Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Excuse me?
I can't say I'm surprised. First, at an all-star game press conference, Barroid says that he'll be on hand when A-Rod eventually breaks his career home run record. Then, during his dugout interview last night, he talks about the fraternity of baseball players breaking down. Both attacks point squarely at Henry Aaron, a man who endured death threats in his pursuit of Babe Ruth's mark, a man who had an armed bodyguard with him at all times that season, a man who helped to integrate the South Atlantic League before he ever reached the majors, a man who carried himself with dignity and class as a player and who continues to do so. And why? Because Aaron has the cajones to call it as he sees it -- to turn his eyes away from a cheat and just ignore him, as so many fans are trying to. Bonds' words confirm what I've always thought: Steroids or no, he's a jerk.
Baseball writing, both fiction and non-, drips with nostalgia, and apparently that applies to Little League as well. In an NPR commentary that aired yesterday, Bill Harley talks about how, as an 11-year-old, he learned about the pain of coming close to perfection only to see it slip away in the form of a seeing-eye single. I loved playing Little League, and I don't doubt that these coming-of-age moments happen. But my lessons were a little different. I learned about that some dads are so desperate to win that they'll tell talented 9-year-olds to stay home from tryouts in hopes that less-informed managers will skip over them when they draft their teams. I learned, in a legendary postgame tirade from a coach I'll call Mr. A, that my 11- and 12-year-old teammates and I had "gone from contenders to pretenders to BUMS!" (Looking back, I think he probably had just seen On the Waterfront on cable and was channeling Brando.) I also learned (fortunately not first-hand) that watching airplanes while taking a lead off first will get you picked off; intentionally walking a batter with runners on second and third is a dicey proposition when your catcher is an awkward, uncoordinated teenager; and any Little League coach who wears baseball pants to games is not someone you'd want to invite to dinner at your house. These are useful things, I think. Not exactly ripped from the pages of a John Knowles book, but useful nonetheless.
Little League memories
Baseball writing, both fiction and non-, drips with nostalgia, and apparently that applies to Little League as well. In an NPR commentary that aired yesterday, Bill Harley talks about how, as an 11-year-old, he learned about the pain of coming close to perfection only to see it slip away in the form of a seeing-eye single. I loved playing Little League, and I don't doubt that these coming-of-age moments happen. But my lessons were a little different. I learned about that some dads are so desperate to win that they'll tell talented 9-year-olds to stay home from tryouts in hopes that less-informed managers will skip over them when they draft their teams. I learned, in a legendary postgame tirade from a coach I'll call Mr. A, that my 11- and 12-year-old teammates and I had "gone from contenders to pretenders to BUMS!" (Looking back, I think he probably had just seen On the Waterfront on cable and was channeling Brando.) I also learned (fortunately not first-hand) that watching airplanes while taking a lead off first will get you picked off; intentionally walking a batter with runners on second and third is a dicey proposition when your catcher is an awkward, uncoordinated teenager; and any Little League coach who wears baseball pants to games is not someone you'd want to invite to dinner at your house. These are useful things, I think. Not exactly ripped from the pages of a John Knowles book, but useful nonetheless.
Labels: Barroid, Bill Harley, Henry Aaron, Little League, NPR
