Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.
Day Ninety-Four: Drew Butera, Minnesota Twins
I’ve never been much of a George Thorogood fan. But last night, as we strolled the grounds of the balloon festival we attended near our home, we heard the blues-guitar riffs and gravelly voice of Mr. Thorogood himself. He was the main musical act at the festival Saturday night, in between Friday’s Air Supply concert and today’s Rick Springfield performance. I’m not embarrassed to say that I’ve actually seen Air Supply in concert before. And I’ll proudly sing along to “Jessie’s Girl” whenever prompted. But Thorogood just never did it for me. Yet, here he was, and my younger girl wanted to see and hear him. So we hung around for a while, long enough to hear “Who Do You Love?” but not long enough to catch “Bad to the Bone.”
By not staying to the end, we weren’t able to watch Thorogood’s roadies clear off the stage after the concert. This might have helped my older daughter and me, as we were asked to be roadies of a sort today. It turned out that my wife had a ton of real-estate work to do before her open house, so she asked us to help set up her show by bringing all the open-house signs to different spots around the neighborhood of the showcased house. It was easy work, really: Inflate some balloons, bring the balloons into the car, put the signs in the car, then drive to assorted corners to place the signs and balloons where others could see them.
We got all the work done in a half-hour. It felt a little like plugging in some electric guitars before a concert. Not a big concert, mind you; balloon-festival size. By the time the open house was ready to begin, the stage was set for Mrs. Hynes to do her thing.
The baseball equivalent of the roadie is probably the backup catcher. Men such as Drew Butera of the Twins spend most games doing whatever needs to be done – warming up relief pitchers, catching the last few innings of a blowout, or charting pitches. A backup like Butera is expected to be dependable and mostly invisible. But when called upon, he’s expected to perform.
Today, Drew Butera stepped in as understudy to the Twins’ lead catcher, reigning MVP Joe Mauer. Hitting from the ninth spot, Butera had a couple of hits – one of them a triple – and a run batted in. It raised his average to .179. Such is the world of backup catchers; rarely are their hitting statistics impressive. But hey, no one ever asks a roadie how many minutes it takes to clear off that stage – just whether or not the job got done.
I did my pre-concert roadie work all right today, but at around 10 o’clock this evening I realized that I had told my wife I’d also pick up the signs after her open house. And I hadn’t done that yet. So in the cool, dark evening, with headlights and a full moon illuminating my path, I drove back to the assorted street corners, found each sign, and placed them in the back of my car. I drove them home, clipped off the ribbon and balloons, and brought the signs inside.
It was invisible work. But it got done – eventually. Like the roadies and the backup catchers, I was working in the shadows, with nothing but the voice of George Thorogood in my head. The stage was clear and the pitchers warmed up, just in time for Jessie’s girl and Joe Mauer to arrive.
Showing posts with label Joe Mauer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joe Mauer. Show all posts
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
The Iron Man of Minnesota (One Sixty-Two: Day 19)
Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.
Day Nineteen: Joe Mauer, Minnesota Twins
I’m not a big movie-sequel guy, and Amy’s not really into comic books. So I doubt we’ll go to see “Iron Man 2” when we head out for our date night on Friday. We’ll probably choose either a romantic comedy (her choice) or a critically-acclaimed, independent film (mine) – just as we’ve been doing for years. We’ll flip a coin.
From what I’m reading, “Iron Man 2” is doing just fine at the box office without us. It’s a bona fide blockbuster, with more than $320 million in worldwide sales so far. And the film has only been out for a few days. It’s no wonder Disney recently bought Marvel comics. Comic-book heroes rake in the cash.
Baseball games don’t have the same kind of action as summer blockbusters, but they do feature some iron men on the field every night. These iron men don’t look quite as cool and high-tech as Robert Downey Jr. does in his red and gold costume, but they do all right. Some leg guards, a chest protector, a face mask, a helmet, and a mitt. These, of course, are the catchers, and they take a pounding every day. Fastballs in the dirt, foul tips off the thigh, backswings to the side of the head, and runners diving at them, shoulder first, as the catchers stand between these runners and home plate. Catchers work in a crouching position for nine innings, they peer out through a metal mask, and they try to catch 98-mile-per-hour fastballs in their mitts. They call the pitches and help the pitcher keep his cool, all while quarterbacking the defense for their teams.
