Category: OLD SPORT SHORTS (Page 37 of 68)
An old guy’s perspective on all sports
It’s seems like a long time has passed since we’ve traveled somewhere, when in reality it’s only been four weeks. On one hand, it feels like the days go by in the blink of an eye, but the pace has been slow. The rain has kept us indoors, while movies and television series have been the sole forms of entertainment. Other than my daily run and taking the dogs out, I rarely leave the cramped apartment. “Leadership Meetings” have been sporadic and my wife’s foot injury has limited her activity. We didn’t even have or go out for a Superbowl party. In fact, the only visitors we’ve entertained are my wife’s daughter and her dog. “We Gotta Get Out of this Place.”
I’m sure I’ll feel the same about Las Vegas after a full week there, although I can hardly wait to get on z’plane in a few days. It’s one of those cities where four days is typically more than enough, like unwanted overnight guests. I’ve never stayed this long in “Sin City,” but we have a good deal on a time share. As a result, we’ve tried to schedule numerous activities to keep us out of the casinos. A Grand Canyon day-trip, two shows, pool time, the monorail, dinners and the Neon Boneyard museums are the foundation of our non-gambling plan. There will undoubtedly be some gambling and probably many hours in the Westgate Sports Book watching basketball games. I.U. plays Purdue the morning after we arrive and Iowa the day before we leave. I just hope we, including I.U., can limit our losses, otherwise it will be a very long week.
I’ve had some winning moments in Vegas but honestly have never taken any of it home with me. I even hit a slot machine jackpot that nearly caused me to be late for our Bellagio wedding nearly nineteen years ago. My wife and I have many good memories of The Strip, but as is the custom, they will stay there. There’s always a great sense of anticipation when you arrive, but the crowds, noise, bright lights, heat, rich food, alcohol, tempting stores, and related expense quickly take their exhaustive toll. This is especially true for a couple of retired old farts in a city designed around youthful enthusiasm. Hopefully, we won’t be singing this song halfway through our trip:
“We gotta get out of this place
If it’s the last thing we ever do
We gotta get out of this place
’cause girl, there’s a better life for me and you.”
Source: LyricFind The Animals
Songwriters: Barry Mann / Cynthia Weil
We Gotta Get out of This Place lyrics © EMI Music Publishing
I hope to get a few paragraphs in before the I.U. vs. Ohio State basketball game starts this morning. I’d like to have Buckeyes for Breakfast but I’m sure they will be a tough nut to crack. As I.U. goes into another of their notorious scoring droughts, I’m sure my anger will start to flair and hands will start to shake. Our poor pup Tally will cower in fear as the sound of my voice starts to express anger and frustration. In the meantime, I’ll spend some peaceful minutes recounting my daily thoughts.
We had a great dinner at Morton’s this past week, taking advantage of a steak and lobster special topped off with their legendary Hot Chocolate Cake and ice cream. We were there early before the Broadway Series presentation of Dear Evan Hanson, a Tony Award winner that we saw a few years ago in New York City. My wife is such a fan of the theater so I was surprised when she wanted to leave at intermission. It was a good show but still a replay of something we’d already seen on a bigger stage. It’s the second-straight show where we’ve left early. This is a clear sign of old age.
Intermission and bed time arrive about the same time any more. A big dinner and a couple drinks followed by a dark room often leads to nodding-off, with no disrespect to the performers. Sometimes it doesn’t even take the lights-off to result in eyes-closed. This happened at the Old Timer’s Baseball Banquet the other evening. It certainly didn’t help that there were four windy speakers. Last month, it was Fiddler on the Roof that caused an early exit. At least, it’s been a long time since I fell asleep in the middle of a movie, but most of those have been in the afternoon.
I’ve never been a fan of the intermission. In my option, if something is too long to need a break then it’s probably not worth seeing. I do, however, understand the need to bolster concessions, network with fellow theater-goers, use the bathroom, and perhaps make a fashion statement. I just don’t have the attention span to handle all these interruptions. It seems to get worse as I get older. To me, intermission is interruption! Even a basketball halftime is tough for me to handle. Let’s just get it over with and all go home!
In retirement, we may have to limit our live theater experiences to matinees so we can see the whole show. When we’re in New York we do two shows a day without a nap. However, we’ve always come from an earlier time zone. While living in Portland, New York shows often end at 8 p.m our time. I’m usually still awake, but when the clock strikes ten here at home after an intermission, I’m ready for bed. It’s also a big waste of money to walk-out halfway through a show. Maybe intermission should extend into the next day? That way we could rest and come back tomorrow for the rest of the show.
