Wii golf looks to be my latest obsession. We went to the neighbors’ for dinner on Saturday, and I played a few rounds with O. It was strangely addictive, requiring just enough skill to hold my interest and keep me playing. On Sunday afternoon I played with D at home, and later that night after he was in bed, compelled to keep at it and better my score. I can see the attraction. I can also spy already the end of this bender in the fact that it’s the same nine holes played over and over. Lucky for me.
Wii golf thus joins the long list of enthusiasms that have taken complete possession of me at one time or another, flings brief and intense that typically run their course in a week or a couple of weeks before I lose interest and drop them for a year or two, when I may just as typically be bitten afresh and go through the whole thing again.
Thus have I accumulated piles of newspaper sections, each one folded to the day’s Sudoku puzzle, so that I’d be sure to have one to solve tomorrow and the day after. Or gone on extended binges of Solitaire and online chess. I can say the same too for spates of watching movies or baseball or playoff basketball or the soccer World Cup. For a month every four years that tournament becomes my favorite thing, soaking up most of my waking attention. When it’s over, it’s over. I may miss it for a couple of days, but then, in spite of my intentions, I forget about soccer entirely for four years until the Cup returns and grabs my attention again.
The same pattern fits my impulse to cook. For long stretches I don’t just cook, I inhabit cooking—studying recipes, watching cooking shows, trying new techniques and ingredients, cooking meal after meal, cooking like a fiend.
It may seem dilettantish, scattered. But these passing enthusiasms, storms or waves of interest, have been a source of immense pleasure in my life, of consuming interest, and I am thankful for them. The abiding mystery is that I don’t control them. The wind bloweth where it listeth.
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 03, 2011
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Kid pitch
I spent the morning at the ball field with D. Only his second game in kid pitch. We had the early game, which meant it was cold and damp. Team picture day.
The picture packages started at $25. D wanted his picture on trading cards. Sure, I said. Then he saw the other options available: his picture on a mug, a t-shirt, refrigerator magnets. These I wouldn’t grant, which made him pout. He only pouted briefly; then he asked plaintively, “Next year, can I get a mug?” That almost worked on me.
Walking toward the field after pictures, he told me he didn’t know whether he could play. His leg hurt. Since when? I asked him. I don’t know, he said. I told him he had to play; his team needed him.
During warm-ups, it was announced that the other team had only seven players and would have to forfeit. The teams would scrimmage anyway.
I chatted amiably with the few other parents present. We were cold just sitting around. The field is beautiful, but completely enclosed and off limits to all but the teams and the umpires; the bleachers are way out beyond the right-field fence. From that distance, it’s hard to tell exactly who is batting. We speculated that our banishment was intentional, to preclude parental overbearance. We blew into our hands, bought coffee from the concession stand, wished the sun would come out.
D was last to take BP. He looked bad, flailing blindly. I cringed inwardly. Batting ninth in the first inning, he struck out. More flailing, more cringing. I began to wish that other boys would strike out too, just so he would have some company, but everyone was hitting, even little Alex. How was it that Alex was hitting?
D’s second time up, I prayed before each pitch that he’d get a hit, or at least hit the ball. He struck out on three pitches, watching a strike then swinging badly at two balls up around his eyes. I remembered a friend's father, growing up, who never came to his son’s games, because, he said, he couldn’t stand all the mistakes.
On defense, D played right field, then left, then center, running to and from his position with a limp that came and went. Not a single ball reached him all game.
The third time up, he walked on four pitches. We'll take it, I thought. He ran down to first excitedly, and made it all the way to third before the inning ended. The next time up, he had his strategy—he didn’t swing at anything. He watched a couple of strikes, but walked again, and scored from second on an outfield hit.
He was happy with that when the game finally ended—that he’d scored a run, and his team had won. That was enough for him.
I was thankful that he had something to hold onto, and a little ashamed of myself for wanting more. Still, I felt frustrated and a little bit embarrassed, too. For him? For me? I don’t know, maybe both. I struck out an awful lot myself back in the day.
I just wished he had managed to hit the ball.