They are superheroes all right, these catchers. Any player will tell you that his team’s defense begins and ends with that man behind the plate. Nowadays, most catchers are either really good at defense or excellent at hitting; only a select few excel at both. In 2010, the Twins have developed a homegrown catcher who is truly the complete package. At just 27 years of age, Joe Mauer has won three batting titles, a Most Valuable Player award and two Gold Glove awards. He is the most complete catcher baseball has seen in years, ever since the Cincinnati Reds introduced Johnny Bench to the world more than 40 years ago.
This past winter, Minnesota decided to make sure Mauer does not depart for a higher-revenue team anytime soon. With a $184 million, eight-year extension to his contract, Joe Mauer became baseball’s blockbuster catcher. The Twins have centered their future around this St. Paul native, and they’re willing to pay him handsomely to lead the way. Mauer’s contract may pale in comparison to “Iron Man 2” revenues, but it’ll do just fine for him.
Mauer was recently injured for a few days, but he’s back behind the plate again for Minnesota. The St. Paul superhero has his gear on, and he’s ready for all comers. And hey – after a few more seasons like this, they might have to make a movie about the guy. Downey Jr. is ready for the script.
Day Nineteen: Joe Mauer, Minnesota Twins
I’m not a big movie-sequel guy, and Amy’s not really into comic books. So I doubt we’ll go to see “Iron Man 2” when we head out for our date night on Friday. We’ll probably choose either a romantic comedy (her choice) or a critically-acclaimed, independent film (mine) – just as we’ve been doing for years. We’ll flip a coin.
From what I’m reading, “Iron Man 2” is doing just fine at the box office without us. It’s a bona fide blockbuster, with more than $320 million in worldwide sales so far. And the film has only been out for a few days. It’s no wonder Disney recently bought Marvel comics. Comic-book heroes rake in the cash.
Baseball games don’t have the same kind of action as summer blockbusters, but they do feature some iron men on the field every night. These iron men don’t look quite as cool and high-tech as Robert Downey Jr. does in his red and gold costume, but they do all right. Some leg guards, a chest protector, a face mask, a helmet, and a mitt. These, of course, are the catchers, and they take a pounding every day. Fastballs in the dirt, foul tips off the thigh, backswings to the side of the head, and runners diving at them, shoulder first, as the catchers stand between these runners and home plate. Catchers work in a crouching position for nine innings, they peer out through a metal mask, and they try to catch 98-mile-per-hour fastballs in their mitts. They call the pitches and help the pitcher keep his cool, all while quarterbacking the defense for their teams.
They are superheroes all right, these catchers. Any player will tell you that his team’s defense begins and ends with that man behind the plate. Nowadays, most catchers are either really good at defense or excellent at hitting; only a select few excel at both. In 2010, the Twins have developed a homegrown catcher who is truly the complete package. At just 27 years of age, Joe Mauer has won three batting titles, a Most Valuable Player award and two Gold Glove awards. He is the most complete catcher baseball has seen in years, ever since the Cincinnati Reds introduced Johnny Bench to the world more than 40 years ago.
This past winter, Minnesota decided to make sure Mauer does not depart for a higher-revenue team anytime soon. With a $184 million, eight-year extension to his contract, Joe Mauer became baseball’s blockbuster catcher. The Twins have centered their future around this St. Paul native, and they’re willing to pay him handsomely to lead the way. Mauer’s contract may pale in comparison to “Iron Man 2” revenues, but it’ll do just fine for him.
Mauer was recently injured for a few days, but he’s back behind the plate again for Minnesota. The St. Paul superhero has his gear on, and he’s ready for all comers. And hey – after a few more seasons like this, they might have to make a movie about the guy. Downey Jr. is ready for the script.
