? "Cleveland." He asked where we were going? "Toronto and Montreal." Why Toronto and Montreal?
In unison, almost in harmony, all four of us proclaimed, "BASEBALL!"
"Baseball, huh?" Similar to the NY sheriff, he shook his head, and waved us past. "Welcome to Canada."
Saturday, 01-July -- Canada Day. We arrived in Toronto as the sun was rising, backlighting the CN Tower and SkyDome beautifully. We found a hotel and crashed. I woke first (typical), showered, and went out to find a paper. Traffic was very light early on. I waited at a crosswalk for the one car approaching -- and was stunned when the driver, despite having the green light, stopped and waved me across. But that's the Canadian way -- pedestrians first. I withdrew some cash at an ATM; I've always appreciated how Canada doesn't print all its bills the same, generic color scheme.
We roused and wended our way to SkyDome, which had opened less than a month earlier. With its retractable roof (which had been closed when we drove past at dawn, but was now open, on a sparkling Saturday afternoon), it was an engineering marvel, the first of its kind (there are now four other retractable roof parks used by Major League Baseball teams). The Blue Jays were a hot ticket, due to the new park and being a good team at the time -- they won the AL East division in 1989. So our seats were waaaay up in the top deck, behind the first base line. The players were mere insects on the green field far below. Happily for me, the Red Sox were in town, and making his major league debut was starting pitcher Eric Hetzel, whom we had watched pitch in Rochester a week earlier. He wasn't sharp, but he was more than enough for the Blue Jays, and picked up the win, supported by a Mike Greenwell home run. I had a high-power lens, and took a picture of Hetzel's first pitch and sent him a blowup print of it. I hope he got it, as I never heard back from him (not that I expected to). (It was film, not digital, and I don't know today where it is, so I cannot post a copy.)
In celebration of Canada Day, every fan received a small Canadian Flag, and a plastic Blue Jays coffee mug, the kind with a base that can be mounted on a dashboard. I have no idea where mine are, but they're probably still in a storage box somewhere.
Final, Red Sox 3 - Blue Jays 1.
Sunday, 02-July. On the road again, to our last game, the Houston Astros at the Montreal Expos. Another day game, but in dismal conditions. Stade Olympique, built for the 1976 Olympics, was retrofitted with a removable tent-style roof, which never worked correctly, and so was kept closed most of the time. As a result, the ballpark was dark, dingy, not really well-configured for baseball, and with the Astroturf field, felt like playing ball in a dungeon. There was just nothing to recommend it. Were it not for the actual baseball game and the extremely attractive usher in our section, I wouldn't remember it at all. The game was a laugher, as the Expos quickly jumped out to a 10-0 lead, and we finally had a real slugfest to watch.
Final, Expos 13 - Astros 2.
The sun still had several hours left when the game ended. We headed south toward Albany, got through American customs quickly, and I took the wheel as we drove down the Northway, I-87. We reached Troy before sundown, got to our drop-off point (I recall it was the house Randy was living in), sorted out the stuff, and went our separate ways. I found a couch for the night. There was time to consider taking in a local AA game, which as I remember was the Bristol Red Sox at the Albany-Colonie Yankees, but we had all had enough, and passed. The next day, I headed home to Massachusetts. The trip, the Great Northeastern Baseball Trip (as our bedsheet banner proclaimed; we displayed it at most parks), was over. A great memory from a younger, less burdened time.
If you can, take your own baseball trip. If you love the game, you'll have a blast.
A driving map.
(Ah, if only we'd had Google back then.)
Our first stop, Saturday 24-June-1989, was in Cooperstown, NY, home of the National Baseball Hall Of Fame & Museum. It was my second (and so far, last) visit; we wandered around the exhibits for a few hours, drinking in the history of the game, and thinking ahead to our grand baseball adventure.
And then it was on to Rochester, home of Dennis' parents (free sleeping quarters!) Their bathroom was being redone, no shower curtain, so bathers had to be cautious not to spray the entire room. Rochester was also where Silver Stadium, home of the Rochester Red Wings, AAA-level affiliate of the Baltimore Orioles, was found. That night they were playing the Pawtucket Red Sox; prospect Eric Hetzel pitched for the PawSox, along the way he threw a four strikeout inning, Eric came up with a foul ball from a scrum (I was close; my hand was in the mix), and I recall the Sox were victorious.
Sunday 25-June, on to Pittsburgh early in the morning. Three Rivers Stadium, one of the "giant ashtray" designs from the early 1970s, was uninspiring, but it was a sunny hot day, and there were pretty girls in the stands. Final, Pirates 5 - Cardinals 3.
Monday 26-June found us in Cincinnati, Riverfront Stadium. Another giant ashtray. Pete Rose managing, less than two months before his permanent expulsion from baseball's good graces. 1988 World Series hero Kirk Gibson went deep for the visiting Dodgers, and the Reds got two from the home boys, Paul O'Neill and Bo Diaz, these last two saluted with fusillades of bottle rockets. Final, Reds 5 - Dodgers 3.
We drove on after the game that night, stopping near Indianapolis, and in the morning continued driving across Indiana. I was struck by the regional irony: corn grew on both sides of the highway, but at our breakfast stop, there was no cornbread on the menu.
Gary, Indiana, was the foulest-smelling town I have ever been through, at least on that day.