It’s finally the last day of a rainy January here in Portland. February holds promise even though no groundhog would ever see its shadow in this wet state. The month will include thoughts of my parents as they both would have celebrated their 99th birthdays. A trip to Las Vegas should get us out of the rain for at least a week. Valentine’s Day should inspire another poem. College baseball starts, Black History is at the forefront, the BIG will set the stage to soon determine a conference champion, Oscars will be handed out, Mardi Gras will be celebrated, and our U.S. President birthdays will be honored. Oh, and then there’s the 54th Big Game.
I don’t have a team in this year’s Superbowl LIV, but there’s certainly a player favorite. Although I’ve never met Tyrann Mathieu or ever been to one of his games, I do have a story about him. He earned the nickname “Honey Badger” for his aggressive defense while at L.S.U. and became a finalist for the Heisman Trophy. Nearly ten years ago my wife and I were having lunch at the Royal House Oyster Bar in the French Quarter. The place erupted when Tyrann scored on an electric 92-yard punt return against the Razorbacks to fuel a 41-17 victory. His “mom” came out of the kitchen to celebrate with the crowd. She apparently had worked there for many years, helping to put him through school. We just found it hard to believe that she was not at the game in Baton Rouge and instantly became part of her family. I hope she got the day off and went to the game when he played in the National Championship Game at the nearby Superdome. The Tigers had beaten Alabama in the regular season 9-6 but lost 21-0 for the overall crown. After spending a year away from the game, the “Honey Badger” was eventually drafted by the Arizona Cardinals, played for the Houston Texans, and is now a safety for the Super Bowl bound Kansas City Chiefs.
I kept an eye on him after that New Orleans experience and will be watching on Sunday. Mathieu grew up in New Orleans and was eventually adopted at the age of 5 by his uncle “dad” and aunt “mom” after being raised by his grandparents. His biological mother disappeared after his birth father was incarcerated for murder. Needless to say, he had a tough life and football was his savior. He almost blew it when he was dismissed from the L.S.U. team his senior year after drug use allegations. The following year he was a third-round pick in the NFL draft and found his way. Hopefully, his 3 million plus paycheck got his “mom” out of the kitchen, even though she was clearly a customer favorite.
Tyrann Mathieu has had a great year in his first season with the Chiefs. He’s had 75 tackles, 4 interceptions, and 2 sacks. As a fellow adoptee, I’ll be cheering for him on Sunday, hoping that Jimmy Garoppolo and his 49er receivers will be seeing the “Honey Badger” shadow in addition to the groundhog’s.
I traveled to Eugene, Oregon yesterday morning and by the time I got there, life had taken some bad twists. In perspective, of least significance was probably the Indiana Basketball loss to Maryland. I started watching it at a friend’s house and early-on had written it off in my mind as a loss. However, in the two-hour drive the Hoosier rallied and looked like they might pull it off. Instead, a late turnover led to a Terp three and eventually a disastrous one-point home loss. It was quickly overshadowed by the shocking announcement of the passing of basketball legend Kobe Bryant and his young daughter.
Both Kobe and Gianna were supporters of the #4 ranked Oregon women’s basketball program. The team was playing rival #7 Oregon State just down the road in Corvallis and sadly got the word just before tip-off. We watched sections of that game in the hospitality suite before the Duck men battled conference foe U.C.L.A. It was a double-win for both top-rated Duck squads on a day that will be forever remembered.
No one can really think of a comparable tragic loss of a sports legend. There have been plane crashes that have claimed entire teams, but none of the players were as well-known and worldly respected as Kobe. In fact, he’s in that class of super stars that are recognized by their first names alone. I was never a Lakers’ fan but indeed a basketball fan, and am still struggling with his death. It has as much or more impact for me than JFK, MLK, or Princess Diane. In each case, they left close family members behind to pick up the pieces. John Lennon and Michael Jackson were also deaths where the world stood still. Sports figures die every day, but most get to live-out their years. Kobe was only 41.
I woke up this morning with a heavy heart. Even without the news of Kobe, I would have been in a bad mood with the I.U. loss. I met-up with the same two I.U. friends to help haul grape vines to the dump. I cut my morning run short to make our 9 a.m. start. Two hours later I was tired and muddy from loading and unloading, as discussion continued about basketball in general. Our friendships are longer than Kobe’s life, stretching back to high school. Sadly, with all his money and fame he will never have what we have – over 50 years of friendship.
