Twenty or so years ago, Thomas Boswell of the Washington Post did a column entitled “99 Reasons Why baseball is Better than Football.” Now, I’m not going to get into an argument of why baseball is better than football, but I have come up with a few of the reasons why I like baseball, as well as a just a couple of things I dislike.
Ready? Here we go.
Baseball likes.
Freshly manicured green grass, spring training, manually operated scoreboards, afternoon games during the week, white uniforms at home, listening to far away radio stations while driving on a summer night, 80-year-old-managers, grilled hot dogs and bratwurst, peanuts, nachos with extra jalapenos, pretzels, popcorn, cracker jack, the seventh-inning stretch, high fives, the squeeze play, triples, third base coaches, first base coaches, the slider, circle change, knuckleball, the World Series, the All-Star game, Home Run Derby, overweight players, doubleheaders, catching a foul ball, pepper games, passing cold, frosty beverages to the person down the row, sitting in the bleachers, abbreviations on the scoreboard (i.e. PHL, NYM, CHI, PIT, etc), Cooperstown, scorecards, batting practice, walk-off homeruns, and summer nights.
Scoreboard watching, yelling at the ump, making new friends, retired numbers on display, double plays, stolen bases, pitching changes, Baseball Tonight, This Week in Baseball, NBC Game of the Week.
Jack Buck, Harry Caray, Vin Scully, Mike Shannon, Ernie Harwell, Joe Garagiola, Tony Kubek, Curt Gowdy, Mel Allen, and Red Barber.
Making life miserable for Cubs fans, kids run around the bases days, bobblehead days, fireworks, being stuck in traffic with horns blaring following a win, selling extra tickets to scalpers, Charlie Finley, Walter O’Malley, and Gussie Busch.
Stan Musial, Ozzie Smith, Lou Brock, Bob Gibson, Willie McGee, Albert Pujols, So Taguchi, Cal Ripken, Tony Gwynn, Tim McCarver, Nolan Ryan, Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, Sandy Koufax, Lou Gehrig, Pee Wee Reese, Jackie Robinson, Curt Flood, Ted Simmons, Edgar Renteria and Jon Jay.
Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, Sportsman’s Park, Ebbets Field, Polo Grounds, Tiger Stadium, old Yankee Stadium, and Chavez Ravine.
Opening Day, Bat Night, batboys, on-deck circle, bullpens, pennant races, cheap seats, booing the umpires, bean balls, sunflower seeds, knot hole gang, standing room only, Lou Gehrig, St. Louis Browns, Montreal Expos, Washington Senators, streetcars, creative parking, fathers and sons, fathers and daughters, standing and cheering for the last out, “That’s A Winner”, and World Championships.
The Gashouse Gang, Murder’s Row, Boys of Summer, ‘Dem Bums, Miracle Mets, Whiz Kids, and trains.
Dizzy, Daffy, Babe, The Kid, Catfish, Goose, The Wizard, Georgia Peach, Iron Man, Ducky, Secret Weapon, Slats, Yankee Clipper, Country, Pepper, The Lip, Muscles, King Kong, Yogi, Pudge, Lefty, Pee Wee, Rapid, Smokey, Three-Finger, Say Hey, Scooter, Mudcat, Blue Moon, Vinegar Bend, The Professor, Whitey, Red, The Man, Cha Cha, Stretch, Baby Bull, Boomer, and Big Papi.
“Bull Durham”, “A League of Their Own”, “The Natural”, “Major League”, “Pride of the Yankees”, “Field of Dreams”, “Bingo Long Traveling All-Stars and Motor Kings”, “Fear Strikes Out”, “The Rookie”, and “The Stratton Story”.
Minor league nicknames, minor league ballparks, American Association, Southern League, Texas League, Pioneer League, giveaways, kissing cam, sitting on the hill, Rookie Leagues, Frank Pulli, Doug Harvey, and Eric Gregg.
Well, I think you get the idea.
Baseball dislikes?
Simple, we can put them in one or two sentences.
Astroturf, the designated hitter, mascots, instant replays, most umpires, the Cubs and Reds, rain, cold days in April, labor strife, interleague play, and cookie cutter stadiums.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Friday, May 13, 2011
Willie Mays is 80
I’m not really sure if I know how to explain this, but I’ll try.
I have a birthday coming up in a few weeks, and I don’t mind telling you that I will be 54. I don’t mind turning 54; in fact, I think I can honestly say that I have yet to have a birthday that really made me feel “old.” No month-long depression when I turned 30 or 40, or even 50. It was just another number. Most days I certainly don’t feel old. As the great Satchel Paige once said, “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?” Some days that would be 12, and there are some days that would be 75.
What I am saying is, I have yet to have a birthday that made me feel “old”, or “older.”
But last Friday somebody had a birthday that did make me feel “old,” and I guess that surprised me a little bit.
When you start arguing about who is the greatest player to ever play baseball, an argument is going to ensue, just as it would if you were arguing who is the greatest football player ever or basketball player ever. You get the idea.
When you talk about the “greatest baseball player,” are you talking about all-‘round ability, or most home runs, or someone who had the most hits? You have to define the criteria which you are using to make the statement, “the best player ever”, or in my case, “the best player I ever saw in person.”
Stan Musial retired following the 1963 season. I went to my first Cardinal game in 1964, so I never saw Musial play, except in a couple of old-timer’s games. So he is not the best I ever saw.
No, this past Friday, while guessing birthdays that Lloyd Lewallen was firing at me on KPOC-FM, he said “Willie Mays.” I knew Mays came up in 1951, and was Rookie of the Year, made the famous catch at the Polo Grounds in the ’54 World Series against the Indians, was MVP in ’65, and was traded to the Mets in the early ‘70’s to close out his career. He was, the greatest player I ever saw in person.
But how old was he? As I quickly tried to do some math, I finally blurted out, “78.”
“No,” Lloyd said slowly, “he is 80.”
Eighty, eight-zero. Twenty shy of 100. There is absolutely no way Willie Mays could be 80 years old. I mean, I saw him play….several times, with both the Giants and Mets. But 80? Surely there was a mistake. I am not old enough for Willie Mays to be 80.
But he is, and I am.
I was stunned. The rest of the day I kept thinking, Willie Mays is 80! How can that be?
Well, Willie ended his career at the age of 42 in 1973. Like it or not, that was 38 years ago, which means, in four years, I will have been out of high school for 40 years.
I remember Mays playing centerfield for some very good Giant teams in the 1960’s. They had Mays, Orlando Cepada (before he was traded to the Cardinals), Willie McCovey, Jim Ray Hart, the Alou brothers, Juan Marichal, Gaylord Perry, Bobby Bolin. The Giants were a very, very good ball club.
In my childhood memories, Mays glided around centerfield, patrolling centerfield unlike anyone else. On nearly every fly ball he made his trademark “basket” catch, holding the glove right in front of his belt buckle, and letting the ball fall into his glove. He never dropped one that I remember.
Small by today’s standards, Mays was only 5-10, and weighed 170 pounds. But he crushed 660 home runs, which was second on the all-time list when he retired, behind Babe Ruth. He laced 3,283 hits and drove in over 1,900 runs.
I can close my eyes and still see him playing centerfield, or watch him struggle hitting against Bob Gibson.
There is absolutely no way Willie Mays can be 80 years old, because if he is, that makes me….middle age?
(The above originally appeared in "Bits and Pieces" in the May 12, 2011 edition of the Pocahontas Star Herald)
I have a birthday coming up in a few weeks, and I don’t mind telling you that I will be 54. I don’t mind turning 54; in fact, I think I can honestly say that I have yet to have a birthday that really made me feel “old.” No month-long depression when I turned 30 or 40, or even 50. It was just another number. Most days I certainly don’t feel old. As the great Satchel Paige once said, “How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?” Some days that would be 12, and there are some days that would be 75.
What I am saying is, I have yet to have a birthday that made me feel “old”, or “older.”
But last Friday somebody had a birthday that did make me feel “old,” and I guess that surprised me a little bit.