Chicago, the Windy City, and the prime motivation for the trip's schedule -- a rare convergence when both the Cubs and the White Sox were playing at home, for two days. Wrigley Field in the daylight, and Comiskey Park in the evening. My first and, so far, only visits to Chicago baseball. Wrigley is a gem to look at, though it was built in 1914 and so is primarily scaled for people sized to 1914 demographics. Comiskey was lovely, though clearly crumbling badly (it was replaced after the 1990 season). Despite Wrigley's reputation for being homer-friendly, we saw zero home runs over the four games, meaning we were also denied the Comiskey exploding scoreboard showing off its fullest effects. What's more, though the 1989 Cubs were a pretty good team and won their division, they had nothing working these two days, as the home teams went a collective 0-4, the Cubs dropping two to the Pirates, and the White Sox falling twice to the Rangers.
Tuesday 27-June finals: Pirates 5 - Cubs 4, Rangers 5 - White Sox 1.
Wednesday 28-June finals: Pirates 3 - Cubs 1, Rangers 10 - White Sox 5.
Though we witnessed three Pirates games, featuring Barry Bonds before he became The Barry Bonds and, later, BONDS!, I don't really remember his playing in particular. Looking back over these box scores, there's a lot of players who became even bigger names (and many more who faded quickly, but they are down in the record books forever). Sammy Sosa, with the Rangers. Harold Baines. Kevin Brown. Others. I don't remember many specifics from these games, but I'm glad I attended.
Thursday 29-June had a relatively short drive to Detroit, home of fabled Tiger Stadium. Much has been written about this park, how sorely it is missed, and even now, abandoned since after the 1999 season, it is undergoing final demolition. Well, great ballparks are always remembered fondly. Tiger Stadium indeed felt inviting to the fans, bundling us in close to the field. But being entirely enclosed, it did not to me feel like it invited in Detroit much, and the girders, no matter how much character they added, were wretched. From our ticketed seats, each of us, sitting four in a row, were screened from seeing one base each -- I said we were blocked for the cycle. We moved; the park wasn't crowded. The visiting Yankees got a home run I don't remember from Roberto Kelly and one I do recall from Steve Balboni, to left field, about three rows deep (not where we were sitting). A nice park, an exciting game, a well-spent evening. Final, Yankees 7 - Tigers 6.
Our shortest drive of the trip took us to Cleveland, home of cavernous Municipal Stadium, built in hopes of winning the 1932 Summer Olympics bid (Los Angeles won and hosted). The visiting team was the defending AL champion Oakland A's, who would go on to win the 1989 World Series, and who had re-acquired Rickey Henderson from the Yankees just days earlier. We and many other fans shouted to Rickey as he warmed up in left field (actually, he mostly just stood there, ignoring any batting practice balls that came his way). Eventually he bantered a bit. It was a Friday night, the powerful A's were in town, and the Indians drew only 27,000 fans; and in the yawning abyss of Municipal, it looked like nothing. It was dreary, saved only by virtue of the baseball game on the diamond before us.
I had recently read the delightful (if now sorely dated) Dodger Dogs To Fenway Franks, a first person account of the author's tour of all 26 (at that time) major league ballparks in 1985. In it, he mentioned the Cleveland Indians drum man, John Adams. I made it a point to wander out to left field and speak with him for a minute; mostly I just wanted to say Hi. So I did, just to let him know his fame was spreading. He still drums at Indians home games today.
Final, Friday 30-June, Athletics 5 - Indians 0. This was no surprise.
After the game, we were hungry, and managed to find a very late night jazz club. Dennis, Eric, and I went in and had whatever they could find in the kitchen; Randy napped in the car. We had a long drive ahead of us.
I don't recall who had the wheel, but we lit out for Toronto, about 300 miles, and all the more urgent that we had a day game following our Cleveland night game. We pressed on. I remember I was awake as we passed through Buffalo, and caught a glimpse of darkened Pilot Field, home of the AAA Buffalo Bisons, and a cornerstone of the promotion of Buffalo as a Major League Baseball expansion city, as it was designed to be expandable to major league seating capacity. (The bid ultimately failed, as Denver and Miami were awarded the 1991 expansion franchises.) Buffalo was our tentative first stop on the trip, but we bailed out in favor of Rochester (closer, and Dennis' family). I've never been back, and so never have attended a game at Pilot.
We reached the bridge into Canada, but New York State sheriffs had set up a roadblock, probably to check for drunk drivers. He asked why we were going to Canada; we replied "baseball!" He shook his head, no doubt questioning our sanity, but finding no reason to detain us, waved us through. At the other end we reached the Canadian border; remember that these were more relaxed times in terms of international relations and traveling abroad. We all had to be awake and alert -- it was around 4 a.m., as I recall -- so the customs agent could know that everyone was entering Canada of their own volition. He asked from where we were coming? "Cleveland." He asked where we were going? "Toronto and Montreal." Why Toronto and Montreal?
In unison, almost in harmony, all four of us proclaimed, "BASEBALL!"
"Baseball, huh?" Similar to the NY sheriff, he shook his head, and waved us past. "Welcome to Canada."
