Media coverage of the six-alarm fire Tuesday at a Fairfield plastics manufacturing plant hints that Solano and Napa counties residents will be in trouble if a real disaster ever strikes the region.
The community newspapers that cover Vacaville, Fairfield, Vallejo and Napa were slow to keep pace with the fire that sent a huge cloud of black smoke toward highly-populated areas. They didn't get quickly changing, breaking news to residents living close to the the site of the fire.
It's not that hard these days to give readers up-to-the-second news. A Twitter account gives those newspapers, and reporters on the scene, the opportunity to hear news now and post it for residents and readers seconds later. Without a social networking site readers and residents could follow, newspapers slowly updated stories on their websites. The process of updating posted stories takes time that, eventually, a disaster in the area will not allow us to waste.
Sacramento and San Francisco television coverage was atrocious.
Anchors blabbered on and on about live video of the awe-inspiring inferno in Fairfield. Based on the locations from which they provided live remote updates, reporters couldn't have had access to decision-makers. News filters very slowly from a fire at a plastic plants near Travis Air Force Base and a safe, smoke-free spot along Air Base Parkway. One TV reporter couldn't even explain how far she was from the fire that, shown in the background, was 4, 5 miles to her east.
Residents and viewers know that fires burn really hot and that a fire so hot that it creates a mini-weather pattern of its own is really awesome. However, they need to know things like how the dark plume of smoke would affect air quality. TV anchors talked to environmental protection agencies, explaining only that the air was being tested.
By 4 p.m., 2 1/2 hours after the fire started and as the smoke began to hover over my Rolling Hills neighborhood (west of I-80) in Fairfield, there was still no word on whether the smoke presented a health risk. Viewers and residents were simply told to stay inside, with windows closed and air conditioners off, if they lived within a mile or two of the blaze.
Anchors let folks who should know the danger of smoke from a fire at a plastics plant off the hook, never pressing them to use what they do know about the smoke from burning plastic to give us some hint of what we should expect.
The TV coverage, instead, let the wrong folks talk too much about things that led us to expect the worst. KOVR Channel 13 in Sacramento had an interview with a man who owned a plastics plant that had a large fire some years back. Good idea, right?
Well, the interview aired around 2:30 p.m. and the man said a plastics fire "would burn and burn forever ... they might as well just let it burn itself out."
The fire was contained by 4 p.m.
The plastics guy said there are different kinds of chemicals that present in plastic that provide different levels of danger in a fire. He guessed that the region would be facing a toxic hazard for some time.
There was no toxic hazard reported, at any point, on Tuesday. Twenty-six hours after the fire started, there was still no toxic hazard.
To be fair, the environmental protection agencies were as slow and out of focus as media coverage.
Does it really take 2, 3, 4 hours to get a report from a hazardous materials crew? If so, what are we going to do if there's a poisonous chemical spill or worse in these parts?
The media missed even the obvious things that residents near the fire would need to know. TV coverage included worded that traffic was backing up on Air Base Parkway during rush hours because people were driving toward the fire to take photographs and shoot video. At that point, it would've been a public service to remind people that the last thing area residents and firefighters needed was to have a traffic jam caused by morons who found a potentially tragic fire a simple curiosity.
The media missed what people in my neighborhood could see. The smoke, all TV stations insisted, was headed to the south and southeast over Vacaville. There was no mention of the growing black smoke cloud that was headed west toward Fairfield's Rolling Hills and Rancho Solano ... or that the smoke cloud was potentially going to reach the Napa Valley if the fire continued out of control.
People in the Napa Valley likely had no idea that the black smoke was going to reach them, or could have reached them. Fortunately, the fire was contained and the smoke began to disappear.
If there's a disaster in San Francisco or in Sacramento, fine. The media will cover it and folks will be able to respond accordingly. If a disaster strikes Solano, Napa, Yolo or any other county without a strong media presence ... residents will be on their own.
It would've been nice to have put the fire's location to all neighborhoods in the area in some perspective.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Napa paper reports news -- readers move to pass sentence
Reader comments about a newspaper story show how wildly folks misunderstand how the media works.
The Napa Valley Register has reported that a Napa High School junior varsity softball coach was arrested on suspicion of child molestation. The Register staff has handled the story by the book, with comment from school district officials and an explanation gathered from the Napa Police concerning the allegations and circumstances surrounding the arrest.
It's news. It's public record. The coach hasn't been convicted of a crime.
The newspaper is doing the job the way it is supposed to be done.
As one reader commented, "This is exactly what should be reported in a local newspaper not who stole what from Wal-Mart last night." (Note: The newspaper reports the latter type tale, too. One story on the Register website reports an arrest involving an alleged counterfeit prescription request. How does that impact the community?)
Other readers responded to the coach's arrest and explanation of the charges as if the newspaper staff is doing more than providing information that is already public record.
"This is very dangerous for the paper to do. Even if not guilty, she (the coach) already got convicted by the community," one reader wrote. "In this case, innocent until proven guilty does not apply ..."
The newspaper staff gathered information from the police, then reported it to the community. Is the story of the arrest of a coach for alleged child molestation newsworthy? Seems like it would be in most any town. So, the reader is wrong to state that the newspaper did anything that is "dangerous."
The reader comments about the story and the allegations run wild, border on convicting the coach, and that is where the problem begins.
It is reported that the female coach was arrested after being involved in an ongoing relationship with an underage female athlete.
Readers insisted the school superintendent should've made immediate comment on the arrest. What could Barb Franco possibly have said about the arrest of a JV softball coach? Franco wouldn't have had more information than a reporter initially.
A reader wrote, "I would feel much better knowing the school was taking action ..."
Woa!
The coach hasn't been found guilty of a crime. The school shouldn't be doing anything. No action should've been taken, but readers jump to conclusions.
Almost immediately, a reader made the assumption that the coach was a certificated school district employee. School districts typically hire part-time coaches who aren't otherwise employed by the district. The coach isn't, as it turns out, a teacher.
It would've made it a lot easier for readers to lash out at the district, however, if the case did involve a teacher. So, they conclusion was drawn that a teacher was involved when the story reported no such thing.
The newspaper staff gathered information and reported it. Readers make assumptions and connect assumption to fact to create chaos. That's why the Napa Valley is better off relying on the Register staff for news than it would be with even the most conscientious community member armed only with interest in the case and a computer.
Reader comments don't reflect the work of the newspaper staff. Readers are too quick to judge and pass sentence based on facts the police provides the news staff.
Leave the news-gathering to news professionals.
Remember, always, that reader comments come from anonymous folks who don't know a thing more about the case than what was reported by the news professionals.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com)
The Napa Valley Register has reported that a Napa High School junior varsity softball coach was arrested on suspicion of child molestation. The Register staff has handled the story by the book, with comment from school district officials and an explanation gathered from the Napa Police concerning the allegations and circumstances surrounding the arrest.
It's news. It's public record. The coach hasn't been convicted of a crime.
The newspaper is doing the job the way it is supposed to be done.
As one reader commented, "This is exactly what should be reported in a local newspaper not who stole what from Wal-Mart last night." (Note: The newspaper reports the latter type tale, too. One story on the Register website reports an arrest involving an alleged counterfeit prescription request. How does that impact the community?)
Other readers responded to the coach's arrest and explanation of the charges as if the newspaper staff is doing more than providing information that is already public record.
"This is very dangerous for the paper to do. Even if not guilty, she (the coach) already got convicted by the community," one reader wrote. "In this case, innocent until proven guilty does not apply ..."
The newspaper staff gathered information from the police, then reported it to the community. Is the story of the arrest of a coach for alleged child molestation newsworthy? Seems like it would be in most any town. So, the reader is wrong to state that the newspaper did anything that is "dangerous."
The reader comments about the story and the allegations run wild, border on convicting the coach, and that is where the problem begins.
It is reported that the female coach was arrested after being involved in an ongoing relationship with an underage female athlete.
Readers insisted the school superintendent should've made immediate comment on the arrest. What could Barb Franco possibly have said about the arrest of a JV softball coach? Franco wouldn't have had more information than a reporter initially.
A reader wrote, "I would feel much better knowing the school was taking action ..."
Woa!
The coach hasn't been found guilty of a crime. The school shouldn't be doing anything. No action should've been taken, but readers jump to conclusions.
Almost immediately, a reader made the assumption that the coach was a certificated school district employee. School districts typically hire part-time coaches who aren't otherwise employed by the district. The coach isn't, as it turns out, a teacher.
It would've made it a lot easier for readers to lash out at the district, however, if the case did involve a teacher. So, they conclusion was drawn that a teacher was involved when the story reported no such thing.
The newspaper staff gathered information and reported it. Readers make assumptions and connect assumption to fact to create chaos. That's why the Napa Valley is better off relying on the Register staff for news than it would be with even the most conscientious community member armed only with interest in the case and a computer.
Reader comments don't reflect the work of the newspaper staff. Readers are too quick to judge and pass sentence based on facts the police provides the news staff.
Leave the news-gathering to news professionals.
Remember, always, that reader comments come from anonymous folks who don't know a thing more about the case than what was reported by the news professionals.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com)
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Napa Valley College star Cravy sparkles in Brewers' organization
Just because he hasn't gotten the media attention he deserves doesn't mean that Tyler Cravy isn't one of the most elite athletes to have called the Napa Valley home recently.
The ex-Napa Valley College pitching sensation is Tyler Cravy struck out 12 in five innings of relief work for the Class A Wisconsin Timber Rattlers as he continues his climb through the Milwaukee Brewers' organization. Cravy fanned a dozen in a 9-2 win over the Idaho Falls Chukars.
Cravy is 3-2 with a 5.75 ERA for the Timber Rattlers after being promoted from the rookie level Pioneer League in May. Cravy has 29 strikeouts and 16 walks in 20 Class A innings pitched. He fanned 29 and walked just six in 21 innings of work in the Pioneer League in Helena, Montana.
Cravy, who flew under the radar for a lackluster NVC baseball program, was drafted in the 17th round of the 2009 Major League Baseball draft. He was 6-6 with a 5.87 ERA in 15 games for Helena in the Pioneer league in 2010. He whiffed 70 and walked 28 in 76 innings.
** Tim Stegall, who also has Napa Valley baseball ties, has apparently been released by the Texas Rangers. He was signed as a free agent in 2009, but is not mentioned on the www.web.minorleaguebaseball.com site that chronicles the exploits of every minor leaguer.
The ex-Napa Valley College pitching sensation is Tyler Cravy struck out 12 in five innings of relief work for the Class A Wisconsin Timber Rattlers as he continues his climb through the Milwaukee Brewers' organization. Cravy fanned a dozen in a 9-2 win over the Idaho Falls Chukars.
Cravy is 3-2 with a 5.75 ERA for the Timber Rattlers after being promoted from the rookie level Pioneer League in May. Cravy has 29 strikeouts and 16 walks in 20 Class A innings pitched. He fanned 29 and walked just six in 21 innings of work in the Pioneer League in Helena, Montana.
Cravy, who flew under the radar for a lackluster NVC baseball program, was drafted in the 17th round of the 2009 Major League Baseball draft. He was 6-6 with a 5.87 ERA in 15 games for Helena in the Pioneer league in 2010. He whiffed 70 and walked 28 in 76 innings.
** Tim Stegall, who also has Napa Valley baseball ties, has apparently been released by the Texas Rangers. He was signed as a free agent in 2009, but is not mentioned on the www.web.minorleaguebaseball.com site that chronicles the exploits of every minor leaguer.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Napa Sports: Some feel entitled, but not all valley kids are soft
(Please consider expressing whatever pleasure or insight you gain from reading by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. If you find value in the work, I hope you'll consider a financial donation that will help me continue to present my work to you. -- Ted Sillanpaa)
"We stay away from Napa kids when we recruit," the community college baseball coach said. "They're soft."
One coach wouldn't be able to prove his belief correct in all cases.
"Oh, the Napa girls have skill, but they don't want to leave the valley and play basketball over here," one East Bay assistant college basketball coach said. "For every one who comes over here and plays well, two or three leave because they ... it's hard to explain ... they're soft."
Two coaches from two different colleges agreed that Napa Valley high school athletes are soft. It didn't take much to get the coaches to explain that they understood that youngsters who grow up in comfort and socio-economic safety of the valley would naturally feel entitled to a certain, more gentle way of being coached.
"They learn to play ball and play for different reasons than kids from inner-city areas, I think," one of the coaches said. "That doesn't make them bad kids. They just expect to be treated a certain way. I get it. I just can't expect a kid who feels entitled to playing time or even a roster spot to play for us."
Kids who grow up in the projects of Solano or Contra Costa counties are looking for a way out and, right or wrong, they usually think sports provides the best path. Those kids can't be soft and survive.
Don't believe it? OK. Go to a high school basketball game at Fairfield or Vallejo high schools. Now, go to a game at Napa, Vintage or Justin-Siena. See if you notice any difference.
My son played baseball for Justin-Siena this past spring. He mentioned that "people in the stands don't really get into the games." Then, we went to watch Rodriguez High's baseball team play in the Sac-Joaquin Section Division III championship game. Instead of a small group of parents and boosters like that which followed Justin, Rodriguez filled have the Sacramento City College baseball stadium with loud, excited fans who hung on every pitch.
Wait. The intent here is not to conclude that Napa Valley athletes are self-entitled and too soft to succeed. Not at all.
A portion of the elite level athletes in the Napa Valley are, indeed, soft. They don't want to go take on the basketball or baseball worlds in most cases. There's nothing wrong with that, unless they expect to succeed as collegiate basketball or baseball players.
Napa Valley football players are far from soft. There's a disconnect between the self-entitled, soft athletes many outside Napa see in most sports and the gritty, determined football talent that comes from the Napa Valley. Napa's John Boyett stars at the University of Oregon. Undersized Jake Croxdale has built a career for himself against long odds at Sacramento State. They're just two kids who leap immediately to mind.
Two baseball players left the Napa Valley and are succeeding in places where there's no room for being soft. UC Davis sophomore CJ Blom and University of Michigan sophomore Ben Ballentine have bright baseball futures ahead of them. They're succeeding at big-time sports schools when their peers couldn't even get recruited outside the Napa Valley -- save for the kids who stream to Santa Rosa Junior College.
Guess what?
Blom and Ballentine were starters and stars for Napa High's traditionally powerful football team. Blom was an all-league lineman. Ballentine was a tall, gifted receiver. They carried the grit and determination needed to star as a Napa High football player and carried into another sport. Blom, in fact, had planned to play college football, but had such a brilliant senior baseball season that he changed his mind and is a key to the UC Davis baseball future.
Blom is a 6-foot-4, 230-pound chemistry major at UC Davis. Chemistry majors are rarely soft.
Blom pitched in 14 games, with three starts, as a freshman. He really didn't pitch a great deal in high school because Napa High had two good starters in Ballentine and Steven Nagy. When Blom had to pitch regularly in the playoffs as a senior, he was magnificent. So, he just scraped the tip of the iceberg on the mound as a college freshman.
Then, Blom became a full-time position player as a sophomore. He batted .345 in 22 games with a .379 slugging percentage and a .441 on-base percentage. Guys who pitch one year, hit the next and can probably do both just fine in college can't be soft.
CJ Blom .345 22 games 29 at-bats 10 hits 1 2B 4RBI .379 slug .441 OBP 6-4 230 lefty sophomore chemistry major
Ballentine led Michigan with a 3-1 record in 18 starts this spring. It's ironic that a pitcher from football-crazy Napa would wind up pitching in the football-crazy Big Ten Conference.
Ballentine, who is a 6-foot-7 righty, made 18 appearances. He struck out 46 and walked 21 with a 4.91 ERA. He made consistent progress after making 11 appearances as a freshman. His victories came over Notre Dame and Penn State after striking out three in two innings against powerful Texas Tech. The pitcher is enrolled in the university's School of Kinesiology as a physical education major.
Blom and Ballentine aren't the only athletes who disprove the general theory that Napa Valley kids are soft. Heck, there are dozens of kids coaches named whose college performances show that, perhaps, growing up playing in the valley did leave them too soft to compete elsewhere.
As is usually the case, two things can be equally true. Napa Valley basketball and baseball players can fall short in the area of desire, work ethic and toughness. However, CJ Blom and Ben Ballentine prove that Napa Valley athletes can succeed anywhere if they really work at it.
It must be the football.
That doesn't sound like the effort of a kid coaches would consider soft.
"We stay away from Napa kids when we recruit," the community college baseball coach said. "They're soft."
One coach wouldn't be able to prove his belief correct in all cases.
"Oh, the Napa girls have skill, but they don't want to leave the valley and play basketball over here," one East Bay assistant college basketball coach said. "For every one who comes over here and plays well, two or three leave because they ... it's hard to explain ... they're soft."
Two coaches from two different colleges agreed that Napa Valley high school athletes are soft. It didn't take much to get the coaches to explain that they understood that youngsters who grow up in comfort and socio-economic safety of the valley would naturally feel entitled to a certain, more gentle way of being coached.
"They learn to play ball and play for different reasons than kids from inner-city areas, I think," one of the coaches said. "That doesn't make them bad kids. They just expect to be treated a certain way. I get it. I just can't expect a kid who feels entitled to playing time or even a roster spot to play for us."
Kids who grow up in the projects of Solano or Contra Costa counties are looking for a way out and, right or wrong, they usually think sports provides the best path. Those kids can't be soft and survive.
Don't believe it? OK. Go to a high school basketball game at Fairfield or Vallejo high schools. Now, go to a game at Napa, Vintage or Justin-Siena. See if you notice any difference.
