Pennant-Race Memories: Handle with Care

                It’s likely that the New York Yankees won’t make the playoffs this year, giving them two straight seasons without a playoff berth since 1992 and ‘93. If the Yankees are your favorite team, as they are for the residents of the Hynes household, this is disappointing. But if you’re paying attention to the full baseball season, you know that several groups of long-suffering fans are getting the chance to see their teams in a pennant race this summer. That is the story of baseball in 2014, and it’s a great one.

You’ve got the Kansas City Royals, absent from the playoffs for 29 years, standing in first place in their division. The Baltimore Orioles, out of the playoffs for 28 of the last 31 years, also in first place. The Milwaukee Brewers, who have made the playoffs just four times in their 45-year existence, holding onto first place. The Pittsburgh Pirates, who last year made the playoffs for the first time in 20 years, in the Wild Card chase. And the Toronto Blue Jays, absent from the playoffs for 21 years, also in the Wild Card hunt. Even the Washington Nationals, trying to bring playoff baseball to the nation’s capital for just the second time in 81 years, in first place.

When you look at this season from the vantage point of long-awaited hope, it gives you reason to worry little about whether usual playoff suspects such as the Yankees, Philadelphia Phillies, Detroit Tigers, St. Louis Cardinals, Atlanta Braves and Boston Red Sox will make the postseason this year. These teams and their fans certainly will survive. But the Royals! How can you not root for the kids in Kansas City? Even baseball’s two most consistent teams this year, the first-place Oakland Athletics and Los Angeles Dodgers, have not won a World Series since Rick Astley, Richard Marx and Gloria Estefan were ruling Billboard’s Top 40.

A few weeks ago, I took a weekend trip with my brother and our friend Neil, to spend some time together and celebrate Eric and Neil both turning 40 this year. When we go away together, the three of us usually travel to baseball stadiums. This time, it was an Orioles game one night, followed by a Nationals game the next. We watched the home teams win their games, and the stadiums were loud and full. We were impressed by how many fans dressed in the colors of their teams – Orioles orange and Nationals red. It also was impressive to see the teams enjoying their own traditions – Orioles fans belting out John Denver’s “Thank God I’m a Country Boy” during the seventh-inning stretch, and Nationals fans cheering wildly for Teddy Roosevelt as he won the nightly race of mascot presidents, beating out Lincoln, Washington, Jefferson and Taft.

There was a lot of late-summer hope in the voices and eyes of these Mid-Atlantic baseball fans. The same can be heard and seen in Kansas City, Pittsburgh, Milwaukee and other mid-size cities around the country, where the local teams are giving their fans reason to avoid thinking about football quite yet. In the end, though, these pennant-race ballgames always mean more than wins and losses. If you’re traveling to a game with your friends or family, you’re going to have time to sit together in the stands and talk, perhaps even about stuff more important than balls and strikes.

I can tell you about a lot of the Yankee games I’ve seen with Eric and Neil, but I also can tell you about many good talks and laughs we’ve had at the ballpark in the Bronx. During our Maryland weekend, we talked a lot of baseball but also caught up on one another’s lives, sharing stories of recent trips, photos of kids, and songs we’ve been enjoying. We took in the games, but also searched for tasty ballpark food together, with Eric raving over the jerk chicken in Nationals Park and Neil savoring his chili dog. I’m sure I can dig up some details of the games from my memory, but none of them come to mind as clearly as the three of us munching on late-night nachos in a pub in Alexandria, Va., or discovering the historic Maine Avenue Fish Market on our walk to the Nationals game, or singing the Traveling Wilburys’ Handle with Care together as Neil drove north on I-295, heading home.

So in this late summer of 2014, those of us in New York will never be Royals. We’re Yankees fans, so we’ll take what we can get. But as the people in Kansas City and Pittsburgh and Baltimore and D.C. get together for an energizing pennant race, we know that their fans will love the baseball. But Eric, Neil and I can tell you that in the end, a great game is really just an invitation to deepen a friendship. Put on those orange or red T-shirts, grab some jerk chicken, and create some memories together.

Everybody’s got somebody to lean on.

Buy Me Some iPads & Cracker Jack

I’ve been a Yankees fan for 35 years now, ever since that Sunday afternoon in June when my mother drove me to the ballpark in the South Bronx for the first time. It was Bat Day, 1977, and I was handed a wooden bat with Thurman Munson’s name and Burger King’s logo engraved on it. It didn’t matter to me that the Yankees lost to the Minnesota Twins that afternoon. As I stared out at the vast expanse of green before me, and as I heard the crack of bat against ball, I was hooked. A Yankee fan for life.

