There’s got to be a morning after, no? July 5 is one of those days.
I’ve said before that my two favorite holidays each year are New Year’s Eve and the Fourth of July. This has been true for 20 years. It’s only recently, though, that I’m now staying up later on July 4 than on December 31. (Fireworks don’t start early.)
Is this embarrassing or a sign I’m doing things right?
With its 2-1 victory over England yesterday, the United States women’s soccer team secured a birth in the World Cup Final Sunday evening in Lyon. Perhaps you knew this already.
Our national soccer team has been making quite a splash in recent weeks, not necessarily for what it has done on the pitch. Kind of a shame, considering the stream of stellar performances put forth by Team USA. Perhaps you were more familiar with the associated political comments on various social media sites.
It is said that the two best teams at this year’s World Cup are the American starting lineup and the American reserve squad. Yeah, we’re that good.
Know why?
Despite what you may have read on the Twitter, the United States of America is the place where people of both (all?) sexes are permitted to achieve. To excel. And to make money.
In other parts of the world (and at other times here and everywhere) women cannot play sports. They can’t vote. They can’t drive. They can’t be seen in public without their husbands or fathers. They can’t be seen at all beyond a narrow slit for their eyes through otherwise total body-obscuring garb. And they’re certainly not allowed to post political comments on Twitter.
It’s amazing to me that in the United States today it seems a greater act of bravery to stand with our country than against it. (Think about that for a minute.) Those who speak out against our current administration are feted. Those who side with our President and his associates are mostly laughed at or dismissed in some manner, no? (And the examples are few and far between.)
Okay, try criticizing the government in some random foreign country some time.
Let’s just say you won’t be starring on their soccer team.
Yankee strategy for the remainder of the 2019 season: play more games overseas.
With their two-game sweep in London of the pesky Boston Red Sox the Bronx Bombers are now seven games up in the A.L. East, 11 over the aforementioned Sox.
Yankees: undefeated in England.
Undefeated here too. #1776
Nestle Toll House is now selling cookie dough one is supposed to consume raw. I’ve been doing it on the sly since 1982, but I do appreciate the green light on this. Not to mention the immediacy. No time to bake the dough? No time to make any? No problem. Nestle’s got you covered. And your mom says it’s okay.
Still more reasons to keep on living.
Pardon my not posting on Monday. I was away at a secret beach location with spotty Internet access.
Luckily I didn’t miss much. Seems the biggest news story while I was gone was Cam Newton’s attempt to bribe a fellow passenger to switch seats on an airplane. Cam offered $1,500 and the man declined.
Yup. That’s news.
Soda, pretzels, and beer, anyone?
This is it. This is summer.
And don’t look now, but the surging Nationals have pulled within three games of the slumping Phillies for second place in the NL East. The Nats ended up taking three in a row from their I-95 rivals, with ex-Nat Bryce Harper going 1-9 for the Phils.
Ha.
Suddenly three games with Atlanta beginning this evening becomes interesting.
Monday’s post got me thinking, again, about baseball in the late ’80s and early ’90s, when I first fell in love with the game. (Actually I spend most of my waking hours thinking about baseball from when I was a kid.)
I first published this poem more than five years ago, just after my son was born. I meant to reprint it at the beginning of the baseball season this year, but I suppose now’s as good a time as any. (It’s still Father’s Day week, right? Oh, and let’s make Father’s Week a thing.)
With apologies to Ogden Nash, who first published a similar poem in 1949, using names from his days following the game as a young man, here is, again, “Lineup from My Youth.”
“Lineup from My Youth”
My dear little Franklin,
My bundle of joy.
Let me share a few names
From when I was a boy.
A is for Alomar,
Few families were better.
But let’s not forget
The Alous at this letter.
B is for Biggio
And Bagwell his buddy.
Together they stuck
Like old silly putty.
C is for Canseco,
So powerfully built.
The sight of him made
A.L. pitchers just wilt.
D is for Dykstra
With a mouthful of chew.
He played for the Mets
And Philadelphia too.
E is for Eckersley,
Who began as a starter.
From the ’pen A.L. hitters
Found few pitchers harder.
F is for Frank Thomas,
“The Big Hurt,” they’d cheer.
No right-handed slugger
Would bring out more fear.
G is for Griffey,
The Kid had no match.
He could run, he could throw,
He could hit, he could catch.
H is for Henderson,
Who sent other teams reeling.
No one could catch him
When Rickey was stealing.
I is for Ivan
Rodriguez, or “Pudge.”
He threw out runners
With a personal grudge.
J is for Jackson
“Bo knows,” they would say.
Played football and baseball
Both the same way.
K is for Kirby,
As in Kirby Puckett.
And kid-friendly poems,
So no Man from Nantucket.
L is for Larkin,
Barry’s his name.
Guy never lost
A World Series game.
M is for Mattingly,
McGwire, McGriff,
Maddux, and Martinezes
Too many to list.
N is for Nomo,
The Japanese star.
They figured him out,
Then they hit the ball far.
O is for Olerud,
Blue Jays first baseman.
Two World Series make
Our minds not erase him.
P is for Palmeiro,
Quite a lesson he learned.
Did too much juice
As the Feds were concerned.
Q is for Quisenberry,
Dan to his friends.
Quipped to Ronald Reagan:
“There you go again.”
R is for Ripken
And games never missed.
Few could deny
His place on this list.
S is for Sheffield
And Strawberry too.
Both got in trouble
With the boys they call Blue.
T is for Tony,
Mr. Gwynn if you’re formal.
To be so consistent
Is far beyond normal.
U is for Ugueth
Urbina, of course.
Sticking with U’s
A tough rule to enforce.
V is for Viola,
That’s Frank not the fiddle.
His pitches often made
Big hitters look little.
W is for Wade,
Not Phillips but Boggs.
As important to the time
As those things we called Pogs.
X is for Xavier
Hernandez the pitcher.
Six teams in nine years
Made him quite the switcher.
Y is for the man
They call Robin Yount.
He’s got more Brewer records
Than Elias can count.
Z is for Ozzie,
The Wizard with leather.
Few men have so brought
St. Louis together.
And so my dear Franklin
I give you this roster.
And a love for the game
I hope it will foster.
In April my “local” paper did me the favor of putting together my summer reading list, a dozen or so 2019 releases featured in a baseball-themed book review section.
I knew the book I looked forward to reading most was Bill Pennington’s Chumps to Champs, an examination of the New York Yankees, the team that sucked in the late ‘80s and early ‘90s (when I fell in love with the team), then became perennial contenders. (My students are always stunned to hear that the Yankees used to be terrible.)
Having now read the book I can say that it did in fact combine my two favorite topics: baseball and my own childhood, weaving those two related subjects quite nicely. My only disappointment reading the book, of course, was that I had not thought to write the thing first. (I could have written this was a common refrain.)
Kind of like how the Winklevoss twins feel every time they log in to Facebook.
Good job on your championship predictions, Mike… oh for two.
More or less embarrassing than having our “national” basketball league’s champion be from outside the country?
Payback, I guess, for our taking all those Stanley Cups the past few decades.
Times have been rare that I’ve root, root, rooted for a Boston-area sports team, but I think tonight is one of those times.
Much as I hate the thought of a Boston triple of professional sports trophies, I can’t help but want to see the novelty of it: Red Sox, Patriots, Bruins, all holding league titles at once.
Quite a hat trick.
Go, Bruins.