The picture packages started at $25. D wanted his picture on trading cards. Sure, I said. Then he saw the other options available: his picture on a mug, a t-shirt, refrigerator magnets. These I wouldn’t grant, which made him pout. He only pouted briefly; then he asked plaintively, “Next year, can I get a mug?” That almost worked on me.
Walking toward the field after pictures, he told me he didn’t know whether he could play. His leg hurt. Since when? I asked him. I don’t know, he said. I told him he had to play; his team needed him.
During warm-ups, it was announced that the other team had only seven players and would have to forfeit. The teams would scrimmage anyway.
I chatted amiably with the few other parents present. We were cold just sitting around. The field is beautiful, but completely enclosed and off limits to all but the teams and the umpires; the bleachers are way out beyond the right-field fence. From that distance, it’s hard to tell exactly who is batting. We speculated that our banishment was intentional, to preclude parental overbearance. We blew into our hands, bought coffee from the concession stand, wished the sun would come out.
D was last to take BP. He looked bad, flailing blindly. I cringed inwardly. Batting ninth in the first inning, he struck out. More flailing, more cringing. I began to wish that other boys would strike out too, just so he would have some company, but everyone was hitting, even little Alex. How was it that Alex was hitting?
D’s second time up, I prayed before each pitch that he’d get a hit, or at least hit the ball. He struck out on three pitches, watching a strike then swinging badly at two balls up around his eyes. I remembered a friend's father, growing up, who never came to his son’s games, because, he said, he couldn’t stand all the mistakes.
On defense, D played right field, then left, then center, running to and from his position with a limp that came and went. Not a single ball reached him all game.
The third time up, he walked on four pitches. We'll take it, I thought. He ran down to first excitedly, and made it all the way to third before the inning ended. The next time up, he had his strategy—he didn’t swing at anything. He watched a couple of strikes, but walked again, and scored from second on an outfield hit.
He was happy with that when the game finally ended—that he’d scored a run, and his team had won. That was enough for him.
I was thankful that he had something to hold onto, and a little ashamed of myself for wanting more. Still, I felt frustrated and a little bit embarrassed, too. For him? For me? I don’t know, maybe both. I struck out an awful lot myself back in the day.
I just wished he had managed to hit the ball.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
Counterfeit
We were both heading to Spokane for a conference. This fellow Ron, who by chance had the seat next to me on the plane, hails from Boston, works in media relations. He’s a self-assured, opinionated presence, youngish, a bit of a hipster. He had a David Foster Wallace poking out of his knapsack, like a ship’s prow, and was passing the time by going over with a pencil a short-story draft from a fiction workshop he was taking. He paused now and then to chortle at the inadequacies of his absent classmate.
“Read this,” he said giggling, pointing at one particular howler. After I nodded and smiled appreciatively, we conversed for a while. It was October, playoff time, and he—amiably slumming—professed to be part of Red Sox nation, a diehard fan. He told of cruising through Cambridge after the last out in ’04, the year the Curse was lifted. What it was like to be in the streets, how he high-fived an overexuberant drunk leaning out of a taxi and almost had his arm taken off. What a scene!
Pretty soon, though, his story started to unravel. He couldn’t remember the name of Josh Beckett, Boston’s towering, soul-patched ace—“the big guy, the pitcher” was the best he could muster. And the awkward way he spoke about Fenway—“It’s one of the oldest ballparks in the country”—suggested he’d been there once, recently, and had known nothing of the hallowed grounds before that. I threw him a look, but we moved on to another topic.
It was not until an evening reception a couple days later that my suspicions were irrevocably confirmed. It was the day of Game 6, the pivotal win against Cleveland. Ron, craving attention, piped up about having watched the first few innings in the hotel bar. Boston had jumped out early when J.D. Drew, the underachieving right fielder, uncoiled on a 3-1 fastball with the bases loaded. “It was incredible!” Ron gushed. “The Red Sox made a grand slam!”
Made a grand slam? They made one? There was a moment’s pause. The guys within earshot eyed each other uncomfortably. No one challenged Ron directly on his faux pas: This was a meeting of science writers, after all, some of whom were on firmer ground talking about neutrinos. But from that moment on, everyone knew—I knew, at any rate—that this fellow Ron was not to be trusted.
