Softball, Episode Three

OK, I know my last few posts have revolved around the fascinating world of Girl's Junior League softball. I'm sure there are many of you (3) who are anxiously awaiting my return to such meaty subjects as Paris' release from jail, Lindsay staying in rehab or the troubling rash of fathers killing their families. While all of these deserve my special brand of attention and will undoubtedly be covered, I need to write the final chapter of the softball odyssey. To neglect it would be like George Lucas not writing the final chapters of Star Wars. At least this won't be as long and feature a left fielder named Jar-Jar.

The game was going to be played "under the lights" and everyone was very excited. As I told you, I was going out for the day to make an appearance and leave "Daughter" in peace. As I was preparing for what ended up being an over two hour drive home, (another story), I blew a call into "Wife" to get the 411 on the home front and "Daughter's" mental state. Imagine my surprise when I was told that after swimming lessons that morning, "Daughter" had gotten the chills while out to lunch with my mom who had filled in for me as chauffeur for the day. "Daughter" was running a fever that was fluctuating between 99.5 (nothing) and 102.3 (wow, that's hot). My sources told me that she had been sleeping all afternoon and was adamant about playing in the game. I threw my very helpful two cents into the ring, "Let's see how she feels." I should have been a doctor.

I got home before game time to find a glassy eyed and delirious "Daughter" laying on the couch and talking in the fever induced, whiny voice that usually accompanies illness. She was still saying she wanted to play. At that point her fever was 100. "Wife" and I decided that we would allow her to play, but tell the coach what was up. I didn't want the fact that I had kept her out of a championship game to be hanging over my head for the rest of my life. She'll have enough things to blame me for. I then had to have a pep talk with our little Carlton Fisk. "The team is counting on you," I said earnestly. "If you go, you have to suck it up for two hours. I know you feel lousy, but if you play, you have to go all out." Yes, I said this with a straight face, knowing that if it was me, I would be demanding sponge baths and moaning like wounded walrus.

We got "Daughter" to the field and explained the situation to her coach. He said he'd watch her and if she had to come out, he'd take her out. He was confident in the team's chances, so he didn't seem to worried.While the team took batting and fielding practice, the coach had "Daughter" sit off to the side and relax. She did take some batting practice because, according to her, "I wanted to see if I could still hit." She could. The game ended up being a rout. It was called after four innings due to the "slaughter rule". The Gray Team had stomped the competition fifteen to nothing. "Daughter" had a great game. despite her delirium, she caught an excellent game and went two for two at the plate. She even seemed to run faster. Her coaches all said that she should get a fever before every game.

The girls all got huge trophies. There was a lot of cheering and pride both from the girls and the parents. It was truly a nice moment. it's very rare that you get to win a championship. I'm glad "Daughter" got the opportunity to know the feeling. i took her aside when we got home and told her how proud I was, not because she won, but because she showed so much heart by playing sick and elevating her game. It showed a lot of heart. Tonight, weather permitting, she's playing in the "All-Star Game". I'd tell you about it, but the saga ends here. Later...Brian

Champs Or Chumps

Busy day today, but I wanted to update everyone who cared on the fate of the "Gray team". The other night's payoff game was a rout. "Daughter" and the rest of the team took it to the "Green Team" and sent them crying to their mommies by a score of 10-1. I was only able to witness the first half of the first inning,due to a previous engagement, but I stayed in constant communication with "Wife" for the duration of the contest.

I won't bore you with a recap except to say that "Daughter" went two for three including a two out, bases loaded, two strike smash to left that drove in another two runs. According to "Wife" her defense was good, even after being taken out during a collision at the plate. Every time I think she's soft, "Daughter" muscles up and shows her inner tough guy. In a startling development, the other team that was expected to meet "Daughter's" team in the championship was upset the other night. Some claim they were looking ahead to tonight, some blame the ill advised pizza party that the team held before the game. Said pizza crippled their starting pitcher causing her to spend the first hour of the game in the WC cursing Montezuma, Poppa John and pepperoni in general. I say it serves them right. Who holds a pizza party before the game? I'm not allowing "Daughter" to eat any non-approved food all day. In fact, I suggested that the team be sequestered to ensure that no harm, stomach cramps or otherwise, could come to them. The idea was roundly dismissed. I hope I'm proven wrong. We'll see.

