hot stove: the first edition

Its only been a few days since I posted "game 7" and already the hot stove is burning in Atlanta. With yesterday's good by to McLouth and today's departure of Lowe for a single A prospect, Braves Country is ready for next season. All the "experts" call the moves addition by subtraction, and I would have to say that for the most part I'm in agreement. It seems though, that many of the experts forget the holes that Lowe and McLouth were brought in to fill.

In sports, and in life, people tend to place their feeling, beliefs, and convictions on the last thing that they remember. They neglect the events that lead up to whatever is happening now. I believe this to be a fault of human nature. It would be too much of a cliche to say those that neglect the past are doomed to repeat it so we will leave that part out, and simply say: don't forget the quality starts. When the Braves signed Lowe as a free agent the team didn't have any pitching at all to speak of, and he was a post season hero. It made sense. His first start at the Ted was electric, 15 wins latter we all were happy Lowe was on the team. That was a few years ago though, and tonight you would think that we just traded away the worst player in MLB history. To my mind that's not fair to Lowe or the Braves.

Anyway, tonight the Hot Stove is just getting warm for the winter. It is going to fun to watch Frank make his moves over the next few months.

game 7

Spring training started on Valentines Day: Opening Day was March 31,  July 12 marked the All Star Game, and tonight is the last game of the year. Game 7 of the Fall Classic is tied at two, Harrison and Carpenter are both settling down after having shaky first innings, and its shaping up to be a good one. And rightfully so; after 7 months we deserve one for the history books.

Allan Craig!!! Cards lead 3-2

Looking back on the season now, it seems to be a haze of highs and lows. But the memory that is clear in my mind: the warm summer nights spent on the deck listening to Don Sutton and Jim Powell call the games with a cold drink and a good smoke. I believe the beauty of baseball is the easy way it lends itself to an easy laid back radio broadcast. After a day of talking, talking, and more talking, Don and Jim are happy for me not say a word for three hours while they carry the conversation. They don't get upset if I have one to many, and if my mind drifts to some where else that's no problem either.  And really, whats does life offer us that is a better experience than a balmy July night with an icy bourbon and good baseball story?

It is more than likely going to be a long cold winter this year, but the hot stove will be burning and spring training will be right around the corner. I think that should be enough to pull me through to opening day 2012.

Bottom 5th Cards still up 3-2

how 'bout them yankees

I not a person that holds on to many forms of discrimination. Sexism, racism, or any other kind of ism that most people think of are generally not part of my makeup. However, I have to admit I'm guilty of  discriminating against people from two parts of the world: northerners (also know as Yankees) and Texans (also know as assholes). This week though I have I have been forced to take another look at my opinion of Yankees.
The first thought I have when people say they are from New York, Maryland, Pennsylvania, or anywhere else in New England, is that they fit the typical northern big city profile. That is to say, I believe them to rude, uppity, and ignorant of more our gentile ways before I even shake their hand. I have to say though, I might have been in error, at least in part. Having spent all of this week so far with a colleague of mine that hails from a one of the large northern cities, have been impressed with their ability to blend in with some of Alabama's more rural people.  Apparently, despite my preconceptions, everything north of the Carolinas is not all one big city; there must be some people up there still making their living off of the land and raising their young'uns to be polite and respectful.
There are differences though that become apparent that I'm having trouble getting accustom to though. It is obvious that northern women are not treated with the same basic curtsies that women in the south take for granted. One such difference is the simple act of walking through a door. Southern women expect to be lead through an opened door into any room. This does not seem to be the expectation of a northern women; as they seem more comfortable following a man into a room. It is a small difference at first glance, but after deeper thought it makes me wonder if northern women are deprived of other common curtsies that they very well deserve. To me it is a issue of respect; one that is difficult to fully express. I can't believe that there are no men north of the Mason-Dixon that don't have the utmost respect for women, I just don't under stand how they express their respect. 
After  this week, I don't think I will be able to let go of all my prejudices against Yankees, but I have to say that I will be more open to making exceptions.  

the other old number 10

This year the fall classic has been hard a series to watch. Not because of the quality of the teams or the games. Expect for last nights pitcher's duel it been a good few games. What has made it such a hard World Series to stomach: the Texas players that left Atlanta in the Teixeira trade, and it was the damned Cards that finally sent the boys from Turner Field home for the fall.

