The Way a Blog Ends ...

            More than eight years ago, I started writing this blog. I’ve published nearly 350 posts in that time, and it’s been a tremendous experience. I started out with the idea of connecting baseball and life, and even named the blog and the web address after that idea. One year, I even wrote 162 baseball-to-life blog posts in 162 days, choosing a different player each day as inspiration for that post’s topic.

            Eventually, I started shifting away from the baseball-to-life theme, and began writing more about life itself, with a focus on parenting. At times, I snuck in a little bit about teaching, or politics, or baseball. But whatever the topic, I tried to use the blog to explore the ways in which we might find some elements of hope and connection in this crazy world.

            At its best, the blog might have approached the writing style of Anna Quindlen, the columnist I grew up seeking to emulate. At its worst, the blog read like a cheesy greeting card. Most of the time, it was somewhere in between, with a style that read like a combination of Dave Barry, Charles Schulz and a Sunday sermon.

            Today, it is time to move on, and leave The Pitch behind. For one thing, it still bills itself as a blog about baseball and life. And really, after a month in which the Chicago Cubs won the World Series and Donald Trump claimed the White House, how can any baseball-to-life story top that drama? Secondly, I am ready to write with a bit more focus on the things I know best – education and journalism. I will continue that in my new blog, warrenhynes.com. There’s already a post there, ready for you!

            So for those who have checked out this blog over the years, I thank you so much for taking the time to read my writing. I appreciate your comments and feedback, and I hope there’s been a post or two in here that made your day a little bit brighter; that’s really all I was striving for to begin with.

            These are extraordinary times, and all of us are trying to figure it out, no matter where we stand politically. I have no interest in saying it will all turn out OK, because I don’t know that. But sometimes songs creep up on you during stressful times, kind of like a prayer. I’ve been reading Bruce Springsteen’s book Born to Run lately, and this week I’m hearing the lyrics from the final song of his Nebraska album in my head:

            Still at the end of every hard day people find some reason to believe.

            I’ve got no words to improve on that. Thanks for reading, and may we all find our own ways to keep the faith.

Teddy, Truman, Cubs & Indians

            All right, enough about this year’s presidential election. It’s getting too stressful, and we’ve all surely made up our minds by now. It’s time to focus on two other election years, and on two previous presidents.

            Let’s talk about Teddy and Truman. Let’s discuss 1908 and 1948.

            Here’s why: On Tuesday night in Cleveland, this year’s World Series will begin, and the two teams playing will be the two who have gone the longest since winning their last titles. The Cleveland Indians have not won a championship since ‘48, when the first Baby Boomers were in diapers and World War II had just ended. And the Chicago Cubs have not claimed a title since ’08, when the first Model T was coming off the assembly line and one of our Mount Rushmore presidents was deciding not to run for re-election.

            The Indians and Cubs have endured some of the most depressing strings of losing seasons in professional sports history in the many decades since they last held a title trophy aloft. Their fans have continued showing up, though, holding out hope every April and cheering them on through excruciating September and October collapses.

            But here they are, and it’s clear that one of them will end their losing streak over the next 10 days. And as they engage in this year’s Fall Classic, the Cubs and Indians will bring back memories of the men who occupied the Oval Office when these teams last stood atop the baseball world.

            Theodore Roosevelt and Harry Truman both started as vice presidents, and both stepped in after the elected president died in office less than a year into a four-year term. Roosevelt’s focus on taming corrupt robber barons and using executive powers to enhance programs such as conservation made him an American hero, leading to his re-election in 1904. In ’08, Teddy decided against running again, and promoted his friend and cabinet member William Howard Taft, who was elected a month after the Cubs won their second consecutive World Series. 
             As for Truman, he took office in a tumultuous time, and found a way to help steer the U.S. through the end of World War II and into the United Nations. After almost four years, it seemed that the American people were going to vote against Truman for re-election and favor Republican Thomas Dewey. In fact, the Chicago Daily Tribune even printed a headline reading “Dewey Defeats Truman.” But this time, the news media and pollsters really did get it wrong, and Truman was re-elected to another four-year term. A month later, the Indians claimed their second title.

            History has painted Teddy and Truman as two of the 20^th century’s strongest American presidents, and they are widely respected for their determination and frank talk. As I review some of their most famous quotes in the fabulous collection found on goodreads.com, I see words that inspire on multiple levels. First of all, as with any great line, they can inspire an individual in need of hope. Secondly, they provide much-needed perspective for a nation searching for its next leader. And finally, they give long-suffering baseball teams – and fans – words to live by. Let’s give a listen.