“Read this,” he said giggling, pointing at one particular howler. After I nodded and smiled appreciatively, we conversed for a while. It was October, playoff time, and he—amiably slumming—professed to be part of Red Sox nation, a diehard fan. He told of cruising through Cambridge after the last out in ’04, the year the Curse was lifted. What it was like to be in the streets, how he high-fived an overexuberant drunk leaning out of a taxi and almost had his arm taken off. What a scene!
Pretty soon, though, his story started to unravel. He couldn’t remember the name of Josh Beckett, Boston’s towering, soul-patched ace—“the big guy, the pitcher” was the best he could muster. And the awkward way he spoke about Fenway—“It’s one of the oldest ballparks in the country”—suggested he’d been there once, recently, and had known nothing of the hallowed grounds before that. I threw him a look, but we moved on to another topic.
It was not until an evening reception a couple days later that my suspicions were irrevocably confirmed. It was the day of Game 6, the pivotal win against Cleveland. Ron, craving attention, piped up about having watched the first few innings in the hotel bar. Boston had jumped out early when J.D. Drew, the underachieving right fielder, uncoiled on a 3-1 fastball with the bases loaded. “It was incredible!” Ron gushed. “The Red Sox made a grand slam!”
Made a grand slam? They made one? There was a moment’s pause. The guys within earshot eyed each other uncomfortably. No one challenged Ron directly on his faux pas: This was a meeting of science writers, after all, some of whom were on firmer ground talking about neutrinos. But from that moment on, everyone knew—I knew, at any rate—that this fellow Ron was not to be trusted.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Crunch Time
This is the week, Phillies fans. This is what it all boils down to. Will they do what we expect, leave us brokenhearted yet again, repeating the well-worn pattern? Or will they shock our very innards and rise to the occasion, like the Merry Kruksters of ’93?
This morning’s paper verified the unbelievable: Despite an endless string of crippling injuries, despite the early immolation of their entire starting pitching staff, despite a relief corps that was sadly threadbare when the season started, the Phillies, our Phillies, are tied for first place in the wild card race with the San Diego Padres. Clean slate! Reset to zero! Gentlemen start your engines: It’s anybody’s ballgame.
Six games left, and no room to screw up. It’s almost too much to bear!
My instinct as a Phillies fan is to protect myself, button down my hopes, get ready to fail. But there’s a part of me, a tender winking spark, that says this team is different.
And it is. With the adversity it has faced, there is no way this team should even be in the running. I can’t count the number of times I have left them for dead. Each time, they have clawed their way back. Each time, worming their way a little deeper into my heart.
Can the rim-running pitching hold up? Will the booming bats go silent? Will the role-players, stop-gappers—every damn one of them finding a way to contribute—cease to step up? Or will this gutty bunch somehow prevail?
It’s crazy to hope. But I’m hoping.
Whatever happens, it has been one hell of a ride. And pain is definitely a part of it.
This morning’s paper verified the unbelievable: Despite an endless string of crippling injuries, despite the early immolation of their entire starting pitching staff, despite a relief corps that was sadly threadbare when the season started, the Phillies, our Phillies, are tied for first place in the wild card race with the San Diego Padres. Clean slate! Reset to zero! Gentlemen start your engines: It’s anybody’s ballgame.
Six games left, and no room to screw up. It’s almost too much to bear!
My instinct as a Phillies fan is to protect myself, button down my hopes, get ready to fail. But there’s a part of me, a tender winking spark, that says this team is different.
And it is. With the adversity it has faced, there is no way this team should even be in the running. I can’t count the number of times I have left them for dead. Each time, they have clawed their way back. Each time, worming their way a little deeper into my heart.
Can the rim-running pitching hold up? Will the booming bats go silent? Will the role-players, stop-gappers—every damn one of them finding a way to contribute—cease to step up? Or will this gutty bunch somehow prevail?
It’s crazy to hope. But I’m hoping.
Whatever happens, it has been one hell of a ride. And pain is definitely a part of it.
Monday, April 23, 2007
The boys are back. Maybe? L'il bit?