It's good for "Daughter" that I have a WGN appearance this afternoon. I'll be out of the house and unable to make her more nervous about the big game. Somehow my Knute Rockne pep talks and Al Davis chides of "Just win baby!" don't seem to have the motivating effect I was hoping for. Perhaps my repeated chanting of "Champs or Chumps" and "If you're not a winner you get no dinner" are too much for the fragile psyche of a ten year old girl. Do you think I went overboard when I said that no matter how nice she thought the second place trophy was, it's still the first place trophy for losers? It's all said in fun, but really, we all know that's true. In all honesty, I haven't mentioned the game once today. "Daughter" is already nervous, and I am not going to add to her anxiety. She knows what to do and is capable of doing it. I want this to be a fun night for her. Playing for a championship doesn't happen all the time, and I don't want my nervousness to affect her special night. I told her last night to have fun, but then reminded her that winning would be more fun. Seriously, I think I should attend the game in a Hannibal Lechter mask and straight jacket. I'm around the bend.

Here's the shameless plug portion of the festivities. If you're looking for a place to watch the "Crosstown Classic" this afternoon, I will be appearing at Crossroads on Irving Park Road in Wood Dale, Il. as part of the "Cubs Guest Commentator Contest". I'll be there after 3pm, so come by, grab an Old Style, be part of the contest or just say hi. Don't forget to stay up late tomorrow night and catch the big show from 1-5 am on WGN. It should be fun. Have a great weekend. Go Gray Team! Later...Brian

Win Or Go Home

I'd be better suited to post if I wasn't in such a dither over the impending events of this evening. As I mentioned before, "Daughter" is playing softball again this year. Her team has been together for two years and has been dominating the league. Tonight it's playoff time

In reality, the playoffs started Friday night. In a move unrivaled in it's stupidity, the seeds for the playoffs were drawn before the season even started, thus rendering a teams regular season record moot. I mention this because "Daughter's" team only lost one game and won many by such a wide margin that decorum prevents me from disclosing said margin. (10-15 runs. Screw decorum, the girls dominated.) The team got by a lot on good pitching, and if I may say so, a tireless human backstop, who will one day have the most devastatingly accurate pick off cannon to ever grace the fairer sex. "The Gray Team" as "Daughter's" team is imaginatively referred to, won handily Friday night, and moved on to the second game Saturday.

"The Pink Team" was, and I say "was" to tip you to the outcome, coached by a loud, shrill woman who earlier in the season had chickened out on playing "Daughter's" squad a second time after being roundly spanked during their first meeting. That night she blamed the weather, Saturday she had nothing to blame except the monster skills of the gray gladiators. The only downside to the second round victory came in the form of a vocal father that had to put himself into exile and watch the game from a distance so as not to put any more pressure on his daughter. Man, if that guy wasn't such a funny, entertaining and handsome so-and-so, I'd have called him a jerk. Thankfully he learned his lesson and has promised to be more subdued...again. I hope I, I mean he, keeps quiet. Actually, I have it on good authority that he's missing the game tonight because of a radio station appearance.

If the girls win tonight, they play for the league championship Friday night. It would be exciting for the obvious reasons, but also because the girls would get to play "under the lights" in a prime time match-up. I'm trying to get "Daughter" to forget about Friday and focus on tonight, but I don't know if it's doing any good. taking a lesson from Saturday, (well from that other guy
I'm trying not to say too much. I just reminded her that tonight is an important game and that it's important that everyone on the team plays as hard as they can. I don't know if I'm getting through, but whatever happens, it was a good season. I'm going to be monitoring the game via cell phone and if need be, I'll have "Wife" put me on speaker so i can yell some instructions. Wait, that's completely the wrong attitude. I better get fitted for a muzzle in case I'm under the lights too. Batter up! Later...Brian

Who's Your Daddy?

Sunday is Father's Day, so I wanted to take a minute and wish all the dad's, including myself, a nice day. It doesn't seem like Father's Day gets the same amount of hoopla as Mother's Day, but I guess that's the cross all dad's have to bear. I know fathers didn't actually give birth, but we were instrumental in creating said bundle of joy. It just seems to me that the role of father's has been made to appear less important than it is.