I have to say though, I have really enjoyed watching number 10 on the Ranger's roster, Micheal Young. He reminds me a lot of the third baseman on Atlanta's squad that also wears 10. There is something special in those two guys' swing. Not being an American League guy, I have not had much of a chance to watch Young, but it's apparent right out of the box how good he is at the plate (.338 average this season). He seems to be the kind of player that made baseball America's past time, his swing seems to be effortless, his uniform is stained by the end of the night, and on the bases he is nothing but hustle. Contrast that to guys like Bonds and Clemens, and its easy to understand why the sport is regaining some of its old luster.

Anyway, if you have been having a tough time getting in to the Fall Classic, like I have this year, don't turn it off until you get to watch number 10's spot in the order. His swing is worth a few minutes of your time.

By the way... number 5 on the Saint Louis squad is pretty good too.

jaskson and clayton

For a moment allow me to set the scene: I'm in the Classic City on the corner of Jaskon and Clayton Street. The air out side is a little to cold for comfort for this time of year (53 degrees), but that does not matter much. I'm at one of the only bars left in Athens that has remained through the whole time that I have known the town, Flanagan's. At this time of day the crowd at the bar is light, a few electricians, and a few frat boys tyring to score with the bar tender. Flanagan's is always dark; you can't tell whether its midnight or noon, and there is always good music playing. As I walked in tonight Dave Matthew's "Lie in Our Graves" was on at just the right volume, loud enough to hear it and soft enough where two people could carry on a conversation with no trouble. In the 8 years since I left Athens nothing has changed at Flanagan's.

I have not made it a secret that I grew up in south Georgia, but on nights like this I think it would be more appropriate to say that is where I spent my youth. The facts point to Athens as the town where I grew up. When I came here in the fall of 1999 I was nothing more than a cocky boy with no perception of how the world really is. Not to say that I was sheltered from reality, only that I was very good at ignoring it. For the better part of 10 years I spent my nights drinking, partying, wasting my education on Clayton Street, mainly at the Bird Dog Saloon. I can recall one night when I had seven girls around me that thought I was with them or though I would be latter. At the time I thought it was pretty slick to manage to get out of the situation with out making none of them mad, but now looking back, that seems pretty selfish. On the other hand, its a thousand nights just like that that contributed a large part to the person I am today.

If all I had were nights like the one just mentioned, the path that I'm on would be quite a bit different than the one I'm on tonight. However, as it turned out I was not with out friends that were some how able to influence me in another direction all together. If it weren't for the people who were good enough to set positive examples 10 years ago I'm not sure ( and don't want to know) where or how I could have ended up. So to all of you folks I owe ya'll a debt of gratitude. The shame of it is, of all the friends I had then I only see one one a regular basis. Either I have moved on or they have, but the influence old friends had on my life is still inside me, and I guess that is what counts.

Here's to the Classic City and the people that made me what I am tonight

small town life

I don't very often get the chance to make the trip to south Georgia, where I grew up, but this weekend work brought me home. As I travel around the southeast I guess I tend to forget many of the nuances that make home, home. I have always joked with folks that I'm about half a towner, but after living in cities that are much bigger than my hometown for the last 15 years I have decided that I'm a lot more than half a towner. Maybe 85% towner. Of course, that is not to say, I don't enjoy being around home in fact there are not many things in life better than coming home.  The point I am trying to make is I have gotten a bit soiled by living close to cities that are a bit younger, or more progressive, or maybe just bigger than the home of the Syupmakers.

The people that know me any at all, know that I'm about as comfortable in a dark smokey bar as I am any where else in the world. And most any town that I find myself in, I can always find some kind of dive to pass a few hours in after a day on the road. I have to say though here in my hometown it sure looks like the closest thing I'm going to find is a not going to be dark or smokey or even have a bar stool. Bummer right?

The distinct lack of night life is not the only difference that is apparent right away. At home, and a lot of towns on the road, it doesn't matter what time of day, or day of the week, when you need to go to town to pick up a few things you can go and find them. That task is a little more complex in this small town. After we knocked off work this afternoon I had supper with a few family members, and then wanted to buy a pair of shorts to run in. At seven o'clock the only store that I could find open was the anti-small town store, Wal-Mart. I'm not sure why it strikes me as odd that all the stores are closed on Sunday, but it does. Do people in small towns not spend money on Sunday? And if they don't, why not?