Friday, February 26, 2010
Curlers Unite
Curling is a game of skill and of tradition. A shot well executed is a delight to see and it is also a fine thing to observe the time-honoured traditions of curling being applied in the true spirit of the game. Curlers play to win, but never to humble their opponents. A true curler never attempts to distract opponents, nor to prevent them from playing their best, and would prefer to lose rather than to win unfairly. – World Curling Federation rules of curling
Every so often, during a respectful conversation among adults, someone will tell me how much they dislike baseball. “It’s so boring,” they’ll say. “All the players do is stand around, take pitches, spit and wait for the ball.”
I smile, then politely share my opinion that when you get yourself deeply involved in this sport, all of the drama, grace, power and poetry are inescapable. My conversation partner sometimes asks for an example, and I talk about the way in which 162 games over six months can get whittled down to one final day in early October, with first and third and the score tied in the bottom of the ninth. There’s no touchdown pass, no overtime goal, no slam-dunk that builds to this type of crescendo, I say.
Baseball is boring. You’ve heard it, and maybe you’ve even said it. Passionate fans such as myself long ago accepted the reality that the intricacies of this sport are not for everyone. I can marvel at the way in which Joe Mauer or Derek Jeter use every ounce of their ability to hit a tough pitch the other way, or make a defensive stop that saves the game. But I know that there are countless others who’ll take your worst NFL game over a World Series matchup.
In the past two weeks, however, I have come to recognize a prevalent trend in American sports-watching. And it has me begging for a fresh debate with those baseball haters. My bone of contention is based on the number of individuals who have tuned into USA, CNBC and MSNBC in recent days to watch the hottest Winter Olympic sport on the planet.
The world loves curling. Shuffleboard on ice. Two and a half hours of men and women pushing 40-pound stones along a slippery surface, furiously sweeping brooms in front of said stones, all in the hopes of landing that stone inside a bull’s-eye-like target known as the “house.” Strategy-making curlers known as “skips” shout words like “Hurry hard!” and “Whoa!” to their broom-sweepers as the circular piece of granite glides, or “curls,” toward the house.
Curling is immensely popular in Canada, where winter activities are a must in order to survive the onslaught of winter. But here in the U.S., curling has hidden far under the radar for years. That is, until TV coverage of the sport during the 2006 Winter Olympics caught more than a few people’s eyes. This year, the sport is a ratings bonanza for NBC Universal. Yesterday, The New York Times even reported that CNBC’s curling coverage has become quite popular on Wall Street.
I’ve watched some curling during these Olympics. It’s got some nice dramatic buildup and a ton of history to it. I appreciate that in a sport. When I tune into a curling game, I also see a lot of players standing around, with one of them kneeling on one knee like a putter on the green. They plot strategy, stare at their target, and finally give the big stone a slide, complete with the obligatory broom-sweeping. Curling requires patience, strategy, attention to detail and endurance. I can enjoy a sport like that. Baseball’s got nine innings; curling has ten ends. No bad blood between me and the curlers.
What I do resent is the fact that a sports fan can sit for nearly three hours with the curlers, yet can’t stand to watch any baseball. Are you honestly telling me that it’s far more interesting to watch Kevin “The Bear” Martin toss a stone down the “sheet” than it is to watch Albert Pujols crush a baseball 400 feet? Is it truly more interesting to watch one stone kick another off the house than it is to watch Jimmy Rollins leg out a triple?
Maybe I’m missing something, but I just can’t comprehend how curling can experience this explosion in popularity, while baseball takes its annual punches to the gut. Maybe some fans don’t really dislike baseball as much as they resent the ubiquity of the sport. Come spring and summer, there’s no escaping pitchers and catchers. Curling, on the other hand, is nearly invisible in this country. Have you played any pickup curling games lately? (You can, actually, this Sunday when the Plainfield Curling Club holds an open house in South Plainfield, N.J.) Curling is your textbook definition of a novelty sport, and Americans love few things as much as novelty.