When you start arguing about who is the greatest player to ever play baseball, an argument is going to ensue, just as it would if you were arguing who is the greatest football player ever or basketball player ever. You get the idea.
When you talk about the “greatest baseball player,” are you talking about all-‘round ability, or most home runs, or someone who had the most hits? You have to define the criteria which you are using to make the statement, “the best player ever”, or in my case, “the best player I ever saw in person.”
Stan Musial retired following the 1963 season. I went to my first Cardinal game in 1964, so I never saw Musial play, except in a couple of old-timer’s games. So he is not the best I ever saw.
No, this past Friday, while guessing birthdays that Lloyd Lewallen was firing at me on KPOC-FM, he said “Willie Mays.” I knew Mays came up in 1951, and was Rookie of the Year, made the famous catch at the Polo Grounds in the ’54 World Series against the Indians, was MVP in ’65, and was traded to the Mets in the early ‘70’s to close out his career. He was, the greatest player I ever saw in person.
But how old was he? As I quickly tried to do some math, I finally blurted out, “78.”
“No,” Lloyd said slowly, “he is 80.”
Eighty, eight-zero. Twenty shy of 100. There is absolutely no way Willie Mays could be 80 years old. I mean, I saw him play….several times, with both the Giants and Mets. But 80? Surely there was a mistake. I am not old enough for Willie Mays to be 80.
But he is, and I am.
I was stunned. The rest of the day I kept thinking, Willie Mays is 80! How can that be?
Well, Willie ended his career at the age of 42 in 1973. Like it or not, that was 38 years ago, which means, in four years, I will have been out of high school for 40 years.
I remember Mays playing centerfield for some very good Giant teams in the 1960’s. They had Mays, Orlando Cepada (before he was traded to the Cardinals), Willie McCovey, Jim Ray Hart, the Alou brothers, Juan Marichal, Gaylord Perry, Bobby Bolin. The Giants were a very, very good ball club.
In my childhood memories, Mays glided around centerfield, patrolling centerfield unlike anyone else. On nearly every fly ball he made his trademark “basket” catch, holding the glove right in front of his belt buckle, and letting the ball fall into his glove. He never dropped one that I remember.
Small by today’s standards, Mays was only 5-10, and weighed 170 pounds. But he crushed 660 home runs, which was second on the all-time list when he retired, behind Babe Ruth. He laced 3,283 hits and drove in over 1,900 runs.
I can close my eyes and still see him playing centerfield, or watch him struggle hitting against Bob Gibson.
There is absolutely no way Willie Mays can be 80 years old, because if he is, that makes me….middle age?
(The above originally appeared in "Bits and Pieces" in the May 12, 2011 edition of the Pocahontas Star Herald)
Smoke From A Distant Grill
To be honest I am having a hard time concentrating.
I am sitting at my desk at the Star Herald, the window behind me is open, allowing a strong southerly breeze to overtake me. The problem is about 300 yards to my south, on the front steps of the Randolph County Courthouse, county employees are grilling hamburgers, hundreds of hamburgers to sell to folks to raise money for flood victims.
As I sit here working on next week's column, the unmistakeable, undeniable, delicious aroma of raw meat cooking over a charcoal fire has literally filled the office, being assisted by the southerly winds.
We are all smiling an having trouble concentrating on our tasks. I'm looking at the clock and they will be grilling for at least two more hours. I'm thinking I might as well sit back, close my eyes, and let my mind take me away, imagining I am once again seven years old, and standing guard over the grill with my Grandpa Dalton, on a hot, sunny, Sunday afternoon, soaking in the knowledge he imparts on me of how to properly grill, how to make your own BBW sauce, all the while listening to Jack Buck and Harry Caray broadcast Cardinal baseball on KMOX.
The aroma that still fills my nostrils is intoxicating. It brings back pleasant memories and I don't want it to end.
I am sitting at my desk at the Star Herald, the window behind me is open, allowing a strong southerly breeze to overtake me. The problem is about 300 yards to my south, on the front steps of the Randolph County Courthouse, county employees are grilling hamburgers, hundreds of hamburgers to sell to folks to raise money for flood victims.
As I sit here working on next week's column, the unmistakeable, undeniable, delicious aroma of raw meat cooking over a charcoal fire has literally filled the office, being assisted by the southerly winds.
We are all smiling an having trouble concentrating on our tasks. I'm looking at the clock and they will be grilling for at least two more hours. I'm thinking I might as well sit back, close my eyes, and let my mind take me away, imagining I am once again seven years old, and standing guard over the grill with my Grandpa Dalton, on a hot, sunny, Sunday afternoon, soaking in the knowledge he imparts on me of how to properly grill, how to make your own BBW sauce, all the while listening to Jack Buck and Harry Caray broadcast Cardinal baseball on KMOX.
The aroma that still fills my nostrils is intoxicating. It brings back pleasant memories and I don't want it to end.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Thunderstorms
It's a paradox really. How can something so beautiful be so destructive and deadly.
I am aware that eight people have died in Arkansas and Oklahoma over the last eight hours due to thunderstorms and the tornadoes they produce. The families of those eight are mourning, and in no way am i minimizing their lost due to these storms.
But thunderstorms are fascinating, the way they begin, the way they grow. I just love watching them. This morning early, about 4 a.m., the rain was beating on the roof, the lightning was frequent, illuminating the otherwise dark room with flashes of light, like some sort of cosmic strobe.
I just lay there on the bed taaking it all in as the thunder rattled the windows and seemingly the very foundation of the house. I loved it I remember when it would storm when I was a kid, opening the garage door, pulling up a lawn chair, and sitting in the garage and watching the approaching storm from my front row seat.
Several years ago, in October 2005, I saw my first real life tornado. I had my camera and took several pictures of it. No one one was in any imminent danger as the small vortex worked its way through what was left of a bean field. What a rush that was.
I love watching thunderstorms, watching the lightning and hearing the thunder. I know, I'm weird, but that is just the way I am.
I am aware that eight people have died in Arkansas and Oklahoma over the last eight hours due to thunderstorms and the tornadoes they produce. The families of those eight are mourning, and in no way am i minimizing their lost due to these storms.
But thunderstorms are fascinating, the way they begin, the way they grow. I just love watching them. This morning early, about 4 a.m., the rain was beating on the roof, the lightning was frequent, illuminating the otherwise dark room with flashes of light, like some sort of cosmic strobe.
I just lay there on the bed taaking it all in as the thunder rattled the windows and seemingly the very foundation of the house. I loved it I remember when it would storm when I was a kid, opening the garage door, pulling up a lawn chair, and sitting in the garage and watching the approaching storm from my front row seat.
Several years ago, in October 2005, I saw my first real life tornado. I had my camera and took several pictures of it. No one one was in any imminent danger as the small vortex worked its way through what was left of a bean field. What a rush that was.
I love watching thunderstorms, watching the lightning and hearing the thunder. I know, I'm weird, but that is just the way I am.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Making tough choices
This is going to be a difficult column to write, because I know I am going to offend some people. Well, maybe not offend, but I know some of you are going to disagree with me, and that’s ok.
Yes, I am going to be expressing my opinion, but hopefully, I will also be giving you something to talk about. Who knows, some of you may even agree with me.
Two things happened this past week, and here we are several days later, and I am still dumbfounded by them. Well, at the very least confused. In both cases, I disagree with either the action taken, or the planned action.
About two Saturday afternoon, I received a text message from Pocahontas baseball coach Eric Housh, who was with his ball club at a tournament in Harrison. Coach Housh wrote, “Beat Quitman 25-1, and beat Stillwell, Okla., 7-0. Playing championship at 5:30 against Elkins, all of the starters have gone to prom.”
I was struck by the last sentence. The starters have left? It amazed me players would leave a tournament before the completion to go to prom. To my way of thinking, and I readily admit I may be in the minority here, why in the world would you desert your team for prom.
