Mike O'Connell

There were two articles of note yesterday in my local paper or record. (For the record that would be The Washington Post.) First, a front page story concerning the sports clothing giant Under Armour and its planned $5.5 billion development in Baltimore. As go these things in 2016 the plan includes more than a billion dollars in public funding, with more than 500 million of that coming from Charm City itself. Question: we know Baltimore ain’t perfect, so can it afford $500 million for such an enterprise?

A smaller but similar article in my local insert describes the fate of the Loudoun Museum.

Last week Loudoun’s Board of Supervisors voted to provide $156,000 in funding to keep said museum afloat for 2017. Apparently this relatively small piece of the Loudoun budget always creates a stir, as I suppose it should. (In general I think we should question all government propping of inefficient industries, no matter how small.) Interesting that this time there is a caveat to the museum’s funding: that members of its board of trustees must each raise $3,000 next year.

Yup.

What a great grinchy trick. Make the self-righteous museum “trustees” pony up some money themselves. I love it.

Guffaw, guffaw, cry those who assume that museums, art festivals, and nature parks somehow just magically fund themselves. I think it’s brilliant, though, to have such clauses in all government contracts.

Here’s something to consider for 2018: make the county’s share zero and the trustee minimum equal to the total budget divided by the number of trustees. In other words, what everyone else in the world has to do.

Might think about that one for Baltimore too.

This past weekend two storied players of my youth were inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Ken Griffey Jr. and Mike Piazza, as many have noted, began their careers at opposite ends of the spectrum—Griffey was the first overall pick in the 1987 amateur draft and Piazza was the 1,390^th pick in 1988—and ended their careers together in Cooperstown. That pretty much sums up right there why you don’t bet on baseball.

With apologies to Piazza, perhaps the greatest catcher of all time, this post will be about Ken Griffey Jr., the greatest player I ever saw.

Yup. No question about it. Of anyone who’s put on a major league uniform from 1989 to the present day, Ken Griffey Jr. was the best. He played his first 11 seasons on a team I hated, and he broke my heart in 1995, but sometimes you’ve just got to tip your cap. Oh, that I could have seen the man in pinstripes. After all, there is only one thing more beautiful than a lefthanded hitter hitting an upper deck home run to right field in Yankee Stadium… Ken Griffey Jr. hitting an upper deck home run to right field in Yankee Stadium.

Nicknamed “The Natural,” “The Kid,” or simply “Junior,” it’s amazing to think that after 13 All-Star Game selections and 630 home runs (among a million other stats) you still think to yourself what could have been. When Griffey came up you were sure he’d hit a thousand home runs and win 20 Gold Gloves. Well, that didn’t happen, as like Mantle before him injuries limited his lifetime stats. Still, though, 630 home runs? And pretty much the only power hitter (if you need to call him that) of the Steriod Era not tinged by any steroid claims. (As far as I know the only drug Griffey ever used was that mysterious brain tonic provided to him by Mr. Burns on a classic episode of The Simpsons in which Griffey plays a ringer on the old man’s company softball team.)

Ken Griffey Jr. made his major league debut on April 3, 1989. Coincidentally that was the exact date I became a fan of this thing called sports. (The two events were unrelated; Griffey’s debut came the same day as the 1989 NCAA Tournament’s final game, the one that hooked me for life as a sports fan.) One might say Griffey and I grew up together. That day in ’89 Griffey was only 19 and could have been my older brother. Now at 46 he’s barely older than I am. How did that happen?

It’s said that those who grew up in the ’50s and ’60s idolizing Mickey Mantle would tell their dads he was the best there ever was. Nope, Dad would say, you never saw DiMaggio, you never saw the best. That’s how I’m going to feel someday when Franklin tells me about up-and-comer I’ve never heard of. I’ll smile a Dad-like smile and say mm-hmm, yup, but sorry, kid. You never saw the best. You never saw Griffey.

Watching Donald Trump last night I thought to myself, This guy’s actually not such a great orator… why am I voting for him?

Then I remembered: I’m not voting for Orator of the United States; I’m voting for President of the United States.

Lofty rhetoric and platitudes just aren’t his style and I’m okay with that. Neither one of us got time for it. There are enough rhetoricians out there masquerading as politicians. Give me a real businessman and manager for a change and I’ll be happy.

And I think I’m going to be happy come January 2017.

No matter your political persuasion you’ll be watching the Republican National Convention this week, will you not? I’m just hoping a certain Mr. Trump really does get the nomination and is not the victim of some old school convention chicanery.

Though that would provide for some good drama, would it not?

Stranger things have happened, yes, but I think it’ll be Trump at the end of the day. Remember, Step one: Cavs; Step two: Cubs; Step three: Trump.

This is the year of the unexpected.

Baseball’s Home Run Derby and All-Star game suffer from the same pre-event downplaying that has casual and serious fans alike saying something along the lines of, oh, it doesn’t mean what it used to, it isn’t interesting anymore, “they’ve” ruined it, etc.

Yes, all of this is true, but what else is true? We’re all glued to our televisions Monday and Tuesday nights, aren’t we?

Thanks, Giancarlo Stanton (not an All-Star, by the way), for putting on a show Monday night in the Home Run Derby. Damn that guy can hit home runs. Unlil Monday I was thinking of him as the Hispanic Mark McGwire… nope, McGwire’s the white Giancarlo Stanton.

And last night’s game? It’s true what they say. Only in baseball does the All-Star game bare any resemblance to the game played during the season. Another fine one turned in by both clubs and quite a show put on by MLB. Who cares that there’s a million guys on the rosters and half the guys playing don’t even want to be there.

Thanks, again, baseball, for making summer that much better.