My son played baseball for Justin-Siena this past spring. He mentioned that "people in the stands don't really get into the games." Then, we went to watch Rodriguez High's baseball team play in the Sac-Joaquin Section Division III championship game. Instead of a small group of parents and boosters like that which followed Justin, Rodriguez filled have the Sacramento City College baseball stadium with loud, excited fans who hung on every pitch.
Wait. The intent here is not to conclude that Napa Valley athletes are self-entitled and too soft to succeed. Not at all.
A portion of the elite level athletes in the Napa Valley are, indeed, soft. They don't want to go take on the basketball or baseball worlds in most cases. There's nothing wrong with that, unless they expect to succeed as collegiate basketball or baseball players.
Napa Valley football players are far from soft. There's a disconnect between the self-entitled, soft athletes many outside Napa see in most sports and the gritty, determined football talent that comes from the Napa Valley. Napa's John Boyett stars at the University of Oregon. Undersized Jake Croxdale has built a career for himself against long odds at Sacramento State. They're just two kids who leap immediately to mind.
Two baseball players left the Napa Valley and are succeeding in places where there's no room for being soft. UC Davis sophomore CJ Blom and University of Michigan sophomore Ben Ballentine have bright baseball futures ahead of them. They're succeeding at big-time sports schools when their peers couldn't even get recruited outside the Napa Valley -- save for the kids who stream to Santa Rosa Junior College.
Guess what?
Blom and Ballentine were starters and stars for Napa High's traditionally powerful football team. Blom was an all-league lineman. Ballentine was a tall, gifted receiver. They carried the grit and determination needed to star as a Napa High football player and carried into another sport. Blom, in fact, had planned to play college football, but had such a brilliant senior baseball season that he changed his mind and is a key to the UC Davis baseball future.
Blom is a 6-foot-4, 230-pound chemistry major at UC Davis. Chemistry majors are rarely soft.
Blom pitched in 14 games, with three starts, as a freshman. He really didn't pitch a great deal in high school because Napa High had two good starters in Ballentine and Steven Nagy. When Blom had to pitch regularly in the playoffs as a senior, he was magnificent. So, he just scraped the tip of the iceberg on the mound as a college freshman.
Then, Blom became a full-time position player as a sophomore. He batted .345 in 22 games with a .379 slugging percentage and a .441 on-base percentage. Guys who pitch one year, hit the next and can probably do both just fine in college can't be soft.
CJ Blom .345 22 games 29 at-bats 10 hits 1 2B 4RBI .379 slug .441 OBP 6-4 230 lefty sophomore chemistry major
Ballentine led Michigan with a 3-1 record in 18 starts this spring. It's ironic that a pitcher from football-crazy Napa would wind up pitching in the football-crazy Big Ten Conference.
Ballentine, who is a 6-foot-7 righty, made 18 appearances. He struck out 46 and walked 21 with a 4.91 ERA. He made consistent progress after making 11 appearances as a freshman. His victories came over Notre Dame and Penn State after striking out three in two innings against powerful Texas Tech. The pitcher is enrolled in the university's School of Kinesiology as a physical education major.
Blom and Ballentine aren't the only athletes who disprove the general theory that Napa Valley kids are soft. Heck, there are dozens of kids coaches named whose college performances show that, perhaps, growing up playing in the valley did leave them too soft to compete elsewhere.
As is usually the case, two things can be equally true. Napa Valley basketball and baseball players can fall short in the area of desire, work ethic and toughness. However, CJ Blom and Ben Ballentine prove that Napa Valley athletes can succeed anywhere if they really work at it.
It must be the football.
That doesn't sound like the effort of a kid coaches would consider soft.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Eureka Memories: Wal-Mart's OK If the Market Demands It
(Please consider expressing whatever pleasure and enjoyment you gain from reading "Eureka Memories" by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. If you find value in the work, I hope you'll consider a financial donation that will help me continue to present my work to you. -- Ted Sillanpaa)
The Bayshore Mall was built in my hometown of Eureka, Calif. in the 1990s with the promise that it would invigorate the economy decimated by the loss of the timber and fishing industries.
The mall performed as advertised ... for awhile. Folks stopped making the four-hour drive south to Santa Rosa to escape locally-owned chain stores who controlled the market and didn't provide the options available to those who could pick and choose from chain stores like Mervyn's, Sears, etc.
The Bayshore Mall died an inglorious death, as the Humboldt County economy continued to sag. People don't buy at speciality shops or need three or four places to buy athletic shoes when unemployment is through the roof. The movie theaters at the mall lost business when theater complexes were built in neighboring towns, thus removing the need to drive to Eureka to see a film.
Gottschalk's was one of the anchor stores at the mall. It has been empty for awhile because, well, the area really can't support a slightly upscale department store. If Mervyn's and Sears -- other cornerstones of the facility -- had died ... what chance did Gottschalk's have?
The mall is a sad place to be and more sad to see, assuming one remembers when it was bustling and full of promise for a community short on such a thing.
It seemed like exciting news that a "mystery" business was ready to move into Gottschalk's. Well, the Times-Standard newspaper called it a "mystery" business. Most readers seem certain that the old Gottschalk's will become either a Best Buy or Wal-Mart.
Best Buy? OK. If the Humboldt County economy can support a electronics store, great. Based on what I read in the Times-Standard and hear from old friends, a big electronics chain wouldn't seem too anxious to make a home in Eureka.
Wal-Mart, however, suits Humboldt County just fine. It offers low prices and tons of controversy. The same type controversy folks in Fairfield remember when the old, empty shopping center that took up an entire city blocks became home a Wal-Mart superstore.
The folks who don't like the idea of Wal-Mart, and its questionable business practices and low prices, coming to Eureka insist it will kill what's left of locally-owned Humboldt County businesses. Mostly, they focus on the questionable business practices because the majority of locally-owned Eureka business began to disappear years and years ago.
As a Fairfield resident who cares what happens in his hometown of Eureka, I'm confused by the anger expressed by folks who can't stand the idea of a Wal-Mart moving into the Gottschalk's space.
The bulk of locally-owned businesses are speciality-type spots. One Times-Standard reader complained that Wal-Mart will kill such stores. Another reader, rightly, mentioned that local stores don't sell shampoo, vitamins, pet food, toilet paper, etc. So, Wal-Mart would actually pose no threat to local shops.
The anti-Wal-Mart reader eventually said that, indeed, there are businesses that sell essentials like toilet paper and more. He mentioned a speciality shop called Bubbles as a spot that sells shampoo. And, he explained that a local health food story in Arcata (a town across the bay from Eureka) markets vitamins. Finally, he mentioned a locally-owned pet store that does sell pet food.
I was born, raised and spent most of my life in Humboldt County. There are folks who buy shampoo at Bubbles, but the average family that uses the biggest container of the least costly shampoos and soaps shop at CVS, Walgreen's or grocery stores.
Small health food outlets sell vitamins, sure. The monster-sized containers of generic multi-vitamins available at Wal-Mart are affordable and more in line with what people who want a supplement as opposed to a committment to health-conscious lifestyle would buy.
The argument that Wal-Mart's business practices are shady can go on forever. Folks who can't afford to shop at speciality stores in Humboldt County just want to be able to buy the cheapest goods they can, cheap goods that people flock to the Fairfield superstore to purchase at all hours of the day and night.
The area most densely filled with low-income housing is located not far from the Bayshore Mall in Eureka. So, a Wal-Mart store would be as popular and affordable to folks who need alternatives as it is in Fairfield where local businesses have died and the economy is an absolute wreck.
The folks who shop at speciality stores, locally-owned stores, in Fairfield aren't the folks filling the Wal-Mart parking at 10 p.m. most nights. So, I imagine that
small businesses in Eureka would keep their clientele and that folks who can barely afford toilet paper and dog food, let alone a DVD for their kids once in awhile, would consider Wal-Mart, Target and other chain stores that might be alive up there.
Obviously, those people who own or have reason to support small businesses are going to fight Wal-Mart. Heck, they're fighting the idea that Best Buy might move into town. They'll try to sell the idea that Trader Joe's or Cost Plus World Market would somehow help Eureka's struggling economy everybit as much as something like a Wal-Mart.
People who would shop at Wal-Mart, maybe get a job because they'll take what Wal-Mart pays and live with the sketchy benefits, don't really have a voice. For whatever reason, they don't have much time to spend online debating the merits of locally-owned businesses in a town where the mall that was supposed to save the economy is standing nearly vacant.
The Wal-Mart superstore in Fairfield is busy all the time. Regular folks are in their shopping for things they, often, couldn't afford elsewhere. I imagine lots of kids are wearing school shoes purchased at Wal-Mart, for instance. The Fairfield market clearly demands a Wal-Mart.
Up in the Humboldt County, the folks with the most juice seem to like the idea of keeping things as they are. Local business owners and folks who buy their shampoo at a speciality shop can afford to live in what many insist is God's Country -- and look down their noses at people who'd shop or want to work at Wal-Mart.
That's unfortunate because God's Country wasn't intended only for people who want a certain type of business, a limited amount of pricing competition and the ability to pass judgment on chain stores that could help their neighbors get by and live a little bit easier.
The Bayshore Mall was built in my hometown of Eureka, Calif. in the 1990s with the promise that it would invigorate the economy decimated by the loss of the timber and fishing industries.
The mall performed as advertised ... for awhile. Folks stopped making the four-hour drive south to Santa Rosa to escape locally-owned chain stores who controlled the market and didn't provide the options available to those who could pick and choose from chain stores like Mervyn's, Sears, etc.
The Bayshore Mall died an inglorious death, as the Humboldt County economy continued to sag. People don't buy at speciality shops or need three or four places to buy athletic shoes when unemployment is through the roof. The movie theaters at the mall lost business when theater complexes were built in neighboring towns, thus removing the need to drive to Eureka to see a film.
Gottschalk's was one of the anchor stores at the mall. It has been empty for awhile because, well, the area really can't support a slightly upscale department store. If Mervyn's and Sears -- other cornerstones of the facility -- had died ... what chance did Gottschalk's have?
The mall is a sad place to be and more sad to see, assuming one remembers when it was bustling and full of promise for a community short on such a thing.
It seemed like exciting news that a "mystery" business was ready to move into Gottschalk's. Well, the Times-Standard newspaper called it a "mystery" business. Most readers seem certain that the old Gottschalk's will become either a Best Buy or Wal-Mart.
Best Buy? OK. If the Humboldt County economy can support a electronics store, great. Based on what I read in the Times-Standard and hear from old friends, a big electronics chain wouldn't seem too anxious to make a home in Eureka.
Wal-Mart, however, suits Humboldt County just fine. It offers low prices and tons of controversy. The same type controversy folks in Fairfield remember when the old, empty shopping center that took up an entire city blocks became home a Wal-Mart superstore.
The folks who don't like the idea of Wal-Mart, and its questionable business practices and low prices, coming to Eureka insist it will kill what's left of locally-owned Humboldt County businesses. Mostly, they focus on the questionable business practices because the majority of locally-owned Eureka business began to disappear years and years ago.
As a Fairfield resident who cares what happens in his hometown of Eureka, I'm confused by the anger expressed by folks who can't stand the idea of a Wal-Mart moving into the Gottschalk's space.
The bulk of locally-owned businesses are speciality-type spots. One Times-Standard reader complained that Wal-Mart will kill such stores. Another reader, rightly, mentioned that local stores don't sell shampoo, vitamins, pet food, toilet paper, etc. So, Wal-Mart would actually pose no threat to local shops.
The anti-Wal-Mart reader eventually said that, indeed, there are businesses that sell essentials like toilet paper and more. He mentioned a speciality shop called Bubbles as a spot that sells shampoo. And, he explained that a local health food story in Arcata (a town across the bay from Eureka) markets vitamins. Finally, he mentioned a locally-owned pet store that does sell pet food.
I was born, raised and spent most of my life in Humboldt County. There are folks who buy shampoo at Bubbles, but the average family that uses the biggest container of the least costly shampoos and soaps shop at CVS, Walgreen's or grocery stores.
Small health food outlets sell vitamins, sure. The monster-sized containers of generic multi-vitamins available at Wal-Mart are affordable and more in line with what people who want a supplement as opposed to a committment to health-conscious lifestyle would buy.
The argument that Wal-Mart's business practices are shady can go on forever. Folks who can't afford to shop at speciality stores in Humboldt County just want to be able to buy the cheapest goods they can, cheap goods that people flock to the Fairfield superstore to purchase at all hours of the day and night.
The area most densely filled with low-income housing is located not far from the Bayshore Mall in Eureka. So, a Wal-Mart store would be as popular and affordable to folks who need alternatives as it is in Fairfield where local businesses have died and the economy is an absolute wreck.
The folks who shop at speciality stores, locally-owned stores, in Fairfield aren't the folks filling the Wal-Mart parking at 10 p.m. most nights. So, I imagine that
small businesses in Eureka would keep their clientele and that folks who can barely afford toilet paper and dog food, let alone a DVD for their kids once in awhile, would consider Wal-Mart, Target and other chain stores that might be alive up there.
Obviously, those people who own or have reason to support small businesses are going to fight Wal-Mart. Heck, they're fighting the idea that Best Buy might move into town. They'll try to sell the idea that Trader Joe's or Cost Plus World Market would somehow help Eureka's struggling economy everybit as much as something like a Wal-Mart.
People who would shop at Wal-Mart, maybe get a job because they'll take what Wal-Mart pays and live with the sketchy benefits, don't really have a voice. For whatever reason, they don't have much time to spend online debating the merits of locally-owned businesses in a town where the mall that was supposed to save the economy is standing nearly vacant.
The Wal-Mart superstore in Fairfield is busy all the time. Regular folks are in their shopping for things they, often, couldn't afford elsewhere. I imagine lots of kids are wearing school shoes purchased at Wal-Mart, for instance. The Fairfield market clearly demands a Wal-Mart.
Up in the Humboldt County, the folks with the most juice seem to like the idea of keeping things as they are. Local business owners and folks who buy their shampoo at a speciality shop can afford to live in what many insist is God's Country -- and look down their noses at people who'd shop or want to work at Wal-Mart.
That's unfortunate because God's Country wasn't intended only for people who want a certain type of business, a limited amount of pricing competition and the ability to pass judgment on chain stores that could help their neighbors get by and live a little bit easier.
Sunday, July 17, 2011
Quake survivors are real Japanese heroes
We always try to make even the most compelling sports events seem to carry more importance than they actually have.
Japan's women beat the favored United States to win the women's World Cup soccer title in Germany. The game was dramatic, compelling at every turn. The champions went all the way to sudden-death penalty kicks after playing to a 2-2 draw through 120 minutes of play.
That isn't enough for sports fans or the sports media, though. The game had to mean more than a 2-2 draw that went to penalty kicks in the World Cup finale that resulted in a major upset. So, we're going on about the ridiculous notion that Japan's victory somehow makes life brighter for a country four months removed from an earthquake and tsunami disaster that killed and displaced thousands.
The quake and tsunami killed more than 15,000. Thousands of Japanese lost their homes. And, as they try to rebuild and start new lives after their towns and homes were destroyed those poor folks are going to find victory in a world soccer championship match some solace?
Really?
The nuclear power plant that was nearly destroyed remains a problem on the coast of Japan. There will be fallout from that disaster for decades to come. Large portions of land around the plant remain a wasteland. It's absurd to think sport, even the World Cup title game, can take the minds of Japanese off of the reality that crops could be contaminated and that future generations could face an increase in birth defects after nuclear radiation filled their air and blew across their country.
Sure, the Japanese victory brings pride to the people of Japan. Yes, it was an inspirational show of determination and heart by the champions. It was brilliantly-played soccer by a team the Americans seemed to have beaten twice, only to see the Japanese rally to tie.
It's hard to imagine how anything NHK, Japan's national broadcasting network, said after the win can make any sense.
“They kept saying they would bring courage to the victims of the quake disaster,” NHK said after the win.
Yeah, homeless people fighting for survival everyday ... in need of food and water ... will find courage in the fact that the Japanese soccer kept playing its hardest for 120 minutes on Sunday.
Fans in Tokyo, reportedly, hugged and cheered in the streets on their way to work after the victory so many time zones away. There are no reports of mass celebrations among the displaced, the hungry and the sick.
Frankly, it's ridiculous to insist that a soccer match can give courage to people fighting the type fight for their lives the Japanese have waged in the wake of the quake devastation. A soccer match doesn't compare to fighting to rebuild a life destroyed by natural disaster.
In fact, the Japanese who are battling to survive in the coastal regions should be inpirations and heroes to the soccer players.
We always have to make more of the games than is necessary.
Japan's women beat the favored United States to win the women's World Cup soccer title in Germany. The game was dramatic, compelling at every turn. The champions went all the way to sudden-death penalty kicks after playing to a 2-2 draw through 120 minutes of play.
That isn't enough for sports fans or the sports media, though. The game had to mean more than a 2-2 draw that went to penalty kicks in the World Cup finale that resulted in a major upset. So, we're going on about the ridiculous notion that Japan's victory somehow makes life brighter for a country four months removed from an earthquake and tsunami disaster that killed and displaced thousands.
The quake and tsunami killed more than 15,000. Thousands of Japanese lost their homes. And, as they try to rebuild and start new lives after their towns and homes were destroyed those poor folks are going to find victory in a world soccer championship match some solace?
Really?
The nuclear power plant that was nearly destroyed remains a problem on the coast of Japan. There will be fallout from that disaster for decades to come. Large portions of land around the plant remain a wasteland. It's absurd to think sport, even the World Cup title game, can take the minds of Japanese off of the reality that crops could be contaminated and that future generations could face an increase in birth defects after nuclear radiation filled their air and blew across their country.