I was always taught, if you sign up for activity, whether it is baseball, Interact Cub, Chess Club or whatever, you are making a commitment to not only be a part of that activity, but you are also making a commitment to be there when physically able. Sure there are times when you are sick or there is a family emergency when you can’t be there. I understand that. But I don’t see this as one of those times.
By skipping out on a game to go to another activity, you are telling your teammates that your desires as an individual, are more important than the good of the team. Can you imagine someone saying, “Sorry guys, would love to stick around for the championship game, but, I have to go to this other function. Good luck, I’ll be rooting for you.” What kind of message is that?
Let me emphasize at this point I am only picking on prom because that is what was scheduled this past Saturday night. I would point out something else if that was what was going on.
I know the guys who went all have girlfriends and they didn’t want to let them down, and that is noble, but life’s not fair. But understand for the rest of your life you are going to have scheduling conflicts, so might as well get used to it.
It is too bad prom and the baseball tournament were scheduled at the same time. That is unfortunate, and maybe better communication could have avoided it. I don’t know.
I just think if you make a commitment to an activity, and baseball, football, basketball, track, tennis, golf, whatever the sport, is a commitment, then you need to honor that commitment, even though it may cause you to miss out on another event that you feel is equally important.
Again, I realize I may be in the minority in my thinking, and I totally respect those who have a differing view. There is no easy answer.
Yes, I am going to be expressing my opinion, but hopefully, I will also be giving you something to talk about. Who knows, some of you may even agree with me.
Two things happened this past week, and here we are several days later, and I am still dumbfounded by them. Well, at the very least confused. In both cases, I disagree with either the action taken, or the planned action.
About two Saturday afternoon, I received a text message from Pocahontas baseball coach Eric Housh, who was with his ball club at a tournament in Harrison. Coach Housh wrote, “Beat Quitman 25-1, and beat Stillwell, Okla., 7-0. Playing championship at 5:30 against Elkins, all of the starters have gone to prom.”
I was struck by the last sentence. The starters have left? It amazed me players would leave a tournament before the completion to go to prom. To my way of thinking, and I readily admit I may be in the minority here, why in the world would you desert your team for prom.
I was always taught, if you sign up for activity, whether it is baseball, Interact Cub, Chess Club or whatever, you are making a commitment to not only be a part of that activity, but you are also making a commitment to be there when physically able. Sure there are times when you are sick or there is a family emergency when you can’t be there. I understand that. But I don’t see this as one of those times.
By skipping out on a game to go to another activity, you are telling your teammates that your desires as an individual, are more important than the good of the team. Can you imagine someone saying, “Sorry guys, would love to stick around for the championship game, but, I have to go to this other function. Good luck, I’ll be rooting for you.” What kind of message is that?
Let me emphasize at this point I am only picking on prom because that is what was scheduled this past Saturday night. I would point out something else if that was what was going on.
I know the guys who went all have girlfriends and they didn’t want to let them down, and that is noble, but life’s not fair. But understand for the rest of your life you are going to have scheduling conflicts, so might as well get used to it.
It is too bad prom and the baseball tournament were scheduled at the same time. That is unfortunate, and maybe better communication could have avoided it. I don’t know.
I just think if you make a commitment to an activity, and baseball, football, basketball, track, tennis, golf, whatever the sport, is a commitment, then you need to honor that commitment, even though it may cause you to miss out on another event that you feel is equally important.
Again, I realize I may be in the minority in my thinking, and I totally respect those who have a differing view. There is no easy answer.
Monday, February 21, 2011
Weather Forecasting
When folks in Randolph County went to bed on Tuesday night, Feb. 8, the forecast for the next day was for some light snow, with MAYBE an inch of accumulation.
Well, Wednesday came and it snowed, and snowed hard. When it was all said and done about noon, there were six inches on the ground.
I sent an email to my good friend at the National Weather Service Forecast Office in Memphis, which is the office responsible for this area, and I politely asked him just what in the heck happened.
His response was classic. It read, and I quote, "...wouldn't you know." Which I believe was another way of saying, "we blew it."
I think I'll save that and use it on others . If the IRS calls and asks why I didn't pay my taxes, I can just say, "wouldn't you know." Or if I forget to cook supper or miss a deadline or appointment, "wouldn't you know."
I'm glad my tax dollars went to such good use to provide me with a all-purpose convenient excuse when things don't go exactly as planned. It has to work, it has the NWS seal of approval.
Well, Wednesday came and it snowed, and snowed hard. When it was all said and done about noon, there were six inches on the ground.
I sent an email to my good friend at the National Weather Service Forecast Office in Memphis, which is the office responsible for this area, and I politely asked him just what in the heck happened.
His response was classic. It read, and I quote, "...wouldn't you know." Which I believe was another way of saying, "we blew it."
I think I'll save that and use it on others . If the IRS calls and asks why I didn't pay my taxes, I can just say, "wouldn't you know." Or if I forget to cook supper or miss a deadline or appointment, "wouldn't you know."
I'm glad my tax dollars went to such good use to provide me with a all-purpose convenient excuse when things don't go exactly as planned. It has to work, it has the NWS seal of approval.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
What A Difference A Week Makes
It is about 3:45 on a Wednesday afternoon on this 16th day of February. I just pulled up the National Weather Service (NWS) weather for Walnut Ridge, and it said the actual air temperature was 70 degrees! The Waalnut Ridge Airport is about 10 miles or so south of Pocahontas and is where the nearest automated NWS station is. Whatever the weather is there, chances are pretty good that is what the weather is in Pocahontas, and this afternoon, as we approach 4:00 p.m., it is 70 degrees.
It was just a week ago, last Wednesday, that snow began falling about daybreak. It snowed hard those first couple of hours. The visibility was poor, the driving treacherous. I needed (or so I thought) to take picture of a dinosaur snow animal built by some folks during the snow which fell two days earlier. There home was out state Hwy. 90 about six miles or so west of town.
It was not quite nine in the morning when I headed out that way. The snow had covered the road anad I was just trying t keep it out of the ditch. More than once I wondered just what in the heck was doing. But I made it to the residence, took the picture of the dinosaur (it really did look like one), chatted with the residents, got the necessary info , because after all, you want to be sure and identify everyone correctly, and headed back to town.
As I got ready to pull out of their driveway, a set of headlights started to appear out of the snowy fog. They were up high, so I knew it had to be a truck. It was actually an 18-wheeler carrying some sort of flammable liquid or gas, as I do recall distinctly remember seeing the "flammable" placard on the side of the tanker trailer.
I pulled out and followed him, on one hand thankful he was there, because he would be easy to follow in these near white-out conditions. But on the other hand, I was also thinking, if he unknowingly runs off the road and turns over and explodes, I would be a vapor in seconds. With that in mind, I backed off another few hundred feet, barely keeping him in my sight.
The snow stopped before noon and before it got dark that afternoon the sun actually came out for a bit. But it was bitterly cold and remained that way for a couple of days. Thursday and Friday morning both had lows of three degrees with wind chills below zero. Anyway you looked at it, it was cold.
But then the wind changed and it started to warm up on Saturday. It was near 50, then a few degrees warmer on Sunday. With bright sunshine aand warm southerly winds, the mercury hit the 60-degree mark on Monday and Tuesday, and now here we are on Wednesday and it is 70 degrees!
I am a warm-weather boy, and it is wonderful to feel these spring like temperatures. Yes, what a differenec a week makes.
It was just a week ago, last Wednesday, that snow began falling about daybreak. It snowed hard those first couple of hours. The visibility was poor, the driving treacherous. I needed (or so I thought) to take picture of a dinosaur snow animal built by some folks during the snow which fell two days earlier. There home was out state Hwy. 90 about six miles or so west of town.
It was not quite nine in the morning when I headed out that way. The snow had covered the road anad I was just trying t keep it out of the ditch. More than once I wondered just what in the heck was doing. But I made it to the residence, took the picture of the dinosaur (it really did look like one), chatted with the residents, got the necessary info , because after all, you want to be sure and identify everyone correctly, and headed back to town.