I'm not nominating myself for "Father of the Year" by any stretch, or saying that all dads are wonderful, Norman Rockwell portraits, but are we really as useless as the media would have you believe? Every sitcom features the stupid dad who is a mess except for the fact that he conned some attractive, brainy woman into marrying him, thus saving him from an otherwise empty life. There are countless stories about women who "don't need or want a man" deciding to have babies and raise them without fathers. This isn't an indictment of single moms who work hard because they were left by some no good "baby daddy", but if you choose not to have a father in your kids life, that's another story. Do you really think it's better for a child to grow up without a father just because you and your "girlfriends" watched one too many episodes of "Sex and the City" and have decided that all men are dogs?

I'm sick of seeing father's portrayed as goofs, control freaks and raving lunatics. Sure we are all of those things at one time or another, but who isn't. Father's are important. I know some are awful, but that's no reason to paint all of us with a broad brush. I can't understand the "fathers" who abandon their children, or ignore them once they have moved onto another family. It happens all the time, but it never ceases to amaze me. Being a dad is a full time, life long commitment. It's sometimes thankless and a burden, but I know it's the most important thing I'll ever do. I may screw up a lot of things, but in the end, the only thing that matters is how good a dad I was. My dad has been gone for five years. I'd be lying if I said I thought about him everyday, but I do remember him. When I think about him, I could dwell on all the different little things, both good and bad, but I choose to look at the overall picture. I had a dad I could count on. I guess I was lucky, but I think that's the story with most dads, and that's the point. Sunday when you wish your dad a happy Father's Day or remember your dad who is gone, try to picture not a caricature dad who wants to drink beer at the hardware store while ogling the ladies, but the guy who would do anything for you and protect you with his life.

Alright, now it's off to the hardware store for a beer. See what I did there? It's called lightening the mood. Happy Father's Day guys. Keep up the good work. If you're up preparing something for Father's Day, or you're just an insomniac, be sure to listen to the big show Saturday night/Sunday Morning from 1-5 am on WGN. During the "Overnight Arcade" we'll be playing father's Day trivia. oh what fun. Have a great weekend! Later...Brian

Low And Slow

Wow, it's hard to believe that this is my 300th post. I would have hit it months ago if not for my laziness and overall lack of dedication. We could dwell on the negative all day, or we can move on and celebrate the big triple century. Let's do that shall we? Today's story is about overcoming fear and facing down one's insecurities. Sounds fascinating doesn't it? Get back to me at the end.

Our story starts four years ago. I had gone to Memphis to see one of my brothers graduate from college after an illustrious ten year run. Yeah, ten, but that's not the point. He was also part of a barbecue team that was competing in the "Memphis In May World Championship Bar-B-Que Cook Off". I came home hopped up on smoked meat and told "Wife" that I thought it would be cool to get a smoker and start smoking meats of all shapes and sizes for our consumption. "Wife" sometimes pays attention to my ramblings, and this was one of those times. That Father's Day, she and "Daughter" presented me with a full size smoker, that she assured me was "a good one" since she had talked to my brother and done some research. I was grateful, and did what I do with most gifts, put it away.

The giant box sat in our garage for over a year. "I need to put that smoker together" I was heard to mutter on many occasions. Finally, I sucked it up and spent a day assembling this cooking behemoth. I gave it a special place on the patio, got a good thermometer so I could monitor the smoker's internal temperature and bought it a snappy black cover. The dog ate the first cover, the dog ate a second cover. The smoker sat gathering dust. We loaded it on the moving van almost two years ago and brought it to Chicago. The wind sent the third cover to parts unknown. Still the smoker sat, silently mocking me, letting me know that my fear of failure was keeping me from enjoying the pink ringed goodness of a smoked pork shoulder or the unbridled thrill of devouring a slab of ribs. Finally last Summer, I seasoned the smoker. The fire burned and hickory smoke filled the neighborhood with anticipation of meals to come. I was almost ready. It would only take another year.

The other day I had a "put your foot down moment". I decided I had to use the smoker. I love all things Bar-B-Que. The food, the social aspect and the beer drinking. The one thing I had a hard time justifying was the time you need to dedicate to real barbecue. If you are one of the uninitiated, barbecue is different from grilling. When you grill, you cook over direct heat and flame. When you barbecue, you cook over low heat and the smoke does most of the work. I decided to start with something easy, Italian sausage. Just to give you an idea of the time involved, if you grill a link of sausage, it takes about fifteen minutes. To smoke that same sausage took me two hours. I had to constantly watch to see if the temperature of the smoker was too high or too low. It's like babysitting a hot fifty five gallon drum. I made a few mistakes, but was bolstered by some advice from a great book, Peace, Love, and Barbecue by Mike Mills. My mom used to say if you can read, you can cook, and this proved it. The sausage ended up being delicious, and I got raves form "Wife" and "Daughter". I'm hooked.