Since that day, I’ve chatted about the Yankees all the time with my mom, brother, grandparents, friends and wife. Even my dad, who grew up rooting for the Brooklyn Dodgers and was deprived of the chance to bring his sons to the ballpark that sparked his childhood dreams, has come around to talking Yankees with us. And my daughters, despite their marked preference for Webkins and Glee, have their moments of joining in some pinstriped passion.

When talking baseball with others, it can be uncomfortable to share the fact that I’m a Yankees fan. There are, of course, those 27 championships to gloat over – 16 more than any other team in baseball history. With the Yankees sporting baseball’s highest payroll every year, it’s easy to assume that I’m a front-runner. Here in New York, Mets fans may have more misery, but they can always claim the integrity of sticking with their team no matter what the outcome.

Yet, I came of age in the 1980s, the one decade in the past five in which the Mets can clearly say they were New York’s team. I watched the Yankees go 14 consecutive years without making the playoffs, and saw the Mets claim a World Series title and a division crown during that same stretch. Had there been a Wild Card team during those years, the Mets would have made the playoffs six times in seven years. Meanwhile, the Yankees were stumbling along with a variety of managers, general managers and high-priced veterans. So I know what it’s like to see your favorite team implode in front of you while other local club gets all the press.

The past 17 years have changed that landscape quite a bit, though, as the Yankees have made the playoffs every year but one since 1995. It may seem a bit outdated to use the old cliché that cheering for the Yankees is like rooting for U.S. Steel. So to update it a bit for 2012, cheering on the Bronx Bombers is more like cheering for higher quarterly reports from Apple. Ho-hum. Buy me some iPads and Cracker Jack.

But with all honesty and understanding, I ask you this: What can I do? Must I feel guilty for the Yankees’ success? Should I stop rooting for the Yankees simply because they have won too often? Do I push aside my memories and toss that old Thurman Munson bat in the trash because of my adult awareness of economics? Is competitive imbalance enough reason to turn aside the rush of childhood joy that accompanies the sight of an interlocking NY? Aren’t all of our baseball passions much more about feeling 8 years old again than about thirsting for victory?

In recent years, Major League Baseball has taken important steps to level the playing field somewhat in terms of team revenue, thanks in large part to revenue-sharing and luxury taxes. In addition, changes to the way the game is played and scouted have turned baseball into a sport dominated by the best young players teams can find. The Yankees have won just one championship over the past 11 years, and their 2012 club is just like all the others they’ve put together over that time period – very talented, but with clear weak spots. They might win, and they might not.

So I’ll cheer for the Yankees in 2012, just as I always have. But at age 41, I’ve matured to the point where my heart no longer breaks if the Yankees’ season ends with a loss. Because I know that whenever my team loses, there are other fans, with their own passions and memories, who are delighted over their team’s victories. Last year, as the St. Louis Cardinals claimed their 11th championship, millions of Redbirds fans were glorying in their unexpected triumph. That’s pretty awesome to see, no matter what the team. This year, I’ve got my eye on the Royals from Kansas City, who have not made the playoffs since their championship season of 1985, and who are unveiling a team filled with some of baseball’s top young talent. It might not be this year for the Royals, but it may be quite soon. I’m also watching out for the Nationals of Washington, who have even more young talent than Kansas City, and could contend for the playoffs as soon as this season. Washington has only seen one baseball championship, and that was nearly 90 years ago. Perhaps it’s about time for a second.

A new baseball season is set to begin this week. I’m hoping to get to a couple of Yankees games this year, where I can see that big green field and hear those bats and balls connect. The season will unfold, and I’ll follow it like a novel I can’t put down. But no matter what happens in the end, it will have been worth it. It always is.

Fatherhood, D.C.

One of my favorite Bruce Springsteen lines comes from a lesser-known song from a few years ago, titled “Long Time Comin’.” At one point in the song, the narrator tells us at that he is expecting another child. As he lies beside his partner and feels the little one “kickin’ inside,” he promises himself, “I ain’t gonna f--- it up this time.”

When my wife and I saw Springsteen perform this song in concert a few years ago, he told the audience that his older son, Evan, was in the audience. Springsteen said his son had suggested that he tweak this particular lyric. The younger Springsteen felt the narrator should instead say, “I ain’t gonna f--- it up as much this time.”

It was a beautiful story to hear, as I thought about my own journey ahead with two daughters. Here was one of the most successful men in America, sharing an anecdote that carried with it two messages: One, that you can never get it completely right as a parent; and two, that when they’re old enough to size you up as a parent, your kids will probably forgive your flaws.