As I got ready to pull out of their driveway, a set of headlights started to appear out of the snowy fog. They were up high, so I knew it had to be a truck. It was actually an 18-wheeler carrying some sort of flammable liquid or gas, as I do recall distinctly remember seeing the "flammable" placard on the side of the tanker trailer.
I pulled out and followed him, on one hand thankful he was there, because he would be easy to follow in these near white-out conditions. But on the other hand, I was also thinking, if he unknowingly runs off the road and turns over and explodes, I would be a vapor in seconds. With that in mind, I backed off another few hundred feet, barely keeping him in my sight.
The snow stopped before noon and before it got dark that afternoon the sun actually came out for a bit. But it was bitterly cold and remained that way for a couple of days. Thursday and Friday morning both had lows of three degrees with wind chills below zero. Anyway you looked at it, it was cold.
But then the wind changed and it started to warm up on Saturday. It was near 50, then a few degrees warmer on Sunday. With bright sunshine aand warm southerly winds, the mercury hit the 60-degree mark on Monday and Tuesday, and now here we are on Wednesday and it is 70 degrees!
I am a warm-weather boy, and it is wonderful to feel these spring like temperatures. Yes, what a differenec a week makes.
Albert Pujols Saga
As I sit at my desk and type this, it is Monday morning, the 14th day of February. About 1,200 miles southeast of here, a number of St. Louis Cardinal pitchers and catchers are having their first day of workouts under the watchful eyes of Manager Tony LaRussa and pitching coach Dave Duncan.
The first day of spring training in a symbolic way, signifies that winter is just about over, that the days are getting warmer and longer, and that flowers, and trees will soon be blooming. It is one of my favorite days on the calendar.
In my younger days, when I was working for TWA, and could fly for nothing, I would head to Florida a couple of times each spring to watch spring training baseball. During the three years I lived in South Florida, heading up to Ft. Myers and catching an afternoon game was my favorite off-day activity.
As spring training begins for my favorite team, there is a dark cloud hovering over the activities in Jupiter, Fla. It is a dark cloud that a year ago, shoot, even six weeks ago, I never thought would happen. But it has, and many members of Cardinal Nation are afraid this spring is the last one that Albert Pujols, the team’s mega-star will be wearing the “Birds-on-the-Bat.”
Albert Pujols is entering the last year of an eight-year, $111 million contract he signed in 2004. For the past decade he has been the game’s greatest player, and as incredible as it sounds, he has been a bargain for the Cardinals the past eight years.
He never complained, never asked to renegotiate, just played baseball, knowing he would have a chance at another big contract down the road.
In a perfect world, the Cardinals would have signed him to an extension last winter. But the club spent a good portion of the winter of 2009-10 trying to resign outfielder Matt Holliday, thus contract negotiations were put on the back burner. Pujols and his agent Don Lozano, told the Cardinal front office, specifically General Manager John Mozeliak, and owner Bill DeWitt, they had no intention of negotiating a new contract during the season, as Pujols did not want the distraction of negotiating while the season was going on.
While there were some negotiations, no agreement was reached, meaning it would be this past off-season before negotiations began again. This was a dangerous gamble for the Cardinals. Sure they knew Pujols would be due a raise, but they were banking salaries would not take a huge jump, and that Pujols would give the Cardinals some sort of “hometown” discount, meaning he would sign for less to stay in St. Louis, than for what he could get elsewhere.
The Cardinals gamble blew up in their face early in the 2010 season, when the Phillies gave a five-year, $125 contract extension to their first baseman, Ryan Howard, who ironically grew up in St. Louis. Make no mistake, Howard is a great player, but he is not in Pujols class, and he would be the first to admit it. But with the Phillies signing Howard to a deal worth an average $25 million a year, it significantly raised the bar on what it was going to take for the Cardinals to re-sign Pujols.
To top it off, the Washington Nationals this off-season sign free agent outfielder Jayson Werth to a seven-year, $128 million contract. Werth has never hit .300, never driven in 100 runs in a season, and only hit at least 30 home runs in a season once. Pujols has done each of those things 10 times. So if Werth is worth the contract he received, how much more is Pujols worth?
So here we are with spring training having started. Pitchers and catchers have reported, and position players will have reported by the time you read this column. Once again, Pujols has said, once I report to spring training, no more negotiating.
The cost is going to be steep, somewhere between $25 and $30 million per year. Amazingly that does not appear to be the stumbling block in the negotiations. From everything I have read, what is causing the problem is the length of the contract.
Pujols will be 31 this coming season. For most major league players, their production begins to decline once they reach their mid-thirties.
It is believed, Pujols is seeking a ten-year contract extension, which would pay him top-dollar through the age of 41. Rumor has it the Cardinals are balking at that, preferring a six or seven-year deal for Albert, preferring to pay him for what they feel are the productive years he has left.
Meanwhile, while all of this is going on, the many members of Cardinal Nation are taking sides. Some say the ownership should just give Pujols what he wants, since after all, he is Albert Pujols. While others, are saying Pujols has become a greedy athlete, trying to get the last dollar he can.
Sunday afternoon, LaRussa said this had potential to be a major distraction. You think?
Up until the last day or so I thought the Cardinals and Pujols would work things out. In fact, I still hope they do, though my confidence in such an agreement-taking place is waning. Pujols has embraced Cardinal history; he respects and idolizes Stan Musial, and is entrenched in the St. Louis community. It is hard to imagine all of that not meaning something to him. Does he really want every last dollar he can get? After all, no matter what contract he signs, he is going to be rich or richer.
I hope the two sides get it resolved. There is no doubt this is going to be an interesting week.
(Originally published in the Feb. 17, 2011 Pocahontas Star Herald
The first day of spring training in a symbolic way, signifies that winter is just about over, that the days are getting warmer and longer, and that flowers, and trees will soon be blooming. It is one of my favorite days on the calendar.
In my younger days, when I was working for TWA, and could fly for nothing, I would head to Florida a couple of times each spring to watch spring training baseball. During the three years I lived in South Florida, heading up to Ft. Myers and catching an afternoon game was my favorite off-day activity.
As spring training begins for my favorite team, there is a dark cloud hovering over the activities in Jupiter, Fla. It is a dark cloud that a year ago, shoot, even six weeks ago, I never thought would happen. But it has, and many members of Cardinal Nation are afraid this spring is the last one that Albert Pujols, the team’s mega-star will be wearing the “Birds-on-the-Bat.”
Albert Pujols is entering the last year of an eight-year, $111 million contract he signed in 2004. For the past decade he has been the game’s greatest player, and as incredible as it sounds, he has been a bargain for the Cardinals the past eight years.
He never complained, never asked to renegotiate, just played baseball, knowing he would have a chance at another big contract down the road.
In a perfect world, the Cardinals would have signed him to an extension last winter. But the club spent a good portion of the winter of 2009-10 trying to resign outfielder Matt Holliday, thus contract negotiations were put on the back burner. Pujols and his agent Don Lozano, told the Cardinal front office, specifically General Manager John Mozeliak, and owner Bill DeWitt, they had no intention of negotiating a new contract during the season, as Pujols did not want the distraction of negotiating while the season was going on.
While there were some negotiations, no agreement was reached, meaning it would be this past off-season before negotiations began again. This was a dangerous gamble for the Cardinals. Sure they knew Pujols would be due a raise, but they were banking salaries would not take a huge jump, and that Pujols would give the Cardinals some sort of “hometown” discount, meaning he would sign for less to stay in St. Louis, than for what he could get elsewhere.
The Cardinals gamble blew up in their face early in the 2010 season, when the Phillies gave a five-year, $125 contract extension to their first baseman, Ryan Howard, who ironically grew up in St. Louis. Make no mistake, Howard is a great player, but he is not in Pujols class, and he would be the first to admit it. But with the Phillies signing Howard to a deal worth an average $25 million a year, it significantly raised the bar on what it was going to take for the Cardinals to re-sign Pujols.