Saturday, 01-July -- Canada Day. We arrived in Toronto as the sun was rising, backlighting the CN Tower and SkyDome beautifully. We found a hotel and crashed. I woke first (typical), showered, and went out to find a paper. Traffic was very light early on. I waited at a crosswalk for the one car approaching -- and was stunned when the driver, despite having the green light, stopped and waved me across. But that's the Canadian way -- pedestrians first. I withdrew some cash at an ATM; I've always appreciated how Canada doesn't print all its bills the same, generic color scheme.
We roused and wended our way to SkyDome, which had opened less than a month earlier. With its retractable roof (which had been closed when we drove past at dawn, but was now open, on a sparkling Saturday afternoon), it was an engineering marvel, the first of its kind (there are now four other retractable roof parks used by Major League Baseball teams). The Blue Jays were a hot ticket, due to the new park and being a good team at the time -- they won the AL East division in 1989. So our seats were waaaay up in the top deck, behind the first base line. The players were mere insects on the green field far below. Happily for me, the Red Sox were in town, and making his major league debut was starting pitcher Eric Hetzel, whom we had watched pitch in Rochester a week earlier. He wasn't sharp, but he was more than enough for the Blue Jays, and picked up the win, supported by a Mike Greenwell home run. I had a high-power lens, and took a picture of Hetzel's first pitch and sent him a blowup print of it. I hope he got it, as I never heard back from him (not that I expected to). (It was film, not digital, and I don't know today where it is, so I cannot post a copy.)
In celebration of Canada Day, every fan received a small Canadian Flag, and a plastic Blue Jays coffee mug, the kind with a base that can be mounted on a dashboard. I have no idea where mine are, but they're probably still in a storage box somewhere.
Final, Red Sox 3 - Blue Jays 1.
Sunday, 02-July. On the road again, to our last game, the Houston Astros at the Montreal Expos. Another day game, but in dismal conditions. Stade Olympique, built for the 1976 Olympics, was retrofitted with a removable tent-style roof, which never worked correctly, and so was kept closed most of the time. As a result, the ballpark was dark, dingy, not really well-configured for baseball, and with the Astroturf field, felt like playing ball in a dungeon. There was just nothing to recommend it. Were it not for the actual baseball game and the extremely attractive usher in our section, I wouldn't remember it at all. The game was a laugher, as the Expos quickly jumped out to a 10-0 lead, and we finally had a real slugfest to watch.
Final, Expos 13 - Astros 2.
The sun still had several hours left when the game ended. We headed south toward Albany, got through American customs quickly, and I took the wheel as we drove down the Northway, I-87. We reached Troy before sundown, got to our drop-off point (I recall it was the house Randy was living in), sorted out the stuff, and went our separate ways. I found a couch for the night. There was time to consider taking in a local AA game, which as I remember was the Bristol Red Sox at the Albany-Colonie Yankees, but we had all had enough, and passed. The next day, I headed home to Massachusetts. The trip, the Great Northeastern Baseball Trip (as our bedsheet banner proclaimed; we displayed it at most parks), was over. A great memory from a younger, less burdened time.
If you can, take your own baseball trip. If you love the game, you'll have a blast.
A driving map.
(Ah, if only we'd had Google back then.)
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
Swallows 2009
Our front door swallows are back again -- well, they've been back for weeks, since sometime mid-April. Usually they have cranked out one clutch of chicks by now and are at work on their second, but not this time. They have been quite slow. I was a bit concerned that, perhaps, they had gotten too old to still be a viable breeding pair.
Not to worry. Suddenly, this past Saturday, we heard peeping. Watching the nest, one of the adult birds flew in, and four tiny heads popped up, beaks open wide, hoping for the next morsel.
It took them a while, but the swallows are still on the job, laying eggs and hatching chicks.
Not to worry. Suddenly, this past Saturday, we heard peeping. Watching the nest, one of the adult birds flew in, and four tiny heads popped up, beaks open wide, hoping for the next morsel.
It took them a while, but the swallows are still on the job, laying eggs and hatching chicks.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Graduation time
Summer's here. The official unofficial start, Memorial Day weekend, is already past us. In an unusual turn, the local rec center scheduled teeball games for the Saturday of the holiday weekend (something that hadn't happened the last three years), and almost the entire Green Monsters team showed up. So that was good, and we had a lot of fun. Two games left, this morning and next weekend.
Carson is now four, and we decided to withdraw him from his Montessori school for the summer. He's very autonomous, and with Amalie also having the summer off, it's simply easier, he's not going to miss all that much, and we think we'll work in some travel. And it's a nice cost savings. We do plan on having him return in September.
Amalie is but days away from her summer -- classes end June 3rd -- and we know she has passed (brilliantly) and will shuffle along to second grade. Her teacher, Mrs. Parks, is being reassigned to second grade next year, and the students are allowed to request tagging along with her, a technique called "looping". We all really like Mrs. Parks -- me, Val, certainly Amie -- so we've agreed that she should loop. I've been reading to her class for several weeks now, which started out as one day a week, but then we started a new book with barely a month left, so this past week I've stepped it up (and Mrs. Parks has jumped in some afternoons) and been reading every day. Looks like I'll be done after Monday. Our reading list, in my tenure, has included Coraline by Neil Gaiman and The Amazing Maurice And His Educated Rodents by Terry Pratchett.
So that's the end of the school year for my kids. Not really graduation, though. No, that belongs to another young lady this year.