I’m nine and a half years into that parenting journey now, and it never gets easy. But it remains the most fulfilling and amazing thing I have ever done. This past weekend, Amy and I took our girls to Washington, D.C., for the first time. In a whirlwind three days that featured a ton of walking and a lot of memorable first for the girls, I also caught a glimpse into the ways I am both struggling and soaring as a parent.

We begin with a time when Daddy did, indeed, f--- it up a bit. When we arrived at the U.S. Capitol early Saturday morning, we were told that we had to throw out all the food we’d brought along for the day. Visitors cannot bring any food or drink into the Capitol, no matter how early you got up to make those sandwiches. I thought about all the money we were wasting, and grew flustered. The girls saw this, and they watched as Daddy sweated the small stuff. Then they watched as Mommy got mad at Daddy for this.

I come from a long line of small-stuff-sweaters, and I want Katie and Chelsea to know that there are times when you just have to let things roll. I want them to live the serenity prayer, and accept the things they cannot change. But they’re not going to do this if I don’t model it. As we move forward together, it’s an area where I know there’s work to be done. Eventually, I dropped our food and drink in the trash can, and we walked inside the Capitol to marvel at the rotunda. And for further proof that things do work out when you let the small stuff go, our need to buy lunch brought us to the most diverse and delicious museum cafeteria I’ve ever visited, at the Smithsonian’s Museum of the American Indian.

So losing our lunch at the Capitol will not go down as my most impressive moment as a parent. However, there were other times during our Washington weekend when I faced fatherhood with a positive spark that even Teddy Roosevelt would admire. As we sat in the upper deck of Nationals Park yesterday to watch the Washington nine take on the Philadelphia Phillies, the mighty Phils took a one-run lead into the bottom of the ninth inning. I sat beside Katie, and told her about the different paths that the Nationals and Phillies were on – for Washington, the goal is to build a winner; for Philadelphia, the mandate is to win now. As Phillies reliever Antonio Bastardo mowed down the first two Washington batters in the ninth, I told Katie about some times in baseball history when teams have tied games with two outs in the ninth. We watched as Washington’s Ian Desmond flailed at the first two pitches from Bastardo, and noticed as tens of thousands of visiting Phillies fans stood up and clapped.

And then, somehow, Ian Desmond found a pitch he could hit hard. Very hard. As the ball rocketed off his bat and into the left-field seats, Katie and I leapt to our feet. We exchanged high-fives. She jumped up and down, then took my new Nationals hat from me and put it on her head. The Phillies fans quietly took a seat. One inning later, as the Nationals won the game on the very rare walk-off hit-by-pitch, Katie cheered again. One sunset later, as we took I-95 northward through the dusk, Katie was still asking me questions about baseball. About the Red Sox, Yankees and Babe Ruth. About the Cubs and the billy goat. About the intense allegiance of Phillies fans.

“Daddy,” Katie said before drifting off to sleep in the backseat, “at your high school, you should teach a class on the history of baseball.”

My girls may not end up loving baseball like I do; I hold no expectations either way. But in a ballpark in Southeast D.C., I offered Katie a glimpse of what it’s like to feel passionate about something. And it was contagious. She felt the vibe, and left Nationals Park on a high.

Maybe for Katie and Chelsea, the passion will be art, or swimming, or engineering, or chess. Whatever it is, I just hope it’s there. And when I see that glimmer in their eyes, and hear the thrill in their voices, I’ll hope that my own love for things like baseball and writing has helped make their own passions possible.

When that happens, it’ll be a long time comin’. And it’ll be one of those moments when I’ll know I didn’t f--- it up as much this time.

She's a Maniac (One Sixty-Two: Day 149)

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 One Hundred Forty-Nine: Nyjer Morgan, Washington Nationals

You know it’s going to be a rough weekend when your 5-year-old begins her Saturday by telling her older sister, “Katie, let’s be maniacs today.”

Now what kid wouldn’t say yes to an invitation like that? So, after a few hours of wrestling, kicking, punching and manhandling their dog, the two girls have finally settled down to play school. By then, Dad is exhausted. The maniacs have won.

I’d never heard Chelsea utter the word “maniac” before, so it stuck in my mind throughout the day. Which, for a man who came of age in the ‘80s, is not a good thing. After a few hours, that Michael Sembello song “Maniac” from the Flashdance soundtrack crept into my head. And once it arrived there, it wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

So here I was, on a wire between will and what will be, trying to parent two self-proclaimed maniacs. In a small way, it at least helped that Chelsea had announced that this was coming. I wonder whether Nyjer Morgan had similar thoughts a few weeks ago, when he found himself in the midst of two very controversial baseball plays inside of a week. In one game, the Nationals centerfielder was accused of throwing a baseball at a fan in the stands. In the other, he charged the mound after a pitcher threw at him. Earlier in that game, he had broken an unofficial rule by stealing two bases with his team behind by 11 runs.