Teddy

-          “Nothing in the world is worth having or worth doing unless it means effort, pain, difficulty… I have never in my life envied a human being who led an easy life. I have envied a great many people who led difficult lives and led them well.” 

-          “It is hard to fail, but it is worse never to have tried to succeed.” 

-          “Speak softly and carry a big stick; you will go far.” 

-          “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.” 

Truman

-          “It is amazing what you can accomplish if you do not care who gets the credit.” 

-          “The only thing new in the world is the history you do not know.”

-           “We must have strong minds, ready to accept facts as they are.” 

-          “Believe and you’re halfway there.”

The World Series games will be played this week, and one group of fans will cry tears of joy. The election will be held on Nov. 8, and we the people will select a new leader. After that, life will go on for us all. Whether the signs on our lawns or the jerseys on our backs reflect the winner, we will have our own victories to pursue. Circumstances will arise in which we’ll need to decide whether we want to step “in the arena,” and whether we are ready to “believe” – in ourselves, in a cause, or in that which we can anticipate but can’t yet see.

            I guess what Teddy and Truman were really trying to tell us is that if you can sense a reason to hope, and you can feel the courage of your convictions, then you need to go for it. “The only man who never makes mistakes,” Teddy once said, “is the man who never does anything.” These former leaders would tell us to make sure we take the initiative, and don’t let the words and actions of others guide our own self-direction.

           Go Cubs go, for sure. Go Indians, absolutely. I’m with her, of course. But more importantly, go Warren. Go all of us. We can get through this together. As another American president once said, yes we can.

We Meet Again (One Sixty-Two: Day 161)

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 Sixty-One: Grady Sizemore, Cleveland Indians

It had been nearly four years since Ron and I had gotten together. He had moved to a different state, made partner at his law firm, and traveled five days a week nearly every week of the year. To say his plate has been full would be an understatement. I have no idea when the man sleeps. In Ron’s life these past few years, getting in touch with friends was secondary to finding some time to actually eat, exercise, and rest.

But a few weeks ago, Ron got in touch. He asked if I’d like to go to a Yankees-Red Sox game with him. I told him I would love to go. And so, on a cloudy Sunday evening in late September, I met up with one of the best friends I’ve had in my life after missing his presence for the better part of my late 30s.

We hugged, exchanged greetings, hopped into my car and began the complex work of catching up on four years. I know the clock said we spent seven hours together, but it felt more like ten minutes. There was so much to discuss: Stories of family, work, friendships, travels, daily routines and personal growth. We talked in the car, on the subway, and on the street. We talked in Staten Island, Brooklyn, Manhattan, and the Bronx. And, of course, we talked at the ballpark.

The rhythms of a game provided the perfect backdrop for two friends who’ve attended several dozen games together, yet haven’t done so since the pinstriped unit played in a different home stadium. As we sat together in the new digs, Yankees-Red Sox in the South Bronx was as exciting as you’d expect, especially as this game saw New York win in extra innings. But, to be honest, Ron and I could have just as easily been sitting in Arizona, watching Indians centerfielder Grady Sizemore rehab his knee at Cleveland’s spring-training facility. The location didn’t matter, so long as there was baseball before us.

We talked eagerly of seeing each other again, and continuing the business of reconnecting. The vow to meet again soon was more than optimistic chatter. As I reflected on my visit with Ron, I realized that there was a time, earlier in my adulthood, when I would have felt more hurt, betrayal and anger at a friend who’d fallen out of touch with me. But the years have softened the demands I make of friends, and left me feeling grateful for whatever time I can get with them. There’s not enough hours in the day or space in the heart for those kinds of hard feelings. Just tell me what you’ve been up to, and let’s head out to a game.

Ron’s girlfriend is a Cubs fan. During the season, they walk from their home to Wrigley Field whenever they can catch a game. I look forward to joining them there, along with my wife. We’ll enjoy the game and the gorgeous ballpark, I’m sure. But mostly, we’ll just talk. That’s what friends do.

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.

Moving Day (One Sixty-Two: Day 100)

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: Jake Westbrook, St. Louis Cardinals

For Major League Baseball, July 31st leaves some clubhouses looking like college dormitories in late August: suitcases strewn about, boxes stacked atop boxes, and garment bags flung over shoulders. This final day of July brings with it baseball’s trading deadline, the last day in which players can be shipped from one team to another without having to pass through waivers.