Last night, when the curlers had long finished their sliding and sweeping, I had my own sports-hating epiphany. For years, I have loathed figure skating. I’ve shouted at my TV during countless Winter Olympics, enraged that four years of intense preparation by underfed teen-agers can come crashing down just because a kid is unable to finish off a third twist in mid-air while wearing ice skates. I can’t even stand on ice skates, and this kid is supposed to feel like she messed up because she couldn’t pull off the near-impossible? I’d listen to Dick Button’s criticisms of the skaters and feel as though the sport was set up to make people fail.
And then there was last night. As I got ready for bed, I watched South Korea’s Kim Yu-na take to the ice for her long program. A gold medal awaited should Kim skate a strong program. I figured I’d watch, as I’d heard the hype about how good Kim was. As this 19-year-old hit the ice with a burst of speed, spins and spunk, I saw a kind of grace and athleticism that I’ve never witnessed before. It was a like watching a combination of Kristy Yamaguchi and Nadia Comaneci, with a touch of Madonna tossed in. Kim’s performance gave figure skating a new meaning for me. It was four of the most extraordinary minutes I’ve ever seen in sports, and I didn’t find myself worrying about whether or not she would fall. I was captivated.
So maybe we all discover the beauty of a sport in time. The figure skating fans who have no time for baseball may one day catch a glimpse of Tim Lincecum’s fastball or Carl Crawford’s baserunning and see the light. When they do, I’d be happy to swap stories with them. We can go curling together. No matter the sport, a shot well-executed is a delight to see.
Every so often, during a respectful conversation among adults, someone will tell me how much they dislike baseball. “It’s so boring,” they’ll say. “All the players do is stand around, take pitches, spit and wait for the ball.”
I smile, then politely share my opinion that when you get yourself deeply involved in this sport, all of the drama, grace, power and poetry are inescapable. My conversation partner sometimes asks for an example, and I talk about the way in which 162 games over six months can get whittled down to one final day in early October, with first and third and the score tied in the bottom of the ninth. There’s no touchdown pass, no overtime goal, no slam-dunk that builds to this type of crescendo, I say.
Baseball is boring. You’ve heard it, and maybe you’ve even said it. Passionate fans such as myself long ago accepted the reality that the intricacies of this sport are not for everyone. I can marvel at the way in which Joe Mauer or Derek Jeter use every ounce of their ability to hit a tough pitch the other way, or make a defensive stop that saves the game. But I know that there are countless others who’ll take your worst NFL game over a World Series matchup.
In the past two weeks, however, I have come to recognize a prevalent trend in American sports-watching. And it has me begging for a fresh debate with those baseball haters. My bone of contention is based on the number of individuals who have tuned into USA, CNBC and MSNBC in recent days to watch the hottest Winter Olympic sport on the planet.
The world loves curling. Shuffleboard on ice. Two and a half hours of men and women pushing 40-pound stones along a slippery surface, furiously sweeping brooms in front of said stones, all in the hopes of landing that stone inside a bull’s-eye-like target known as the “house.” Strategy-making curlers known as “skips” shout words like “Hurry hard!” and “Whoa!” to their broom-sweepers as the circular piece of granite glides, or “curls,” toward the house.
Curling is immensely popular in Canada, where winter activities are a must in order to survive the onslaught of winter. But here in the U.S., curling has hidden far under the radar for years. That is, until TV coverage of the sport during the 2006 Winter Olympics caught more than a few people’s eyes. This year, the sport is a ratings bonanza for NBC Universal. Yesterday, The New York Times even reported that CNBC’s curling coverage has become quite popular on Wall Street.
I’ve watched some curling during these Olympics. It’s got some nice dramatic buildup and a ton of history to it. I appreciate that in a sport. When I tune into a curling game, I also see a lot of players standing around, with one of them kneeling on one knee like a putter on the green. They plot strategy, stare at their target, and finally give the big stone a slide, complete with the obligatory broom-sweeping. Curling requires patience, strategy, attention to detail and endurance. I can enjoy a sport like that. Baseball’s got nine innings; curling has ten ends. No bad blood between me and the curlers.