The total suspension for Morgan ended up being eight games, and he’s out until next weekend. He’ll have time to reflect, and I’m sure it will do him good. When he returns, I hope he’s singing a different tune. Preferably not one by Michael Sembello. As for me, I’m going to beat the girls to the punch tomorrow morning.

“Hey girls,” I’ll ask, “why don’t you be giraffes today?” Now that would give Dad a quiet Sunday.

When You're Hot, You're Hot (One Sixty-Two: Day 136)

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 One Hundred Thirty-Six: Ian Desmond, Washington Nationals

It’s been a rocky rookie season for Ian Desmond. The 24-year-old Nationals shortstop is the runaway leader in the dubious category of most errors committed in Major League Baseball this year, with 31. Desmond’s hitting has also been erratic at times this season, as we often see with rookies.

But Desmond has been a much better hitter in the last two months, with a .342 batting average since the All-Star break. In September, Desmond has been out of this world, with 10 hits in 16 at-bats. He’s not really a home-run kind of guy, but the kid is smacking an awful lot of singles and doubles for the young Washington club.

When you’re hot, you’re hot. At times like this the pitcher’s best bet might be to just serve it up and get out of the way. Last night, I experienced this very feeling in the unexpected environs of my own backyard. And the Ian Desmond-like hitter was an 8-year-old who has already retired from softball.

Katie and I walked into the backyard on a gorgeous Saturday evening and decided it was a good time for a little batting practice. When Katie decided not to play softball this past spring, she said that while she liked playing ball with me, she didn’t enjoy the competition of team sports. She doesn’t like losing, and she also doesn’t like watching others lose. This is part of her sensitive demeanor, much of which I want to preserve like fine china. However, I also know that feeling the flow of those competitive juices, and knowing how to manage that flow, can be a very healthy thing. So I’m hoping Katie will decide to try another team sport when she’s ready.

Last night might have been a turning point in helping her decide to give softball another go. I was just tossing plastic baseballs to her, and she stood in a solid stance, her plastic, yellow Wiffle bat in hand. She started by spraying some outside offerings to the opposite field. I commended her on keeping her eye on the ball. As I came inside with some throws, Katie pulled a few balls off the neighbor’s fence. When I threw one down the middle, I got nicked in the shoulder by a line drive. Another one down the middle landed off the evergreen tree in the back of our yard. And, just before darkness fell, Katie finished her evening by lining a shot right off her dad’s forehead. She liked that one most of all.

As she smacked all these balls, Katie laughed while I showered her with praise. It was as low-pressure a situation as possible, as well as a time for bonding with Dad. But as we finished, I asked Katie if it might be worth trying softball again. She said maybe. She ran inside to tell her mom all that had happened out in the yard.

Maybe: On this day, that was all I hoped to hear. Not because I want to pick the kid’s pastimes, or relive my own baseball days through her, but simply because I want her to feel those juices. I want her to know what it’s like to drive your teammate in with one of those line drives, and to deliver her home with solid teamwork. And I want her to shake hands with the opponent, say “Good game,” and realize that no one’s life was ruined by the final score of a sports game. I think Katie would like that, and I think she’d be a great leader for a team.

For now, we’ve got the backyard. I’ll keep delivering the pitches, and I’ll hope for a few more shots off the forehead. I’m not masochistic; she just looked so happy with herself out there. When you’re hot, you’re hot. Be it Katie or Ian Desmond, you just can’t be contained. Serve it up, pitcher, and get out of the way.

A Bad Week for Flame-Throwers (One Sixty-Two: Day 127)

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 One Hundred Twenty-Seven: R.A. Dickey, New York Mets

So the best pitching prospect since Roger Clemens is likely out of baseball until 2012, and the Rocket himself as been indicted.

Not a great week for flame-throwing right-handers.

As Stephen Strasburg prepares for the likelihood of Tommy John surgery for the torn ligament in his golden right elbow, and as Roger Clemens prepares for the possibility of spending time behind bars with the accusation that he lied to Congress about his use of steroids, it seems like a good day to celebrate someone who never wowed the crowds with blazing fastballs.

It’s a good day to be R.A. Dickey, knuckleball-throwing specialist for the New York Mets. For years, Dickey tried to stick in the major leagues with a fastball and breaking ball. But at the age of 35, he has mastered the knuckler, a floating, fluttering wild card of a pitch that hitters often have no idea what to do with. In 2010, Dickey has been the second-best pitcher on the Mets, winning eight games and maintaining a superb 2.64 earned-run average. Not only that, but Dickey is throwing a pitch that’s much easier on the arm, as it can’t dance properly unless released with far less exertion than a fastball.