I moved to Austin in 1990, and in those carefree, bachelor days, would regularly travel up to the Dallas area to take in some Red Sox games when they were playing the Rangers. I was able to sleep at the house of friend from college who lived in McKinney; the drive out to Arlington was a bit long, but as there was nothing else I wanted to do there besides enjoy baseball, it didn't put me off. Hey, free crash space!
Steve and I first met in 1983, as I was sitting in a math class. He rollerskated in; yes, really (he's always been quite good at skating -- I'm dismal -- and still does to this day). We also ran into each other at the campus radio station, WRPI, and simply were a good fit. I was best man at his wedding in 1990, a marriage now in its 19th year.
As often happens to newlyweds, they had a baby about a year later, a daughter. And, about a month after that, the Red Sox were in town, and I drove up, mainly to see some games, but I was also very much looking forward to seeing Steve and Anne's baby girl.
Got to their house around, oh, 9:00 pm or so, well after dark. Rang the bell. Steve opened the door. There, in the crook of his elbow and dozing on his shoulder, was baby Alanna. And Steve's face had the brightest, proudest smile I can recall seeing.
I kinda understood that at the time, and experienced it first-hand when Amalie was born in 2002. It's a dad thing.
Eighteen years later, Alanna is on the verge of graduating high school, still in McKinney. An accomplished young woman -- #14 in her class of over 400, a State-class band member, scholarship winner. (At various times, Steve and Anne actually entrusted Alanna to my care, mostly to take her to baseball games. She doesn't seem particularly to be a fan, however, so my dastardly plan appears foiled. Curses! Ah well, I still have my own progeny to corrupt.)
Warmest congratulations, Alanna. Your family aren't the only ones proud of you.
Now go give 'em heck in college.
Carson is now four, and we decided to withdraw him from his Montessori school for the summer. He's very autonomous, and with Amalie also having the summer off, it's simply easier, he's not going to miss all that much, and we think we'll work in some travel. And it's a nice cost savings. We do plan on having him return in September.
Amalie is but days away from her summer -- classes end June 3rd -- and we know she has passed (brilliantly) and will shuffle along to second grade. Her teacher, Mrs. Parks, is being reassigned to second grade next year, and the students are allowed to request tagging along with her, a technique called "looping". We all really like Mrs. Parks -- me, Val, certainly Amie -- so we've agreed that she should loop. I've been reading to her class for several weeks now, which started out as one day a week, but then we started a new book with barely a month left, so this past week I've stepped it up (and Mrs. Parks has jumped in some afternoons) and been reading every day. Looks like I'll be done after Monday. Our reading list, in my tenure, has included Coraline by Neil Gaiman and The Amazing Maurice And His Educated Rodents by Terry Pratchett.
So that's the end of the school year for my kids. Not really graduation, though. No, that belongs to another young lady this year.
I moved to Austin in 1990, and in those carefree, bachelor days, would regularly travel up to the Dallas area to take in some Red Sox games when they were playing the Rangers. I was able to sleep at the house of friend from college who lived in McKinney; the drive out to Arlington was a bit long, but as there was nothing else I wanted to do there besides enjoy baseball, it didn't put me off. Hey, free crash space!
Steve and I first met in 1983, as I was sitting in a math class. He rollerskated in; yes, really (he's always been quite good at skating -- I'm dismal -- and still does to this day). We also ran into each other at the campus radio station, WRPI, and simply were a good fit. I was best man at his wedding in 1990, a marriage now in its 19th year.
As often happens to newlyweds, they had a baby about a year later, a daughter. And, about a month after that, the Red Sox were in town, and I drove up, mainly to see some games, but I was also very much looking forward to seeing Steve and Anne's baby girl.
Got to their house around, oh, 9:00 pm or so, well after dark. Rang the bell. Steve opened the door. There, in the crook of his elbow and dozing on his shoulder, was baby Alanna. And Steve's face had the brightest, proudest smile I can recall seeing.
I kinda understood that at the time, and experienced it first-hand when Amalie was born in 2002. It's a dad thing.
Eighteen years later, Alanna is on the verge of graduating high school, still in McKinney. An accomplished young woman -- #14 in her class of over 400, a State-class band member, scholarship winner. (At various times, Steve and Anne actually entrusted Alanna to my care, mostly to take her to baseball games. She doesn't seem particularly to be a fan, however, so my dastardly plan appears foiled. Curses! Ah well, I still have my own progeny to corrupt.)
Warmest congratulations, Alanna. Your family aren't the only ones proud of you.
Now go give 'em heck in college.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Is John Franco A Likely Hall Of Famer?
I'm semi-retired from Yahoo! Answers Baseball, but I still check in and answer a few questions. The interesting ones. Not the old ones, the tired ones, the repetitive ones, the trolling ones, the mindless ones, or even the ones begging for a bit of snark. That doesn't leave a lot from which to select.
But now and then a good one pops up, and sometimes I tear off a long answer worth republishing here. Had one this morning, basically the title question above. Here's what I wrote:
Right now he's not, and he's not going to be for quite some time, if ever.
The Hall and its electorates are only just beginning to get a feel, and it's nowhere yet near strong, for what a relief pitcher (and let's be realistic -- a CLOSER; see mention of middle relievers below) needs to do in order to earn the eternal acclaim of the Hall plaque.