Almost everyone who is traded on this day is part of a deal that unfolds as follows: A pennant contender acquires an established veteran from a struggling team in exchange for younger prospects who will try and help the sub-.500 team return to prominence in the years ahead. In an ideal world, this kind of trade works out well for both teams, such as the deal two years ago that sent CC Sabathia from the Cleveland Indians to the Milwaukee Brewers. While Sabathia led the Brewers to the playoffs before bolting to the Yankees via free agency in the winter, Cleveland received a young slugger named Matt LaPorta who is now showing signs of excellence as the Indians’ starting first baseman. Unfortunately, it seems all too common these days that the playoff contender gets even better while the losing team ends up even worse than it was before. In 2003, when the Pittsburgh Pirates traded third baseman Aramis Ramirez to the Chicago Cubs, the slugging Ramirez led Chicago deep into the ’03 playoffs and remains the team’s starter seven years later, while the Pirates received prospects who had no impact on the big-league team. Baseball’s economics today tend to favor teams with more cash to spend, so the smaller-market teams often end up accepting less than the value of the player they’re trading in order to unload salary and save money.

However it all works out for these teams down the line, it remains true that today is Moving Day for dozens of young men. Starting pitcher Jake Westbrook, for instance, learned today that he must change his working address from Cleveland to St. Louis. It happens quickly, and ballplayers are expected to adjust on the fly. Of course, in a profession where the minimum salary is $400,000, there are some cushions here to the whole moving thing. Still, I try to think of myself in their shoes, and it’s a bit unnerving. I imagine being told, in late February, that I’ve been traded to another school in exchange for a first-year teacher and some SMART Boards. How quickly could I pack, say goodbye, and find my way to the new school? Which classes would I be asked to teach, and what would my schedule be? How would I bond with my colleagues, administrators and students? Would I be equally effective at this new place of work?

It’s an exciting day in baseball, but not necessarily an easy one for the ballplayers who are changing jobs. Those dorms can be overwhelming to a newcomer, and it’s hard sometimes to navigate your way through all the newness.

The Cool-Down (One Sixty-Two: Day 95)

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-Five: Derrek Lee, Chicago Cubs

For the first time in weeks, those of us in the New York area awoke to a light breeze this morning. It’s been the warmest summer here in more than a decade, with temperatures roaring above 90 degrees nearly every day, coupled with stifling humidity. Today, however, the humidity was nowhere to be found, and the sparkling sunshine didn’t feel nearly as hot as it has this July.

The glorious morning felt a bit like the falling action in the plot of a dramatic film, right after the climax. You know the scene – the main characters have hit rock bottom, realized something deep and profound about their flaws, and learned what they must do to make it back to a state of grace. It’s Boogie Nights, after Mark Wahlberg, Julianne Moore, John C. Reilly and Heather Graham all have hit their lowest of lows. Writer/director Paul Thomas Anderson queues up The Beach Boys’ “God Only Knows” while we see the characters toning down their excesses and moving into a place of deeper self-awareness and maturity.

It was an appropriate morning for Carlos Zambrano to speak. There have been a number of outbursts in Zambrano’s career, but none as outlandish as the one he unleashed on his teammates June 25. When Zambrano lost his cool in the Cubs’ dugout that afternoon, he looked like a man in need of help. After the Cubs suspended him, Zambrano began anger-management sessions, according to his interview today with ESPN. “Thank God the Cubs have sent me to the doctor for anger management,” Zambrano told ESPN. “I've had three sessions already.”

Last month, Sports Illustrated reporter Pablo S. Torre wrote an excellent article about the number of baseball players who have sought help in the area of mental health throughout the past few years. For decades, Torre writes, baseball players were expected to be above issues such as anxiety, depression and anger issues. But when the National Institute of Mental Health reports that more than 57 million Americans – or 26 percent of Americans 18 and older – suffer from a diagnosable mental disorder in a given year, it seems impossible that baseball players would somehow be immune to such concerns themselves. So Major League Baseball has taken important steps in recent years to assist players who are struggling with mental-health issues.