Stephen Strasburg quickly became a household name this season thanks to his strikeout prowess with the Washington Nationals. But as Strasburg steps out of the spotlight and into rehabilitation, the former All-Star pitcher for whom his upcoming surgery is named – Tommy John – has heard his name mentioned nearly every day in relation to this increasingly common surgery among pitchers. The procedure, which was first performed on John in the 1970s, involves replacing a ligament from the elbow with a tendon from elsewhere in the body. Today, it is performed all year long on arms throughout the collegiate and professional ranks. The odds of recovering from the surgery keep getting better, but the procedures continue as pitchers pile on innings at all levels of development. The physics of throwing a baseball overhand at great speed does not compute well with the biology of the human arm. Even as teams try desperately to keep pitchers from throwing too many innings, the fact remains that our arms are much better suited to throwing the ball underhand.

Or to throwing a knuckleball. And if you’re tossing the ball 50-something miles an hour, you’re probably not too tempted to try any performance-enhancing drugs, either. So cheers tonight to R.A. Dickey, as he finally finds himself pitching regularly for a big-league team every five days. It’s taken nine years, but some things are worth the wait. That’s some advice Stephen Strasburg could probably use right now, as he looks ahead to 2012. And the same applies to Roger Clemens, as he looks ahead to many days in court.

A Rainbow in the Parking Lot (One Sixty-Two: Day 124)

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 One Hundred Twenty-Four: Casey Coleman, Chicago Cubs

I don’t often stop to take in the scenery at a strip mall. But one night last week, I found myself doing just that.

It was after dinner, and my older daughter and I had driven over to the Watchung (N.J.) Square Mall to buy a couple of things at the bookstore. As we stepped out of my car, Katie and I glanced up and stopped in our tracks. We saw a complete rainbow, starting on the northeast horizon and soaring up into the sky before diving down and stretching to the southwest. We pointed at it, smiled to each other, then leaned back against the car and marveled at this giant gift of nature.

I showed the rainbow to a few other bookstore customers, and they stopped in the parking lot as well. As we counted the colors that stood out before the blue backdrop, I put my arm around Katie and allowed myself to slow down, if only for a few minutes. I didn’t notice any shopping carts, or honking cars, or receipts and cigarette butts on asphalt. Just this spectrum of light, far above the Borders, Stop & Shop and Home Depot signs.

Sometimes, things are not as ugly as they seem. On Sunday, the Chicago Cubs fell to 23 games below .500, and their legendary manager retired after the game. Lou Piniella, who has been either a player, manager, front-office executive or TV commentator in this game for five decades, took off his No. 41 uniform and went home to care for his ailing mother. The Cubs were given an interim manager to help guide them through the rest of this season, a year that will extend their string of years without a championship to 102.

Sunday’s final game under Piniella did not bring Sweet Lou his 1,836th win; instead, the Atlanta Braves crushed the Cubs by a score of 16-5. “This’ll be the last time I put on a uniform,” Piniella said through tears afterward. “It’s been very special to me.”

As the Cubs began their post-Piniella era Monday in Washington, there were surely a lot of North Side faithful wondering what else lay in store for them. Would there be a few season-ending injuries on tap for this week? Or perhaps a 20-run loss?

But as Monday night’s game began, a 23-year-old youngster made his second major-league start for Chicago, and he held the Nationals to just three hits while pitching into the seventh inning. Casey Coleman is not the hottest young prospect in Chicago’s farm system, but on Monday he was plenty good enough. And his team supported Coleman with nine runs, including one driven in by Coleman himself.

The Cubs’ 2010 season has been about as pretty as a strip mall. But yesterday, a kid from Florida – the same state to which Lou Piniella returned to begin his retirement – stepped on the mound and drew the Cubs a rainbow. It lasted for a couple of hours, and then it was gone. But while it lasted, Coleman’s piece of beauty gave Chicago fans something to watch, and point at, and chat about with the neighbors. He gave them something they don’t see every day.

And, dare I say, he gave them a reason to hope.

Dangerous Rhymes (One Sixty-Two: Day 57)

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 Fifty-Seven: Adam Dunn, Washington Nationals

It’s always a bit dangerous when you start rhyming with a 5-year-old around.

It started as an innocent attempt at finding words that rhyme with “team.” As we watched an episode of Wonder Pets! and heard the superhero-animal characters singing about teamwork, the girls and I got our rhyming juices flowing. Katie, who is 8, jumped right into the action. Stream. Beam. Cream. Seam.