Here's the former MLB players elected primarily for their relief pitching, along with their induction year and winning ballot cycle:
Wilhelm -- 1985 (8th)
Fingers -- 1992 (2nd)
Eckersley -- 2004 (1st)
Sutter -- 2006 (13th)
Gossage -- 2008 (9th)
That's it. Relief pitching has been around forever (though only as a speciality, a role that actually had some respect, for about 40 years), and only five relievers have been found worthy. Well, okay -- closing is a tough position that notoriously burns out players, and rapidly. Few survive in the role, even fewer thrive, and the five names above are pretty darn good representatives for being among the very best at what the job demands. Even so, look at the number of ballots it took them -- Fingers held the saves record (such as it was) for a long time, and Eck, with his unusual career (good starter, then great closer), along with an AL CYA and, very rare for a P, MVP, plus his dashing good looks, managed to convince the voters in just one go. The others took their time, their candidacies needed to mellow and mature.
Further note that three of the five have been in the past six voting cycles, and the other two within the past quarter-century. Relief pitching is still an emerging part of the game. Hall voting always lags such things. It's not a trend, exactly, but one can see where notions and norms are beginning, reluctantly, to shift in directions more favorable to relievers.
Looking ahead, Rivera and HOFfman will get their calls in time, but anyone else? Can't say "no" but can say "not likely". Smith has his proponents.
And this brings us, at last, to Franco. He last played in 2005, and so will first qualify for the 2011 ballot. He recorded 424 saves, currently fourth all time, third when he finished playing. He had some great seasons and plenty of good ones. (Not doing anything resembling a detailed statistical treatment here; for relievers, Saves is the first word, and pretty much the final one, too.)
At a glance, Franco's career looks good, but not Hall good -- but remember, the conceptual Hall reliever is still an emerging portrait. Franco isn't Eck good, and he wasn't really contemporary with the other four Hall relievers, so Eck makes the best comp. Eck made headlines, even when serving up Gibson's famous 1988 WS home run. Franco -- well, there's just not that many memorable moments. A PR campaign could only help his cause.
I don't know how the voters will approach Franco. They might love him. I doubt it, and taking the "not Hall worthy" position certainly is the easy and common view (most players don't measure that highly). But relief pitching (closing) is gaining in respect, gaining in Hall consideration, and maybe, just maybe, the voters will give him some ballot love. Not induction on his first ballot, but perhaps that 5% or more to keep him around and keep fans talking about his career. And as the profile of Hall-worthy closers continues emerging, maybe it'll reach a tipping point, and one day Franco really does look All That and wins the 75% supermajority needed. He can only benefit from getting on the ballot with the timing he will -- and if not benefit him directly, his candidacy will help further define what makes a reliever Hall class and thus benefit others farther down the road.
He probably won't get in, no, but he's in better position than a lot of his peers.
Now, a quick note about middle relievers. It's probably 20 years before any one of this breed even begins to sniff the bronze plaque. Closers have the statistical and historical weight of Saves behind them. Middle relievers have nothing (note, Holds are not yet official). Sure, they do their job, but the undercurrent is "okay, but not durable enough to start and not reliable enough to close". Maybe that is the case, but wouldn't we all benefit from being persuaded about that through debate, rather than take it as received wisdom? This past Hall ballot saw first-timer Jesse Orosco, who holds the record for games pitched, bounced with only one vote. One! Now, I am not claiming Orosco is Hall-worthy -- I don't know. But I really did want to see him get 5%, and get it reliably (like Baines, clearing the bar by some single digit of votes each time), in order to keep him around and begin and maintain a discussion of what makes a middle reliever Hall-worthy, or not Hall-worthy. Orosco, with his extremely long career, made for the PERFECT candidate to spark that discussion -- but he's already been pushed aside, and it'll be a decade before another candidate comes along who could stand up for middle relievers. (Dan Plesac, whose career can be described as "Orosco Lite", was also on the 2009 ballot. He received zero votes.)
It'll be at least ten years before another middle reliever Hall candidate comes along to get that discussion going. And so we wait. And wait.
But now and then a good one pops up, and sometimes I tear off a long answer worth republishing here. Had one this morning, basically the title question above. Here's what I wrote:
Right now he's not, and he's not going to be for quite some time, if ever.
The Hall and its electorates are only just beginning to get a feel, and it's nowhere yet near strong, for what a relief pitcher (and let's be realistic -- a CLOSER; see mention of middle relievers below) needs to do in order to earn the eternal acclaim of the Hall plaque.
Here's the former MLB players elected primarily for their relief pitching, along with their induction year and winning ballot cycle:
Wilhelm -- 1985 (8th)
Fingers -- 1992 (2nd)
Eckersley -- 2004 (1st)
Sutter -- 2006 (13th)
Gossage -- 2008 (9th)
That's it. Relief pitching has been around forever (though only as a speciality, a role that actually had some respect, for about 40 years), and only five relievers have been found worthy. Well, okay -- closing is a tough position that notoriously burns out players, and rapidly. Few survive in the role, even fewer thrive, and the five names above are pretty darn good representatives for being among the very best at what the job demands. Even so, look at the number of ballots it took them -- Fingers held the saves record (such as it was) for a long time, and Eck, with his unusual career (good starter, then great closer), along with an AL CYA and, very rare for a P, MVP, plus his dashing good looks, managed to convince the voters in just one go. The others took their time, their candidacies needed to mellow and mature.