It's not clear yet whether it was my last post or the team meeting that did it, but the Phillies have shown distinct signs of life in their last two games. The kid, Cole Hamels, pitched a masterpiece on Saturday night, striking out 15 Reds and getting the complete game. Utley hit a homer and a double. And the infield pulled off a triple play to boot! "Nunez to Rollins to Dobbs," oh my.
Then yesterday afternoon Freddy Garcia looked pretty good for 5+ innings, and the hitters finally erupted. Two more doubles for Utley, and Ryan Howard, back after three games, taxed one to center.
That's what I'm talkin' about.
Then yesterday afternoon Freddy Garcia looked pretty good for 5+ innings, and the hitters finally erupted. Two more doubles for Utley, and Ryan Howard, back after three games, taxed one to center.
That's what I'm talkin' about.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
De profundis
The Phillies lost another heartbreaker last night. At 4-11, they are now officially the worst team in baseball.
Last night it was Tom “Flash” Gordon’s turn to blow it. After Jon Lieber pitched beautifully in his first start since being reinstated, and Charlie Manuel walked the managing tightrope to get the Phillies out of the 6th, and Alfonseca and Myers did their jobs well in the 7th and 8th, respectively, Gordon came on in the 9th with a 1-0 lead, got two outs, and then gave up a game-tying homer to a guy whose name I can’t remember. Back out for the 10th, Gordon completely unraveled. The Reds won it, 2-1, with only four hits.
Yes, the offense was terrible, too. Their only run was a gift—a third-to-first throwing error that Carlos Ruiz exploited well to score from second. Ruiz is one of few bright spots outside Myers and the starting pitching. A man among zombies, he has been a spunky hitter, a fine defensive catcher, and smart on the bases.
Utley, Howard, Burrell, Rowand, Helms, Victorino. None of these guys is hitting worth a damn. Burrell has hit, but not in the clutch. Utley and Howard are still in hibernation. They’ll come out of it, everybody says. Sure, but by then the Phillies may be all but invisible in the Mets’ (or the Braves’) rear-view mirror. Howard sat for the second day with a leg injury that I haven’t seen specified. He may struggle all year. Utley’s patience has been painful to watch, as he waits grimly for the sap to start flowing. Only Jimmy Rollins has played up to his pre-season prediction.
The bullpen is a disaster zone, as predicted. Geary and Madson have been awful, and Gordon himself has appeared shaky. The converted Myers has pitched well in two outings, looking strong-armed and determined, and Alfonseca (the big-bellied, six-fingered “El Pulpo”) has been fairly effective. Too early to tell whether the fire-throwing Rosario can help. Last night, I found myself willing Charlie to leave Myers in to pitch the 9th. I have a feeling that Gordon, the compact, coil-springed right-hander, may be reaching the end of the line. He’s been a real pro, and he looks strong physically, but right now I don’t see him lasting the season as closer.
“It’s still early.” They’re still saying that in the locker room, but by now it’s coming through clenched teeth. There’ve already been a half-dozen dispiriting losses like last night’s. How many more until their confidence, and their season, slip away entirely?
Last night it was Tom “Flash” Gordon’s turn to blow it. After Jon Lieber pitched beautifully in his first start since being reinstated, and Charlie Manuel walked the managing tightrope to get the Phillies out of the 6th, and Alfonseca and Myers did their jobs well in the 7th and 8th, respectively, Gordon came on in the 9th with a 1-0 lead, got two outs, and then gave up a game-tying homer to a guy whose name I can’t remember. Back out for the 10th, Gordon completely unraveled. The Reds won it, 2-1, with only four hits.
Yes, the offense was terrible, too. Their only run was a gift—a third-to-first throwing error that Carlos Ruiz exploited well to score from second. Ruiz is one of few bright spots outside Myers and the starting pitching. A man among zombies, he has been a spunky hitter, a fine defensive catcher, and smart on the bases.
Utley, Howard, Burrell, Rowand, Helms, Victorino. None of these guys is hitting worth a damn. Burrell has hit, but not in the clutch. Utley and Howard are still in hibernation. They’ll come out of it, everybody says. Sure, but by then the Phillies may be all but invisible in the Mets’ (or the Braves’) rear-view mirror. Howard sat for the second day with a leg injury that I haven’t seen specified. He may struggle all year. Utley’s patience has been painful to watch, as he waits grimly for the sap to start flowing. Only Jimmy Rollins has played up to his pre-season prediction.