And several athletes have chosen to step forward and seek help. Players such as Zack Greinke of the Kansas City Royals, Joey Votto of the Cincinnati Reds and Milton Bradley of the Seattle Mariners have been placed on the disabled list in recent years in order to seek assistance for mental-health issues. This past month, during his suspension from the Cubs, Carlos Zambrano did the same. According to Torre’s story, Greinke, Votto and Bradley all received considerable support from their teammates upon returning to their ballclubs. As Zambrano prepares to return to the Cubs this weekend, his teammates must decide if they are willing to give him another chance and try to help him in his attempt to “be more quiet,” as the 29-year-old termed it in his interview today.

Derrek Lee, the soft-spoken first baseman who seemed to be the target of Zambrano’s outburst last month, will be in an interesting position as the pitcher returns. Lee’s teammates will surely watch how he interacts with Zambrano, and many, I’m sure, will follow his lead. While it is imperative that Zambrano not lose his cool again on his teammates, it’s also essential that he be supported as he seeks treatment for his illness. Lee, I’m sure, will say and do all the right things. He will do what he can to help his colleague in recovery.

A month ago, Carlos Zambrano’s heat index was off the charts. But he seems to have cooled down in his month away from the game. He is in that moment where the clouds have parted and a slight breeze is blowing. The hard work is only getting started, but he may have begun his ascent from rock bottom. It’s time for the director to give us a happy song, and for the actors to flash a smile or two. Where Carlos Zambrano goes from here, God only knows. But it’s a new day, and he seems to be taking the right steps. When we struggle with mental-health concerns, we often hurt both ourselves and the ones we care for the most. As we climb back, their support can mean the world to us. Here’s to Derrek Lee and his Cubs teammates, as they prepare to help a co-worker in his time of struggle.

Tempers & Reputations (One Sixty-Two: Day 65)

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 Sixty-Five: Carlos Zambrano, Chicago Cubs

We learned, at a very young age, just how important it is to hold our tempers. Big Bird taught us; Barney taught us; Mr. Rogers taught us. We listened, and we tried to heed that advice.

Sometimes we follow through in keeping our cool, and sometimes we don’t. When we do lose our tempers, we hope that the steam we’ve blown off doesn’t impact anyone else: our spouses, children, parents, friends, colleagues. It’s quite rare that we lose our cool and feel good about it afterward.

It’s hard to imagine that Carlos Zambrano felt good about the explosion he unleashed in the Chicago Cubs’ dugout yesterday after giving up four runs in the first inning. He embarrassed himself, his teammates and an organization that has made him a very rich man. He looked like an individual with absolutely no self-control. His team suspended him indefinitely for this outburst.

At age 29, Zambrano has had more public temper tantrums than most professional athletes. He has not heeded Big Bird’s advice. And so the Big Z, as Zambrano is called, finds himself on the outside looking in as baseball is played today. It’s not a fun place to be, and I doubt Zambrano likes it. The question now is whether he’ll get another chance to redeem himself with those whom Mr. Rogers would call his “neighbors.”

As we graduated from preschool TV to literary characters, we learned a thing or two about the importance of reputation. “I have lost my reputation!” Cassio shouted in Othello. John Proctor, in The Crucible, bellowed similar words: “Because it is my name! Because I cannot have another in my life!” These characters lamented the loss of their honor in society, and felt the deep loneliness that comes with this.

Carlos Zambrano is real, not fictional, and his outbursts have surely soured his own reputation. The question now is whether or not he can save it. He’s got his work cut out for him.

When Intimacy Hurts (One Sixty-Two: Day 60)

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 Sixty: Daryle Ward, Free Agent (via Newark Bears)

Katie has had it with minor-league baseball games.

Two years ago, while setting up our blanket in the lawn-seat section at a Somerset Patriots game, my wife took a foul ball to the hip. (See my earlier column on this at http://thepitchbaseballlife.blogspot.com/2008/07/bruises-we-carry.html.) A little later that year, Katie saw a middle-aged woman take a foul ball to the face, also at a Patriots game. There was some blood, and Katie started to consider this independent-league ballpark in Bridgewater, N.J., to be a health risk for herself and all the other fans around her.

Last year, we didn’t see anyone get hit by a ball in the two Patriots games we attended, and Katie’s comfort level improved to the point where she and I ran the bases when invited to do so after one game. But things changed again this past Saturday night at our first game of the year. Yes, it happened once again. Former major-league first baseman Daryle Ward stood at the plate for the opposing team, the Newark Bears. Ward, who hits left-handed, swung late on an outside pitch. He poked a foul ball off the end of his bat, and it shot off the wood about three to four feet off the ground. The ball flew to the right of the backstop netting protection, landing flush in the face of a young boy in the front row. The boy quickly doubled over in pain.