Further note that three of the five have been in the past six voting cycles, and the other two within the past quarter-century. Relief pitching is still an emerging part of the game. Hall voting always lags such things. It's not a trend, exactly, but one can see where notions and norms are beginning, reluctantly, to shift in directions more favorable to relievers.
Looking ahead, Rivera and HOFfman will get their calls in time, but anyone else? Can't say "no" but can say "not likely". Smith has his proponents.
And this brings us, at last, to Franco. He last played in 2005, and so will first qualify for the 2011 ballot. He recorded 424 saves, currently fourth all time, third when he finished playing. He had some great seasons and plenty of good ones. (Not doing anything resembling a detailed statistical treatment here; for relievers, Saves is the first word, and pretty much the final one, too.)
At a glance, Franco's career looks good, but not Hall good -- but remember, the conceptual Hall reliever is still an emerging portrait. Franco isn't Eck good, and he wasn't really contemporary with the other four Hall relievers, so Eck makes the best comp. Eck made headlines, even when serving up Gibson's famous 1988 WS home run. Franco -- well, there's just not that many memorable moments. A PR campaign could only help his cause.
I don't know how the voters will approach Franco. They might love him. I doubt it, and taking the "not Hall worthy" position certainly is the easy and common view (most players don't measure that highly). But relief pitching (closing) is gaining in respect, gaining in Hall consideration, and maybe, just maybe, the voters will give him some ballot love. Not induction on his first ballot, but perhaps that 5% or more to keep him around and keep fans talking about his career. And as the profile of Hall-worthy closers continues emerging, maybe it'll reach a tipping point, and one day Franco really does look All That and wins the 75% supermajority needed. He can only benefit from getting on the ballot with the timing he will -- and if not benefit him directly, his candidacy will help further define what makes a reliever Hall class and thus benefit others farther down the road.
He probably won't get in, no, but he's in better position than a lot of his peers.
Now, a quick note about middle relievers. It's probably 20 years before any one of this breed even begins to sniff the bronze plaque. Closers have the statistical and historical weight of Saves behind them. Middle relievers have nothing (note, Holds are not yet official). Sure, they do their job, but the undercurrent is "okay, but not durable enough to start and not reliable enough to close". Maybe that is the case, but wouldn't we all benefit from being persuaded about that through debate, rather than take it as received wisdom? This past Hall ballot saw first-timer Jesse Orosco, who holds the record for games pitched, bounced with only one vote. One! Now, I am not claiming Orosco is Hall-worthy -- I don't know. But I really did want to see him get 5%, and get it reliably (like Baines, clearing the bar by some single digit of votes each time), in order to keep him around and begin and maintain a discussion of what makes a middle reliever Hall-worthy, or not Hall-worthy. Orosco, with his extremely long career, made for the PERFECT candidate to spark that discussion -- but he's already been pushed aside, and it'll be a decade before another candidate comes along who could stand up for middle relievers. (Dan Plesac, whose career can be described as "Orosco Lite", was also on the 2009 ballot. He received zero votes.)
It'll be at least ten years before another middle reliever Hall candidate comes along to get that discussion going. And so we wait. And wait.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Carson's Big Adventure
Carson is spending an extra week in Mississippi. One just wasn't enough.
I don't remember how it began, but the notion was raised that it might be good for our young man to spend some time with his Aunt Jenny (Val's younger sister) and Uncle Dickie Joe on their cattle ranch in southern Mississippi. Everyone was in favor of this, Carson and Amalie most of all. So, arrangements made, Carson and I set out last Monday, just after Easter, and spent a long, long day on the road. Out of Austin (as always, the very worst part of any road trip is just getting out of this town), across east Texas, through Houston (and not at one of the awful crush hours). We stopped at a Cracker Barrel in Beaumont for a late lunch (he devoured a huge pancake), and pressed on. Orange is the last town in Texas along I-10 heading east, and is just about the halfway point on the journey. We were getting excellent mileage, but had to stop for gas eventually. More than once I offered Carson the chance to run around in a local park, but he refused, saying he wanted to get to Jenny's place -- for which, I could not blame him.
The straightest drive leaves I-10 (which dips southward for New Orleans) for I-12 in Louisiana for about 75 miles, and here we encountered our first real trouble -- a terrible traffic jam. To our good fortune, however, I had been given a Tomtom GPS navigator by my folks for last Christmas, and this was our maiden voyage using it. It did not automatically give directions around the jam (whatever was causing it), but did allow me to search local maps for a likely escape route. We got off the highway (we had stopped -- the jam was that bad -- right at the top of an exit ramp), drove north to the town of Abita Springs, then turned easterly, and eventually picked up I-12 again. Long stretches of rural Louisiana are no doubt lovely, but dang, there is nothing for many miles in that area. (Absolutely dismal service in a franchise of a well-known, national fast food chain did nothing to improve my mood or opinions of this state.)
Carson was holding up well as we finally passed into Mississippi, our journey almost finished, but it had been a long day. Even fortified by a late-morning nap, he was feeling drowsy. I handed him a pillow to prop his head. Finally we left the interstate and headed into the bayous. It was past 10:00 pm, and fogs drifted everywhere. I had a general notion of where to go, but quickly got into unfamiliar terrain. The Tomtom to our rescue again -- I entered in the exact address, followed the directions, and we were there in five minutes. I thought I would have to carry Carson inside, but he perked right up -- partly happy we had arrived, partly because he had new cars that he hadn't been allowed to open until we got there.