There are now nearly 800 Leggs on my Ancestry.com Jerry Ban(n)ister Family Tree, strongly outnumbering even the Ban(n)isters. Every day a few more names get added to the point where there are now over 20,000 connections that I have found. For months now I had been searching for a 3rd cousin named Larry Bogue, one of the close DNA matches that had yet to fit on any branch of this sprawling tree. I went to Facebook and found the name associated with Purdue University. Even though he now lived in Colorado Springs, I had the feeling that he was originally was Indiana and my hunch was right. His family grew up in Tipton County that is directly in the heart of the Central Indiana Ban(n)ister nest. After finding an obituary for his father on-line, I then discovered that his grandmother was a Legg and added him to my tree with a green “DNA MATCH” tag.
Although the name Legg is obviously a popular one in Ban(n)ister heritage, it was not common in my circle of friends. However, as an adoptee I grew up as a Johnston, not a Bannister as listed on my birth certificate. I did once work with a Bill Legg – the only time I’ve run across it outside of tree I’ve constructed. Personally, when I think of Leggs it’s the popular Z. Z. Top song “she’s got legs, she knows how to use them.” I have written about other Ban(n)ister connections to the Legg family in this blog. (See Post #635 and Post #1104). They also have a good sense of humor with nick-names like “Bird” and “Bent.”
In the process of all this, I may have uncovered a mismatch, where a 2nd cousin relationship identified with a green “DNA MATCH” tag for Charles Leonard “Mousie” Hines could be wrong. Mistakes often happen on tracing genetic roots since the same common birth names are used over and over. It now appears that there are other Hines named Charles in the mix, so additional research will be required to pin-down this association. Furthermore, when I get more time, I will continue to explore Legg lore, since Bill Legg was from the Richmond, Indiana area. There may very well be a relative connection I will find. I know he now lives in South Bend and we continue to be distant friends through Facebook. I’ll have to send him a message.
As I run every morning through the streets of downtown Portland, it’s hard to ignore those sleeping on the ground, rooting through trashcans, and staring off in space. It’s in my nature to try to do something nice – to make their day a little better. We’ve tried leaving leftovers on a nearby park bench, making donations to the local shelters, and passing out cash. With the latter, you never know if you’ve given to a worthy cause or if they’re headed directly to the liquor store. However, if it makes you feel good it’s certainly worth the chance.
Last night was “Date Night,” moved from its traditional Wednesday slot to Thursday, just as “Matinee Monday” was also rearranged. We tried to do both on Thursday night since my wife was finally feeling up to going out after injuring her foot last weekend. We went to see Little Women at the theater via streetcar but then barely had enough time to let our schnauzer Tally out before a dinner reservation at Montesario Pinseria. Public transportation was running behind because of the rainy weather, and after a long wait we finally called an Uber. In the meantime, I’m monitoring a key I.U. basketball game against Michigan State, as update messages come flooding into my phone from friends. My wife, of course, hates it when I’m paying attention to my phone at the dinner table, especially on “Date Night.” Dinner included pizza, one of my favorites, but I was forced to pick-off the broccolini that in my opinion was a strange topping. Going along with my wife’s choice seemed like a small sacrifice considering that I was cheating on her with the phone. It was a close game but the Hoosiers prevailed, otherwise I could have been in a bad mood and ruined the evening. Just to emphasize, broccolini does not belong on pizza nor does anything else healthy!
After dinner, my wife slowly limps along beside me in a boot designed to stabilize her injured foot, as we once again patiently wait for a streetcar in the rain. Out of nowhere a guy pulls up in a wheelchair wearing a Veteran’s cap and begins to commiserate with her injury. She replies that “it’s only temporary” and he nods sadly and bemoans that “he will never get out of the chair from the injuries that he suffered overseas.” He’s puffing on a cigarette, and politely “out of respect” wheels slightly away and into the rain so as “to not subject us to the smoke.” I thank him for his service and pull $20 out of my wallet, as he goes on to tell me that he needs laundry money to get out of the filthy sweatpants that he’s worn for 11 weeks. As the streetcar begins to pull up, he suspiciously pushes off with both feet and heads in the opposite direction. As we climb aboard, I see him actually running full speed behind the wheelchair across the street directly in front of us. I’m doubting that he was rushing to the laundromat! I guess we should have known better after just watching the second season of Better Call Saal.