"Wife" has been on me for years to take up a hobby. With barbecue, three of my four favorite things are involved, cooking, eating and beer drinking. Since "Wife" loves eating barbecue, and has an occasional beer, if I play my cards right, my hobby will get me some of my fourth favorite thing. The hours it'll take for me to prepare all the succulent meat will keep me out of her hair too. Look at that, everybody wins. Any hobby that allows me to enjoy cold beer and camaraderie without having to leave my patio sounds good to me. Here's a piece of advice. Don't wait four years like I did to try something. What's the worst that can happen? Eat up. Later...Brian

It's Getting Ridiculous

OK, yesterday I was lamenting the fact that Paris Hilton was "reassigned" to house arrest. Today came word that the aptly named Judge Sauer had ordered her back to court. It seems that the judge was a little miffed that the LA sheriff Lee Bacca had decided to ignore the judges expressed order that Hilton not be allowed to serve her time at home. Call me crazy, but every time I've been to court I've treated the judge like his word was law. Wait a minute, it is. There was a lot of legal wrangling with the sheriff saying he has jurisdiction, and the judge saying kiss my gavel, I'm the boss. In the end, there was a hearing.

Being used to getting her way, Paris said she would testify by phone because she was "emotionally distraught." Being used to getting his way because he wears cool robes, Judge Sauer told her to "get her ass to court." I wish I was still in LA on a day like this. The media was having a field day waiting for the sheriff's deputies to arrive at the Hilton lock-up to drag Paris to court. There is a great picture of the heiress crying in the back of the patrol car as she was hauled away. Those tears were nothing compared to what supposedly happened in court.

The judge put his foot down for the moment and ordered Paris back to the clink. As to her mysterious "medical problems", the judge said she could be treated at the jail because they have an "excellent medical facility". That may be your honor, but nobody is bringing our poor little rich girl cupcakes, flowers and a sack of In-and-Out burgers to the medical wing of the jail. It has been reported that Paris arrived in court "disheveled and weeping". That was the name of my morning show when I worked in Haiti. After the judge sent her back to jail, giving her credit for the five days she already served, Paris broke down again and was screaming "mom, mom, mom" as she was escorted from the courtroom. Her father stayed in the courtroom in shock and her always pleasant and respectful of the law mother paced the hall telling reporters, "I'm paralyzed now." Priceless.

I wish the judge had allowed cameras in the court. That would have been great. The chance to see someone who believed themselves above the law get slapped down would have been a scene for the ages. That being said, this is getting out of hand. I know the judge needs to have his orders obeyed. That's the way it is. I think the judge, the City Attorney and the Sheriff need to get together and figure out a way to settle this. I don't know if Paris has learned her lesson yet, but I think today went a long way toward that end. Now she knows that money, fame and late night oral skills can't get you out of everything. I think after a few more days, they should let her finish out her sentence at home. At some point this chick is going to have a nervous breakdown. Put the restrictions on her for house arrest and be done with it. Put her on probation and let's see what happens. The judge will have made his point and justice will have been served. Maybe this will scare her straight. Yeah, sure it will.

Try to stay up late tomorrow night/Sunday morning to catch the big show on WGN from 1-5 am. We're bound to have more to say about Paris. Have a great weekend. Later...Brian

Are You Surprised?

I think it's common knowledge that the rules and laws that you and I are expected to follow don't apply to the rich or famous. We've seen it countless times, some celebrity spouts off to a cop, he goes to rehab. If I do that I'm tazed, kicked, and then dropped off in the "wrong" neighborhood. An actress is photographed "allegedly" doing cocaine, no big deal. A former football great nearly cuts off his ex-wife's head and kills a waiter and his only punishment is a later tee time. I thought things might be changing a little when the vacant Paris Hilton was sentenced to 45 days in jail for violating her probation and driving on a suspended license. I thought the times they were a changin', but I thought wrong.