To top it off, the Washington Nationals this off-season sign free agent outfielder Jayson Werth to a seven-year, $128 million contract. Werth has never hit .300, never driven in 100 runs in a season, and only hit at least 30 home runs in a season once. Pujols has done each of those things 10 times. So if Werth is worth the contract he received, how much more is Pujols worth?
So here we are with spring training having started. Pitchers and catchers have reported, and position players will have reported by the time you read this column. Once again, Pujols has said, once I report to spring training, no more negotiating.
The cost is going to be steep, somewhere between $25 and $30 million per year. Amazingly that does not appear to be the stumbling block in the negotiations. From everything I have read, what is causing the problem is the length of the contract.
Pujols will be 31 this coming season. For most major league players, their production begins to decline once they reach their mid-thirties.
It is believed, Pujols is seeking a ten-year contract extension, which would pay him top-dollar through the age of 41. Rumor has it the Cardinals are balking at that, preferring a six or seven-year deal for Albert, preferring to pay him for what they feel are the productive years he has left.
Meanwhile, while all of this is going on, the many members of Cardinal Nation are taking sides. Some say the ownership should just give Pujols what he wants, since after all, he is Albert Pujols. While others, are saying Pujols has become a greedy athlete, trying to get the last dollar he can.
Sunday afternoon, LaRussa said this had potential to be a major distraction. You think?
Up until the last day or so I thought the Cardinals and Pujols would work things out. In fact, I still hope they do, though my confidence in such an agreement-taking place is waning. Pujols has embraced Cardinal history; he respects and idolizes Stan Musial, and is entrenched in the St. Louis community. It is hard to imagine all of that not meaning something to him. Does he really want every last dollar he can get? After all, no matter what contract he signs, he is going to be rich or richer.
I hope the two sides get it resolved. There is no doubt this is going to be an interesting week.
(Originally published in the Feb. 17, 2011 Pocahontas Star Herald
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Super Bowl Recap
You know it’s funny, just because the Super Bowl was played this week, everyone expects you to write about it.
In the past week, I had half or dozen or so individuals tall me they were anxious to read my column this week because they wanted my take on the big game. Just because it is the Super Bowl doesn’t mean I have to write about it. But I will… a little.
The Rams did not make the Super Bowl this year, so I really didn’t care who won, but since St. Louis is in the NFC, and being the loyal fan I am, I rooted for the Packers. I’ll admit, I like Pittsburgh as well. Actually, I liked the fact we had two teams that had been in the NFL for a very long time, and two teams with rich pedigrees doing battle. It had all the makings of a great Super Bowl, and I’m not sure it was great, but it was very good.
I was quite pleased to see the Packers score twice in about 30 seconds late in the first quarter and go up 14-0. I was even more pleased to see them go up 21-3 in the second quarter, and wasn’t really concerned when the Steelers scored a late first half touchdown to cut the lead to 21-10 at the half.
Ok, I’ll admit I started to squirm a little bit when Pittsburgh cut the lead to 21-17, but felt comfortable enough to get more snacks when the Packers made it 28-17 early in the fourth quarte
r.
But here came Big Ben and the Steelers again, scoring another touchdown AND converting a two-point try where Roethlisberger made like a wishbone quarterback and optioning the ball right before he was hit.
The Pack added a field goal to make it 31-25, and the suspense began to mount as Pittsburgh got the ball with two minutes left and started their final drive. But the Packer defense had their big boy pants on and was able to stop the Steelers on fourth-down, and for the fourth time, the Green Bay Packers were Super Bowl champions.
I was pleased.
I was not pleased with the National Anthem.
I am not a fan of hers, but I acknowledge Christina Aguilera has talent, so I did not think anything of it when the NFL asked her to do the national anthem. But good grief, not only did she mess up the words, she skipped a line. When you’re on the big stage, you have to perform to a higher standard.
It was not pretty.
I was not as pleased with the half-time show or the commercials.
The Black-Eyed Peas are a well-known act, but all that glitz and futuristic stuff was just a little too much for me. OK, having Slash show up to play guitar on Guns ‘N Roses “Sweet Child O Mine” was a plus, but I’m sorry, as far as I’m concerned, the rest of the half time gave me a headache. We don’t need pyrotechnics, or performers dropping from the roof, and we certainly don’t need a thousand dancers prancing around and glowing like they have been nuked. Besides, how many people really watch the halftime show anyway?
In my opinion, get some classic rock band, put them out there and let them play.
Personally, I thought the commercials were a little lame as well. Oh, there were a few good ones. I thought the VW ad with the kid playing Darth Vader was exceptional. Nothing like messing with the mind of a 10-year-old. I also enjoyed the Pepsi Max commercial where the wife/girlfriend throws a can of Pepsi at her husband/boyfriend for having wandering eyes. He of course ducks, and the can hits this blonde female jogger (the object of his glances) upside the head, laying her out. It wasn’t really that violent, just funny in a Three Stooges sort-of-way. I could almost hear Curly in the background, with his trademark, “nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.”
I liked the Audi commercial where the jail looked like a posh mansion or hotel or something like that. All the old money folks doing their time. They were rebelling by taking their forks to their crystal champagne glasses, and the warden responded by saying, “quick, cue the Kenny G,” and suddenly the noise stopped replaced by mellow, contented sounds from the inmates. Pretty clever there.
Of course the E-Trade commercials with the infants are always good. You would think we would get tired of them by now, but they keep them fresh and funny. I also liked the Coke commercial with the border guards and the Doritos ad with the bulldog. Very cute.
Ok, maybe they weren’t so lame.
(The above was my column "Bits & Pieces for Feb. 10)
In the past week, I had half or dozen or so individuals tall me they were anxious to read my column this week because they wanted my take on the big game. Just because it is the Super Bowl doesn’t mean I have to write about it. But I will… a little.
The Rams did not make the Super Bowl this year, so I really didn’t care who won, but since St. Louis is in the NFC, and being the loyal fan I am, I rooted for the Packers. I’ll admit, I like Pittsburgh as well. Actually, I liked the fact we had two teams that had been in the NFL for a very long time, and two teams with rich pedigrees doing battle. It had all the makings of a great Super Bowl, and I’m not sure it was great, but it was very good.
I was quite pleased to see the Packers score twice in about 30 seconds late in the first quarter and go up 14-0. I was even more pleased to see them go up 21-3 in the second quarter, and wasn’t really concerned when the Steelers scored a late first half touchdown to cut the lead to 21-10 at the half.
Ok, I’ll admit I started to squirm a little bit when Pittsburgh cut the lead to 21-17, but felt comfortable enough to get more snacks when the Packers made it 28-17 early in the fourth quarte
r.
But here came Big Ben and the Steelers again, scoring another touchdown AND converting a two-point try where Roethlisberger made like a wishbone quarterback and optioning the ball right before he was hit.
The Pack added a field goal to make it 31-25, and the suspense began to mount as Pittsburgh got the ball with two minutes left and started their final drive. But the Packer defense had their big boy pants on and was able to stop the Steelers on fourth-down, and for the fourth time, the Green Bay Packers were Super Bowl champions.
I was pleased.
I was not pleased with the National Anthem.
I am not a fan of hers, but I acknowledge Christina Aguilera has talent, so I did not think anything of it when the NFL asked her to do the national anthem. But good grief, not only did she mess up the words, she skipped a line. When you’re on the big stage, you have to perform to a higher standard.
It was not pretty.
I was not as pleased with the half-time show or the commercials.
The Black-Eyed Peas are a well-known act, but all that glitz and futuristic stuff was just a little too much for me. OK, having Slash show up to play guitar on Guns ‘N Roses “Sweet Child O Mine” was a plus, but I’m sorry, as far as I’m concerned, the rest of the half time gave me a headache. We don’t need pyrotechnics, or performers dropping from the roof, and we certainly don’t need a thousand dancers prancing around and glowing like they have been nuked. Besides, how many people really watch the halftime show anyway?
In my opinion, get some classic rock band, put them out there and let them play.