As the girls went up to bed, Katie whipped out the rhyming dictionary. From her top bunk she called out, “Give me words that have ‘its’ in it.” And that’s where the problems began.

I gave her pits and fits. Chelsea, who’s 5, was listening closely. And now she was ready to contribute.

“Tits!” she shouted, lying on her pillow and grinning.

I looked down at her, a bemused smirk on my face. “What does that word mean, Chelsea?” I asked her.

“It’s ‘tits,’ ” she said, “like in Tootsie Rolls.”

“Oh, I see,” I said.

Knowing I’d share this with my wife later, I figured it was time to nod and move along. “Katie,” I said, “there’s hits. And mitts.”

Chelsea again: “And tits!” she declared, giggling into her blanket.

I’m not sure what this little girl was thinking, but we weren’t going to hang around that neck of the rhyming world any longer – because, as you know, it can get worse with that particular rhyme pattern. As Katie read to herself, Chelsea and I rhymed some animal names together. Then it was off to sleep for little Chelsea and her glorious innocence.

The Washington Nationals, Chelsea, have a first baseman named Adam Dunn. When it comes to batting, Dunn is the one who can hit a home run. In the afternoon, Dunn thinks it’s fun to run in the sun. When he hits a ball, he hits it a ton.

Sometimes, though, Dunn’s hitting gives the pitchers fits. He hits and he hits, and his balls elude the mitts. Those pitchers feel like they’re the pits.

And we’re going to stop right there, Sweetie, before you get any ideas. Good night. Sleep tight.

Deep-Dish Dreaming (One Sixty-Two: Day 51)

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 Fifty-One: Alfonso Soriano, Chicago Cubs

It’s been a special sports week for the city of Chicago, as the Blackhawks claimed their first Stanley Cup in 49 years Wednesday night against the Philadelphia Flyers. Two million hockey fans lined Michigan Avenue yesterday to toast the Blackhawks’ players and coaches. In the afterglow of this hockey title, the town also remains abuzz with hopes that the Chicago Bulls might lure LeBron James from Cleveland to the Windy City this summer.

As for baseball, it’s shaping up to be a summer of mediocrity in Chicago. The White Sox of the South Side are 8½ games out of first place, while the Cubs of the North Side are 7½ games back. The White Sox will receive more of a pass here since they’re just five years removed from their own championship parade. The Cubs, on the other hand – well, those 102 years without a title do nag at the Wrigley Field faithful just a bit. This generation of Cubs teams was built to follow the lead of outfielder Alfonso Soriano. The lean, sweet-swinging Soriano was signed to a long-term deal after slugging 46 home runs and stealing 41 bases for the Washington Nationals in 2006. While Soriano has hit his share of blasts as a Cub, his power, run-production, speed and run-scoring numbers continued to fall each year from 2007-09.

This season, Soriano’s production has inched up again. He’s got 10 homers already, and he’s driving in more runs than ever as a Cub. He’s not running like he used to, but perhaps the 34-year-old doesn’t have the legs for that anymore. Cubs fans can live without Soriano’s legs; what they need is his heart. They need this seven-time All-Star to lift up his teammates through his actions and words.

Two million people sounds like an awful lot of happiness. But you can’t even imagine the delirium of a Chicago Cubs victory parade. It’s a joy that Alfonso Soriano would like to experience, I’m sure. But he’s going to have to search even deeper for more of his youthful vigor, and send a few more of those moon shots over the left-field bleachers and onto Waveland Avenue.

Maybe while he’s out for some deep-dish pizza, Soriano will bump into a few Blackhawks. Perhaps they’ll let him touch the Stanley Cup. Let some magic wisp its way through the Windy City. The parade is waiting, Alfonso. They’ll crown you king.

What a Tangled Web We Weave (One Sixty-Two: Day 47)

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 Forty-Seven: Brad Lincoln, Pittsburgh Pirates

I was tempted to turn on my laptop at 6:45 this morning to check my e-mail, my fantasy baseball, and anything else the Internet brought my way. But I decided I needed a simpler, quieter breakfast with a backdrop of birds chirping rather than electronics humming.

I glanced at Monday’s New York Times while starting my bowl of cereal, and there on Page One was a headline that seemed quite fitting to the decision I’d just made: It read “Hooked on Gadgets, and Paying a Mental Price.” The story, by Matt Richtel, focused on technology overload, and the ways in which our attempts to multitask with computers, e-mail, phone calls, iPads, iPods and other assorted media have altered the way we think and behave. In addition, Richtel reports, scientists are finding that the media multitaskers among us struggle to focus.

It’s an article that any adult would do well to read. I was particularly taken by Tara Parker-Pope’s sidebar, titled “Warning Signs of Tech Overload,” when I noticed how many of the signs applied to me. As I think about the degree to which my girls watch and emulate my behavior, this concerned me even more.