After surrendering herself late Sunday night, Paris began her time in the hoosegow. Initial reports were that the shallow heiress was having a hard time. Really? Jail is hard? Who knew? She didn't like the food, couldn't sleep and said her cell was too cold and her bed was too hard. Listen Little Red Riding Slut you're supposed to be miserable. It's called punishment. I know that to you it would have been punishment enough to be put in a Holiday Inn instead of the Four Seasons, but this is how real folks roll. Now eat your baloney sandwich, drink your fruit punch and shut up. Here's a thought, think about what a spoiled ass you are and pledge to do better.

That would have been a great rant, except for the fact that this morning Paris was "reassigned" from the jail to home confinement. Authorities claimed that their were "medical reasons" for allowing Paris to be sent home with an ankle bracelet. Sure there were. She was sick of being in jail. Is that medical enough for you? As usual, if you're a celebrity and you whine loud enough, you'll get your way. "I don't like this food. I had to use my blanket as a pillow. I don't know how to dial a pay phone. I wanna go home." OK Miss Hilton...right away boss. What a crock. I bet if you asked any of the other women in that jail if they found the accommodations suitable you would have received a resounding "F**k You!" But seeing as those women weren't heirs to a hotel fortune or amateur porn stars, they get to sit in the day room until they do their time.

Some people are saying that being confined to her home will be punishment enough for Paris. Man, if I ever break the law, send me to that jail. I'm sure Paris won't be holed up in some studio apartment in the Valley. She's going home to her swanky digs with her big TV, servants and four star restaurants that deliver. I'm sure she'll be giving a lot of thought to her errant ways as she chows down on some freshly delivered sushi from Nobu. Hell, if that's how criminals get treated, I may do a little drunk driving myself tonight. Oh wait, I'm just a regular guy. The rules apply to me. Later...Brian

They Are Not A Myth

First let me say welcome back to myself. I'm sure both of my loyal readers are wondering where the hell I've been for the last week and a half. I'll make the excuse portion of this quick. Last week I worked the overnight shift at WGN. While I was home every morning by six, I had to get "Daughter" ready for school and get things going around the house, then it was off to bed. I've found that adjusting to a different schedule takes all my strength, so posting fell to the wayside. "Daughter's" last day of school was Monday, so the last day and a half have been spent adjusting to another new schedule. Do I seem a bit rigid? Maybe I'm just happy to see you.

The entire state of Illinois has been in a tizzy lately because this is the year that the cicadas were supposed to re-emerge after a seventeen year absence. The news media, and various un-named radio talk show hosts have made quite a bit of hay anticipating the arrival of these red eyed monsters, and their month long serenading of the area. In actuality, the event has proved to be much like a blind date arranged over the Internet. A lot of build up and false promises, then a huge let down when you finally see the hideous beast, if they show up at all. My neighborhood has been devoid of cicadas. This has been a minor disappointment to me and a major disappointment to "Daughter" who had seen and heard so much about them that she expected the flying banshees to blot out the sun.

If you don't know, cicadas come around once every seventeen years. I'm no scientist, or bug expert, but here's the deal. The female climbs up trees and drops her eggs. The eggs somehow burrow into the ground where they wait patiently for seventeen years. At the appointed time, these eggs turn into slimy white bug worms (I think that's technically correct) Then the bug worms shed their outer shell and become flying, red eyed song meisters whose high decibel roar makes fluorescent bulbs sound delightful.

Enough of the National Geographic special. Being a good dad, I asked "Daughter" if she wanted to hunt down the wily cicada and perhaps trap some for good measure. After an enthusiastic "I guess so", we were off to a forest preserve in an older area where I thought we might find some of the elusive bugs. I knew we were closing in by the obnoxious din they created and by the flocks of sea gulls who have come inland to feast on the tasty beasties. To my amazement, "Daughter was impressed by the vision of nature that played out before her. She was curious about all aspects of the cicada and prepared to hunt a few down. I'm happy to report that five of the winged intruders are now safely ensconced in the well ventilated "critter catcher" jar that sits on my desk. "Daughter" put some grass and sticks in for the cicadas amusement and was even brave enough to catch a couple of them with her bare hands. I'm not sure what the future holds for the prisoners, I mean subjects of observation, but since "Daughter" is fairly kind hearted, i assume an early release is imminent. I'm glad she found our little nature walk interesting, because to be honest, I thought it was pretty cool. They do exist. Later...Brian