Designate This

Baseball season is in full swing. They say nobody really pays attention until after Memorial Day, which is good because both Chicago teams should be in last place by then.

I'm a baseball junkie. Box scores in the morning, games at night, and every..single..highlight I can catch.

Each year they offer a preview of the MLB channel the first week of the season. I have warned my family if we ever subscribe they will awaken to find me asleep in front of the TV in a bed of peanut shells.

Baseball is perfectly imperfect. No clock. Nine inning games, unless there's extras. Three strikes, three outs, which could take three batters or thirty.

Baseball is a thinker's game and a stats paradise. Every matchup is an alphabet soup of WHIP, OBP, RISP and ERA.

Baseball fields are wonderfully different and distinct, other than the base paths. From the Green Monster at Fenway Park to McCovey's Cove in San Francisco, each outfield is unique. What other sport requires managers to come out, in a uniform, and hear about the ground rules before a game?

Not every imperfection is perfect, of course. I prefer ballplayers who don't resemble Rockem Sockem robots and get have their juice freshly squeezed, not from a lab. The Designated Hitter? Phooey!

And I hate interleague play.

Until the mid-90s, baseball was the only major sport where teams competed in separate leagues until the World Series. As a kid I remember watching the Game of the Week on NBC (which was THE Game of the Week). It felt like every game featured either the Dodgers or Yankees. But never against each other. If you were a Dodgers fan, you're only shot at the mighty Yankees is by winning the pennant. The Series was it, champions of the National League against champions of the American League.

Then they messed it up.

The suits decided that the game need teams to play across the leagues, but only a couple of times a year. Interleague contests would rotate every four years or so, except some local rivalries (Yankees-Mets, Cubs-Sox, A's Giants) which would be every year.

I get it. Yankees-Mets and Cubs-Sox can be fun. But for every one of those we get duds like Cubs-Orioles or Sox-Padres.

Interleague play screws up schedules, travel and rivalries. For example, the Cubs and Cardinals meet only a handful of times in order to accommodate their AL friends.

And yes, it does water down the World Series. But it's hard to put the toothpaste (or HGH) back in the bottle.

Four on the Floor

So as of early Saturday morning I am the father of four. Three girls and a boy.

All in. Zone defense. A bifocal Dad.

Wow.

They say we never know the plan (or who makes the plan) but mine is workin' out alright. I remember at age 10 wanting to be either a cowboy or a linebacker for the Bears. Door number 3? Yes.

While my wife was pregnant the news brought a full range of reactions ranging from "Wow, what a blessing" to a look of "You must be nuts."

Some would say "Oh, so this is old hat for you." It's not of course.

Nothing I have done, nothing I will do, compares to the thrill of raising my children. And witnessing the birth is simply perfection.

Some reality has set in the past few days.

Tired? I am riding fumes.

The house? I am waiting for news cameras to show up and film the crime scene - dolls and stuffed animals sprawled like dead bodies across our floors.

And I have this recurring thought that there is not enough oxygen for all of us. Of course I might be hyperventilating at the thought of feeding six people and a sheepdog.

And I wouldn't bargain away any of it.

Raising kids is hard work, if that's your choice. I know men who don't, like the ones who enable their kids with this silly notion of being their "friend" instead of their Dad, or who put their kids in youth sports solely to fulfill their pipe dream.

As I have told my kids many times, anyone can be a father, but it's takes true commitment to be a Dad. If the essence of love is sacrifice, ours is often silent. Fathers get a card, Dad's get rewards.

Along the way I have mastered a few skills, like the ability to fall asleep in a room full of kids, or listening to a kid tell a long...long story fully enraprtured. Can anything beat the excitement on their face as they tell the story?

A few weeks ago we went to the mall and my (then)youngest daughter, age 2, insisted on wearing her "two-two," high heels, shades and a tiara. She walked slightly ahead of my wife and I, my daughter and son with runway swagger. We were her entourage. She drew stares and laughter from all as we made our way to the escalator up to the food court.

And now she has a sister.

Drive home from the hospital? No thanks, I'll fly.

Free to Me...and You

Score one for lunatics? Seems to be the consensus about Arizona and their immigration bill. Outrageous? Xenophobic? Unconstitutional?

I will leave the constitution matter to lawyers with more smarts than me, but it seems we have reached a turning point in the immigration debate. Or have we?

I doubt it and think little will change as a result, and I don't think the Arizona law will "spread" as many fear.

Both parties are scared to death of immigration reform, the cyanide of American politics. Leaders on both sides have always talked a good game while coming just short of real reform and the chance of offending one giant constituency.

Solution? First, let's first stop the flow of illegals by securing our borders. Then let's examine some type of "permanent worker" status for those who are law abiding and an easier path to citizenship.