We were getting up to leave the park when this happened, but Katie wouldn’t step out of the stadium until she’d had the chance to walk past the first-aid area. Once there, she saw the boy, tears streaming down his face, as ice was applied to his left cheek. It was a bruise at best, a break at worst. The boy would be OK, and he had a souvenir ball for sure. But I don’t think he’ll be sitting in any front-row seats anytime soon.

So Katie has posed the suggestion that we no longer attend minor-league games. She’s fine with upper-deck seats at Yankee Stadium, but she’s had it with intimacy.

I’m sure Daryle Ward would take that trade as well, opting for the big stage instead of the bandboxes he plays in now. Ward is one of many former big-leaguers playing in the Atlantic League, an independent minor league based here in the Northeast. On the Newark team itself, the ex-major leaguers range from Ward and Carl Everett to Scott Spiezio and Edgardo Alfonzo to Armando Benitez and Willie Banks. These are men who are no longer desired by major-league teams, but who are just not ready to accept that as a reality. They’re not willing to give up playing baseball for a living. They’re still hoping that a summer of brilliant play will get them one last chance in The Show. Ward, who last played for the Chicago Cubs in 2008, had turned into a respectable pinch-hitter in the big leagues. But will anyone really come looking for him again? With each at-bat he takes with Newark, there is at least a hope that they will.

Until that happens, though, Ward’s world is the minor-league scene – the dizzy-bat races and the T-shirt tosses and the furry mascots. It’s a world of player autographs before the game, affordable tickets every night, postgame fireworks displays and, yes, even lawn seats.

There is the occasional misdirected foul ball, and it’s not fun when it hits and hurts. But Katie, we can bring your glove next time. You can wear it, and we’ll be ready – especially if Daryle Ward comes up again. But you don’t have to run away from the intimacy of a place like this. You’ll find, soon enough, that you don’t get this kind of feeling everywhere. It may not be The Show, but it’ll work just fine as community theater.

Fathers and Footes (One Sixty-Two: Day 59)

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-Nine: Omar Vizquel, Chicago White Sox

They popped up from behind the couch, with a “Happy Father’s Day” and a gift bag in hand. The girls gave me their homemade cards, a really cool fitness watch, and a ball that’s made for catches on the beach (“Bounces on water!” the box reads). As I thanked the girls and their mom for each of these gifts, I noticed one more small package in the gift bag.

The silver wrapping looked about the size of a baseball card – and, wouldn’t you know it, it was a pack of baseball cards. It’s been about 20 years since I’ve held a brand-new pack of cards in my hand, and I know the pack would probably be more valuable if I never opened it. But after 20 years, I still remembered that anticipation of what might be inside. I tore open the wrapper.

It wasn’t a bad pack, either, with Manny Ramirez, Cole Hamels and Jonathan Papelbon cards inside, as well as a rookie card for Giants prospect Madison Bumgarner. The most enjoyable card in the pack for me was White Sox shortstop Omar Vizquel, as the back of his card required Topps to cram 21 years worth of statistics onto one tiny surface. The point size for Vizquel’s statistics was in the low single digits, and I remembered fondly some of the similar cards I’d had as a youngster – players such as Tim McCarver and Jim Kaat, who had played in the big leagues for more than 20 years and whose numbers seemed to require a magnifying glass to read them.

The package stated that there would be 12 cards inside – unless you were lucky enough to be a winner. This year, Topps is running a contest it calls the “Million Card Giveaway,” in which the company is sending lucky winners an original baseball card from years gone by. “We’re giving you back the cards your mom threw out!” the slogan reads.

If you’ve won a card, then your pack features a replica of an old card (not the real one), along with another card featuring a special code on it. When you register on-line, you type in this code and find out which old card Topps is willing to send you.

The relic card I received was a 1955 Duke Snider, which is not a card that my mother threw out – but, most assuredly, a card that my father’s mother threw out. I looked at the young Snider following through on his swing and thought of my dad, who was enjoying a day at the beach today. The Duke was my dad’s childhood sports hero, and 1955 was the year in which Snider and Co. finally claimed that elusive world championship by defeating the rival Yankees. What daydreams my father must have had, holding this card in his 12-year-old hands and thinking of No. 4 hitting another one out of Ebbets Field.