But the thrill of information everywhere is so difficult to discard. It is the most tantalizing byproduct of this technological revolution – if we want it, we can find it. And the fact that we can find so much leads us to want to find much more than we would’ve ever thought to look for in generations past. And I’m not sure that helps us in the long run.

So the Pittsburgh Pirates apparently are considering a promotion for their top pitching prospect, a young man named Brad Lincoln. With all the hype over Stephen Strasburg’s debut with the Washington Nationals tonight, you might think that Mr. Lincoln would be overshadowed, with little information about him as the team considers starting him tomorrow.

But oh, how wrong you’d be. Just a quick Google search brings us the following: News stories on Brad Lincoln from ESPN.com, MLB.com, The Associated Press, USA Today and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette; scouting reports and statistics from Baseball-Reference.com, Yahoo! Sports, CBS Sports and Rotoworld.com; blurbs from Pirates fan sites (“Raise the Jolly Roger” and “Bucco Fans,” to name a couple); Lincoln’s biography on the University of Houston athletics department’s site; and, of course, a Wikipedia entry.

So if you were somehow addicted to both baseball and technology (a combination that I’ve heard something about), you could literally spend hours reading stories about a 25-year-old man who has not yet thrown a single pitch in the major leagues. Hours.

He’s supposed to be a good one, it’s true. And it’s cool to have the opportunity to read about him. But, as Richtel’s story tells us, there are an awful lot of us reading an awful lot of things these days on-line – and we’re having trouble looking away.

Yet those birds, man – they’re chirping. They sounded beautiful this morning. I gave them 15 minutes, felt at ease, and then rushed off to work. The computer went on, and here it is still, 15 hours later.

Tonight, I‘ve gained more knowledge about Brad Lincoln. But what have I lost along the way?

From Wizard to Whiz Kid (One Sixty-Two: Day 46)

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 Forty-Six: Stephen Strasburg, Washington Nationals

It’s a scintillating time for sports, with more events to cover than newspapers can handle. This weekend offered fans a choice of watching the French Open tennis finals, the Belmont Stakes horse race, a boxing match in Yankee Stadium, the Stanley Cup Finals or the NBA Finals. Later this week, the World Cup men’s soccer tournament begins in South Africa. Major League Baseball began its amateur draft today. And, to top it off, legendary NCAA basketball coach John Wooden died on Friday at age 99.

It is not surprising that the coverage of Wooden’s death eclipsed all of the live events this weekend. This man was more than a 10-time national champion at UCLA, more than the most successful college basketball coach in history. Those who have listened to or read Wooden’s words have learned so much about life from the man, and this weekend they wanted to take some time to honor him in any way possible. In a sports world full of me-first athletes, the loss of Wooden brought us all back to the lessons of teamwork and humility that this "Wizard of Westwood" worked so hard to teach.

ESPN.com compiled a list of “Woodenisms” on its Web site. Reading them felt a lot like flipping through the pages of Thoreau or Emerson. "Be more concerned with your character than your reputation,” Wooden said, “because your character is what you really are, while your reputation is merely what others think you are."

Another: "Don't measure yourself by what you have accomplished, but by what you should have accomplished with your ability."

And still another: "Talent is God-given. Be humble. Fame is man-given. Be grateful. Conceit is self-given. Be careful."

Tomorrow, the biggest story in sports will take place in Washington, D.C., when Nationals rookie pitcher Stephen Strasburg takes the mound for the first time as a major-leaguer. Blessed with a 100-mile-per-hour fastball, Strasburg has dominated every level of minor-league ball since the Nationals drafted him with the first pick in last year’s amateur draft. Tomorrow, the 21-year-old’s big-league journey begins.

Television cameras will follow Strasburg’s every move. But if Wooden were still with us, he’d remind Strasburg to focus on his team, not his own spotlight. "The main ingredient of stardom is the rest of the team," the great coach once said.

Wooden would remind Strasburg to pay attention to more than that fastball. He’d suggest working just as hard on character development, perseverance, humility and gratitude, no matter how many lights are shining on you in that clubhouse.

Because at the end of the day, it’s the way you live outside of the sporting arena that matters most of all. Soccer, basketball, hockey, tennis, baseball – whatever the sport, the story’s the same. "It isn't what you do,” John Wooden said, “but how you do it."

Good luck, Stephen. In more than just the game.