Sure, the Japanese victory brings pride to the people of Japan. Yes, it was an inspirational show of determination and heart by the champions. It was brilliantly-played soccer by a team the Americans seemed to have beaten twice, only to see the Japanese rally to tie.
It's hard to imagine how anything NHK, Japan's national broadcasting network, said after the win can make any sense.
“They kept saying they would bring courage to the victims of the quake disaster,” NHK said after the win.
Yeah, homeless people fighting for survival everyday ... in need of food and water ... will find courage in the fact that the Japanese soccer kept playing its hardest for 120 minutes on Sunday.
Fans in Tokyo, reportedly, hugged and cheered in the streets on their way to work after the victory so many time zones away. There are no reports of mass celebrations among the displaced, the hungry and the sick.
Frankly, it's ridiculous to insist that a soccer match can give courage to people fighting the type fight for their lives the Japanese have waged in the wake of the quake devastation. A soccer match doesn't compare to fighting to rebuild a life destroyed by natural disaster.
In fact, the Japanese who are battling to survive in the coastal regions should be inpirations and heroes to the soccer players.
We always have to make more of the games than is necessary.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
When Sequoia Park rocked in the 'Summer of Love'
I spent the "Summer of Love" -- and the two summers that preceded it -- rolling single day to Sequoia Park in Eureka. And, while I was just a child, I knew something really cool was going on amidst the redwood trees in the mid-1960s.
The redwood ampitheater stage was still fairly new and rock bands would plug in and play over there all the time. There were benches were people would sit and listen to music, smoke dope and drink wine. Last I was there, only grass and a tiny gazebo remained. I tend to think the city, in a very art-centric area, could've afforded to pay for redwood to keep that stage in tact, but it was easier to just tear it down.
Actually, I spent most of my passing through Sequoia Park. I lived out in Cutten and had to bicycle through the park on the road that used to allow cars to drive from the back entrance down to the duck pond. We'd haul ass on our bikes -- sting-rays with those banana seats -- against traffic. Then, we'd zip onto the trail adjacent to the road that's still there.
Our destination was always The Park Store -- owned by Rex Bohn's late father. I'd ride over there a couple times a day just to buy Gooscicles (I preferred cherry, but settled for blueberry) or Topps Baseball Cards. In the 1960s you could get 5 cards and a piece of gum for 5 cents. We raised the money to buy cards and sweets by rummaging for empty soda bottles we'd return for the deposit. (My friend was good at putting one six pack on top of a basket at old Shear's Market or Cutten Store and then convincing the clerk we'd brought in 4, 5 six packs.)
Sequoia Park didn't have redwood chips and soccer-mom-safe kids' rides back then. There were two really, really long slides. There'd be a line waiting to ride them and the climb to the top scared some people to the point they had to have somebody help them back down. How tall and fast were those slides? I broke my leg when I was 6 simply by flying down one of them and slamming my foot too hard at the bottom. I broke my fibula in my right leg. Seriously. The slides were out about 20 feet off of T Street where there's nothing but grass now.
We used to take wax paper with us to the park. We'd tear a big strip and sit on it to turn the already long, fast slide into a thrill ride.
The slides were actually close to the old train engine they parked at Sequoia Park when they took out a cherry (hey, it was the '60s) ride. There was room for a dozen kid to grab onto rings hanging from chains and just fly around and around and around in circles. I never did it, but it must've been seriously dangerous because it was one of the first rides to disappear.
There were two sets of those really big swings then, too. There was nothing as thrilling and life-altering as swinging as high as we could on those swings. We were 9, 10, 11 years old ... the older kids were expanding their world listening to psychedelic rock and smoking dope. We were finally free of our parents swinging so high we touched the trees with our feet ... and nobody was there to say, "Be careful!"
There were always kids who'd do crazy stuff like jump out of the swings when they were just flying way above the ground. Not me. The urban legend that I completely believed was that the teen-aged bad-asses could swing so high that they'd actually fly all the way and over the top of the bar ... which, I later figured, most surely defied gravity.
In the 1960s, there was a big sand box type thing on the east side of the park. Before that, the sand box was a public swimming pool. That was before my time. The pony ride -- ponies that just went around and around in a tiny circle -- was there until the mid-1960s. I dug those ponies. I really dug the tiny train that circled tracks that seemed long and elaborate out behind where the bathrooms still stand.
If you walked behind the dirtiest bathroom in town in the early 2000s, you could see a trail and that trail is where the train tracks used to run. It didn't cost a dime to ride that train, so you can imagine how busy it was all day ... every day ... all summer.
The "curly slide" was wrapped around redwood trees over on the west side by the hideous bathrooms. The little tube slide made of plastic slightly amused my kids, but I told them it was nothing like standing in line to get on the "curly slide." The wax paper came into play there, too. That somebody was smart enough to build it in and around two trees that still exist over by the big rock that honors war veterans was mind-boggling.
The merry-go-round was as hellacious as we wanted it to be. It was right in the middle of where all the play things are now ... or were when I last checked in on the ghost town the park had become.
During the summer, the heavy metal merry-go-round would be filled with kids. There'd be a band covering psychedelic rock at the amphitheater. It blew my mind before I was old enough to know my mind could really be blown. It wasn't as though anybody cared who else was on the merry-go-round. We didn't wait for friends. We didn't take turns. Some kids with strong stomachs could spin and spin and spin for an hour and never get off. And, nobody was there to shout, "Take turns kids!"
There were always bigger, stronger kids to grab hold of the merry-go-round and spin that monster 100 mph! I was afraid of injury and could see how easily somebody could fly off simply as a result of the force created by the thing spinning so fast in such a small, tight circle. Still, I remember later, say in 1967, when I was one of the guys who straddled the upside-down U-shaped bars, held on with both hands, and had the big kids spin it with us leaning backward, toward the ground, heads tilted to the sky.
It was simply out of this world. Families barbecuing at the stone barbecue pits. Music playing. Kids sipping wine and getting high.
Another urban legend, or scary story, had a kid slipping off the merry-go-round and somehow falling underneath it ... while it was spinning at warp speed. That thing was sturdy and the ground was hard. I can't imagine the injuries a kid would've suffered. But, then again, we didn't spend a second thinking about hurting ourselves. If we were supposed to worry about hurting ourselves, we figured the people who ran the park wouldn't have put such bitchin' scary rides there.
Then, one day, we showed up and there were wood chips ... and these tiny bouncing horses. The grass and dirt was covered with foul-smelling wood chips.
Then one of the big sets of swings disappeared. Soon, the big slide was moved -- and shortened. Of course, the law of averages resulted in a car finally hitting a kid on a bike on the road behind the zoo, so the road closed. The park folks didn't realize that while they were protecting us on that road, we were congregating at the top of a dirt hill above the duck pond on our bikes trying to test fate.
That's how boys started becoming men, I guess. We put ourselves in dangerous, exciting, precarious positions ... and acted like it was no big deal. We'd push our bikes to the top of that hill and then roar down -- with no idea whether or not a car was coming! We never met a car, but we always hit the steep portion of the hill that led to the pond going faster than hell. We could barely maneuver the corner at the bottom, which was the whole idea.
See, we didn't need dirt bikes and road bikes and racing bikes. We had one bike and it was good for all terrain. So, as they removed the adrenaline-rush rides, we came up with our own ways to rock.
Sometimes a driver would bitch us out, but it was generally accepted that boys on bicycles were all crazy brave and bulletproof back then. I clearly remember having to struggle to keep control of my bike on the way down the trail, then barely keeping the damn thing on the road ... then rushing back to do it again. And, there were guys who were far more brave than I was who threw in jumps, wheelies and all kinds of stuff that would result in closing that road, blocking that trail and lawsuits through 2025 these days.
Sequoia Park used to rock, but ... then again ... so did we.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)
The redwood ampitheater stage was still fairly new and rock bands would plug in and play over there all the time. There were benches were people would sit and listen to music, smoke dope and drink wine. Last I was there, only grass and a tiny gazebo remained. I tend to think the city, in a very art-centric area, could've afforded to pay for redwood to keep that stage in tact, but it was easier to just tear it down.
Actually, I spent most of my passing through Sequoia Park. I lived out in Cutten and had to bicycle through the park on the road that used to allow cars to drive from the back entrance down to the duck pond. We'd haul ass on our bikes -- sting-rays with those banana seats -- against traffic. Then, we'd zip onto the trail adjacent to the road that's still there.
Our destination was always The Park Store -- owned by Rex Bohn's late father. I'd ride over there a couple times a day just to buy Gooscicles (I preferred cherry, but settled for blueberry) or Topps Baseball Cards. In the 1960s you could get 5 cards and a piece of gum for 5 cents. We raised the money to buy cards and sweets by rummaging for empty soda bottles we'd return for the deposit. (My friend was good at putting one six pack on top of a basket at old Shear's Market or Cutten Store and then convincing the clerk we'd brought in 4, 5 six packs.)
Sequoia Park didn't have redwood chips and soccer-mom-safe kids' rides back then. There were two really, really long slides. There'd be a line waiting to ride them and the climb to the top scared some people to the point they had to have somebody help them back down. How tall and fast were those slides? I broke my leg when I was 6 simply by flying down one of them and slamming my foot too hard at the bottom. I broke my fibula in my right leg. Seriously. The slides were out about 20 feet off of T Street where there's nothing but grass now.
We used to take wax paper with us to the park. We'd tear a big strip and sit on it to turn the already long, fast slide into a thrill ride.
The slides were actually close to the old train engine they parked at Sequoia Park when they took out a cherry (hey, it was the '60s) ride. There was room for a dozen kid to grab onto rings hanging from chains and just fly around and around and around in circles. I never did it, but it must've been seriously dangerous because it was one of the first rides to disappear.
There were two sets of those really big swings then, too. There was nothing as thrilling and life-altering as swinging as high as we could on those swings. We were 9, 10, 11 years old ... the older kids were expanding their world listening to psychedelic rock and smoking dope. We were finally free of our parents swinging so high we touched the trees with our feet ... and nobody was there to say, "Be careful!"
There were always kids who'd do crazy stuff like jump out of the swings when they were just flying way above the ground. Not me. The urban legend that I completely believed was that the teen-aged bad-asses could swing so high that they'd actually fly all the way and over the top of the bar ... which, I later figured, most surely defied gravity.
In the 1960s, there was a big sand box type thing on the east side of the park. Before that, the sand box was a public swimming pool. That was before my time. The pony ride -- ponies that just went around and around in a tiny circle -- was there until the mid-1960s. I dug those ponies. I really dug the tiny train that circled tracks that seemed long and elaborate out behind where the bathrooms still stand.
If you walked behind the dirtiest bathroom in town in the early 2000s, you could see a trail and that trail is where the train tracks used to run. It didn't cost a dime to ride that train, so you can imagine how busy it was all day ... every day ... all summer.
The "curly slide" was wrapped around redwood trees over on the west side by the hideous bathrooms. The little tube slide made of plastic slightly amused my kids, but I told them it was nothing like standing in line to get on the "curly slide." The wax paper came into play there, too. That somebody was smart enough to build it in and around two trees that still exist over by the big rock that honors war veterans was mind-boggling.
The merry-go-round was as hellacious as we wanted it to be. It was right in the middle of where all the play things are now ... or were when I last checked in on the ghost town the park had become.
During the summer, the heavy metal merry-go-round would be filled with kids. There'd be a band covering psychedelic rock at the amphitheater. It blew my mind before I was old enough to know my mind could really be blown. It wasn't as though anybody cared who else was on the merry-go-round. We didn't wait for friends. We didn't take turns. Some kids with strong stomachs could spin and spin and spin for an hour and never get off. And, nobody was there to shout, "Take turns kids!"
There were always bigger, stronger kids to grab hold of the merry-go-round and spin that monster 100 mph! I was afraid of injury and could see how easily somebody could fly off simply as a result of the force created by the thing spinning so fast in such a small, tight circle. Still, I remember later, say in 1967, when I was one of the guys who straddled the upside-down U-shaped bars, held on with both hands, and had the big kids spin it with us leaning backward, toward the ground, heads tilted to the sky.
It was simply out of this world. Families barbecuing at the stone barbecue pits. Music playing. Kids sipping wine and getting high.
Another urban legend, or scary story, had a kid slipping off the merry-go-round and somehow falling underneath it ... while it was spinning at warp speed. That thing was sturdy and the ground was hard. I can't imagine the injuries a kid would've suffered. But, then again, we didn't spend a second thinking about hurting ourselves. If we were supposed to worry about hurting ourselves, we figured the people who ran the park wouldn't have put such bitchin' scary rides there.
Then, one day, we showed up and there were wood chips ... and these tiny bouncing horses. The grass and dirt was covered with foul-smelling wood chips.
Then one of the big sets of swings disappeared. Soon, the big slide was moved -- and shortened. Of course, the law of averages resulted in a car finally hitting a kid on a bike on the road behind the zoo, so the road closed. The park folks didn't realize that while they were protecting us on that road, we were congregating at the top of a dirt hill above the duck pond on our bikes trying to test fate.
That's how boys started becoming men, I guess. We put ourselves in dangerous, exciting, precarious positions ... and acted like it was no big deal. We'd push our bikes to the top of that hill and then roar down -- with no idea whether or not a car was coming! We never met a car, but we always hit the steep portion of the hill that led to the pond going faster than hell. We could barely maneuver the corner at the bottom, which was the whole idea.
See, we didn't need dirt bikes and road bikes and racing bikes. We had one bike and it was good for all terrain. So, as they removed the adrenaline-rush rides, we came up with our own ways to rock.
Sometimes a driver would bitch us out, but it was generally accepted that boys on bicycles were all crazy brave and bulletproof back then. I clearly remember having to struggle to keep control of my bike on the way down the trail, then barely keeping the damn thing on the road ... then rushing back to do it again. And, there were guys who were far more brave than I was who threw in jumps, wheelies and all kinds of stuff that would result in closing that road, blocking that trail and lawsuits through 2025 these days.
Sequoia Park used to rock, but ... then again ... so did we.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)
Oh, now I'll find out what I'm worth
Two really big pieces of news to report.
First, you'll notice the "Donate" button to the left here. (Over there! See?) It takes you to may Pay Pal account where, um, you can, er, ... um ... shoot me a quarter or a dollar or whatever seems fair if you enjoy what you read here. (You enjoy it, right? Right?!?)
Second, my stomach is churning because of that "Donate" button to the left here. (Yeah! That button!) Podcasters have routinely used a "Donate" button on their web sites for listeners to compensate them in some small way for whatever pleasure they receive from the podcasts. One of my favorite writers has a web site where he presents previously unpublished stories and asks readers to donate through Pay Pal for his efforts.
I'm not sure if my favorite author or those podcasters put the "Donate" button on their page and immediately get the sinking feeling that comes with anticipating that no one will actually pay for their work. I've always written what I knew people wanted to read. There wasn't any talent involved in attracting readers to game stories or features about local athletes. Essays, news tidbits ... they require me showing from flare for this type thing.
That's where the sinking feeling in my stomach comes in because ... it's one thing to read about your kid in a sports story or laugh at a story I write in an e-mail. It's another thing to read my stuff and dig into your pocket (for a credit card) because you think what I write has value.
I liked this writing business a lot more when a dopey managing editor just handed me an envelope with a paycheck in it every two weeks. (They weren't all dopey.) In those envelopes were amounts that enabled me to raise my kids, pay my bills and go out for a meal now and then.
The idea, generally, is that readers find the writers and material they want to read. So, if ... oh, say ... a writer like me attracts your eye and my work meets the standard once used to determine the cost of a newspaper or magazine, maybe you'll click that "Donate" button and offer whatever you think is reasonable compensation.
It only requires an ATM/debit card or a credit card and punching in a few numbers on the ultra-secure Pay Pal website.
People who know such things insist a blog spot only develops if the writer is patient. I figure the writer should be talented, too. At this point, four months unemployed, I'm convinced I'm lacking both.
I've never had to ask people if what I write is worth a dime ... now I'm pleased to explain that the cost of a newspaper (50 cents? $1.50?) would be a nice way to show you enjoyed the work.
Really, I've never really wanted to know for sure what people think of what I write.
That "Donate" button indicates I'm going to find out a lot about myself. I just need to be patient.
--
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com)
First, you'll notice the "Donate" button to the left here. (Over there! See?) It takes you to may Pay Pal account where, um, you can, er, ... um ... shoot me a quarter or a dollar or whatever seems fair if you enjoy what you read here. (You enjoy it, right? Right?!?)
Second, my stomach is churning because of that "Donate" button to the left here. (Yeah! That button!) Podcasters have routinely used a "Donate" button on their web sites for listeners to compensate them in some small way for whatever pleasure they receive from the podcasts. One of my favorite writers has a web site where he presents previously unpublished stories and asks readers to donate through Pay Pal for his efforts.
I'm not sure if my favorite author or those podcasters put the "Donate" button on their page and immediately get the sinking feeling that comes with anticipating that no one will actually pay for their work. I've always written what I knew people wanted to read. There wasn't any talent involved in attracting readers to game stories or features about local athletes. Essays, news tidbits ... they require me showing from flare for this type thing.
That's where the sinking feeling in my stomach comes in because ... it's one thing to read about your kid in a sports story or laugh at a story I write in an e-mail. It's another thing to read my stuff and dig into your pocket (for a credit card) because you think what I write has value.