As I said, the Snider card was just a replica. But this second card had a code on it, with an original waiting for me if I just chose to register on-line and type in the code. I knew I was setting myself up for about 500 e-mails from Topps, but with the Snider card staring me in the face I had to do it. What if this card they’ll send me really is a ’55 Snider? That would definitely provide an excuse for the late Father’s Day gift, wouldn’t it?

And so I logged on, registered, and typed in all the letters and numbers. My heart skipped a beat as I clicked submit, and … and … it was a 1980 Barry Foote.

Indeed, I was awarded the card of a weak-hitting catcher who spent most of his career as a backup. Foote looks ever the sportsman on the card, all right, with his thick mustache and his wavy brown hair spilling out from beneath a blue Cubs helmet. Back in 1970, when Foote was a first-round draft pick, he inspired a lot of excitement in the baseball world. And he certainly played the game far better than I ever did. But today, as I “unlocked” his old card from Topps, I was definitely underwhelmed. Especially considering that I have the card in my house, along with the rest of the 1980 collection that I completed the old-fashioned way, one pack at a time. So when Topps offered to send me the card for $3 in shipping, I balked.

Had it been a Duke Snider card, that’s another story. Oh, well – maybe next time, Dad. I hope you enjoyed the rest of your Father’s Day, and you know I love you. Sorry I couldn’t get you that card your mother threw out, but there are far worse things in this world.

And hey – the Topps site does say we can trade the cards we’ve gotten through this giveaway. So if any of you out there have a Barry Foote fetish, let’s do business. I’m awaiting your request.

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.

Remember Paris (One Sixty-Two: Day 15)

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 Fifteen: Kerry Wood, Cleveland Indians

I’m not sure why I remember the article; maybe it just represented the world in which I felt comfort, just as I was heading out of my comfort zone. I sat next to my wife, Amy, on an airplane en route to Paris. Before taking out the French-English dictionary so that je peux me souvenir le francais, I flipped through my copy of The New York Times. There in the paper was a photo of a 20-year-old Chicago Cubs pitcher, who had shocked the baseball world the day before with a record-tying 20 strikeouts in one game.

His name was Kerry Wood, and he was fast becoming the next great thing among baseball’s pitchers. The next Roger Clemens, they said. In 166 innings during that 1998 rookie season, Wood would strike out 233 batters and help lead his team to the playoffs for the first time in nearly a decade. By June, half the fans at Wrigley Field were showing up with blue No. 34 jerseys featuring Wood’s last name at the top.

A few hours after our plane departed, Amy and I would find ourselves immersed in French culture and attractions, walking alongside the River Seine and picnicking beneath the Eiffel Tower. Only occasionally that week would we be carried back into American culture, such as when we saw subway vendors selling Leonardo DiCaprio posters, or when we spotted a shocking headline in Le Monde reading: “Sinatra est Mort.”

The Paris vacation took place 12 years ago this week, and while we haven’t returned to France yet, Amy and I still have some photos from that trip on the walls of our house. A lot has happened in those dozen years – we’ve moved twice, switched careers, earned master’s degrees, had two children, lost three grandparents, and witnessed history-changing events.

As for Kerry Wood, he’s now 32 years old, and plenty has happened to his career since ’98. He returned today from his 13th trip to the disabled list, finally ready to throw his first pitch of the season. It’s been a difficult career for Wood, as his brilliant pitching has constantly been beset by injuries. After a 13-win season in his rookie year, Wood has won just 67 games ever since.

But he is still standing. And he’s only 32 years old. As Wood suits up for the Cleveland Indians now as their closer, he seeks to save games rather than win them. He wants three strikeouts in the ninth, rather than 20 over the course of a game. He hopes that his arm, and the rest of his body, will hold up this time.

Amy and I have to watch our neighbors’ cat this coming week. The young couple is headed to Paris for a week. They’ve got their camera, as well as their dictionary. And who knows? Maybe on their flight over the pond, they’ll flip through a newspaper and find a story about the comeback closer in Cleveland. C’est possible, non?

Just a Little Patience (One Sixty-Two: Day Nine)

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 Nine: Aramis Ramirez, Chicago Cubs

I turned the corner from our bedroom into the hallway, and it was there that I witnessed the punch. It was a straight, right-handed jab to the nose. Or, rather, to the snout.