Tasty Like Swedish Fish (One Sixty-Two: Day 32)

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 Thirty-Two: Adam Jones, Baltimore Orioles

Katie was daring tonight: She ordered the Swedish Fish-flavored ice at Rita’s Ices. The Rita’s store in the town where I work had offered to donate a portion of tonight’s proceeds to my school’s community service club. So we knew we’d be eating ice tonight, and talking with folks from around town about our great club. What we didn’t know was that we’d be trying some candy-flavored Italian ice.

And, wouldn’t you know it, the red ice tasted just like the deeply sugary, strawberry-flavored candy that bends like rubber and looks like a fish. After sampling Katie’s, I couldn’t help myself – I decided that just for tonight, I too would experience the ice-cold taste of Swedish Fish. By the time I had finished, I felt satisfied but ready for some peach or mango ice next time. It reminded me of the time my brother and I saw corn ice cream in a dessert shop in Manhattan. Indeed, it was yellow and tasted like corn. And really, what sugary item does not have corn in it? But the sample was enough.

Some things are best experienced for one time only. For Orioles center fielder Adam Jones, Saturday’s inside-the-park home run in Washington was surely a real treat. But if Jones were given the choice of taking a slower jog around the bases next time, I’m sure he’d go for it. But as Washington Nationals centerfielder Nyjer Morgan dropped Jones’ fly ball Saturday, then inexplicably threw his glove in disgust, Jones had an opening, and he flew around those bases faster than any Swedish Fish could swim. He slid in safely, and claimed for himself something that is now a rare feat.

In days gone by, when stadiums were cavernous, inside-the-park homers were much more common. But today, with teams playing in little bandboxes, most home-run balls land well beyond the outfield fence. Every once in awhile, though, you get a little reminder of just how exciting this play can be.

But for the hitter/runner, it’s also a bit exhausting. Back in the dugout, Adam Jones surely needed some hydration. I would offer, but I think the Swedish Fish ice is best suited for the postgame meal.

Pitchers & Pension Plans (One Sixty-Two: Day 28)

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 Twenty-Eight: Livan Hernandez, Washington Nationals

We had a pair of financial advisors over the house tonight, to begin talking about how we might manage our money when we actually have some. During the course of our conversation, the advisors asked, as they do all their clients, when Amy and I would like to retire.

We had to laugh at that. Retirement couldn’t seem more distant or impossible than it does at this point. But we understood the reason for the question, as these gentlemen were there to help us start thinking ahead, rather than just in the moment. All we could do was take a guess about a preferred retirement age, based on what we might like in an ideal world. I would imagine that’s all they were asking.

Retirement doesn’t come at an early age for public-school teachers to begin with, and in 21st-century America it might come quite a bit later than it did for previous generations. We’ll have to wait and see. As for baseball players, well, their career arc is quite different than that of teachers. A successful pro career can leave many players set for life by their late 30s, and ready to either retire or begin a second career with no real need for additional income. As for those who do not make many millions, they too will be forced to leave the game at a young age, only to find themselves entering another area of baseball (coaching, front office, scouting) or a different career altogether.

I would have guessed, a couple years back, that Livan Hernandez would be retired by now. Maybe not in 1997, when as a 22-year-old rookie he led the Florida Marlins to their first world championship. And definitely not in 2000, when at 25 he led the San Francisco Giants to the playoffs with 17 wins. Not in 2003, either, when a 28-year-old Hernandez managed to win 15 games for a Montreal Expos team that scored fewer runs than it allowed. Hernandez’s reputation was that of a pitcher who could throw a ton of innings, and who could usually keep his team in the game for as long as he was out there.

But during each of the last two years, Hernandez seemed to lose his steam quite steadily. Pitching for four different teams from 2008-09, Hernandez gave up just under six runs per nine innings, and he lost more games than he won. His weight seemed to be an issue, and he just couldn’t seem to keep runners off base. It seemed as though teams were signing Hernandez based on reputation, hoping he’d recapture some of that past glory instead of coughing up a few runs in the first.

There are a lot of players in their mid-to-upper-30s who’ve been forced into retirement recently because of a terrible economy and a movement toward youth in baseball. But because he shows up to pitch every five days and never seems to get tired, Livan Hernandez found a job again this spring. And as a starter for the Washington Nationals, Hernandez has quietly strung together as good a month and a half as almost any pitcher in baseball so far this year. With a 1.62 earned-run average, he is keeping his team in every game he pitches. He’s not striking guys out anymore, but he’s also not giving up a lot of hits. And, to top it off, the typically awful Nationals are winning some games, including four of the ones Hernandez has started.

So at age 35, with tens of millions in earnings, Livan Hernandez is not yet a retiree. No need for him to dip into that pension plan yet. Just get him on the mound, and don’t worry about pitch counts. The man’s in the bonus, and he’s pitching like a kid again. Living in the moment.