I liked this writing business a lot more when a dopey managing editor just handed me an envelope with a paycheck in it every two weeks. (They weren't all dopey.) In those envelopes were amounts that enabled me to raise my kids, pay my bills and go out for a meal now and then.
The idea, generally, is that readers find the writers and material they want to read. So, if ... oh, say ... a writer like me attracts your eye and my work meets the standard once used to determine the cost of a newspaper or magazine, maybe you'll click that "Donate" button and offer whatever you think is reasonable compensation.
It only requires an ATM/debit card or a credit card and punching in a few numbers on the ultra-secure Pay Pal website.
People who know such things insist a blog spot only develops if the writer is patient. I figure the writer should be talented, too. At this point, four months unemployed, I'm convinced I'm lacking both.
I've never had to ask people if what I write is worth a dime ... now I'm pleased to explain that the cost of a newspaper (50 cents? $1.50?) would be a nice way to show you enjoyed the work.
Really, I've never really wanted to know for sure what people think of what I write.
That "Donate" button indicates I'm going to find out a lot about myself. I just need to be patient.
--
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com)
Napa Legion team ousted by El Dorado
From the Times-Standard newspaper in Eureka on Napa's American Legion baseball team losing in the Area 1 tourney on Friday night:
El Dorado 11, Napa Riverdogs 4
After losing a slugfest in its opener, El Dorado won its second straight game, eliminating the Riverdogs.
Hunter Gallant and Stephen Barisone each smacked four hits, while Jerrod Bravo, Jeffrey Miller and Shane Murphy contributed three hits apiece to the 16-hit attack.
El Dorado scored four in the bottom of the first inning and five big runs in the sixth. Danny Muzzi went 5 1-3 innings to pick up the W and Murphy followed with 3 2-3 innings to earn the save.
Blake Zuniga, Eddie Aguayo and Nate Edwards each stroked three hits for Napa, who got a complete-game pitching performance from Brian Webster.
Box score:
Napa 002 020 000 -- 4 12 4
El Dorado 420 005 00x -- 11 16 1
Pitching
Napa -- (LP) B. Webster, CG, 8 IP
El Dorado -- (WP) D. Muzzi, 5 1-3 IP (SV) S. Murphy, 3 2-3 IP
Hitting
Napa -- Zuniga 3-5; Aguayo 3-5, 2B, 2R; Edwards 3-5, 2B, R; Keen 1-4; Keown 1-4; Wieldraayer 1-4, R
El Dorado -- Evanoff 0-5, R; Gallant 4-4, 2B, 3R; McMahon 2-5, 3B, 3R; Bravo 3-5, 2B, 2R; Dillon 0-4, 2R; Miller 3-5; Barisone 4-5
El Dorado 11, Napa Riverdogs 4
After losing a slugfest in its opener, El Dorado won its second straight game, eliminating the Riverdogs.
Hunter Gallant and Stephen Barisone each smacked four hits, while Jerrod Bravo, Jeffrey Miller and Shane Murphy contributed three hits apiece to the 16-hit attack.
El Dorado scored four in the bottom of the first inning and five big runs in the sixth. Danny Muzzi went 5 1-3 innings to pick up the W and Murphy followed with 3 2-3 innings to earn the save.
Blake Zuniga, Eddie Aguayo and Nate Edwards each stroked three hits for Napa, who got a complete-game pitching performance from Brian Webster.
Box score:
Napa 002 020 000 -- 4 12 4
El Dorado 420 005 00x -- 11 16 1
Pitching
Napa -- (LP) B. Webster, CG, 8 IP
El Dorado -- (WP) D. Muzzi, 5 1-3 IP (SV) S. Murphy, 3 2-3 IP
Hitting
Napa -- Zuniga 3-5; Aguayo 3-5, 2B, 2R; Edwards 3-5, 2B, R; Keen 1-4; Keown 1-4; Wieldraayer 1-4, R
El Dorado -- Evanoff 0-5, R; Gallant 4-4, 2B, 3R; McMahon 2-5, 3B, 3R; Bravo 3-5, 2B, 2R; Dillon 0-4, 2R; Miller 3-5; Barisone 4-5
Everybody's so (*&*%$*# mad!
People are getting madder every single day.
I don't know what they're so mad at, but they're really, really angry.
There was a time when I'd never seen people publicly holler in anger. I'm 54 years old, so that meant years and years of people keeping their cool and turning the other cheek.
Three times in the last week, I saw and heard people lose their temper for God and the whole world to see and hear. I mean, they were red-faced and madder than hell.
You won't believe what led people to morph into raving maniacs. You can, however, help me figure out why people are so damned mad.
The Safeway shopping center parking lot near the house is always busy. There are traffic signs and arrows painted on the ground to help drivers maneuver their way onto Waterman Road or out of the parking lot toward Rolling Hills, Rancho Solano or the highway. The folks who built the shopping center didn't leave room for two cars to pass each other in the parking lot, so they compensated with the confusing maze of traffic signs and directional arrows.
People are always backing into somebody else's path.
The other day, I was walking to mail a letter (OK ... to mail a bill payment that was long overdue) at the UPS outlet. I heard someone just lay on their horn. No one honks their horn for that long and that loudly. It crossed my mind that one of the stores had an alarm, that sounds like a car horn, going off.
I turned around to see a newer white van, the kind you see filled with kids headed for soccer practice, stopped in the middle of the driveway. A black SUV, one you'd typically see filled with camping gear or groceries, was stopped with it's front bumper almost touching the driver's side door of the van.
The woman driving the SUV was shouting out her window, leaning on the horn.
Remember, people are pulling out in front of each other in that parking lot all the time.
"Watch where you're going!! You *&^%$ idiot!?!!! You almost hit my *&^%$ van?"
It turned out that the woman driving the white van was shouting out her window, too.
"You %$#@#$%^ ... *&(**%!! *&^%$## *&*# car!"
The woman driving the van was unwilling to let go of the idea that blame had to be placed and accepted for the non-accident. I'd never heard one woman call another woman a *&^%$## *&*# before.
The drivers had attracted the attention of everyone in the parking lot. I'm not sure, but I couldn't have been the only one thinking, "What's the big deal?"
The woman in the white van pulled forward into her parking space -- still shouting to nobody from inside her car. The woman in the black van certainly couldn't hear her.
The woman in the black van rolled her window up and pulled away. Her face was ashen as, I'm sure, she realized that whatever she was really angry about had prompted her to make a fool of herself in the Safeway parking lot. Nobody gets that mad about a mixup in a parking lot. I suppose taking care of kids, rushing home to make dinner and being taken for granted by her husband could account for the altercation in the parking lot.
When the woman in the van finally backed out, safely, she was still shouting out loud to nobody. She was so upset that she was mad at ... well, mad at nobody. She was alone in her rig still shouting.
The next morning started like all mornings. I wondered where my next dollar would come from and went to spend one of my last ones to get gas. I wound up at the traffic lights at the four-way stop on busy Travis Boulevard across from the Raley's shopping center.
Suddenly, a little, late model pickup truck scorched through the intersection. The passenger had his head stuck out the window, twisting awkwardly looking to the rear. He was berating the driver of the little white car behind him.
"You *&^%$n' stupid *#tch! Keep your *&^%$ eyes on the ..."
I guessed that the guy in the black ball cap wanted the lady driving the little Toyota to keep her eyes on the road.
The guy was in his early 30s and he looked like the guy who goes from zero to throwing punches really fast. His cheeks were red, like every guy who drinks beer like cherry Kool-Aid's cheeks are red. There had to have been a beer belly hidden behind the passenger side door.
The black ball cap is the kind that men like him typically wear when doing something foolish. It's unclear whether black ball caps make men angry or if angry men wear black ball caps. (The incident hinted that there was certainly a bumper sticker with the white silhouette of a naked woman or a Playboy bunny somewhere on that truck. I'm virtually certain.)
The lady was driving that teeny, tiny Toyota. Not the Matrix, but the Toyota that was a Matrix before Toyota sliced the Matrix in half to make an even smaller car. The car would've fit in the fat, angry man's front pocket.
The woman had both hands on the steering wheel and she stared straight ahead and rolled through the intersection. The horse's ass in the truck was all twisted and contorted as he tried to stick his head further out the window to glare back at her.
In fairness, that guy's probably got problems in life. Like me, maybe he's unemployed. Maybe he's getting a divorce. Heck, he probably lives in his mom's basement. Still, hard to understand how anyone could be that mad at a woman who accidentally nosed too far out from the stop light at the I-80 off ramp onto Travis Boulevard.
Dixon's a tiny town to the east of Fairfield. It's located right along I-80, breaking up the farmlands that lead the way to Davis and, then, to the urban sprawl that starts in Sacramento. Nothing much happens in Dixon. It's quiet, usually.
Faithful Safeway shoppers like me get a discount on Safeway gasoline. There's no gas station at the Safeway in Fairfield, so I always stop in Dixon to get the cheapest gas that I'll probably ever get anywhere in my life. The Dixon Safeway gas station is always busy, as busy as anyplace in Dixon can be. Still, for $3.47 cents a gallon ... I'm willing to wait in line to get to a pump.
It's uncertain why the little guy gassing up his Ford Taurus was looking at the gas pump behind him and talking. He could've been talking to himself, I guessed, but he'd have to have been reciting one of his favorite speeches to have talked into the air for so long.
"Shut the hell up and get gas!"
Oh? The little guy was talking to the great, big, muscular man at the pump right behind him. The man with the muscles in the tight, tight polo shirt was talking on his cell phone. Aren't there warning signs that insist we not use cell phones while pumping gas? What are the odds that the cell phone would spark an explosion?
Ah, either way, I hoped my gas would pump quickly and, moreover, that the little guy would be quiet.
"*&^# you! There are open pumps! Nobody's waiting you &^%$#@!"
Oh, again ... the little guy was aware of the warning signs about cell phones and standing up for drivers who might want to use the pump the big dude was occupying. About the time the big fellow reiterated that the small man was a &^%$#@, I noticed that the man with the muscles was done pumping gas and just standing in the shade talking on the phone.
Why don't etiquette policemen like the little guy know when to stop talking? There really is no law against being thoughtless or selfish. How is it that they think that they'll be so reasonable that even a burly guy in a paint-stained polo shirt, a guy with a ragged goatee, will listen to them?
"Seriously, dude ... shut the *&^% up!"
Guess how many people were watching, listening and wishing they could shout, "Man, just get in your car and leave! The guy's getting ready to kick your ass. Give it up!" Well, there was me ... that's one who was thinking that way.
The smaller man just wanted to have control over something, I'll bet. Rules are rules -- at least, they used to be. Maybe he followed the rules and lost his job or his wife or his house. Then, he saw the big guy talking on the cell phone taking up a pump at a busy gas station and he couldn't take it.
The big man was a guy I'd fear in such a circumstance. He wasn't ranting or raving, but rather explaining loudly that he wasn't moving and that he wasn't hurting anybody. The inference, clearly, was that he'd be willing to go beat that little guy up and stuff him in his Taurus if the guy insisted on pushing things.
My mom taught me that there are times to just walk away. Too bad the little guy's mom didn't teach him the same thing.
It was an ugly incident made surrealistic by the fact that the big fella' never moved the cell phone from his ear. Who argues in public while carrying on a phone conversation? Either super cool or simply stupid, I figured. He kept the other party on the line and, it seemed, would shout down the little dude and then tell the person on the phone what he'd just said. I hoped that the person was suggesting that strangling the little guy wasn't an option.
People are so mad.
I don't know what they're so mad at, but they're really, really angry.
There was a time when I'd never seen people publicly holler in anger. I'm 54 years old, so that meant years and years of people keeping their cool and turning the other cheek.
Three times in the last week, I saw and heard people lose their temper for God and the whole world to see and hear. I mean, they were red-faced and madder than hell.
You won't believe what led people to morph into raving maniacs. You can, however, help me figure out why people are so damned mad.
The Safeway shopping center parking lot near the house is always busy. There are traffic signs and arrows painted on the ground to help drivers maneuver their way onto Waterman Road or out of the parking lot toward Rolling Hills, Rancho Solano or the highway. The folks who built the shopping center didn't leave room for two cars to pass each other in the parking lot, so they compensated with the confusing maze of traffic signs and directional arrows.
People are always backing into somebody else's path.
The other day, I was walking to mail a letter (OK ... to mail a bill payment that was long overdue) at the UPS outlet. I heard someone just lay on their horn. No one honks their horn for that long and that loudly. It crossed my mind that one of the stores had an alarm, that sounds like a car horn, going off.
I turned around to see a newer white van, the kind you see filled with kids headed for soccer practice, stopped in the middle of the driveway. A black SUV, one you'd typically see filled with camping gear or groceries, was stopped with it's front bumper almost touching the driver's side door of the van.
The woman driving the SUV was shouting out her window, leaning on the horn.
Remember, people are pulling out in front of each other in that parking lot all the time.
"Watch where you're going!! You *&^%$ idiot!?!!! You almost hit my *&^%$ van?"
It turned out that the woman driving the white van was shouting out her window, too.
"You %$#@#$%^ ... *&(**%!! *&^%$## *&*# car!"
The woman driving the van was unwilling to let go of the idea that blame had to be placed and accepted for the non-accident. I'd never heard one woman call another woman a *&^%$## *&*# before.
The drivers had attracted the attention of everyone in the parking lot. I'm not sure, but I couldn't have been the only one thinking, "What's the big deal?"
The woman in the white van pulled forward into her parking space -- still shouting to nobody from inside her car. The woman in the black van certainly couldn't hear her.
The woman in the black van rolled her window up and pulled away. Her face was ashen as, I'm sure, she realized that whatever she was really angry about had prompted her to make a fool of herself in the Safeway parking lot. Nobody gets that mad about a mixup in a parking lot. I suppose taking care of kids, rushing home to make dinner and being taken for granted by her husband could account for the altercation in the parking lot.
When the woman in the van finally backed out, safely, she was still shouting out loud to nobody. She was so upset that she was mad at ... well, mad at nobody. She was alone in her rig still shouting.
The next morning started like all mornings. I wondered where my next dollar would come from and went to spend one of my last ones to get gas. I wound up at the traffic lights at the four-way stop on busy Travis Boulevard across from the Raley's shopping center.
Suddenly, a little, late model pickup truck scorched through the intersection. The passenger had his head stuck out the window, twisting awkwardly looking to the rear. He was berating the driver of the little white car behind him.
"You *&^%$n' stupid *#tch! Keep your *&^%$ eyes on the ..."
I guessed that the guy in the black ball cap wanted the lady driving the little Toyota to keep her eyes on the road.
The guy was in his early 30s and he looked like the guy who goes from zero to throwing punches really fast. His cheeks were red, like every guy who drinks beer like cherry Kool-Aid's cheeks are red. There had to have been a beer belly hidden behind the passenger side door.
The black ball cap is the kind that men like him typically wear when doing something foolish. It's unclear whether black ball caps make men angry or if angry men wear black ball caps. (The incident hinted that there was certainly a bumper sticker with the white silhouette of a naked woman or a Playboy bunny somewhere on that truck. I'm virtually certain.)
The lady was driving that teeny, tiny Toyota. Not the Matrix, but the Toyota that was a Matrix before Toyota sliced the Matrix in half to make an even smaller car. The car would've fit in the fat, angry man's front pocket.
The woman had both hands on the steering wheel and she stared straight ahead and rolled through the intersection. The horse's ass in the truck was all twisted and contorted as he tried to stick his head further out the window to glare back at her.
In fairness, that guy's probably got problems in life. Like me, maybe he's unemployed. Maybe he's getting a divorce. Heck, he probably lives in his mom's basement. Still, hard to understand how anyone could be that mad at a woman who accidentally nosed too far out from the stop light at the I-80 off ramp onto Travis Boulevard.
Dixon's a tiny town to the east of Fairfield. It's located right along I-80, breaking up the farmlands that lead the way to Davis and, then, to the urban sprawl that starts in Sacramento. Nothing much happens in Dixon. It's quiet, usually.
Faithful Safeway shoppers like me get a discount on Safeway gasoline. There's no gas station at the Safeway in Fairfield, so I always stop in Dixon to get the cheapest gas that I'll probably ever get anywhere in my life. The Dixon Safeway gas station is always busy, as busy as anyplace in Dixon can be. Still, for $3.47 cents a gallon ... I'm willing to wait in line to get to a pump.
It's uncertain why the little guy gassing up his Ford Taurus was looking at the gas pump behind him and talking. He could've been talking to himself, I guessed, but he'd have to have been reciting one of his favorite speeches to have talked into the air for so long.
"Shut the hell up and get gas!"
Oh? The little guy was talking to the great, big, muscular man at the pump right behind him. The man with the muscles in the tight, tight polo shirt was talking on his cell phone. Aren't there warning signs that insist we not use cell phones while pumping gas? What are the odds that the cell phone would spark an explosion?
Ah, either way, I hoped my gas would pump quickly and, moreover, that the little guy would be quiet.
"*&^# you! There are open pumps! Nobody's waiting you &^%$#@!"
Oh, again ... the little guy was aware of the warning signs about cell phones and standing up for drivers who might want to use the pump the big dude was occupying. About the time the big fellow reiterated that the small man was a &^%$#@, I noticed that the man with the muscles was done pumping gas and just standing in the shade talking on the phone.
Why don't etiquette policemen like the little guy know when to stop talking? There really is no law against being thoughtless or selfish. How is it that they think that they'll be so reasonable that even a burly guy in a paint-stained polo shirt, a guy with a ragged goatee, will listen to them?
"Seriously, dude ... shut the *&^% up!"