What I do resent is the fact that a sports fan can sit for nearly three hours with the curlers, yet can’t stand to watch any baseball. Are you honestly telling me that it’s far more interesting to watch Kevin “The Bear” Martin toss a stone down the “sheet” than it is to watch Albert Pujols crush a baseball 400 feet? Is it truly more interesting to watch one stone kick another off the house than it is to watch Jimmy Rollins leg out a triple?
Maybe I’m missing something, but I just can’t comprehend how curling can experience this explosion in popularity, while baseball takes its annual punches to the gut. Maybe some fans don’t really dislike baseball as much as they resent the ubiquity of the sport. Come spring and summer, there’s no escaping pitchers and catchers. Curling, on the other hand, is nearly invisible in this country. Have you played any pickup curling games lately? (You can, actually, this Sunday when the Plainfield Curling Club holds an open house in South Plainfield, N.J.) Curling is your textbook definition of a novelty sport, and Americans love few things as much as novelty.
Last night, when the curlers had long finished their sliding and sweeping, I had my own sports-hating epiphany. For years, I have loathed figure skating. I’ve shouted at my TV during countless Winter Olympics, enraged that four years of intense preparation by underfed teen-agers can come crashing down just because a kid is unable to finish off a third twist in mid-air while wearing ice skates. I can’t even stand on ice skates, and this kid is supposed to feel like she messed up because she couldn’t pull off the near-impossible? I’d listen to Dick Button’s criticisms of the skaters and feel as though the sport was set up to make people fail.
And then there was last night. As I got ready for bed, I watched South Korea’s Kim Yu-na take to the ice for her long program. A gold medal awaited should Kim skate a strong program. I figured I’d watch, as I’d heard the hype about how good Kim was. As this 19-year-old hit the ice with a burst of speed, spins and spunk, I saw a kind of grace and athleticism that I’ve never witnessed before. It was a like watching a combination of Kristy Yamaguchi and Nadia Comaneci, with a touch of Madonna tossed in. Kim’s performance gave figure skating a new meaning for me. It was four of the most extraordinary minutes I’ve ever seen in sports, and I didn’t find myself worrying about whether or not she would fall. I was captivated.
So maybe we all discover the beauty of a sport in time. The figure skating fans who have no time for baseball may one day catch a glimpse of Tim Lincecum’s fastball or Carl Crawford’s baserunning and see the light. When they do, I’d be happy to swap stories with them. We can go curling together. No matter the sport, a shot well-executed is a delight to see.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
The Sure Things
The baseball news was predictable this week, as the two most dominant players of 2009 were awarded Most Valuable Player honors for their respective leagues. Albert Pujols and Joe Mauer are quite likely two of the best players many of us will ever see on the baseball field, and both were more consistently brilliant this year than in any other. There are few sure things in baseball, but Pujols and Mauer are two of them.
Sure things. We take comfort in those two words – the idea that there are things we can rely on, day in and day out, never wavering in their constancy. For Chelsea, our 4-year-old, there have been several sure things in her life – the parents, big sister and grandparents who care for her, the white house she calls home, and the little preschool she attends every weekday.
Oh, and one other thing – there has been Blankie.
Every day since she was first able to hold something in her hand, Chelsea has carried around the white blanket that she was wrapped in on the day she was born. It’s a standard maternity ward blanket, white with yellow ducks, pink and blue chicks, and little green hearts. For three years, Chelsea’s blanket remained in rather good shape. We’d wash it every so often, and while it began to look weathered, it remained intact.
Three years, apparently, was all that this cotton material could take. For nearly two years now, we’ve watched Blankie literally fall apart in Chelsea’s hands. It went from a full-size blanket to a brownish, cotton thing the size of a hand towel, to an even browner piece the size of a handkerchief, to the small, fabric-sample-size remnant she carries around today. She tucks it together with a red ponytail holder. It is so brown that I’ve taken to calling it “Raggie” and declaring it a health-code violation. Chelsea just smiles, takes another sniff of her sure thing, and holds it tight.