I was thinking about this the other night in a larger context with my wife, who posed the question "What exactly are American values?"

Ours is the land of opportunity, right? Even when only 80% of us are employed? Yup.

Ronald Reagan got me many years ago. I see myself living on his "shining city on a hill, whose beacon light guides freedom loving people everywhere."

And our values can be summed up with that one word: Freedom.

Do you ever take it for granted? I remember being in Prague for the first Czech free elections, right after the fall of the Berlin wall . The plazas were full of candidates from over twenty parties, including the beer party and the music party. I will never forget the woman who explained to me how happy people were to vote...for anyone. "Now we are free!" she exclaimed.

I grew up in a military household, the son of a proud Naval Commander. My Dad never, to this day, let's me forget the sacrifices Americans have made for freedom.

I am sure there are people in his life he disagrees with on everything except the weather. But he would fight, and he would die, for their right to say it.

So would I. I would fight for all us immigrants, all with ancestors who faced discrimination of some sort.

It's our fight also.

Can I Buy a Hormone Surge Protector?

Two of my children turn 12 this week. Nora and Thomas are twins, the best of friends (reluctantly)and as different as they are similar. A common sight is Nora running out to remind Thomas what he forgot on the way to school.

Having opposite sex twins provided me the opportunity to embark on a ground breaking sociological experiment, with a remarkable conclusion.

Men and women are different.

Please, before you leave this page to email Drudge or Huffington,read on as to my methods.

You see, from the beginning I to exposed them together to everything. We played catch together, attended dance and music shows together, went to the mall together. P.C. baby, all the way. Equal opportunity.

It didn't work.

I should have known early on. On their first birthday we gathered for candles and cupcakes, which were carefully placed on each high chair.

Nora delicately reached at a few sprinkles, raising each in the air and placing it on the tray before eating them.

Thomas thrust his face straight into the cupcake.

I guess it's not about sex as much as personality. As a child Nora would sit for hours with her books and dolls, while Thomas preferred to chase the dog and go one on one with the seat cushions.

Some would argue that young kids are like kittens. Everyone loves cute, cuddly kittens. So soft, purring gently.

Then they turn into cats.

Don't get me wrong. I adore my children, and every age has had it's share of joy and challenges. They are not shy about what's hip and what's an OMG moment.

As an aside, I have taught fifth grade religious ed (Sunday school) for years. I love kids at age 10 because they are on the cusp of adulthood, and close to attending church because they want to, not because Mom and Dad drag them there.

Each year I predict that for half of them the light will go on...they will discover that the opposite sex is good for something besides target practice. Each year, bingo, about half are smitten.

My kids are no different. Their experience is somewhat unique in that they watched me date and marry my wife. I still have a framed, signed note from Nora, age 6, which reads "Dad is going on all of my dates."

Twins make great spies. Nora gives me the scoop on her brother and vice versa. When Thomas was in first grade he spent a good half hour in the bathroom slicking his hair like Bowser from Sha Na Na. Quite a hit with the ladies, I learned.

And then, a few years ago, the hormones kicked in. Now I have a son who wants to buy Axe because "It's chemically guaranteed to attract women." Or flies.

I will never forget the evening when, while barbecuing, I asked Nora, then 9, to please get me a spatula. What ensued was a child writing on the kitchen floor, screaming that I did not understand her.

She's right, I didn't. Then again, she didn't either. The hardest part of parenting these days is recognizing the times when they have no control. Their bodies are volcanoes, erupting at any moment. To parent a tween is to experience "push pull" on a daily basis. Up to age 8 or so you are the center of their universe. Now the switch flips between affection and mortification.

Oh, and I did I mention that my son's party includes GIRLS?

And then you are a man, my son.

Call Congress for a Band Aid

March 22. Monday. I could not believe my eyes. First of all I opened them, which meant I was breathing and the world had not come to an end.

There were some clouds, but the air was relatively clean, the train ran on time, and when I walked into the office nobody greeted me with "Good morning, comrade."

We're all here. No apocalypse.

Could have fooled me. I thought the world was sure to end with the health care bill. We were on our way to bread lines, gun toting IRS enforcers and military parades led by men in fuzzy hats.

Don't get me wrong. I don't like the bill, at least what I believe to be in it. Do any of us really know what's in this thing? As for the politics, both sides are full of it, as usual. Good idea, bad bill.

Citizens of this country should have access to quality health care. Radical concept? Hardly. But is an insurance system subsidized by employers really the best method?

Many would argue that we give citizens full access, and I would agree to a point. We spend zillions on care for seniors, for the poor, in subsidies for all types of patients and facilities.

And we continue to spend. Like a drunken sailor, which of course is an insult to sailors who are spending their own money.