Guess how many people were watching, listening and wishing they could shout, "Man, just get in your car and leave! The guy's getting ready to kick your ass. Give it up!" Well, there was me ... that's one who was thinking that way.
The smaller man just wanted to have control over something, I'll bet. Rules are rules -- at least, they used to be. Maybe he followed the rules and lost his job or his wife or his house. Then, he saw the big guy talking on the cell phone taking up a pump at a busy gas station and he couldn't take it.
The big man was a guy I'd fear in such a circumstance. He wasn't ranting or raving, but rather explaining loudly that he wasn't moving and that he wasn't hurting anybody. The inference, clearly, was that he'd be willing to go beat that little guy up and stuff him in his Taurus if the guy insisted on pushing things.
My mom taught me that there are times to just walk away. Too bad the little guy's mom didn't teach him the same thing.
It was an ugly incident made surrealistic by the fact that the big fella' never moved the cell phone from his ear. Who argues in public while carrying on a phone conversation? Either super cool or simply stupid, I figured. He kept the other party on the line and, it seemed, would shout down the little dude and then tell the person on the phone what he'd just said. I hoped that the person was suggesting that strangling the little guy wasn't an option.
People are so mad.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Bonds, Clemens should meet the press together
Roger Clemens' perjury hearing was declared a mistrial, giving him and Barry Bonds one last chance to save themselves from baseball purgatory.
We all can agree that Clemens and Bonds are guilty, in the court of public opinion, of using performance enhancing drugs. They did so better than any of the hundreds and hundreds of baseball players who turned a 10-year period into the Steroids Era. Bonds set the all-time home run record in his 40s. Clemens bounced back from his career stalling in his early 30s to a dominant run with the New York Yankees and Houston Astros at ages well beyond those when fastball pitchers typically dominate.
Virtually every other baseball player who was found to have used PEDs has found some level of acceptance in the baseball community. Once found out, the players offered non-specific apologies for vaguely acknowledging they did the wrong things. Fans forgive and, sometime, forget. The media bashes even those who apologize, then moves back to vilifying Bonds, Clemens and a few others who were never actually fingered despite clearly having shown the same level of performance as those who used. (Sammy Sosa, for instance, survived the Steroids Era unscathed, but ... hey, he was right there buffed up and bombing home runs out of the blue with Mark McGwire.)
Bonds and Clemens remain poster boys for all the evil associated with the Steroids Era. Bonds acknowledged he used PEDs, but insisted all the way through even his perjury trial that he had no idea he was using them. Clemens had his DNA and steroids residue on a syringe introduced as evidence in his perjury trial, yet he maintains he was framed and that he never used PEDs.
They were both among the greatest players of their generation before the Steroids Era even started. If Bonds had finished his career as something far less than the Ruthian home run hitter, he would still been ushered into the Hall of Fame on the first ballot. Clemens was as dominant as a starting pitcher can be for over a decade. He just stayed bigger and stronger, and threw harder, into his mid-40s because he used PEDs. (I know. I know. Nolan Ryan pitched and threw hard well into his mid-40s, too. You be the judge.)
Bonds and Clemens could be denied entrance to the Hall of Fame if they don't make amends with the media and the fans who insist they acknowledge their use of PEDs.
Here's an idea that should appeal to them both.
The two baseball legends should offer themselves, together, for a "60 Minutes" style interview with a respected member of the sports media. Bob Costas would be the best choice because he's most offended, still, by those players who used PEDs and broke baseball's storied records.
When Costas asks if they used PEDs, the two should admit that they did. If one starts to waver or stray from a short response, the other can step in and explain how hard it is to admit that they did the wrong thing. (And, no, they don't need to actually believe they did the wrong thing.)
When Costas asks why Clemens lied to Congress and Bonds lied to a grand jury, they can explain that they knew they'd let their fans down and that their teams had really come to rely on them. It's always effective to explain away questionable acts by blaming them on the pressure one felt. So, Bonds could say something like, "The Giants' organization had built a brand new ball park. The organization needed me to perform at the highest level to fill that stadium in every night. The pressure to do more and more overwhelmed my sense of right and wrong."
See how easy it is?
This is the last chance Bonds and Clemens have to ease back into baseball and, eventually, the Hall of Fame. Sadly, their egos are so large that they'll likely go to their graves claiming they didn't use performance enhancing drugs.
(Ted Sillanpaa can be reached at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)
We all can agree that Clemens and Bonds are guilty, in the court of public opinion, of using performance enhancing drugs. They did so better than any of the hundreds and hundreds of baseball players who turned a 10-year period into the Steroids Era. Bonds set the all-time home run record in his 40s. Clemens bounced back from his career stalling in his early 30s to a dominant run with the New York Yankees and Houston Astros at ages well beyond those when fastball pitchers typically dominate.
Virtually every other baseball player who was found to have used PEDs has found some level of acceptance in the baseball community. Once found out, the players offered non-specific apologies for vaguely acknowledging they did the wrong things. Fans forgive and, sometime, forget. The media bashes even those who apologize, then moves back to vilifying Bonds, Clemens and a few others who were never actually fingered despite clearly having shown the same level of performance as those who used. (Sammy Sosa, for instance, survived the Steroids Era unscathed, but ... hey, he was right there buffed up and bombing home runs out of the blue with Mark McGwire.)
Bonds and Clemens remain poster boys for all the evil associated with the Steroids Era. Bonds acknowledged he used PEDs, but insisted all the way through even his perjury trial that he had no idea he was using them. Clemens had his DNA and steroids residue on a syringe introduced as evidence in his perjury trial, yet he maintains he was framed and that he never used PEDs.
They were both among the greatest players of their generation before the Steroids Era even started. If Bonds had finished his career as something far less than the Ruthian home run hitter, he would still been ushered into the Hall of Fame on the first ballot. Clemens was as dominant as a starting pitcher can be for over a decade. He just stayed bigger and stronger, and threw harder, into his mid-40s because he used PEDs. (I know. I know. Nolan Ryan pitched and threw hard well into his mid-40s, too. You be the judge.)
Bonds and Clemens could be denied entrance to the Hall of Fame if they don't make amends with the media and the fans who insist they acknowledge their use of PEDs.
Here's an idea that should appeal to them both.
The two baseball legends should offer themselves, together, for a "60 Minutes" style interview with a respected member of the sports media. Bob Costas would be the best choice because he's most offended, still, by those players who used PEDs and broke baseball's storied records.
When Costas asks if they used PEDs, the two should admit that they did. If one starts to waver or stray from a short response, the other can step in and explain how hard it is to admit that they did the wrong thing. (And, no, they don't need to actually believe they did the wrong thing.)
When Costas asks why Clemens lied to Congress and Bonds lied to a grand jury, they can explain that they knew they'd let their fans down and that their teams had really come to rely on them. It's always effective to explain away questionable acts by blaming them on the pressure one felt. So, Bonds could say something like, "The Giants' organization had built a brand new ball park. The organization needed me to perform at the highest level to fill that stadium in every night. The pressure to do more and more overwhelmed my sense of right and wrong."
See how easy it is?
This is the last chance Bonds and Clemens have to ease back into baseball and, eventually, the Hall of Fame. Sadly, their egos are so large that they'll likely go to their graves claiming they didn't use performance enhancing drugs.
(Ted Sillanpaa can be reached at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
My pal can still save newspapers from hyper-local nightmare
One of my best friends has always known how to turn around the sagging fortunes of community newspapers. It's simple, really, but all the people who've wasted years watching newspapers die have failed to grasp what my pal knows to be true.
People buy small newspapers for the same reasons that they buy metro newspapers or check their favorite web sites. They want to be informed, entertained, inspired, amused and to feel like they're getting some bang for their buck.
My friend was the sports editor at a Solano County newspaper for years. Even when he built a staff of writers that produced an abundance of hyper-local copy, he knew that many of the Fairfield Daily Republic's 18,000 or so readers couldn't have cared less about the local Little League or high school teams.
He knew that there were folks who'd never buy his newspaper if all he could provide them were stories about kid and amateur adult athletes those folks weren't interested in at all.
What? You think community newspapers will grow strong featuring nothing but small-town, local sports? OK. When was the last time you went to watch a Tuesday night bowling league event or a youth club's swim meet?
See? You don't care about that stuff, so why would you read about it?
So, my friend Brad Stanhope kept his eye out for national and international stories that he considered "water cooler stories." He knew it was foolish to think everyone who could buy the Daily Republic only wanted to read about the events and people in Fairfield, Suisun City, etc. It was simple, but it was genius ... and the editors and publishers who are strangling the lives out of their community papers now still don't get it.
No, really ... they don't get it. I've been a sports editor more recently than Brad Stanhope has been and my effort to keep his "water cooler story" theory convinced me that the people who can save small papers are actually without a clue as to what can save them.
One day Brad, my boss, decided that our featured story should be an Associated Press piece about people in Great Britain who wager on squirrel racing.
"People are going to stop and read this story," he said, smiling because I rolled my eyes, speechless at the thought of a community paper featuring a piece about gambling ... on squirrels ... in Great Britain.
Brad knew that people didn't buy the Daily Republic to read Associated Press stories. He just thought that not all AP stories were created equally.
"If you didn't work here would you read that story about the 49ers that you want to put in that spot?" he asked.
Excellent question. And, no ... I wouldn't read a generic story about the San Francisco 49ers written by a wire service reporter who, I knew, doesn't give much time or thought to the team or the story. And, I read about the 49ers in a dozen other spots, so why would I read about them in the DR?
Clearly, Brad had thought through his theory, which is more than most of today's small-town editors and publishers have done.
Today's Daily Republic sports section featured a Little League all-star game featuring 9- and 10-year-old players.
Everyone who read today's DR got to that sports page, thought, "Isn't it nice that they're writing and taking photographs of the local children," then turned the page without giving the story a second thought.
The only people who care about a baseball game between 9- and 10-year-old players are their parents, immediate family, a few frienda and, well ... wait! It's uncertain if anyone beyond parents would read a game story once they figured out the final score.
I can't remember a thing about that Little League all-star story or any of the other dozens of hyper-local high school or other sports featured daily in the Daily Republic. I can't remember much about hundreds of similar stories I've written myself.
I remember that story about squirrel racing. It was different. It caught my eye and stopped me on the page.
How do I know that hyper-local doesn't sell? Well, I know the circulation figures haven't risen in Fairfield or Napa (or Vallejo or Vacaville) very much or for very long in the last decade or two. If the all-local, all-the-time nonsense was truly appealing, circulation figures would rise.
Interesting stories sell papers. Stories that appear to be interesting generate web page views.
The squirrel racing story was interesting. I remember people who read it and thought, "This is ridiculous." Still, they read it. When they put the Daily Republic down they knew they could count on finding stories in there that they might not find anywhere else.
I'm certain that people would have discussed it around the water cooler if there were still water coolers in many offices.
I was reminded that my friend can save community newspapers, if they'd let him, when I looked at the Daily Republic today.
My friend has a new gig at the DR, on the news side. So, I wasn't surprised to see an A1 story from the Associated Press about a move that could result in overly obese children being taken away from their parents. It was tucked in amongst those hyper-local stories I never read.
I read that story about the fat kids being snatched away from their parents and realized that my pal's still finding the interesting story -- and then selling it to managers who are looking for local names and local news and, apparently, to bore me to death.
Brad is probably explaining his "water cooler" theory to a new generation of co-workers. And, he's starting by telling the younger staff members what it was like when offices had water coolers.
Just because it's local doesn't make it interesting. I hope my friend can convince more people of that quickly, while newspapers still have a chance.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)
People buy small newspapers for the same reasons that they buy metro newspapers or check their favorite web sites. They want to be informed, entertained, inspired, amused and to feel like they're getting some bang for their buck.
My friend was the sports editor at a Solano County newspaper for years. Even when he built a staff of writers that produced an abundance of hyper-local copy, he knew that many of the Fairfield Daily Republic's 18,000 or so readers couldn't have cared less about the local Little League or high school teams.
He knew that there were folks who'd never buy his newspaper if all he could provide them were stories about kid and amateur adult athletes those folks weren't interested in at all.
What? You think community newspapers will grow strong featuring nothing but small-town, local sports? OK. When was the last time you went to watch a Tuesday night bowling league event or a youth club's swim meet?
See? You don't care about that stuff, so why would you read about it?
So, my friend Brad Stanhope kept his eye out for national and international stories that he considered "water cooler stories." He knew it was foolish to think everyone who could buy the Daily Republic only wanted to read about the events and people in Fairfield, Suisun City, etc. It was simple, but it was genius ... and the editors and publishers who are strangling the lives out of their community papers now still don't get it.
No, really ... they don't get it. I've been a sports editor more recently than Brad Stanhope has been and my effort to keep his "water cooler story" theory convinced me that the people who can save small papers are actually without a clue as to what can save them.
One day Brad, my boss, decided that our featured story should be an Associated Press piece about people in Great Britain who wager on squirrel racing.
"People are going to stop and read this story," he said, smiling because I rolled my eyes, speechless at the thought of a community paper featuring a piece about gambling ... on squirrels ... in Great Britain.
Brad knew that people didn't buy the Daily Republic to read Associated Press stories. He just thought that not all AP stories were created equally.
"If you didn't work here would you read that story about the 49ers that you want to put in that spot?" he asked.
Excellent question. And, no ... I wouldn't read a generic story about the San Francisco 49ers written by a wire service reporter who, I knew, doesn't give much time or thought to the team or the story. And, I read about the 49ers in a dozen other spots, so why would I read about them in the DR?
Clearly, Brad had thought through his theory, which is more than most of today's small-town editors and publishers have done.
Today's Daily Republic sports section featured a Little League all-star game featuring 9- and 10-year-old players.
Everyone who read today's DR got to that sports page, thought, "Isn't it nice that they're writing and taking photographs of the local children," then turned the page without giving the story a second thought.
The only people who care about a baseball game between 9- and 10-year-old players are their parents, immediate family, a few frienda and, well ... wait! It's uncertain if anyone beyond parents would read a game story once they figured out the final score.
I can't remember a thing about that Little League all-star story or any of the other dozens of hyper-local high school or other sports featured daily in the Daily Republic. I can't remember much about hundreds of similar stories I've written myself.
I remember that story about squirrel racing. It was different. It caught my eye and stopped me on the page.
How do I know that hyper-local doesn't sell? Well, I know the circulation figures haven't risen in Fairfield or Napa (or Vallejo or Vacaville) very much or for very long in the last decade or two. If the all-local, all-the-time nonsense was truly appealing, circulation figures would rise.
Interesting stories sell papers. Stories that appear to be interesting generate web page views.
The squirrel racing story was interesting. I remember people who read it and thought, "This is ridiculous." Still, they read it. When they put the Daily Republic down they knew they could count on finding stories in there that they might not find anywhere else.
I'm certain that people would have discussed it around the water cooler if there were still water coolers in many offices.
I was reminded that my friend can save community newspapers, if they'd let him, when I looked at the Daily Republic today.
My friend has a new gig at the DR, on the news side. So, I wasn't surprised to see an A1 story from the Associated Press about a move that could result in overly obese children being taken away from their parents. It was tucked in amongst those hyper-local stories I never read.
I read that story about the fat kids being snatched away from their parents and realized that my pal's still finding the interesting story -- and then selling it to managers who are looking for local names and local news and, apparently, to bore me to death.
Brad is probably explaining his "water cooler" theory to a new generation of co-workers. And, he's starting by telling the younger staff members what it was like when offices had water coolers.
Just because it's local doesn't make it interesting. I hope my friend can convince more people of that quickly, while newspapers still have a chance.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)
There's Only One Game on List of Top Youth Sports
Take away soccer and there's not a team sport that really does for the very young player what organized athletics claim to do to benefit children.
It takes hours and hours and hours of practice for a 6-year-old even to learn to hit a baseball off a tee. Basketball is a pointless exercise until a kid can dribble the ball and has the strength to shoot the ball anywhere near the basket.
Soccer allows even beginners to play by standard rules and still get the benefits of exercise, teamwork while learning whether or not they enjoy competition.
There are loads of room for failure in activities like tee ball, mini-hoops basketball and other similar miniaturized team sports. Having coached both sports for kids who often hadn't played even in their own yards showed me the angst involved in a 6-year-old swinging a bat at a stationary ball, three times, and missing it each time.
Kids who are willing to run can't really fail on a soccer field. How hard is it for a pint-sized player to understand that they just need to keep the soccer ball from getting near their team's goal? My daughter and her teammates ran themselves ragged and had a blast when, really,
The other day I watched home video of my then 5-year-old son playing quarterback on touch football team for boys so young that they really didn't know the point of the game. I coached the tiny team with the idea that my son would distribute the ball to make sure every player got a chance to touch and run with the ball.
Small problem, though, because I trained my son to throw the ball short distances or to hand it to his teammates ... but, there was no way to teach the other children to hold on to the ball. The league didn't set aside practice time, not that practice would've helped a great deal.
The video shows my son throwing a pass to a little teammate that hit the tiny fellow right in the hands. The boy dropped the ball. The video shows my son drop his head into his hands, just devastated that the pass had fallen incomplete. It showed the little would-be receiver watch the ball bounce away, crestfallen.
There isn't a second of home video that shows anything but my daughter having a blast chasing the ball around the too-big field, laughing with her teammates and loving the orange slices at halftime.
Kid sports have to be fun and be fun all the time when kids are only out there because we send them out there. That makes youth soccer the only sport on a short list of team sports that really little kids should be playing.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)
It takes hours and hours and hours of practice for a 6-year-old even to learn to hit a baseball off a tee. Basketball is a pointless exercise until a kid can dribble the ball and has the strength to shoot the ball anywhere near the basket.