Personally, I thought the commercials were a little lame as well. Oh, there were a few good ones. I thought the VW ad with the kid playing Darth Vader was exceptional. Nothing like messing with the mind of a 10-year-old. I also enjoyed the Pepsi Max commercial where the wife/girlfriend throws a can of Pepsi at her husband/boyfriend for having wandering eyes. He of course ducks, and the can hits this blonde female jogger (the object of his glances) upside the head, laying her out. It wasn’t really that violent, just funny in a Three Stooges sort-of-way. I could almost hear Curly in the background, with his trademark, “nyuk, nyuk, nyuk.”
I liked the Audi commercial where the jail looked like a posh mansion or hotel or something like that. All the old money folks doing their time. They were rebelling by taking their forks to their crystal champagne glasses, and the warden responded by saying, “quick, cue the Kenny G,” and suddenly the noise stopped replaced by mellow, contented sounds from the inmates. Pretty clever there.
Of course the E-Trade commercials with the infants are always good. You would think we would get tired of them by now, but they keep them fresh and funny. I also liked the Coke commercial with the border guards and the Doritos ad with the bulldog. Very cute.
Ok, maybe they weren’t so lame.
(The above was my column "Bits & Pieces for Feb. 10)
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
The Chimney
This past Saturday was a glorious day. The sun was shining brightly and the temperature rose into the mid-60's. It was a little taste of spring on the last Saturday in January.
Marilyn took advantage of the nice weather and drove up to the Dalton community to visit the Mennonite store. We bought a loaf of fresh-baked whole wheat bread, and had them make us each a sandwich, which we enjoyed outside on the picnic table.
On the way home we decided to take a detour. Instead of heading south on Hwy. 93, I turned left onto Bakerden Road. I really had no idea where I was going to come out, but the sun was shining, the sun roof was open, I had a nearly full-tank of gas, so it really didn't matter. As my Mom would say, we were on an adventure.
For those unfamiliar with Bakerden Road, it winds eastward for several miles from Dalton, hugging the Missouri line eventually ending at Warm Springs. There are few homes and even fewer vehicles on the road, just several cattle farms, as the soil is full of rocks and not suitable for row crops.
About two-thirds of the way to Warm Springs, Marilyn noticed a chimney standing alone in a field off to our left. As we got closer, I slowed and eventually stopped and looked at the solitary structure. It was a chimney, built with different sized and different types of stone blocks. There was no indication a house had been there, but obviously one had at some point.
We stared at the lonely structure for a long time, as if we were studying a Picasso or Rembrandt in a museum, wondering aloud what stories the chimney might tell. There was once a house there. From the construction of the chimney, you could tell it was carefully built. What was the home like? Did the father pain-stakingly build it and then go get his family? What about the family? Were babies born there, and for that matter, did someone die there?
Who were they, what did they do, what was their story? All that was left from their home, was a chimney, still standing proudly in the late January sun years after its construction, serving as a reminder of what was, leaving us to wonder what was, creating more questions than it answered.
The chimney was silent, offering no clues to its past. As we drove off, it grew smaller in the rearview mirror, standing tall over the field it called home, as if it were scanning the distant horizons hoping for the rest of the home to somehow magically reappear.
Marilyn took advantage of the nice weather and drove up to the Dalton community to visit the Mennonite store. We bought a loaf of fresh-baked whole wheat bread, and had them make us each a sandwich, which we enjoyed outside on the picnic table.
On the way home we decided to take a detour. Instead of heading south on Hwy. 93, I turned left onto Bakerden Road. I really had no idea where I was going to come out, but the sun was shining, the sun roof was open, I had a nearly full-tank of gas, so it really didn't matter. As my Mom would say, we were on an adventure.
For those unfamiliar with Bakerden Road, it winds eastward for several miles from Dalton, hugging the Missouri line eventually ending at Warm Springs. There are few homes and even fewer vehicles on the road, just several cattle farms, as the soil is full of rocks and not suitable for row crops.
About two-thirds of the way to Warm Springs, Marilyn noticed a chimney standing alone in a field off to our left. As we got closer, I slowed and eventually stopped and looked at the solitary structure. It was a chimney, built with different sized and different types of stone blocks. There was no indication a house had been there, but obviously one had at some point.
We stared at the lonely structure for a long time, as if we were studying a Picasso or Rembrandt in a museum, wondering aloud what stories the chimney might tell. There was once a house there. From the construction of the chimney, you could tell it was carefully built. What was the home like? Did the father pain-stakingly build it and then go get his family? What about the family? Were babies born there, and for that matter, did someone die there?
Who were they, what did they do, what was their story? All that was left from their home, was a chimney, still standing proudly in the late January sun years after its construction, serving as a reminder of what was, leaving us to wonder what was, creating more questions than it answered.
The chimney was silent, offering no clues to its past. As we drove off, it grew smaller in the rearview mirror, standing tall over the field it called home, as if it were scanning the distant horizons hoping for the rest of the home to somehow magically reappear.
Friday, January 28, 2011
The Joy of Potlucks
pot·luck
[pot-luhk, -luhk] - noun
1. A meal, esp. for a large group, to which participants bring various foods to be shared.
To most church-going folks, particularly in the South, the term, "potluck" conjors up all sorts of reactions. For women, it usually means a Saturday night or early Sunday morning, or both, of cooking, preparing enough food for a small army. For the kids, it means a seemingless endless line of food, an opportunity to pile up the plate and have both mashed potatoes and mac and cheese, a combination your mother would never let you have at home, and a chance to eat a whole fried chicken breast.
I am not sure where it is located, probably somewhere in the minor prophets, but I believe it is scriptual that you have a potluck on the fifth Sunday. We've been doing that as long as I can remember, and more than likely, will continue to do that well into the future.
There is a catfish restaurant in Jonesboro that boats of having a 65-foot food bar. Most church potlucks can boast the same., and the food is so much better. It is a well-known fact that everyone born south of the Mason-Dixon line knows how to cook adn cook well. I am 53 years old and I can honestly say I have never eaten anything prepared by a GRITS (Girl Raised In The South) that wasn't good. It probably has something to do with all the butter and bacon grease, but that is another story.
Depending on the lay out of the particular church, the pleasant aroma of southern cooking can overtake a congregation before the preacher gets to the second point of his sermon. Realistically, he might as well quit there, because everyone is thinking about chicken and baked beans and homemade rolls, and all of those desserts.
Oh the desserts. We had one lady where I attend, Wilma Powers, who made without question the best rum cake in the world. If you took a slice you had to turn over your car keys. Just something wonderful about a rum cake that squishes when you put your fork to it. There is another woman where I attend, Verna Dudley, who usually brings about two dozen fried pies of varying type. It is not uncommon (I should know, I am one of them), for folks to go through the dessert line first just to make sure they got one of her fried pies.
But back to the main courses. There will be ham and roast beef, perhaps some brisket and a pork loin. There will also be several boxes of Kentucky Fried Chicken, that are usually picked through by the time I go through, with just a few legs or wings left behind. There will too many casseroles to mention, including some you will stare at for several minutes wondering what lies beneath that cheese or cracker topping. I will be earnestly seeking out the hash brown casseroles, a personal potluck favorite, hoping there will be some left, including the tasty crispy topping.
Pass the dozen or so crock pots full of green beans and other veggies, near the end of the line as if it were an afterthought, will be the slaws and salads and deviled eggs I have never seen a deviled egg at a potluck with an actual deviled egg on it. They are are always clean by the time I go through. Sometimes I wonder if the person just brought an empty plate and laid it on the counter in line.
After an hour of eating, and talking, and laughing, the women, and some of the men will start picking up their nearly empty platters and bowls for the trip home. Men will start folding up chairs, putting tables away and take out the crash. Those not involved in one of these activities will be saying to whoever will listen how they need a nap.
We are having a potluck following worship on Sunday. I wouldn't miss it for the world.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Here Comes the Sun
It by no means is spring yet, but the sun is shining brightly in Pocahontas today and the temperature is pushing 50. It is as my son Barclay would say, an absolutely glorious day.