Don't get me wrong I'm not being critical of small town life, I'm just wondering why is life so much different in small towns. For the most part I could not tell you the difference in the people here and in bigger towns (cities like Atlanta not with standing). Both sets seem just as happy and fulfilled with what their surroundings offer them. I guess people become accustom to whats around them, and take the good with the bad.  
     

B. S. ing

I was raised up in the deep south, and taught by my Grandma to be proud of my southern heritage. There are so many southern traditions that I have made part of my life: southern rock, grits, the cross of Saint Andrew that it would be easy to make the case that I'm a prototypical southern county boy. I have decided that this is not the case, however. There is one talent  (apparently essential ) that most southern men possess, that has eluded me all of my life, the art of Bull Shitting.

I have found that the "best" bull shitting is most likely to occur when more than two good old boys find themselves in the same place at the same time. When three or four of these guys get in the the bs mode the mind numbing stories about how grand daddy did things, or about what the government is screwing up, or about a million other things that don't add up to any thing, can go on for hours. The great catch is, if somebody knows where I'm from they expect me to not only take part in such babble, they expect me to enjoy it as much as they do. The truth is, I find it a waste of my time in most cases. If I engage a person in conversion more often than not I have a reason or a place I would like for the conversation to go. But when the Bull Shit starts any chance a person might have for directing a conversation is gone. More than gone, often times I can't even remember where I wanted it to go with it in the first place.What good can come of this? 

I don't mean to sound anti-social. In a one on one setting I can talk to someone that I care about for hours on end. However, I find the dynamics of a one on one conversation or a conversation among close friends much different. When close friends get together, something similar to bull shitting can get up and going, but the difference is there is unspoken and sometime unconscious meaning: a deeper understanding of someone you care about. However similar these conversations might be to bs a simple talk among friends will always have a purpose, a goal, an outcome: a more meaningful relationship. I'm in on that.     

Corn Bread

There is a line in Lonesome Dove where Gus tries to explain to Lorie that the only way to get through life is enjoy the small things in life. "Lorie darlin', life in San Francisco, you see, is still just life. If you want any one thing too badly, it's likely to turn out to be a disappointment. The only healthy way to live life is to learn to like all the little everyday things, like a sip of good whiskey in the evening, a soft bed, a glass of buttermilk, or a feisty gentleman like myself." I find that Gus and I share this perspective on life, and to my mind if more people could find a little joy in life's small offerings we might all be better off.

Cool weather and fine misting rain, are announcing the arrival of fall tonight. The rain is the kind of rain that sits light in the air and covers the ground in a soaking dampness. It's the kind of rain that soaks cool season grass seed giving them green life, and not a trip to the river. On an early fall night like tonight, a simple beef stew, a piece of corn bread, and a cup of cider can change your out look on life in a hurry. Its not only the hearty warmth of the stew, and the butter grit of the corn bread that set a person's mind at ease. It's also the satisfaction gained in the cooking that makes the taste so exquisite. Perhaps, the finest moment of the whole process is the corn bread falling softly out of the pan and on to the cooling rack. The sweet smell fills the kitchen in only seconds and the mere sight of the perfect yellow loaf, lets you know that your efforts resulted in something a little special.  In the words of Dave Matthews "Its a little bit of heaven and a little bit of hell yea."

In the post I quoted Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry which if you haven't read your life is not complete.
I also quoted the Dave Matthews song "corn bread." Its a pretty good song.     