Soccer allows even beginners to play by standard rules and still get the benefits of exercise, teamwork while learning whether or not they enjoy competition.
There are loads of room for failure in activities like tee ball, mini-hoops basketball and other similar miniaturized team sports. Having coached both sports for kids who often hadn't played even in their own yards showed me the angst involved in a 6-year-old swinging a bat at a stationary ball, three times, and missing it each time.
Kids who are willing to run can't really fail on a soccer field. How hard is it for a pint-sized player to understand that they just need to keep the soccer ball from getting near their team's goal? My daughter and her teammates ran themselves ragged and had a blast when, really,
The other day I watched home video of my then 5-year-old son playing quarterback on touch football team for boys so young that they really didn't know the point of the game. I coached the tiny team with the idea that my son would distribute the ball to make sure every player got a chance to touch and run with the ball.
Small problem, though, because I trained my son to throw the ball short distances or to hand it to his teammates ... but, there was no way to teach the other children to hold on to the ball. The league didn't set aside practice time, not that practice would've helped a great deal.
The video shows my son throwing a pass to a little teammate that hit the tiny fellow right in the hands. The boy dropped the ball. The video shows my son drop his head into his hands, just devastated that the pass had fallen incomplete. It showed the little would-be receiver watch the ball bounce away, crestfallen.
There isn't a second of home video that shows anything but my daughter having a blast chasing the ball around the too-big field, laughing with her teammates and loving the orange slices at halftime.
Kid sports have to be fun and be fun all the time when kids are only out there because we send them out there. That makes youth soccer the only sport on a short list of team sports that really little kids should be playing.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.)
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Justin-Siena baseball's mini-controversy far off point
There are lots of nice people who aren't suited to coaching high school athletics.
Just because a guy was a baseball star in his playing days doesn't mean he can organize a practice, keep up with modern coaching techniques or is possessor of communication skills.
Your best friend might be a sociable fellow with a variety of interests and considerable intellect. That wouldn't, however, have anything to do with his ability to run a high school baseball program.
It's important to note these truths before wading into the mini-controversy surrounding the Justin-Siena High baseball program in Napa.
Justin-Siena just rehired head baseball coach Allen Rossi. Rossi returns after Scott Wright's five-year tenure running the Braves' program ended with the former Vintage High and Cal State Fullerton baseball star being fired this spring.
There is debate swirling around the Justin-Siena and Napa Valley baseball communities over Wright's dismissal. It's like every controversy that follows a coaching change at any high school.
Wright's supporters are upset over the way he was just sent packing despite his being a good friend and with a storied baseball background.
Others who follow Justin baseball are jumping for joy over Wright's departure and the return of the highly-successful and respected Rossi. All they know of Wright is what they know of him as a baseball coach.
The bickering goes on because no one wants to address what led to the coaching change. Folks fear that pointing out a coach's shortcomings are personal attacks on the coach as a human being. So, they argue about that which they don't understand.
The quality of community journalism has digressed to the point that coverage of Wright's termination shed no light on the details. It seemed as though the school had nothing but the highest regard for the former coach's work. The coach, himself, said simply that their were differences of opinion.
Coaches are fired over small differences of opinion.
If readers care enough to comment on newspaper stories in support of the old coach or the new coach, it's incumbent upon the media to try to find out why Wright might've been terminated.
Shedding some light on why the coaching change was made will be the only way to quiet Wright's critics and those who will now set about trying to undermine Rossi.
My son was a freshman left-handed pitcher at Justin-Siena in the spring. He started and ended the season on Wright's varsity team, enjoying the middle of the year playing for a coach he really liked named Mark McLeod.
I've spoken to Wright two or three times in the last three years. Once my kids reach high school, I expect their coaches to be diligent and communicative. So, I didn't talk to Wright this spring. I talked to my son about how to wade through the ups and downs of his first high school baseball season.
The folks who are bickering on the Napa Valley Register web site about Wright being treated unfairly or about the need to move forward with no further talk of what Wright did to lose his job can keep bickering -- or they can read on for a better understanding of the painful process of firing a high school coach.
My son called home in the middle of one of his varsity baseball practices. He said he didn't want to waste another practice watching his varsity teammates playing Wiffle ball instead of doing indoor baseball drills at a rainy-day practice.
Yes, Justin-Siena's baseball practice turned ito a backyard Wiffle ball game on rainy days. If someone would like to defend a varsity baseball coach who allows Wiffle ball games to account for a practice session, more power to them.
My kid wouldn't have been outside playing Wiffle ball at home, he'd have been doing homework to keep pace at the highly academic private school. So, I drove to Justin-Siena to pick him up. He wound up staying at practice to run relay races at the end of practice with his teammates.(Relay races aren't conditioning drills.)
High school baseball players playing Wiffle ball during varsity baseball practice doesn't make the coach a bad guy. Parents like me just expect more from a baseball coach, that's all.
Pitchers need to having a throwing schedule to include their game appearances and work between game appearances. Watch a practice at school with a quality program and you'll see kids throwing in the bullpen under the watchful eye of a pitching coach at practice. Even if it's wet outside, an indoor pitchers' mound allows for young pitchers to get their work in.
Justin-Siena pitchers didn't have a throwing program.
When my son's pitching, and his coach is calling his pitches, I would expect the coach to know that he's a fastball-curveball pitcher with a still-developing change-up. I'd expect the coach to know he's a freshman who throws a lot of pitches and goes deep in the count even when he's at his best. Last spring, my son was playing for a coach who clearly didn't take time to understand his pitchers.
It's impossible to find a college or professional hitting instructor who thinks pitching machines help hitters prepare for game situations. So, Justin-Siena's coach and his staff missed the mark by having the kids hit off machines almost exclusively. Live batting practice came on the field, with players standing around waiting their turn to hit.
The game has changed. First-rate coaches run practices built around fast-paced drills that balance work on hitting and the nuances of defense. Justin-Siena's coaching staff didn't run practices that quality coaching staffs run throughout Northern California.
Hey, it's not easy to run a first-rate, 2011-style high school baseball practice. Parents with sons who are serious about the game expect first-rate, new era workouts.
There are reasons to question how the 2010-2011 Justin baseball team was coached. None of those reasons have a thing to do with Scott Wright's character or his standing the community.
At mid-season, my son pitched a complete game and threw just over 100 pitches in a complete game JV win on a Wednesday. He was called to join the varsity and be prepared to pitch the following Saturday -- on two days rest.
Two days after pitching a complete game at Justin, my kid warmed up and threw maybe 40 pitches, after warming up in the bullpen, in Walnut Creek.
If all that I knew about the former coach and staff was that they allowed my son to throw 140 pitches in three days, it'd be reason for me to call for and approve a coaching change.
I should have complained to the Justin-Siena coaches in the spring. My son was overworked ailing. I opted not to go through the baseball staff protocol of meeting with the head coach in the presence of an assistant coach. My bad.
In the final week of the season, with my kid's arm still sore from the two outings in three days, he got the call back to the varsity. He warmed up to pitch three times in four days. He pitched twice in three days until, finally, he felt like he couldn't be at all effective and told the coaches he couldn't work in a game that determined the league's final playoff entry.
See? It's not about whether a coach was a great player in his youth. It's not about whether he a nice guy, a good friend. Coaching moves are made based on how a man tasked with nurturing young athletes handles those athletes.
My son, obviously, didn't respond well to the care he and his pitching arm were given this spring. He's sidelined with an arm injury after he could only manage 1 2/3 innings in the first game of a national summer tournament in Arizona.
Put yourself in this dad's shoes. Would you be worried that the former coach was unfairly dismissed?
Justin-Siena's decision to change baseball coaches doesn't reflect on Scott Wright's standing in the school or community. He's still a great and valued friend to many. Some Justin baseball parents could only judge him based on how he handled our players.
The Justin-Siena administration made a personnel decision that is believed to have best served the athletes and their families. The bickering should end or more people will be moved to tell more stories and, really, that would get ugly.
Let the controversy end. It would be best for all.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com)
Just because a guy was a baseball star in his playing days doesn't mean he can organize a practice, keep up with modern coaching techniques or is possessor of communication skills.
Your best friend might be a sociable fellow with a variety of interests and considerable intellect. That wouldn't, however, have anything to do with his ability to run a high school baseball program.
It's important to note these truths before wading into the mini-controversy surrounding the Justin-Siena High baseball program in Napa.
Justin-Siena just rehired head baseball coach Allen Rossi. Rossi returns after Scott Wright's five-year tenure running the Braves' program ended with the former Vintage High and Cal State Fullerton baseball star being fired this spring.
There is debate swirling around the Justin-Siena and Napa Valley baseball communities over Wright's dismissal. It's like every controversy that follows a coaching change at any high school.
Wright's supporters are upset over the way he was just sent packing despite his being a good friend and with a storied baseball background.
Others who follow Justin baseball are jumping for joy over Wright's departure and the return of the highly-successful and respected Rossi. All they know of Wright is what they know of him as a baseball coach.
The bickering goes on because no one wants to address what led to the coaching change. Folks fear that pointing out a coach's shortcomings are personal attacks on the coach as a human being. So, they argue about that which they don't understand.
The quality of community journalism has digressed to the point that coverage of Wright's termination shed no light on the details. It seemed as though the school had nothing but the highest regard for the former coach's work. The coach, himself, said simply that their were differences of opinion.
Coaches are fired over small differences of opinion.
If readers care enough to comment on newspaper stories in support of the old coach or the new coach, it's incumbent upon the media to try to find out why Wright might've been terminated.
Shedding some light on why the coaching change was made will be the only way to quiet Wright's critics and those who will now set about trying to undermine Rossi.
My son was a freshman left-handed pitcher at Justin-Siena in the spring. He started and ended the season on Wright's varsity team, enjoying the middle of the year playing for a coach he really liked named Mark McLeod.
I've spoken to Wright two or three times in the last three years. Once my kids reach high school, I expect their coaches to be diligent and communicative. So, I didn't talk to Wright this spring. I talked to my son about how to wade through the ups and downs of his first high school baseball season.
The folks who are bickering on the Napa Valley Register web site about Wright being treated unfairly or about the need to move forward with no further talk of what Wright did to lose his job can keep bickering -- or they can read on for a better understanding of the painful process of firing a high school coach.
My son called home in the middle of one of his varsity baseball practices. He said he didn't want to waste another practice watching his varsity teammates playing Wiffle ball instead of doing indoor baseball drills at a rainy-day practice.
Yes, Justin-Siena's baseball practice turned ito a backyard Wiffle ball game on rainy days. If someone would like to defend a varsity baseball coach who allows Wiffle ball games to account for a practice session, more power to them.
My kid wouldn't have been outside playing Wiffle ball at home, he'd have been doing homework to keep pace at the highly academic private school. So, I drove to Justin-Siena to pick him up. He wound up staying at practice to run relay races at the end of practice with his teammates.(Relay races aren't conditioning drills.)
High school baseball players playing Wiffle ball during varsity baseball practice doesn't make the coach a bad guy. Parents like me just expect more from a baseball coach, that's all.
Pitchers need to having a throwing schedule to include their game appearances and work between game appearances. Watch a practice at school with a quality program and you'll see kids throwing in the bullpen under the watchful eye of a pitching coach at practice. Even if it's wet outside, an indoor pitchers' mound allows for young pitchers to get their work in.
Justin-Siena pitchers didn't have a throwing program.
When my son's pitching, and his coach is calling his pitches, I would expect the coach to know that he's a fastball-curveball pitcher with a still-developing change-up. I'd expect the coach to know he's a freshman who throws a lot of pitches and goes deep in the count even when he's at his best. Last spring, my son was playing for a coach who clearly didn't take time to understand his pitchers.
It's impossible to find a college or professional hitting instructor who thinks pitching machines help hitters prepare for game situations. So, Justin-Siena's coach and his staff missed the mark by having the kids hit off machines almost exclusively. Live batting practice came on the field, with players standing around waiting their turn to hit.
The game has changed. First-rate coaches run practices built around fast-paced drills that balance work on hitting and the nuances of defense. Justin-Siena's coaching staff didn't run practices that quality coaching staffs run throughout Northern California.
Hey, it's not easy to run a first-rate, 2011-style high school baseball practice. Parents with sons who are serious about the game expect first-rate, new era workouts.
There are reasons to question how the 2010-2011 Justin baseball team was coached. None of those reasons have a thing to do with Scott Wright's character or his standing the community.
At mid-season, my son pitched a complete game and threw just over 100 pitches in a complete game JV win on a Wednesday. He was called to join the varsity and be prepared to pitch the following Saturday -- on two days rest.
Two days after pitching a complete game at Justin, my kid warmed up and threw maybe 40 pitches, after warming up in the bullpen, in Walnut Creek.
If all that I knew about the former coach and staff was that they allowed my son to throw 140 pitches in three days, it'd be reason for me to call for and approve a coaching change.
I should have complained to the Justin-Siena coaches in the spring. My son was overworked ailing. I opted not to go through the baseball staff protocol of meeting with the head coach in the presence of an assistant coach. My bad.
In the final week of the season, with my kid's arm still sore from the two outings in three days, he got the call back to the varsity. He warmed up to pitch three times in four days. He pitched twice in three days until, finally, he felt like he couldn't be at all effective and told the coaches he couldn't work in a game that determined the league's final playoff entry.
See? It's not about whether a coach was a great player in his youth. It's not about whether he a nice guy, a good friend. Coaching moves are made based on how a man tasked with nurturing young athletes handles those athletes.
My son, obviously, didn't respond well to the care he and his pitching arm were given this spring. He's sidelined with an arm injury after he could only manage 1 2/3 innings in the first game of a national summer tournament in Arizona.
Put yourself in this dad's shoes. Would you be worried that the former coach was unfairly dismissed?
Justin-Siena's decision to change baseball coaches doesn't reflect on Scott Wright's standing in the school or community. He's still a great and valued friend to many. Some Justin baseball parents could only judge him based on how he handled our players.
The Justin-Siena administration made a personnel decision that is believed to have best served the athletes and their families. The bickering should end or more people will be moved to tell more stories and, really, that would get ugly.
Let the controversy end. It would be best for all.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com)
Monday, July 11, 2011
Fairfield natives Keown, Sciacca earn Napa baseball honors
http://napavalleyregister.com/sports/high-school/all-county-baseball-first-team/article_5a8168ec-a3b2-11e0-a404-001cc4c002e0.html
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Fairfield baseball stars Alex Keown and Tony Sciacca have been placed on the All-Napa County baseball team by the Napa Valley Register. (The full set of first team selections can be found at the link above. Ideally, I'll figure out how to embed links directly soon.)
Keown was, without question, the best player on the Justin-Siena High team that struggled in Marin County Athletic League play. He was honored by the Napa newspaper as sort of a utility player, but had a banner season as Justin's No. 1 pitcher. The junior threw four pitches for strikes only to have his won-loss record marred by a shakey Justin-Siena defense and lackluster offense.
Keown was the team's lead-off hitter. The newspaper all-star selections, which are based on coaches' individual all-league nominations, don't reflect that Keown is one of the finest receivers and throwers to go behind the plate this spring. His quick release and powerful, accurate throwing arm helped the Braves stay in the MCAL playoff race.
Keown also saw extended action in the middle infield during a chaotic season at Justin where his leadership helped maintain a semblance of order in a campaign that ended with the dismissal of head coach Scott Wright.
While Keown played in the Tri-Valley Little League in Fairfield, Sciacca played for Fairfield Pacific. The sophomore pitcher-infielder had an outstanding season in Napa for tiny Trinity Prep. He also starred for coach Bob Greene's varsity as a freshman.
Fairfield connections go deeper at Trinity Prep. Greene graduated from Armijo High, is a lifetime Fairfield resident and coached JV baseball at Armijo High before former varsity head coach Marcus Franco was inexplicably sent packing after one glorious season at the helm at Armijo.
Keown played in the Bay World Series invitational tournament as a pitcher and catcher. He spent the summer playing for the Napa American Legion team that finished second in District I in tournament play at Laurel Creek in Fairfield.
Sciacca plays summer baseball for the best-kept secret among the many summer programs. He is in his second season for Solano Community College baseball coach Scott Stover's Solano Junior Falcons squad that features players, like Vanden star Elway Santisteven, from throughout the region. Stover's club includes players from Fairfield schools, Trinity Prep, Justin-Siena and other schools.
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Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com
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Fairfield baseball stars Alex Keown and Tony Sciacca have been placed on the All-Napa County baseball team by the Napa Valley Register. (The full set of first team selections can be found at the link above. Ideally, I'll figure out how to embed links directly soon.)
Keown was, without question, the best player on the Justin-Siena High team that struggled in Marin County Athletic League play. He was honored by the Napa newspaper as sort of a utility player, but had a banner season as Justin's No. 1 pitcher. The junior threw four pitches for strikes only to have his won-loss record marred by a shakey Justin-Siena defense and lackluster offense.
Keown was the team's lead-off hitter. The newspaper all-star selections, which are based on coaches' individual all-league nominations, don't reflect that Keown is one of the finest receivers and throwers to go behind the plate this spring. His quick release and powerful, accurate throwing arm helped the Braves stay in the MCAL playoff race.
Keown also saw extended action in the middle infield during a chaotic season at Justin where his leadership helped maintain a semblance of order in a campaign that ended with the dismissal of head coach Scott Wright.