Jenny and Dickie Joe had stayed up, well past their usual bedtime, to greet us. Jenny stayed up with Carson for another hour or so, until he opened his new cars and began to settle down. He was bivouaced on a mattress on the floor in the office next to their bedroom, and quickly set up camp. Clothes, cars, other toys were set in handy locations. I headed upstairs, took a familiar bedroom, dressed down and brushed my teeth. I was exhausted from the drive, but in that annoying post-tired, pre-sleep phase where I just cannot drop off right away. I worked on a crossword while Jenny settled in Carson, then popped a movie into the laptop, and that did it -- when I roused a few hours later, the battery had drained, and I couldn't recall seeing more than five minutes of the film. I set it to recharge, checked on Carson (sleeping peacefully), then went back to sleep.
The next day I unloaded Carson's supplies from the car -- a bicycle (I remounted the training wheels), scooter, kid-sized garden tools, and sundry other items. I complied a list to work against when picking him up. He awoke, and I set him up with a bowl of cereal. Jenny was off in the fields, and Dickie Joe in parts unknown. The two of us wandered out to the barn (Carson riding his tricycle, and deliberately passing through puddles). Eventually Dickie Joe returned, hopped on a quad, and rode out to collect Jenny. After we had all assembled, Carson and I said some quick good-byes and a hug -- he had to head off with his aunt and uncle to a real estate closing. I had already packed my few items and was ready to depart for the long drive back home, but I made certain to put Carson into Jenny's arms and care. At her suggestion, I wrote out a note granting her medical authority if needed, tucked it into his passport, and headed out.
Finding I-10 again was easy, with or without the GPS navigator. Many billboards advertised casinos, but I wasn't tempted, I just wanted to get home. I stopped for gas and a late breakfast, then again in Jennings to take a good stretch at the park. Good timing, the alligator exhibit was open -- it is quite small, but the curator knows her stuff about the gators. There are two 14-foot males, one 7-foot female, and a 120-year-old alligator snapping turtle. The gators were basking in some gorgeous springtime sunshine, but the snapper stubbornly stayed at the bottom of a pool; apparently he can stay submerged for up to six hours.
I reached Houston with simply awful timing -- right in the middle of evening crush hour. West of the city, as everyone is escaping, I-10 slows to a crawl, sometimes a complete stop, except for the HOV lanes. This mire lasts for about ten miles, and there are so many lanes of traffic that the navigator couldn't distinguish them (it kept advising me to stay left and get on the motorway; I was moving so slowly, I suppose, that it assumed I was on the frontage). I had hoped to stop for dinner and let the traffic clear out, but didn't see any good options before getting entangled, so I pressed on until it cleared. And, when it finally did, I decided to keep moving. The sun was setting as I pulled off I-10, one exit short of my turnoff, to eat at a favorite, Mikeska's BBQ (link warning: cheesy polka music), in Columbus, Texas, immediately off the highway. Fortunately, I still had 20 minutes before closing time. Brisket and sausage soon soothed my road-roughened nerves. My bottom simply was numb from two solid days driving, but sitting in a different chair helped, along with the food.
A very short hop along the interstate, and I was onto my final road to Austin, Rte. 71, 90 miles to go. The sun was well down. The navigator estimated my arrival time as 11:00 pm; I wanted to make it by 10:00. The Civic made good time, and I kept an eye on the ETA -- it kept getting earlier. Finally into Austin, and onto local roads, and I knew at once I was home because every damn light went red on me, and once the last light was behind me, I was stuck behind a pickup moving at a crawl. Feh. Home at last, just missing my target -- 10:01 pm. Nearly 1200 miles in two days. Driving that much left me feeling drained and awful, but for Carson's adventure, it was worth it.
We'd planned on him spending one week. Jenny wanted to keep him and he wanted to stay, so we agreed. Next weekend Val will be heading out to pick him up (though probably will not have to drive all the way to get him; Jenny and Carson will meet her somewhere in between for the handoff).
I don't remember how it began, but the notion was raised that it might be good for our young man to spend some time with his Aunt Jenny (Val's younger sister) and Uncle Dickie Joe on their cattle ranch in southern Mississippi. Everyone was in favor of this, Carson and Amalie most of all. So, arrangements made, Carson and I set out last Monday, just after Easter, and spent a long, long day on the road. Out of Austin (as always, the very worst part of any road trip is just getting out of this town), across east Texas, through Houston (and not at one of the awful crush hours). We stopped at a Cracker Barrel in Beaumont for a late lunch (he devoured a huge pancake), and pressed on. Orange is the last town in Texas along I-10 heading east, and is just about the halfway point on the journey. We were getting excellent mileage, but had to stop for gas eventually. More than once I offered Carson the chance to run around in a local park, but he refused, saying he wanted to get to Jenny's place -- for which, I could not blame him.