The bullpen is a disaster zone, as predicted. Geary and Madson have been awful, and Gordon himself has appeared shaky. The converted Myers has pitched well in two outings, looking strong-armed and determined, and Alfonseca (the big-bellied, six-fingered “El Pulpo”) has been fairly effective. Too early to tell whether the fire-throwing Rosario can help. Last night, I found myself willing Charlie to leave Myers in to pitch the 9th. I have a feeling that Gordon, the compact, coil-springed right-hander, may be reaching the end of the line. He’s been a real pro, and he looks strong physically, but right now I don’t see him lasting the season as closer.
“It’s still early.” They’re still saying that in the locker room, but by now it’s coming through clenched teeth. There’ve already been a half-dozen dispiriting losses like last night’s. How many more until their confidence, and their season, slip away entirely?
Monday, March 12, 2007
Prelude to a kiss-off?
Ominous news out of Clearwater today. Tom Gordon is headed north, to be checked out by one of the Phillies’ approved orthopedic men. The team predictably poo-pooed this development as strictly precautionary, but the fact is that their entire season may hang in the balance. Gordon, the closer, is the only solid bullpen performer they have, despite a winter of trying unsuccessfully to deal for a set-up guy. He was old when they got him, and broke down at the end of last season—and the Phillies have no insurance! Without Gordon healthy at the start, their chances to jump out on the Mets, and even to be competitive, are approximately nil. Now the question is, will they panic and do something drastic, and further disrupt a team that seemed to be starting to jell? Will they trade away a position player they can’t afford to lose, like Aaron Rowand? Will the seemingly far-fetched idea of converting Brett Myers into a closer actually come to pass? Word is that Jon Lieber, the sixth of their five starters, the guy they were trying to shop, is pitching well. Does this make retooling Myers, possibly their best starter, a real option?
The other story lines from camp are painfully trivial: Pat Burrell can’t get used to his new contact lenses, the ones the team insists on him trying and he says he doesn’t need. Now begins the relentless questioning of his eyesight in earnest, started by a single epithet uttered in frustration behind the batting cage and rippling out across the vast ocean of chat rooms and call-in shows until the end of time, or he stops looking at called third strikes, whichever comes first. How does any human being withstand the endless kicking this guy takes as the Phillies designated scapegoat without either slitting his own throat or punching the remaining teeth down the throats of a half-dozen inebriated loudmouths in some foul-smelling Kensington taproom just before last call in the midst of a long home losing streak during which he’s gone 1 for 13? It almost makes his grossly overinflated salary seem justified.
The feel-good story is that of journeyman outfielder Greg Dobbs, who in dark-horse pursuit of the fifth outfield spot is evidently hitting the bejesus out of the ball. His would-be teammates have taken to calling him Roy Hobbs, after Malamud’s mythic slugger, or more accurately after Robert Redford’s. Even the skipper seems to be rooting for him.
The other story lines from camp are painfully trivial: Pat Burrell can’t get used to his new contact lenses, the ones the team insists on him trying and he says he doesn’t need. Now begins the relentless questioning of his eyesight in earnest, started by a single epithet uttered in frustration behind the batting cage and rippling out across the vast ocean of chat rooms and call-in shows until the end of time, or he stops looking at called third strikes, whichever comes first. How does any human being withstand the endless kicking this guy takes as the Phillies designated scapegoat without either slitting his own throat or punching the remaining teeth down the throats of a half-dozen inebriated loudmouths in some foul-smelling Kensington taproom just before last call in the midst of a long home losing streak during which he’s gone 1 for 13? It almost makes his grossly overinflated salary seem justified.
The feel-good story is that of journeyman outfielder Greg Dobbs, who in dark-horse pursuit of the fifth outfield spot is evidently hitting the bejesus out of the ball. His would-be teammates have taken to calling him Roy Hobbs, after Malamud’s mythic slugger, or more accurately after Robert Redford’s. Even the skipper seems to be rooting for him.
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