We spend away, while our resources are drained by abuses. The other night I watched a segment about 911 paramedics in Washington DC (go figure) who spend most of their time responding to head colds and stubbed toes.

I have also lived first hand, as a special needs parent, the nightmare of insurance companies kicking consumers in the gut. Experience taught me an important lesson; all insurance is good until you get sick.

And we all feel the strain of increasing health care costs. As our population ages, the problems will further tax our system. For proof, spend time with a group of seniors engaging in an "organ recital."

So the system is busted like a three legged chair. We need a fix, yet the health care bill seems like too much, too fast.

And while I hardly expected complete bipartisanship, I thought we might see an olive branch instead of a two-by-four.

Hopefully the new plan covers splinters.

The Last to Be First

Baseball season is around the corner and "hope springs eternal" (even for Cub fans).

We will spend many nights at the park, looking out at number 42, never to be worn again.

42 belongs to Jackie Robinson, the Dodger great who's number was retired by all professional baseball teams (majors and minors) a few years ago. Robinson broke baseball's color barrier in 1947 as major league's first black player. Before Jackie greats like Josh Gibson and Satchel Paige tolied in the relative obscurity of the Negro leagues.

I have a challenge for you. As you read this, think of five people you can ask the question, "Who is Larry Doby?"

I would be surprised if one person knew the answer. Do you?

Larry Doby was the second black player in the majors after Jackie Robinson. Coincidently, he was also the second black manager (after Frank Robinson) of a forgetable White Sox team in the late 70's.

Larry Doby signed and played for the Cleveland Indians eleven weeks after Jackie Robinson broke in with the Dodgers. He led the Indians to their last world championship in 1948, played in nine all-star games and, like Robinson, is a member of the Hall of Fame.

So Jackie Robinson "paved the way" a couple of months for Larry Doby. Was life in "the show" any easier for Doby than Robinson? Hardly. But nobody remembers Larry Doby.

How about Kathryn Bigelow, the first woman to win an Oscar for Best Director. Who will be the Oscar's Larry Doby?

I'm not a fan of "firsts;" first black player, first woman director, etc. In J school I had an editor who hated "first" stories because they neglected everyone who came before them. Amen.

Not to take away from the achievement, or the significance. But too often we skip the first steps on the ladder.

For example, I was moved to tears in 1988 when Jesse Jackson gave his remarkable speech at the Democratic National Convention. "My right and my privilege to stand here before you has been won," he said. "Won in my lifetime, by the blood and the sweat of the innocent."

Jackson got it. So many had come before him, many forgotten until he spoke of the "common thread" which unites us all.

It's too bad we can't run an "honor roll" with the next "first" story of everyone who built the mountain the subject stands on. In that sense, the first is in fact last.

Pleased To Make Your Friendship

The phone rang at 9:00pm on Friday night. One of my oldest friends, calling to ask whether I can meet him on the South Side of Chicago at 8am Saturday to help load boxes for Haiti relief.

Of course, I said, where do you need me?

My wife marveled at the fact that I responded immediately, and happily corralled the kids into the van for a rainy trek south.

My friends and I, it's how we roll.

I learned long ago that the most valuable treasure we have is friendship.

I have a many, many acquaintances, but a handful of dear friends. In fact, I joined Facebook a few months ago and never realized just how popular I am, with a daily dose of new "friends."

They are acquaintances, of course, not friends.

But nothing to scoff at. Acquaintances serve a purpose. They are there for us at various points in our lives, we visit, spend time together, but they don't see me the way my friends do.

I was touched hearing Sportswriter Frank Deford tell a story recently about Boston Celtics legend Bill Russell. Deford and Russell spent a good deal of time together through the years as Deford covered both Russell and the Celtics. One afternoon they were riding together on a highway when Deford said (I'm paraphrasing), "You know Bill, I really appreciate your friendship through the years."

"We are acquaintances, not friends" Russell said. "Friendship requires a tremendous amount of work, and I just don't have the time to invest in another friendship. I do value your acquaintance, however."

He's right, of course. Most of us go through life without bothering to make the distinction, and their acquaintance seems to bring both satisfaction.

But they aren't friends.

My sixth grade daughter expressed concern recently about her number of friends. It's about quality, my dear, not quantity.

I have a handful of friends. Most go back over 30 years. They are my brothers and I would do anything for them.

They see every side of me, especially the raw, vulnerable side I try so hard to keep from everyone else. Lord I am not perfect, but they see me for who I am, and I see them for who they are.

We've been through a lot together. Marriage, divorce, kids, vices, job advances, jobs lost. We are older now, heavier and a bit grayer. But we still laugh like kids when we're together.

My children think it's funny that I have known them for so long. I hope they have the gift of true, loving friends throughout their lives.