The scam actually made me feel better after the guilt every morning of not being able to help everyone in need. Just the other day, there was another guy that stopped me in need of a couple bucks to assist in getting his life back in order. It’s a day-to-day occurrence here in Portland, home of the homeless. I will think twice the next time I’m asked for a handout, with the vision of them laughing behind my back about the success of their little scam. Too bad for all of those that really need it!
With a little touch-up yesterday, I wrote three poems in one day, ending a nearly four-week non-productive streak. They were are variety of subjects including baseball, phobia, and love, with over 200 poems now listed on this blog. In fact, about 17% of all my daily posts contain a poem, a majority of which are humorous. I try not to get too serious about life, and my writing attempts to reflect this attitude. I also like to stay healthy so I can enjoy old age.
I’m out of the apartment this afternoon to watch I.U. basketball take on Rutgers, expecting another loss. They’ve proven me wrong several times already this year, but I still can’t help being my pessimistic self. I’m returning to Buffalo Wild Wings, once a weekly hangout, but it’s been just under two months since my last visit. We typically drink Coors Light but we’re now on low- carb diets that favor mixed drinks. I’ve mockingly suggested a drinking game of a shot for each I.U. free throw missed, as the team continues to suffer with fundamentals. We’re fortunate to have thirteen wins and three losses, considering the massive offensive swings that we’ve somehow endured.
Our typically consistent Friday “Leadership Meetings” at Wild Wings have been regularly disrupted by new work, travel, and holiday schedules. I’ve got a number of gift cards and points to use, but it’s difficult to get people together at this time of year. I even scheduled a follow-up lunch with a long-lost high school friend this Friday at Buffalo Gap in Lake Oswego because it’s close to his home. It looks like future Friday meetings will have to be organized around late afternoon and weekend games, as opposed to lunch. Also, I’m now out of town at least one Friday every month. In fact, I just scheduled a family trip to Kauai, Hawaii for December to fill-out the year. It’s Vegas in February, Phoenix and Dallas in March, April in San Francisco, Bali in May, Montana in July, and Egypt in October. That leaves June, August, September, and November for trips to Florida to find a permanent retirement home and visit my grand children.
This year of retirement looks very productive from a travel standpoint. We’ll not be able to keep us this pace without breaking the bank, but my wife has sudden freedom from work and wants to take advantage of the opportunity. We’ll both eventually settle into home life, especially if it’s close to the beach. This year we just want to get out of rainy, cold Portland and see the world while we’re still old but healthy.
Poetry comes to me in streaks, and today was one of those days. As I was organizing my collection of memorabilia around the playing career of Sherm Lollar, I was somehow inspired to write this tribute. As I frequently go to baseball card shows, everyone talks about Mickey Mantle or Honus Wagner and how these players are the investment cornerstones of a great collection. Not everyone can afford to collect these gems, so I’m one to encourage starting with those who bring back personal childhood memories. Sherm Lollar was my first baseball hero and I honor this with cards, photos, and memorabilia that probably mean nothing to anybody but me. You don’t always have to make everything a financial investment, if it brings you a sense of joy:
Ode to Sherm
I never knew him,
But saw him play.
Have never forgotten him,
To this very day.
He was a catcher,
Wore number 10.
A perennial general,
Of the bull-pen.
He played with Nellie,
Luis, and Minnie.
Golden Gloves,
He earned many.
In the World Series,
Nineteen Fifty-Nine.
He hit a home run,
Became a hero of mine.
I watched on TV,
In black and white.
But the Sox fell short,
Of the Dodger might.
I wore his number,
It was lucky for me.
But the Hall of Fame,
unlikely to be.
Defense was his game,
A leader behind the plate.
But overshadowed,
By Yankees’ Number 8.
Not every team player,
Can be in the spotlight.
But some are admired,
For the things they do right.
He played in Chicago,
For eleven years.
And like me,
He had big ears.
I’ve written Cooperstown,
On behalf of him.
But hitting .264,
His chances are slim.
Over seventeen years,
Sherm’s glove was his force.
When it came to fielding,
None better, of course.
I maintain a collection,
Of his photos and cards.
I have his Rawling’s mask,
But no shin guards.
I can’t always afford,
To dabble in Honus.
But with Sherm Lollar,
The memories are bonus.
Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com