The sun feels warm, and baseball is just around the corner. Life is good!
The sun feels warm, and baseball is just around the corner. Life is good!
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Snow is a Four-Letter Word
I really have no one but myself to blame. From the summer of 1995 until the summer of 1998, I lived i the beautiful, tropical city of Naples, Fla., on the warm shores of the Gulf of Mexico. It spoiled me. In In the three years I lived there, we had one morning below freezing, and that was only for about 30 minutes. The coldest daytime high temperature in the three years was 54 degrees. You can see how one could get used to that.
I was never a big fan of winter growing up, and when I left St. Louis for Florida, and experienced the lack of winter on the southwest shores of Florida, my disdain for all things winter grew.
But good things never last.
I moved back to St. Louis for a year, and then on to Pocahontas in late 1999 when I married Marilyn. While the Pocahontas climate is not as harsh as that of St. Louis, as we have seen today, it does snow here, it does get cold, and as we saw in 2009, we do get ice storms. Anytime the weather turns cold or it starts to snow, I always ask myself, "Why exactly did I leave Florida?"
I guess I have said it enough that everyone I know is aware of my hate for snow and winter. I posted something on Facebook this morning about the snow being on the way and not being amused. My friend Deshea tried to cheer me up and said she was dreaming of warm breezes and sandy beaches. I went a step further and said, "'I'm thinking 80 degrees, the beach, the sound of the waves, a warm, gentle breeze in my face and sand between my toes sounds pretty good right now." Others agreed.
When I went to the bank at noon, Jaunita, one of the tellers greeted me and said, "I would ask you how you like this weather, but I know how you like this weather." Mel, another one of the tellers, came in a minute later and offered a cheerful, "how do you like the snow Dalton?"
Then to top it off, I get a text message from Kathy Scott, the wife of Tim Scott, who is the owner of the local radio station and one of my bosses. Kathy texts, "I'm dreaming of a warm, tropical place, somewhere I haven't been before. Where the sand pebbles glisten, and no one listens to hear school closings 'cause of snow."
Oh, and I forgot to menton that one of our minsters at church, Stan Little, decided to rub it in in a rhyming sort of way, "Oh the weather outside is frightful but Mr.Sullivan sounds so spiteful but insted of ME saying Whoa, I say let it snow, let it snow, let it SNOW!"
It's great to have friends.
Just in case there is any confusion, let me repeat myself. I don't like winter, and it would not bother me if I never saw snow again the rest of my life.
Why exactly did I leave Florida?
I was never a big fan of winter growing up, and when I left St. Louis for Florida, and experienced the lack of winter on the southwest shores of Florida, my disdain for all things winter grew.
But good things never last.
I moved back to St. Louis for a year, and then on to Pocahontas in late 1999 when I married Marilyn. While the Pocahontas climate is not as harsh as that of St. Louis, as we have seen today, it does snow here, it does get cold, and as we saw in 2009, we do get ice storms. Anytime the weather turns cold or it starts to snow, I always ask myself, "Why exactly did I leave Florida?"
I guess I have said it enough that everyone I know is aware of my hate for snow and winter. I posted something on Facebook this morning about the snow being on the way and not being amused. My friend Deshea tried to cheer me up and said she was dreaming of warm breezes and sandy beaches. I went a step further and said, "'I'm thinking 80 degrees, the beach, the sound of the waves, a warm, gentle breeze in my face and sand between my toes sounds pretty good right now." Others agreed.
When I went to the bank at noon, Jaunita, one of the tellers greeted me and said, "I would ask you how you like this weather, but I know how you like this weather." Mel, another one of the tellers, came in a minute later and offered a cheerful, "how do you like the snow Dalton?"
Then to top it off, I get a text message from Kathy Scott, the wife of Tim Scott, who is the owner of the local radio station and one of my bosses. Kathy texts, "I'm dreaming of a warm, tropical place, somewhere I haven't been before. Where the sand pebbles glisten, and no one listens to hear school closings 'cause of snow."
Oh, and I forgot to menton that one of our minsters at church, Stan Little, decided to rub it in in a rhyming sort of way, "Oh the weather outside is frightful but Mr.Sullivan sounds so spiteful but insted of ME saying Whoa, I say let it snow, let it snow, let it SNOW!"
It's great to have friends.
Just in case there is any confusion, let me repeat myself. I don't like winter, and it would not bother me if I never saw snow again the rest of my life.
Why exactly did I leave Florida?
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Goalkeeper for hire
For most of Barclay's life, he has been a lot like me, a baseball fanatic. It would be othing for the two of us to have detailed conversations in the middle of winter about middle relief pichers and backup infielders. Baseball was, and still is, our passion.
Once he started school at Georgia Southern, he was introduced to the world of intramurals. Now instead of just playing baseball and softball, he was playing other sports as well. He has developed a particular fondness for soccer, both indoor and outdoor, and has acquitted himself quite well as a goalie, or "keeper" as those who play the game say.
Yesterday afternoon he sent me the following text message. "Someone I don't know just sought me out to play keeper on their soccer team!' That was quickly followed by, "Insane, right?" and "Apparently I left some mark!"
One of the basic needs in life is to be wanted, and out of the blue, someone, who was impressed with his goaltending skills wants him to play keeper on his team. Needless to say, he was pretty pumped, and needless to say, I am happy for him.
Once he started school at Georgia Southern, he was introduced to the world of intramurals. Now instead of just playing baseball and softball, he was playing other sports as well. He has developed a particular fondness for soccer, both indoor and outdoor, and has acquitted himself quite well as a goalie, or "keeper" as those who play the game say.
Yesterday afternoon he sent me the following text message. "Someone I don't know just sought me out to play keeper on their soccer team!' That was quickly followed by, "Insane, right?" and "Apparently I left some mark!"
One of the basic needs in life is to be wanted, and out of the blue, someone, who was impressed with his goaltending skills wants him to play keeper on his team. Needless to say, he was pretty pumped, and needless to say, I am happy for him.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Festive Chicken
Martha Ackmann, my high school journalism teacher (who I learned a lot from) has a thing on her Facebook page entitled "Signs I Like." It is full of off-beat and peculiar real, honest-to-goodness signs that are good for a chuckle or a scratch of the head.
This past Sunday afternoon I saw one of those signs that made me scratch my head.
While heading west on U.S. 72 from my mother-in-law's home in Florence, Ala. to our home in Pocahontas, Ark., Marilyn and I passed through the city of Corinth, Miss. Most of the town sits along the highway, so you pass by nearly every fast-food restaurant known to Western civilization.
As we were about to pass a KFC, I couldn't help but do a double-take as to what was written on the marquee. It read, "12-piece Festive Chicken Dinner."
What is a festive chicken?
Does it mean the dinner is served with only meat of happy chickens? For that matter, does it mean they have "Unhappy Chicken Dinners?" I mean, is there a chicken farm somewhere in Wilkes County, N.C., or Tift County, Ga. that only raises happy chickens? Do they have organized sports and group hugs? Is there feed dipped in Jack Daniels? What makes a festive chicken? Maybe the legs and thighs are a little more plump from dancing because they are so happy. It is really a mystery.
If anyone knows the origin of festive chicken, please leave a comment following the blog or email me. I really do want to know.
This past Sunday afternoon I saw one of those signs that made me scratch my head.
While heading west on U.S. 72 from my mother-in-law's home in Florence, Ala. to our home in Pocahontas, Ark., Marilyn and I passed through the city of Corinth, Miss. Most of the town sits along the highway, so you pass by nearly every fast-food restaurant known to Western civilization.
As we were about to pass a KFC, I couldn't help but do a double-take as to what was written on the marquee. It read, "12-piece Festive Chicken Dinner."
What is a festive chicken?
Does it mean the dinner is served with only meat of happy chickens? For that matter, does it mean they have "Unhappy Chicken Dinners?" I mean, is there a chicken farm somewhere in Wilkes County, N.C., or Tift County, Ga. that only raises happy chickens? Do they have organized sports and group hugs? Is there feed dipped in Jack Daniels? What makes a festive chicken? Maybe the legs and thighs are a little more plump from dancing because they are so happy. It is really a mystery.