The straightest drive leaves I-10 (which dips southward for New Orleans) for I-12 in Louisiana for about 75 miles, and here we encountered our first real trouble -- a terrible traffic jam. To our good fortune, however, I had been given a Tomtom GPS navigator by my folks for last Christmas, and this was our maiden voyage using it. It did not automatically give directions around the jam (whatever was causing it), but did allow me to search local maps for a likely escape route. We got off the highway (we had stopped -- the jam was that bad -- right at the top of an exit ramp), drove north to the town of Abita Springs, then turned easterly, and eventually picked up I-12 again. Long stretches of rural Louisiana are no doubt lovely, but dang, there is nothing for many miles in that area. (Absolutely dismal service in a franchise of a well-known, national fast food chain did nothing to improve my mood or opinions of this state.)
Carson was holding up well as we finally passed into Mississippi, our journey almost finished, but it had been a long day. Even fortified by a late-morning nap, he was feeling drowsy. I handed him a pillow to prop his head. Finally we left the interstate and headed into the bayous. It was past 10:00 pm, and fogs drifted everywhere. I had a general notion of where to go, but quickly got into unfamiliar terrain. The Tomtom to our rescue again -- I entered in the exact address, followed the directions, and we were there in five minutes. I thought I would have to carry Carson inside, but he perked right up -- partly happy we had arrived, partly because he had new cars that he hadn't been allowed to open until we got there.
Jenny and Dickie Joe had stayed up, well past their usual bedtime, to greet us. Jenny stayed up with Carson for another hour or so, until he opened his new cars and began to settle down. He was bivouaced on a mattress on the floor in the office next to their bedroom, and quickly set up camp. Clothes, cars, other toys were set in handy locations. I headed upstairs, took a familiar bedroom, dressed down and brushed my teeth. I was exhausted from the drive, but in that annoying post-tired, pre-sleep phase where I just cannot drop off right away. I worked on a crossword while Jenny settled in Carson, then popped a movie into the laptop, and that did it -- when I roused a few hours later, the battery had drained, and I couldn't recall seeing more than five minutes of the film. I set it to recharge, checked on Carson (sleeping peacefully), then went back to sleep.
The next day I unloaded Carson's supplies from the car -- a bicycle (I remounted the training wheels), scooter, kid-sized garden tools, and sundry other items. I complied a list to work against when picking him up. He awoke, and I set him up with a bowl of cereal. Jenny was off in the fields, and Dickie Joe in parts unknown. The two of us wandered out to the barn (Carson riding his tricycle, and deliberately passing through puddles). Eventually Dickie Joe returned, hopped on a quad, and rode out to collect Jenny. After we had all assembled, Carson and I said some quick good-byes and a hug -- he had to head off with his aunt and uncle to a real estate closing. I had already packed my few items and was ready to depart for the long drive back home, but I made certain to put Carson into Jenny's arms and care. At her suggestion, I wrote out a note granting her medical authority if needed, tucked it into his passport, and headed out.
Finding I-10 again was easy, with or without the GPS navigator. Many billboards advertised casinos, but I wasn't tempted, I just wanted to get home. I stopped for gas and a late breakfast, then again in Jennings to take a good stretch at the park. Good timing, the alligator exhibit was open -- it is quite small, but the curator knows her stuff about the gators. There are two 14-foot males, one 7-foot female, and a 120-year-old alligator snapping turtle. The gators were basking in some gorgeous springtime sunshine, but the snapper stubbornly stayed at the bottom of a pool; apparently he can stay submerged for up to six hours.
I reached Houston with simply awful timing -- right in the middle of evening crush hour. West of the city, as everyone is escaping, I-10 slows to a crawl, sometimes a complete stop, except for the HOV lanes. This mire lasts for about ten miles, and there are so many lanes of traffic that the navigator couldn't distinguish them (it kept advising me to stay left and get on the motorway; I was moving so slowly, I suppose, that it assumed I was on the frontage). I had hoped to stop for dinner and let the traffic clear out, but didn't see any good options before getting entangled, so I pressed on until it cleared. And, when it finally did, I decided to keep moving. The sun was setting as I pulled off I-10, one exit short of my turnoff, to eat at a favorite, Mikeska's BBQ (link warning: cheesy polka music), in Columbus, Texas, immediately off the highway. Fortunately, I still had 20 minutes before closing time. Brisket and sausage soon soothed my road-roughened nerves. My bottom simply was numb from two solid days driving, but sitting in a different chair helped, along with the food.
A very short hop along the interstate, and I was onto my final road to Austin, Rte. 71, 90 miles to go. The sun was well down. The navigator estimated my arrival time as 11:00 pm; I wanted to make it by 10:00. The Civic made good time, and I kept an eye on the ETA -- it kept getting earlier. Finally into Austin, and onto local roads, and I knew at once I was home because every damn light went red on me, and once the last light was behind me, I was stuck behind a pickup moving at a crawl. Feh. Home at last, just missing my target -- 10:01 pm. Nearly 1200 miles in two days. Driving that much left me feeling drained and awful, but for Carson's adventure, it was worth it.
We'd planned on him spending one week. Jenny wanted to keep him and he wanted to stay, so we agreed. Next weekend Val will be heading out to pick him up (though probably will not have to drive all the way to get him; Jenny and Carson will meet her somewhere in between for the handoff).
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Fleeting Fame
I got interviewed.
It's primarily about baseball things, but there's a good pic of Carson from Summer 2008.
No doubt that soon, fame and fortune (cookies) will be coming my way.
It's primarily about baseball things, but there's a good pic of Carson from Summer 2008.
No doubt that soon, fame and fortune (cookies) will be coming my way.
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