While Keown played in the Tri-Valley Little League in Fairfield, Sciacca played for Fairfield Pacific. The sophomore pitcher-infielder had an outstanding season in Napa for tiny Trinity Prep. He also starred for coach Bob Greene's varsity as a freshman.
Fairfield connections go deeper at Trinity Prep. Greene graduated from Armijo High, is a lifetime Fairfield resident and coached JV baseball at Armijo High before former varsity head coach Marcus Franco was inexplicably sent packing after one glorious season at the helm at Armijo.
Keown played in the Bay World Series invitational tournament as a pitcher and catcher. He spent the summer playing for the Napa American Legion team that finished second in District I in tournament play at Laurel Creek in Fairfield.
Sciacca plays summer baseball for the best-kept secret among the many summer programs. He is in his second season for Solano Community College baseball coach Scott Stover's Solano Junior Falcons squad that features players, like Vanden star Elway Santisteven, from throughout the region. Stover's club includes players from Fairfield schools, Trinity Prep, Justin-Siena and other schools.
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Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com
Sillanpaa on Sports707: Sillanpaa on Sports707: Scholtens in the Daily Republic
href="http://www.dailyrepublic.com/sports/highschool/rodriguez-hurler-scholtens-named-to-all-state-teams/
Fairfield Daily Republic link to sports editor Paul Farmer's story about all-state pitcher Jesse Scholtens of Rodriguez High School.
Fairfield Daily Republic link to sports editor Paul Farmer's story about all-state pitcher Jesse Scholtens of Rodriguez High School.
Scholtens, Rodriguez baseball stars shine in summer
All-state high school baseball pitcher Jesse Scholtens continued his stellar career this summer, after sparkling for Rodriguez High School. He just did it under the media radar because he joined a growing number of Solano County players to play summer ball outside of Solano County.
Scholtens, shortstop Devon Golden and other keys to the Mustangs' Sonoma County Athletic Conference champion spent the summer playing for the Sacramento Whiplash.
Since he didn't play for a Fairfield-based American Legion team, media coverage of Scholtens only extends to his Fairfield-based high school play. The 6-foot-4 right-hander, however, is the elite level baseball player who typical spends his summer in showcase events and playing throughout the state, region and the country.
Scholtens shined at the Rawlings National Invitational World Series in Stockton in June. The senior righty drew rave reviews from one Bay Area coach who said, "He is legit. He throws hard. He throws strikes. He throws multiple pitches for strikes -- and he's aggressive. He works quickly and that's really appealing."
Scholtens also played in the Bay Area World Series for prep stars sponsored by Northern California scout and coach Blaine Clemmens. Scholtens was joined in that showcase event by Fairfield's Alex Keown, who played in the Tri-Valley Little League before going on to star at Justin-Siena in Napa. Keown is a senior catcher and pitcher.
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Hey! If you found this online, leave a note. Please! The more interest attracted by this effort to differently spotlight Solano and Napa county's athletes will result in more in-depth, hopefully interesting looks at area players of all ages. Contact me at: tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.
Scholtens, shortstop Devon Golden and other keys to the Mustangs' Sonoma County Athletic Conference champion spent the summer playing for the Sacramento Whiplash.
Since he didn't play for a Fairfield-based American Legion team, media coverage of Scholtens only extends to his Fairfield-based high school play. The 6-foot-4 right-hander, however, is the elite level baseball player who typical spends his summer in showcase events and playing throughout the state, region and the country.
Scholtens shined at the Rawlings National Invitational World Series in Stockton in June. The senior righty drew rave reviews from one Bay Area coach who said, "He is legit. He throws hard. He throws strikes. He throws multiple pitches for strikes -- and he's aggressive. He works quickly and that's really appealing."
Scholtens also played in the Bay Area World Series for prep stars sponsored by Northern California scout and coach Blaine Clemmens. Scholtens was joined in that showcase event by Fairfield's Alex Keown, who played in the Tri-Valley Little League before going on to star at Justin-Siena in Napa. Keown is a senior catcher and pitcher.
----
Hey! If you found this online, leave a note. Please! The more interest attracted by this effort to differently spotlight Solano and Napa county's athletes will result in more in-depth, hopefully interesting looks at area players of all ages. Contact me at: tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com.
Wednesday, January 06, 2010
Oncourt Culture Clash
Napa High School's girls basketball team is a supremely gifted group. Every player on the roster is white in a town where people of color still stand out.
Vanden High School is located on the outskirts of Fairfield, just off I-80 about 45 miles from Oakland. The girls basketball team is one of the best in Northern California. Every player on the Vikings' roster is black and lives in a place where, odd as it sounds, minority groups have become the majority.
Those of us who still choose to believe basketball, and sports, success has to do with something more than race and economic status figured Napa's girls were in good position to win the game. Heck, it was the group from Napa that hooked up the booming hip-hip and rap mix to blast through the gymnasium speaker system during pre-game warm-ups. If basketball was about funk and soul and whatever else apparently lies at the roots of rap and hip-hop -- Napa's kids chose the music to back up their game.
The only thing separating the two highly-rated teams was that one had all blacks and the other had all whites. Race and the neighborhood a kid lives in didn't seem to make any difference. Both teams had great records and star players. Play on.
When warm-ups ended, Napa's girls skipped back to their bench. Vanden's girls huddled in the middle of the court and chanted loudly as they swayed back and forth. That, as it turns out, was the all-black Vikings serving notice that sports success is actually a lot about race and background because race and background influences confidence, desire and skill.
The crowd, made up largely of Napa fans, went immediately silent as the Vanden chant began. The Vikings were greeted with smirks and raised eyebrows when they walked over to their bench. They, as it turned out, had no idea because it turns out that Vanden's girls make every gymnasium their gymnasium. Attitude and focus do play a role in basketball, so ... OK ... the team from the inner-city had an edge. Those smirks and raised eyebrows were actually nervous reactions from Napa fans who aren't used to, um, seeing...you know...er...a team with...with all...uh...girls in green uniforms who stomp the gym like they own it.
Now, there are people who saw the Napa-Vanden game who'll insist that the Vikings' near-30 point victory had nothing to do with race, heritage and social status. There are those, though, who could see that it had everything to do with the victory.
The players and teams do have largely equal skill sets and were equally prepared as units. Why, then, did Vanden's fullcourt pressing defense result in every Napa player giving the ball up almost immediately in the face of pressure?
When the game really started to turn Vanden's way, each player in Napa's lineup slowly backed down. (After the game, even the Napa coach said, "Our team just folded.") By the end, only one Napa player was still challenging Vanden. This player, who isn't normally in position to handle the ball, became the lone ballhandler. When her peers stepped back, she stepped up. (She's one of the finest female athletes in the state and, thus, has had to get past preconceived notions of what should happen when gifted black, inner-city athletes compete against more privileged suburan white kids.)
At one point, one of Napa's key players was knocked to the ground. She sat there long enough for the aforementioned Napa standout to shout, "Get up! C'mon!" The look on her face seemed to show that she hadn't considered whether winning a basketball game was worth getting knocked down over.
Just seconds later, one of Napa's primary scorers and rebounders jumped for the ball -- exactly when Vanden's 6-foot-1 center jumped for it. The Napa girl went flailing out of bounds as the Vanden player grabbed the ball and dropped it through the hoop. Again, the look on the Napa player's face showed that she and her teammates aren't accustomed to making every fight for a loose ball a fight for life in microcosm.
Most all agree that blacks are quicker and jump higher than whites. So, we hesitate to rate quickness and leaping ability on what seems to be skin color alone. But, Napa's got a pretty productive fullcourt press and big rebounders. Vanden responded to them with quick passes and bursts to the basket. Take away the one Napa all-state type athlete and there wasn't a single player in a white uniform as quick or as quick to get off the ground as any girl in a green uniform.
Napa's girls seemed intimidated by their all-black opponent. That was the difference in the game. Napa's girls wanted to win and were prepared to win. Vanden's girls played like they had to win, as though victory was the only acceptable result.
It was a clash of cultures. There are probably culture clashes in gyms all across the country on any given night.
In Napa, and other more privileged spots in America, kids grow up being taught that a "good try" is the goal. They are surrounded by adults who try to coach out of them a desire to play as though victory is the only acceptable result. The youth sports culture in white, suburban America has taken too far the notion that it's not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.
Go out there thinking about giving a good try and believing that winning and losing doesn't matter will get a girls high school basketball team run out of the gym.
Vanden's girls basketball team pushes and bumps and scores and scores and...they understand that opponents will push back. They live in a world where lots of pushing and pulling goes on every single day -- sometimes just to survive. So, go ahead, play hard...push them...knock them around. They can handle it. Heck, they expect it.
It's 2010, but an all-white team still doesn't necessarily want to throw down when they can back down against a confident, aggressive all-black team.
It's culture thing.
Kids who grow up in the inner city under harsh economic conditions will get run over and forgotten if they get knocked down, so they rarely back down. Youngsters who come from more affluent areas maybe feel like they have a fall back position if they get knocked down, so they'd just as soon back down.
Yeah, it's a culture thing.
Vanden High School is located on the outskirts of Fairfield, just off I-80 about 45 miles from Oakland. The girls basketball team is one of the best in Northern California. Every player on the Vikings' roster is black and lives in a place where, odd as it sounds, minority groups have become the majority.
Those of us who still choose to believe basketball, and sports, success has to do with something more than race and economic status figured Napa's girls were in good position to win the game. Heck, it was the group from Napa that hooked up the booming hip-hip and rap mix to blast through the gymnasium speaker system during pre-game warm-ups. If basketball was about funk and soul and whatever else apparently lies at the roots of rap and hip-hop -- Napa's kids chose the music to back up their game.
The only thing separating the two highly-rated teams was that one had all blacks and the other had all whites. Race and the neighborhood a kid lives in didn't seem to make any difference. Both teams had great records and star players. Play on.
When warm-ups ended, Napa's girls skipped back to their bench. Vanden's girls huddled in the middle of the court and chanted loudly as they swayed back and forth. That, as it turns out, was the all-black Vikings serving notice that sports success is actually a lot about race and background because race and background influences confidence, desire and skill.
The crowd, made up largely of Napa fans, went immediately silent as the Vanden chant began. The Vikings were greeted with smirks and raised eyebrows when they walked over to their bench. They, as it turned out, had no idea because it turns out that Vanden's girls make every gymnasium their gymnasium. Attitude and focus do play a role in basketball, so ... OK ... the team from the inner-city had an edge. Those smirks and raised eyebrows were actually nervous reactions from Napa fans who aren't used to, um, seeing...you know...er...a team with...with all...uh...girls in green uniforms who stomp the gym like they own it.
Now, there are people who saw the Napa-Vanden game who'll insist that the Vikings' near-30 point victory had nothing to do with race, heritage and social status. There are those, though, who could see that it had everything to do with the victory.
The players and teams do have largely equal skill sets and were equally prepared as units. Why, then, did Vanden's fullcourt pressing defense result in every Napa player giving the ball up almost immediately in the face of pressure?
When the game really started to turn Vanden's way, each player in Napa's lineup slowly backed down. (After the game, even the Napa coach said, "Our team just folded.") By the end, only one Napa player was still challenging Vanden. This player, who isn't normally in position to handle the ball, became the lone ballhandler. When her peers stepped back, she stepped up. (She's one of the finest female athletes in the state and, thus, has had to get past preconceived notions of what should happen when gifted black, inner-city athletes compete against more privileged suburan white kids.)
At one point, one of Napa's key players was knocked to the ground. She sat there long enough for the aforementioned Napa standout to shout, "Get up! C'mon!" The look on her face seemed to show that she hadn't considered whether winning a basketball game was worth getting knocked down over.
Just seconds later, one of Napa's primary scorers and rebounders jumped for the ball -- exactly when Vanden's 6-foot-1 center jumped for it. The Napa girl went flailing out of bounds as the Vanden player grabbed the ball and dropped it through the hoop. Again, the look on the Napa player's face showed that she and her teammates aren't accustomed to making every fight for a loose ball a fight for life in microcosm.
Most all agree that blacks are quicker and jump higher than whites. So, we hesitate to rate quickness and leaping ability on what seems to be skin color alone. But, Napa's got a pretty productive fullcourt press and big rebounders. Vanden responded to them with quick passes and bursts to the basket. Take away the one Napa all-state type athlete and there wasn't a single player in a white uniform as quick or as quick to get off the ground as any girl in a green uniform.
Napa's girls seemed intimidated by their all-black opponent. That was the difference in the game. Napa's girls wanted to win and were prepared to win. Vanden's girls played like they had to win, as though victory was the only acceptable result.
It was a clash of cultures. There are probably culture clashes in gyms all across the country on any given night.
In Napa, and other more privileged spots in America, kids grow up being taught that a "good try" is the goal. They are surrounded by adults who try to coach out of them a desire to play as though victory is the only acceptable result. The youth sports culture in white, suburban America has taken too far the notion that it's not whether you win or lose, but how you play the game.
Go out there thinking about giving a good try and believing that winning and losing doesn't matter will get a girls high school basketball team run out of the gym.
Vanden's girls basketball team pushes and bumps and scores and scores and...they understand that opponents will push back. They live in a world where lots of pushing and pulling goes on every single day -- sometimes just to survive. So, go ahead, play hard...push them...knock them around. They can handle it. Heck, they expect it.
It's 2010, but an all-white team still doesn't necessarily want to throw down when they can back down against a confident, aggressive all-black team.
It's culture thing.
Kids who grow up in the inner city under harsh economic conditions will get run over and forgotten if they get knocked down, so they rarely back down. Youngsters who come from more affluent areas maybe feel like they have a fall back position if they get knocked down, so they'd just as soon back down.
Yeah, it's a culture thing.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Got The Boy a Big League Foul Ball
Little strikes me as more absurd than a grown man taking his baseball glove to a Major League Baseball game in hopes of catching a foul ball hit into the stands.
Nothing strike me as more ridiculous than a group of men wrestling for a foul ball hit into the seats at a big league game.
I've really thought it through. And, I realize, most men reading this are thinking, "Hey, asshole...I take my mitt to the game all the time! I'd kill to get a foul ball at a Giants game when I'm in San Francisco!" It's fine with me if grown men are interested in trying to catch a foul ball, but I think the notion's absurd. I don't care if 12 dudes from four different sections dive over rows of seats to fight over a ball -- as long as they don't dive on me or anyone else who might be injured in their childish rush to get a game-used big league ball.
The ball only costs $7, maybe $10. I can buy a brand new one and not have to look foolish to get it. What makes the game-used ball special? Well, umpires rub them down with a special mud concoction that makes them easier to grip. And, of course, they've been touched by the pitcher and the bat that the batter used to hit the foul ball. So, I can't see myself coming out of a scrum in section 106, row 4 feeling good because I got a ball that Bobby Howry touched right before Johnny Gomes hit it my way...
Wait, that's not true. In most cases I wouldn't go out of my way to get a ball that a journeyman pitcher like Howry touched before a former Petaluma High School star like Gomes blooped it into the seats. Today, at AT&T Park in San Francisco, I went a bit out of my and grabbed a ball that those two big leaguers had been warring with.
Is it techinically going out of my way to turn halfway around, see the ball bounce on the ground behind me and then grab at it? I didn't leave my seat. I didn't turn the full 180 degrees needed to really make a full effort for the ball. My lone thought was, "It's right there and Kellen always wants a foul ball..."
I grabbed a big league foul ball -- my first one ever -- and handed it to my 13-year-old son.
Hooray for me! Huh?
We got free tickets from my son Trent's co-worker. I really only go to big league games when somebody gives me tickets. I love the game and love those Giants, but I won't pay $78 for two tickets to get close enough to enjoy the game. Sitting the press box off and on for years spoiled me. I root for the Giants, but I don't cheer out loud. So, if I'm in cheaper seat far from the field, it's really no fun for me.
Let me stop, briefly, to thank my older sons who have friends who have access to amazingly good seats that sometimes come my way free of charge. Kellen and Tyren have sat in the dugout seats -- the seats at ground level that you can see on TV every time they show the batter from the center field camera. All four kids went and took turns sharing those premium freebies and two seats in the lower box seats right behind home plate. Trent's co-worker gave him two tickets today that put Kellen and I just past the Reds' dugout, four rows from the field.
My primary concern about foul balls is getting out of the way of those line drives that get laced into the seats. Trent's mom Amy got hit with a ball fouled straight back at Candlestick Park once. It thumped her thigh and shoulder before she could flinch -- and before I could fight my natural reaction to duck. A guy in front of her grabbed it and celebrated. She got a bruise. Those high, high, sky-high pops are of no interest either. At best, it's going to sting like hell if you catch one.
I won't fight for a foul ball.
Today, around the sixth inning, Howry threw a pitch that Gomes popped in our direction. I've spent a lifetime figuring out if a foul ball's coming at me or whether I'm safe. As the ball started curl back toward the field, as all pop fouls do, Kellen said, "Heads up," and leaned away and said, "Hey! Heads up!" That was him telling to me try to get the ball without saying, "C'mon dad! Don't be a candyass! Stand up and catch it!"
I didn't move. The ball came down on a woman in the row behind me. She was flanked by two grown men who sat there, apparently, and let her duck forward and take the foul ball in the square of the back. I didn't see it because I didn't turn around. Kellen's second, "Hey, heads up," did spur me half-turn and...the ball was coming to a rest right behind my seat.
It took no effort...none...to reach back with my left hand and grab the ball. It was so simple that I grabbed with my thumb and two fingers...not with a full, five-finger, I-gotta-have-this-ball death grip. Before I could move the ball, some horse's ass from 10, 12 rows behind me came sprinting down the stairs and leaped at the ball.