Until Sunday, that is. Sometime between the time we got home from church and the time we went to bed, Blankie became misplaced. And, unlike the countless other times when we’ve searched for and found the little cloth, this time Chelsea’s friend was hiding for real. Chelsea said she knew we’d find him, and she agreed to sleep with a backup blanket she has dubbed “Cheesie.” She held this replacement friend in her hands, with its own pattern of yellow ducks, stars and hearts. But it wasn’t the same.
Monday came and went. No Blankie. Tuesday arrived, and still nothing. Meanwhile, Mauer and Pujols were picking up their sure-thing trophies, comforting the fans in Minnesota and Missouri.
But there is only one MVP in Chelsea’s life, and considering how much it’s meant to her she was surprisingly calm about it all. On Tuesday, when she decided to color, she pulled out her bin of crayons. And there, nestled among the Crayola rainbow, she saw her friend. She lifted Blankie up, smelled him, and smiled. “He smells like crayons,” she said to me. Usually one to avoid sniffing that dirty thing, I found myself taking a quick sniff. Crayons, indeed.
As we gather with our families and friends this Thanksgiving, here’s a toast to the sure things. Here’s to the people, the pets, the places, and, yes, even the blankies that are there for us. We’re not always as lovable as we could be every day, and sometimes we’re worried, or afraid, or sad. It’s at those times when a little comfort is all we need. A hug. A kind word. A sunset. A sniff of old cotton.
A reassurance. Even if it’s weathered and worn and smelling of crayons.
Sure things. We take comfort in those two words – the idea that there are things we can rely on, day in and day out, never wavering in their constancy. For Chelsea, our 4-year-old, there have been several sure things in her life – the parents, big sister and grandparents who care for her, the white house she calls home, and the little preschool she attends every weekday.
Oh, and one other thing – there has been Blankie.
Every day since she was first able to hold something in her hand, Chelsea has carried around the white blanket that she was wrapped in on the day she was born. It’s a standard maternity ward blanket, white with yellow ducks, pink and blue chicks, and little green hearts. For three years, Chelsea’s blanket remained in rather good shape. We’d wash it every so often, and while it began to look weathered, it remained intact.
Three years, apparently, was all that this cotton material could take. For nearly two years now, we’ve watched Blankie literally fall apart in Chelsea’s hands. It went from a full-size blanket to a brownish, cotton thing the size of a hand towel, to an even browner piece the size of a handkerchief, to the small, fabric-sample-size remnant she carries around today. She tucks it together with a red ponytail holder. It is so brown that I’ve taken to calling it “Raggie” and declaring it a health-code violation. Chelsea just smiles, takes another sniff of her sure thing, and holds it tight.
Until Sunday, that is. Sometime between the time we got home from church and the time we went to bed, Blankie became misplaced. And, unlike the countless other times when we’ve searched for and found the little cloth, this time Chelsea’s friend was hiding for real. Chelsea said she knew we’d find him, and she agreed to sleep with a backup blanket she has dubbed “Cheesie.” She held this replacement friend in her hands, with its own pattern of yellow ducks, stars and hearts. But it wasn’t the same.
Monday came and went. No Blankie. Tuesday arrived, and still nothing. Meanwhile, Mauer and Pujols were picking up their sure-thing trophies, comforting the fans in Minnesota and Missouri.
But there is only one MVP in Chelsea’s life, and considering how much it’s meant to her she was surprisingly calm about it all. On Tuesday, when she decided to color, she pulled out her bin of crayons. And there, nestled among the Crayola rainbow, she saw her friend. She lifted Blankie up, smelled him, and smiled. “He smells like crayons,” she said to me. Usually one to avoid sniffing that dirty thing, I found myself taking a quick sniff. Crayons, indeed.
As we gather with our families and friends this Thanksgiving, here’s a toast to the sure things. Here’s to the people, the pets, the places, and, yes, even the blankies that are there for us. We’re not always as lovable as we could be every day, and sometimes we’re worried, or afraid, or sad. It’s at those times when a little comfort is all we need. A hug. A kind word. A sunset. A sniff of old cotton.
A reassurance. Even if it’s weathered and worn and smelling of crayons.
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