If anyone knows the origin of festive chicken, please leave a comment following the blog or email me. I really do want to know.
"The Clayton"
As most of you know I have two sons and am quite proud of both of them. Barclay is 22 and is a senior at Georgia Southern University, while Clayton is 19 and a freshman at Georgia Highlands JC. They are both smart kids and I have no doubt they will leave their mark on society. In fact, Clayton has already made his first mark, which I will get to in a few lines.
When I am asked what the boys are majoring in, I proudly say that both of them are majoring in political science. Invariably, the response is something along the line of "Does Barclay want to teach or go to law school?", and is then quickly followed by "I can see Clayton as a politician." You to Clayton, everyone is a friend, or should i say, a potential voter.
Unlike his brother who decided to move off to go to college, Clayton decided to stay home, go to a junior college and save some money. Even though he is a freshman, he has gotten in a routine. His first semester classes ended about 12.30, so as soon as classes were over, he would head to some local establishment there in Cartersville for some lunch. Frequently, that would be "Tacos and Subs", located on Tennessee St in beautiful downtown Cartersville, Ga.
When I was in Cartersville for a visit in early October, Clayton took me for lunch on a Friday afternoon. The menu is all over the place, on a board above the window where you order, and down the side. There is also a little notebook that has color photos of their tasty entrees, which tell you what each item is to help in your ordering.
Ok, this not "Tavern on the Green", but it does a brisk noontime business. Clayton ordered something, I don't remember what, and helped me with my selection. When we received our food, we went and sat down and enjoyed our lunch. Two of the waitresses sat down with us, and they proceeded to tell me what a fine son I had. I'm thinking Clayton had told them he was bringing his Dad in, so say something nice about me, which they didn't need to do, but was nice to hear anyway. We had an enjoyable lunch, and I agreed we needed to make a return visit on my next trip.
This past week Clayton called one afternoon, which in and of itself it not unusual, but his news was. He said he now has a dish named after him at "Taco and Subs". I was surprised, and asked what the dish was, which was kind of a silly question since he was going to tell me anyway.
Well, "The Clayton" is a burrito. You take one large flour tortilla, add meat, cheese, lettuce, onions and jalapenos, then fold it up like a burrito and put on a plate. You then pour chili over the burrito and add more shredded cheese. Thus you have, "The Clayton".
I'm 53, and I'm not sure I have anything named after me, but Clayton already has a burrito named after him at an established restaurant.
So if you are ever in Cartersville, Ga, stop by "Tacos and Subs", on Tennessee Street and have "The Clayton", and let me know what you think.
When I am asked what the boys are majoring in, I proudly say that both of them are majoring in political science. Invariably, the response is something along the line of "Does Barclay want to teach or go to law school?", and is then quickly followed by "I can see Clayton as a politician." You to Clayton, everyone is a friend, or should i say, a potential voter.
Unlike his brother who decided to move off to go to college, Clayton decided to stay home, go to a junior college and save some money. Even though he is a freshman, he has gotten in a routine. His first semester classes ended about 12.30, so as soon as classes were over, he would head to some local establishment there in Cartersville for some lunch. Frequently, that would be "Tacos and Subs", located on Tennessee St in beautiful downtown Cartersville, Ga.
When I was in Cartersville for a visit in early October, Clayton took me for lunch on a Friday afternoon. The menu is all over the place, on a board above the window where you order, and down the side. There is also a little notebook that has color photos of their tasty entrees, which tell you what each item is to help in your ordering.
Ok, this not "Tavern on the Green", but it does a brisk noontime business. Clayton ordered something, I don't remember what, and helped me with my selection. When we received our food, we went and sat down and enjoyed our lunch. Two of the waitresses sat down with us, and they proceeded to tell me what a fine son I had. I'm thinking Clayton had told them he was bringing his Dad in, so say something nice about me, which they didn't need to do, but was nice to hear anyway. We had an enjoyable lunch, and I agreed we needed to make a return visit on my next trip.
This past week Clayton called one afternoon, which in and of itself it not unusual, but his news was. He said he now has a dish named after him at "Taco and Subs". I was surprised, and asked what the dish was, which was kind of a silly question since he was going to tell me anyway.
Well, "The Clayton" is a burrito. You take one large flour tortilla, add meat, cheese, lettuce, onions and jalapenos, then fold it up like a burrito and put on a plate. You then pour chili over the burrito and add more shredded cheese. Thus you have, "The Clayton".
I'm 53, and I'm not sure I have anything named after me, but Clayton already has a burrito named after him at an established restaurant.
So if you are ever in Cartersville, Ga, stop by "Tacos and Subs", on Tennessee Street and have "The Clayton", and let me know what you think.
Friday, January 14, 2011
It is all Facebook's fault
This is my first attempt at a blog, which means I guess I have accepted this is the 21st century. This may also be my last attempt at a blog.
I discovered Facebook through my two sons a couple of years ago, and that has worked out pretty well. I have reconnected with a lot of old friends, which has reminded me a lot about the value of friendship and keeping in touch with those who are important to you.
When we are kids and teenagers, most of us give very little thought to our future or growing up. We think the good times will last forever and we will always have the same group of friends. Friends from school or church or the neighborhood that you knew as well as your cousins in Texas or California.
But most of us head off to college, then move away to another city, and leave behind the people that were so important to us when we were 10 or 16 or 18. I grew up in St. Louis, but went to college in Arkansas, and have lived in several places besides St. Louis since I graduated from high school in 1975.
Friendships that seemed so important at the time faded from memory, then ultimately disappeared , fogotten like last year's Christmas present from a far away aunt. New friendships are made, new bonds are forged and our past is just that, past.
Ah, but through the wonders of Facebook, we are suddenly thrust back into our younger years, as friends whose names we only vaguely remember are suddenly wanting to be friends again. You accept, exchange a few emails, reliving the good times you shared and what has happened in the 30-plus years since you last saw each other.
Familiarity is a good thing. Your favorite tennis shoes , your old baseball glove, that favorite pillow or afghan. There is comfort there, there is peace of mind and security.
Resdiscovering old friends is like that, it reminds you of what you once were, what was once important, what helped forge your personality, what you once loved. It gives us a sense of belonging to a certain place, at a certain time.
I kind of like this Facebook thing, and if nothing else, it reminded me of old friends who helped make me who I am today.
I discovered Facebook through my two sons a couple of years ago, and that has worked out pretty well. I have reconnected with a lot of old friends, which has reminded me a lot about the value of friendship and keeping in touch with those who are important to you.
When we are kids and teenagers, most of us give very little thought to our future or growing up. We think the good times will last forever and we will always have the same group of friends. Friends from school or church or the neighborhood that you knew as well as your cousins in Texas or California.
But most of us head off to college, then move away to another city, and leave behind the people that were so important to us when we were 10 or 16 or 18. I grew up in St. Louis, but went to college in Arkansas, and have lived in several places besides St. Louis since I graduated from high school in 1975.
Friendships that seemed so important at the time faded from memory, then ultimately disappeared , fogotten like last year's Christmas present from a far away aunt. New friendships are made, new bonds are forged and our past is just that, past.
Ah, but through the wonders of Facebook, we are suddenly thrust back into our younger years, as friends whose names we only vaguely remember are suddenly wanting to be friends again. You accept, exchange a few emails, reliving the good times you shared and what has happened in the 30-plus years since you last saw each other.
Familiarity is a good thing. Your favorite tennis shoes , your old baseball glove, that favorite pillow or afghan. There is comfort there, there is peace of mind and security.
Resdiscovering old friends is like that, it reminds you of what you once were, what was once important, what helped forge your personality, what you once loved. It gives us a sense of belonging to a certain place, at a certain time.
I kind of like this Facebook thing, and if nothing else, it reminded me of old friends who helped make me who I am today.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)