The 5-year-old glanced over her right shoulder as she inexplicably slugged her puppy. The dog was not at all fazed, but I was certainly distraught at what I had seen. I sent the girl to the couch, where she buried her head in a pillow, awaiting punishment. As she sat there silently, I tried to determine what exactly you do for punishment when your preschooler dismisses all those Cesar Millan dog-training tips and instead goes Julio Cesar Chavez on the poor pooch.

Q: What in the world caused you to do that?
A: I don’t know.
{Sigh.}

Patience. Among the qualities required of a parent, few are as critical as this. You teach, model and reward positive behavior, then watch as they slowly but surely figure out how they’re supposed to behave in this world. You plant the seeds and wait, faithfully, for the growth.

In the first weeks of baseball’s new season, certain established players inevitably get off to painfully slow starts. It takes patience from managers, teammates and fans in order to wait out these awful, early-season slumps. When the player has proven over several years that he can do the job, you’ve got few other options than to wait – patiently – for the turnaround.

On the North Side of Chicago, long-suffering Cubs fans have had to wait more than any other spectators in American sport. Their team last claimed a world championship 102 years ago, while Teddy Roosevelt was president. The patience required of Cubs fans has spanned five generations. On top of the overall team futility, there is a player on the current roster who demands a wait all his own.

Aramis Ramirez, the Cubs’ third baseman, has hit 267 home runs in his career and driven in nearly a thousand. His lifetime batting average is .283, and he’s played in two All-Star games. But over the course of his 13-year career, Ramirez has hit worse in April than in any other month. This year, he took those opening-month blues to a new level, hitting all of .152 in the season’s first month and striking out once every four trips to the plate.

There is no reason to believe that this will continue; there is simply no precedent for Ramirez hitting poorly all year. He will get better. Just not yet. Cubs fans must wait, and hope, and trust.

My 5-year-old has a favorite book. It’s the classic picture book The Carrot Seed, by Ruth Krauss. The plot is simple: Boy plants a carrot seed. Boy’s family members tell him the carrot won’t grow. Boy waters the spot every day. Boy watches, one day, as a giant carrot the size of Aramis Ramirez grows in said spot – just as he knew it would.

My daughter knows every word to the book, and she smiles every time we read it. She loves the story. Her middle name, after all, is “Faith.”

So the seeds are planted. This much we know.

Your First Time

They are 25-year-old men and women, born and raised in Wisconsin. They’re three years out of college, perhaps even married by now - maybe even parents. And yet they’ve never seen their state’s pro baseball team in the playoffs. That will change, at long last, tomorrow.

There is no resident of Tampa or St. Petersburg who can tell you about the last time their hometown team was in the Major League Baseball playoffs, because it’s never happened. In the 105 years since the first World Series, there is no listing of a “Tampa Bay” among any season’s postseason clubs. That, too, will change this week.

For all the hand-wringing and teeth-clenching that often accompanies the elimination of teams from playoff contention in September, there is also the indisputable fact that somewhere, there are people weeping with joy at the surprise realization that their own favorite team will warm the October chill with a trip to the playoffs. This fall, two such Cinderella teams have brought their fans immeasurable joy this past week. And although this fall’s prime story is the Chicago Cubs and their attempt to win a World Series for the first time in 100 years, there are two other sets of fans who have had to wait much longer than the Cubs to see their team in the playoffs: They are fans of the Milwaukee Brewers and Tampa Bay Rays.

For the Brewers, this year marks their first playoff appearance since the American League pennant season of 1982. For the Rays, this year marks their first season over .500, let alone in the playoffs. Both teams have spent the majority of their history in the lower levels of their respective leagues. The fans in Milwaukee and Tampa Bay are used to watching their teams lose out on the glory. That’s what makes this season so special for them.

I can only imagine what it must be like for an 8-year-old fan of either team. Or even a 28-year-old. In these weighty days of economic turmoil, widespread international crises and high-stakes politics, there are some frivolous things worth thinking about for a few minutes. I won’t have the time to watch all the postseason baseball games this fall. But I will sneak a peek at the Brewers and Rays games when I can. And I’ll think of the kids in those two cities, knowing that they’re feeling that lump in their throats when they see the bunting hanging from the façade in their team’s stadium, or when they watch their favorite player come up to bat with a man on second and two out in the ninth. I hope they’ll enjoy it all, and remember the feeling.

There are some people in Wisconsin and Florida gaining a memory or two this week that will frame their childhood – and perhaps even their life – in some small way. That’s worth something.