A full grown man who, I figure, was about 6-foot, 210 pounds was so damned determined to get that foul ball that he dove onto the cement and got both hands on the ball...on top of my hand. My first thought was, "Screw it, asshole! Take the ball!" I imagined a brief tussle that would be shown in replays on television. Yeek!
Then, I realized I actually only had the ball in a thumb and index finger grip. It was then that I heard Kellen say, "Get it!" And, it was then that I had one of my rare bursts of intentional machismo. I was going to fight over the ball...as much as I could with my weaker arm and a tiny, little grip.
Until I heard Kellen say, "Get it," I didn't believe the stories of super-human strength that some folks show when they're helping their family. I didn't exactly have to lift a Volkswagon off of Kellen, but I did need to pull the baseball away from a guy who had a better grip and a whole lot more gotta-have-it than I did. The dumb shit just kept pulling at the ball that I had pinned to the cement.
I was at the point where I was going to look at the guy, tell him he could buy one for $10 and then say, "Take it...maybe Bobby Howry can autograph it for you." But...I got my middle finger (which I wanted later to use in a much different way in regard to my foe) on the ball. I realized, "Hey, this jackass is giving it everything he's got and I'm pulling the ball from him!" I never win battles of strength and even less frequently win battles of will. One tug, with a twist that came to mind late, and I had the ball.
I handed it to Kellen and started watching the game. He was excited. It must be cool to see your old man do something so macho and dad-like. He almost never gets the chance. Then, the two season-ticket holders who treated our section like their living room looked at Kellen and said, "Give her the ball. It hit that lady behind you."
He looked at me. I looked at him. Clearly, the season-ticket holders know baseball etiquette requires every foul ball be given to the little kid. And, clearly, they looked at my 6-foot, 145-pound 13-year-old with slight sideburns and in need of a little shave and thought a 17-year-old was stiffing the old lady who took the blow.
"I'd keep it. You're only a kid," I said. "It's up to you."
Left to his own sense of fair play and common courtesy, he turned and offered the ball to the woman. She politely declined and ... happy ending all around. The season ticket holders, and all who saw his gesture, lauded him for doing the right thing. (After his father essentially said, "Screw 'em! Keep it!")
So, that's how I got the foul ball I figured I'd never get at a big league ball park.
I'm pleased with my effort because Kellen's got dreams, you know? So, he held that damned ball and stared at it off and on until the final out. He called everybody in the immediately family to tell them about the event. He showed it to me and said, "Feel how flat the seams are...it seems so tightly wound...must be hard to make it curve..." Then, he finally got ahold of his little sister to tell her the tale.
"I got a foul ball at the Giants game," he said.
"YOU got the foul ball?"
I nearly missed the I-80 exit onto the Bay Bridge.
"YOU got the ball? Tell her how you got it!!!"
I felt a rush of testosterone.
Nothing strike me as more ridiculous than a group of men wrestling for a foul ball hit into the seats at a big league game.
I've really thought it through. And, I realize, most men reading this are thinking, "Hey, asshole...I take my mitt to the game all the time! I'd kill to get a foul ball at a Giants game when I'm in San Francisco!" It's fine with me if grown men are interested in trying to catch a foul ball, but I think the notion's absurd. I don't care if 12 dudes from four different sections dive over rows of seats to fight over a ball -- as long as they don't dive on me or anyone else who might be injured in their childish rush to get a game-used big league ball.
The ball only costs $7, maybe $10. I can buy a brand new one and not have to look foolish to get it. What makes the game-used ball special? Well, umpires rub them down with a special mud concoction that makes them easier to grip. And, of course, they've been touched by the pitcher and the bat that the batter used to hit the foul ball. So, I can't see myself coming out of a scrum in section 106, row 4 feeling good because I got a ball that Bobby Howry touched right before Johnny Gomes hit it my way...
Wait, that's not true. In most cases I wouldn't go out of my way to get a ball that a journeyman pitcher like Howry touched before a former Petaluma High School star like Gomes blooped it into the seats. Today, at AT&T Park in San Francisco, I went a bit out of my and grabbed a ball that those two big leaguers had been warring with.
Is it techinically going out of my way to turn halfway around, see the ball bounce on the ground behind me and then grab at it? I didn't leave my seat. I didn't turn the full 180 degrees needed to really make a full effort for the ball. My lone thought was, "It's right there and Kellen always wants a foul ball..."
I grabbed a big league foul ball -- my first one ever -- and handed it to my 13-year-old son.
Hooray for me! Huh?
We got free tickets from my son Trent's co-worker. I really only go to big league games when somebody gives me tickets. I love the game and love those Giants, but I won't pay $78 for two tickets to get close enough to enjoy the game. Sitting the press box off and on for years spoiled me. I root for the Giants, but I don't cheer out loud. So, if I'm in cheaper seat far from the field, it's really no fun for me.
Let me stop, briefly, to thank my older sons who have friends who have access to amazingly good seats that sometimes come my way free of charge. Kellen and Tyren have sat in the dugout seats -- the seats at ground level that you can see on TV every time they show the batter from the center field camera. All four kids went and took turns sharing those premium freebies and two seats in the lower box seats right behind home plate. Trent's co-worker gave him two tickets today that put Kellen and I just past the Reds' dugout, four rows from the field.
My primary concern about foul balls is getting out of the way of those line drives that get laced into the seats. Trent's mom Amy got hit with a ball fouled straight back at Candlestick Park once. It thumped her thigh and shoulder before she could flinch -- and before I could fight my natural reaction to duck. A guy in front of her grabbed it and celebrated. She got a bruise. Those high, high, sky-high pops are of no interest either. At best, it's going to sting like hell if you catch one.
I won't fight for a foul ball.
Today, around the sixth inning, Howry threw a pitch that Gomes popped in our direction. I've spent a lifetime figuring out if a foul ball's coming at me or whether I'm safe. As the ball started curl back toward the field, as all pop fouls do, Kellen said, "Heads up," and leaned away and said, "Hey! Heads up!" That was him telling to me try to get the ball without saying, "C'mon dad! Don't be a candyass! Stand up and catch it!"
I didn't move. The ball came down on a woman in the row behind me. She was flanked by two grown men who sat there, apparently, and let her duck forward and take the foul ball in the square of the back. I didn't see it because I didn't turn around. Kellen's second, "Hey, heads up," did spur me half-turn and...the ball was coming to a rest right behind my seat.
It took no effort...none...to reach back with my left hand and grab the ball. It was so simple that I grabbed with my thumb and two fingers...not with a full, five-finger, I-gotta-have-this-ball death grip. Before I could move the ball, some horse's ass from 10, 12 rows behind me came sprinting down the stairs and leaped at the ball.
A full grown man who, I figure, was about 6-foot, 210 pounds was so damned determined to get that foul ball that he dove onto the cement and got both hands on the ball...on top of my hand. My first thought was, "Screw it, asshole! Take the ball!" I imagined a brief tussle that would be shown in replays on television. Yeek!
Then, I realized I actually only had the ball in a thumb and index finger grip. It was then that I heard Kellen say, "Get it!" And, it was then that I had one of my rare bursts of intentional machismo. I was going to fight over the ball...as much as I could with my weaker arm and a tiny, little grip.
Until I heard Kellen say, "Get it," I didn't believe the stories of super-human strength that some folks show when they're helping their family. I didn't exactly have to lift a Volkswagon off of Kellen, but I did need to pull the baseball away from a guy who had a better grip and a whole lot more gotta-have-it than I did. The dumb shit just kept pulling at the ball that I had pinned to the cement.
I was at the point where I was going to look at the guy, tell him he could buy one for $10 and then say, "Take it...maybe Bobby Howry can autograph it for you." But...I got my middle finger (which I wanted later to use in a much different way in regard to my foe) on the ball. I realized, "Hey, this jackass is giving it everything he's got and I'm pulling the ball from him!" I never win battles of strength and even less frequently win battles of will. One tug, with a twist that came to mind late, and I had the ball.
I handed it to Kellen and started watching the game. He was excited. It must be cool to see your old man do something so macho and dad-like. He almost never gets the chance. Then, the two season-ticket holders who treated our section like their living room looked at Kellen and said, "Give her the ball. It hit that lady behind you."
He looked at me. I looked at him. Clearly, the season-ticket holders know baseball etiquette requires every foul ball be given to the little kid. And, clearly, they looked at my 6-foot, 145-pound 13-year-old with slight sideburns and in need of a little shave and thought a 17-year-old was stiffing the old lady who took the blow.
"I'd keep it. You're only a kid," I said. "It's up to you."
Left to his own sense of fair play and common courtesy, he turned and offered the ball to the woman. She politely declined and ... happy ending all around. The season ticket holders, and all who saw his gesture, lauded him for doing the right thing. (After his father essentially said, "Screw 'em! Keep it!")
So, that's how I got the foul ball I figured I'd never get at a big league ball park.
I'm pleased with my effort because Kellen's got dreams, you know? So, he held that damned ball and stared at it off and on until the final out. He called everybody in the immediately family to tell them about the event. He showed it to me and said, "Feel how flat the seams are...it seems so tightly wound...must be hard to make it curve..." Then, he finally got ahold of his little sister to tell her the tale.
"I got a foul ball at the Giants game," he said.
"YOU got the foul ball?"
I nearly missed the I-80 exit onto the Bay Bridge.
"YOU got the ball? Tell her how you got it!!!"
I felt a rush of testosterone.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
Self-Loathing On the Jogging Trail
When I was a runner, in my 20s and 30s, I mocked the overweight dude out slogging along at a snail's pace. Dude'd be sweating through his gray t-shirt and the white sweat band he wore around his bid, old head. More often than not, he was carrying a cassette tape player or a walkman CD machine because, God knew, there was no way he'd make it a mile or two without music to drastic him from the discomfort.
At that point, I was running five miles in a hair over 30 minutes. Living in my hometown of Eureka, I'd go out of my way most days to find more, steeper hills to run. On days when nothing felt right, and there were many, running hard and fast and for five or six miles saved me. I felt alive. I felt good about myself, which was and is rare, every step of the way.
Now? I'm that overweight dude shuffling along with an iPod playing tunes to keep my mind off how it difficult every step has become. Worse...I'm an old, overweight dude. Way worse...I'm suffering shin splints -- or some other malady that stems from asking my legs to carry more weight, too far and too fast. And...shit...I'm barely even jogging two miles.
There's a truly serious runner working in my office. He's about my age, but he's never allowed himself to balloon to 30 pounds over his ... er, 40 pounds over his prime running weight. (Actually, I've gained 90 pounds since I first ran six hard miles a day at the height of my battle with panic attacks in my early 20s.) The guy runs half-marathons and he trains with a team that has a coach and, heck, I remember when my pals and I laughed because the only real athletes on our high school cross country team were David Wells, Mike Whitehead and Rick Hrdina. Beyond those three studs, it was a bunch of guys who could run and couldn't play ball.
"What's wrong with being that guy?"
Figures that the runner I work with would have sympathy for the devil I think is the overweight, old, lard ass I've become.
"You're out there...you're doing it..."
That's exactly what I used to hear people say about the fattest, slowest, dopiest looking runners in my running heyday. "Oh, be nice...at least he's out there running!" (I'd point out that it's not running if you're barely moving.)
What's wrong with being that guy?
I'm an athlete. I play ball. The guy who bats cleanup and leads the team in home runs doesn't wear a white headband. The guy who goes in the game to defend the leading scorer on the other basketball team wouldn't have a pot belly. I'm the guy who goes out to play flag football, once every couple years, and absolutely tears it up at quarterback...so, everything's wrong with me being that guy because...I'm not that guy...I'm those guys I just described.
Damn!
I jogged again tonight, doing just about everything the runner told me to avoid as I get back in shape. I didn't start with a speed walk. I jogged 1.5 miles and stopped only to walk one little upward slope just before my shin splits began to ache. Then, I shuffled all the way home...2.3 miles...listening to my iPod and wishing that "Lunatic Fringe" could inspire me to acknowledge who I've actually become and, thus, move me to be who I've always felt I was.
See, now...I'm a walking, talking A-1 heart attack waiting to happen. It's not a matter of if I'm going to have one -- everybody in my family had one or more. It's simply a matter of when I'm going to have a heart attack. I've known it for years and, thus, ran all those miles simply to add a few minutes or a few days or a few weeks to my life. I was running five, six miles and...I thought...running away from the heart problem I knew was right behind me.
My risk factors for a heart attack probably couldn't be higher. I'm genetically predisposed. And, thanks to getting away from fitness, my blood pressure has risen to Stage One hypertension. (No...it doesn't stop me from jogging when others would walk.) I'm overweight and my cholesterol levels are high. Actually, my overall cholesterol level is OK...my bad cholesterol level is high.
Dammit, I'm not that guy. I'm not that guy who goes for a walk and hopes that, maybe, in a couple months he can jog a little. I'm not that guy who's afraid to run because it elevates his heart rate. I'm smart enough to know that I'm not running so hard that I can't control my breathing. Remember the famous running doctor? Dr. Jim Fixx? He was an early proponent of distance running for health, then died at the start of a short run of a heart attack. It turned out he ignored pains in places that indicate a heart problem. To date, I've had no such pain ... and I'm not that guy who walks and checks his pulse all the while because he's fuckin' afraid of dropping on the jogging path.
I got in shape once, when I really was an athlete, outrunning depression and panic attacks. Maybe I can do it again, even though I'm not an athlete at all, because I'm not going to give up and just sit around eating cookies until the heart attack hits. Only a candy-ass in a gray sweatshirt, with a walkman, black tennis shoes and a really, really, really red face who takes walks for fitness would do that.
I'm not that guy.
At that point, I was running five miles in a hair over 30 minutes. Living in my hometown of Eureka, I'd go out of my way most days to find more, steeper hills to run. On days when nothing felt right, and there were many, running hard and fast and for five or six miles saved me. I felt alive. I felt good about myself, which was and is rare, every step of the way.
Now? I'm that overweight dude shuffling along with an iPod playing tunes to keep my mind off how it difficult every step has become. Worse...I'm an old, overweight dude. Way worse...I'm suffering shin splints -- or some other malady that stems from asking my legs to carry more weight, too far and too fast. And...shit...I'm barely even jogging two miles.
There's a truly serious runner working in my office. He's about my age, but he's never allowed himself to balloon to 30 pounds over his ... er, 40 pounds over his prime running weight. (Actually, I've gained 90 pounds since I first ran six hard miles a day at the height of my battle with panic attacks in my early 20s.) The guy runs half-marathons and he trains with a team that has a coach and, heck, I remember when my pals and I laughed because the only real athletes on our high school cross country team were David Wells, Mike Whitehead and Rick Hrdina. Beyond those three studs, it was a bunch of guys who could run and couldn't play ball.
"What's wrong with being that guy?"
Figures that the runner I work with would have sympathy for the devil I think is the overweight, old, lard ass I've become.
"You're out there...you're doing it..."
That's exactly what I used to hear people say about the fattest, slowest, dopiest looking runners in my running heyday. "Oh, be nice...at least he's out there running!" (I'd point out that it's not running if you're barely moving.)
What's wrong with being that guy?
I'm an athlete. I play ball. The guy who bats cleanup and leads the team in home runs doesn't wear a white headband. The guy who goes in the game to defend the leading scorer on the other basketball team wouldn't have a pot belly. I'm the guy who goes out to play flag football, once every couple years, and absolutely tears it up at quarterback...so, everything's wrong with me being that guy because...I'm not that guy...I'm those guys I just described.
Damn!
I jogged again tonight, doing just about everything the runner told me to avoid as I get back in shape. I didn't start with a speed walk. I jogged 1.5 miles and stopped only to walk one little upward slope just before my shin splits began to ache. Then, I shuffled all the way home...2.3 miles...listening to my iPod and wishing that "Lunatic Fringe" could inspire me to acknowledge who I've actually become and, thus, move me to be who I've always felt I was.
See, now...I'm a walking, talking A-1 heart attack waiting to happen. It's not a matter of if I'm going to have one -- everybody in my family had one or more. It's simply a matter of when I'm going to have a heart attack. I've known it for years and, thus, ran all those miles simply to add a few minutes or a few days or a few weeks to my life. I was running five, six miles and...I thought...running away from the heart problem I knew was right behind me.
My risk factors for a heart attack probably couldn't be higher. I'm genetically predisposed. And, thanks to getting away from fitness, my blood pressure has risen to Stage One hypertension. (No...it doesn't stop me from jogging when others would walk.) I'm overweight and my cholesterol levels are high. Actually, my overall cholesterol level is OK...my bad cholesterol level is high.
Dammit, I'm not that guy. I'm not that guy who goes for a walk and hopes that, maybe, in a couple months he can jog a little. I'm not that guy who's afraid to run because it elevates his heart rate. I'm smart enough to know that I'm not running so hard that I can't control my breathing. Remember the famous running doctor? Dr. Jim Fixx? He was an early proponent of distance running for health, then died at the start of a short run of a heart attack. It turned out he ignored pains in places that indicate a heart problem. To date, I've had no such pain ... and I'm not that guy who walks and checks his pulse all the while because he's fuckin' afraid of dropping on the jogging path.
I got in shape once, when I really was an athlete, outrunning depression and panic attacks. Maybe I can do it again, even though I'm not an athlete at all, because I'm not going to give up and just sit around eating cookies until the heart attack hits. Only a candy-ass in a gray sweatshirt, with a walkman, black tennis shoes and a really, really, really red face who takes walks for fitness would do that.
I'm not that guy.
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