American Harvest

From Atlanta to the Alabama Shoals with a detour to Talladega over the last two days, it has become obvious that Fall is here. Even though most of the leaves are still holding on the their summer green, the air has become dry, cool, and refreshing. The division series are winding down and the championship series will be taking shape in the next day or two, and while we watch the Tigers and Yankees play game 5 the American farmer is still in the field bringing in the cotton.
It is incredible to watch the American Farmer put hundreds of thousands of dollars in the the ground every spring, and then go to church on Sunday and pray for rain.  All summer long the farm tends his crops with the tenderness of a mother's touch, but rain, too much heat at the wrong time, or a hundred other things are out of his hands. Any one of these can eliminate his wages for an entire year, but every spring he shows the same hope. It is the definition of optimism, and it is not seen in any other way of life.
Now though, it is fall and all over the territory the combines are in the field. The cotton acres that you could mistake for snow covered ground are giving way to the green pickers and wagons. If you have never stopped and watched the harvesters at work you have neglected your self of an awesome experience.
As I was working  my west yesterday, out side of the small Alabama town of Hillsborough. I was in the middle of the southern harvest, and was struck by one particular scene. The over sized John Deere was  pulling his disk from the west working his way slowly to the east. I expect he was preparing the ground for a fall cover crop. The ground behind the tractor was the reddish brown hue that is typical of Alabama Clay and a wispy dust was rising behind him. On the eastern edge of the field there were three silver silos that were built to hold untold thousands of bushels of grain, and behind them the sky was a polarized blue that you only see when the air is dry and cool. Above the tractor's cab an American Flag was flying straight and true, the colors were highlighted by the late afternoon sun. I will probably never get to meet this farmer, but it seems to me that his chances of being a good man and a great American are pretty high. I like to think of him as a family man with a wife a young daughter. This kind of man would be sure to raise his little girl in the southern tradition that the majority of kids are deprived of. But as long as people need to eat and wear cotton socks I believe that in small towns all over the south there will always be red dirt girls that love their daddies that farms.

I'm Sorry

Over the last few days the phase "I'm Sorry" has been heavy in my thoughts. The realization has come to me that no other phase in our language can carry as much weight or be as meaningless as the two words "I'm sorry."   I often hear sorrow in a child's voice, and in their use of the phase there can be no doubt about their truthfulness. The same can also be true when "I'm sorry" comes from the lips of an adult, but its not the honesty of the words that I wish to  dwell on. It is the duality of the axiom's urgency  that interest me.

It is a given that from time to time we are going to do something that hurts someone that we care about. I have found that most often the things we do that hurt our most treasured relationships the most are not done out of spite, malice, or intent. However, intentional or not, once a deed is done, and can't be taken back, and you can see or hear someone's heart break... I'm sorry it the easiest word in our dictionary to use.The great trap here is that in this context "I'm sorry" becomes empty and meaningless for not only the person on the receiving end, but also to the party that utters the words. I have struggled to find words that can fill the void after committing a hurtful act, the truth is though, that no words, no matter how well stated, will ever bridge this gap between two people. Yet there are times that, even though you might be willing to climb Everest to make things better,  words are the only tools available. At times like this I'm forced to wonder does time really heal all wounds? Maybe only time will tell

There is a song by Sarah Darling  "Sorry seems to be the hardest word" that tells the story of a  declining relationship between two lovers. I have found that often times when people fight or have disagreements, such as the song describes, the root of the dispute is a small thing. Even though, it might be a small thing that people fight about pride, or ego, or i don't know what keeps them from saying "I'm sorry." And here it is such an easy fix. By being able to make the most simple apology in the world a person can open the door to a stronger relationship, but more often that not I'm afraid the words are left unsaid. The result is nothing short of tragic, a splintered or broken relationship. The great irony of the situation is that only two words would have set the stage for redemption. The same two words that can be so meaningless in more serious situations.

I mentioned Sarah Darling in this post, if don't know her music, you should find her.     http://sarahdarling.com

 

I'm brand new to blogging, but I think I would like to discuss a few things that matter to me.
For starters What about the end of the play off hopes for the Atlanta Braves? I  was completely devastated by the way our season ended. After watching or listening to at least 140 games a year you can't help but become emotionally invested in the team, and to watch them crumble in September... What a let down.  We should still be playing.
I was recently talking to a dear friend of mine who told me that baseball is to slow, is no fun, and just hates the game. I guess, I can understand that point of view, however, I was still a little taken aback. I tried to explain that the beauty of the game is the investment it takes to love a team, but its often the case with me that the right words don't come when I'm with people I care about. Even in the off season baseball fans craves any information a beat reporter can dig up. Any rumor on a trade or a free agent signing can make or break your day. Then spring training starts. Whats the cliche "hope springs eternal"?  I can't think other day like opening day; the hope, optimism, the pride. Its a wonderful thing
Then by the end of September how many time have you watched, with so much pride, your hero wall off, or strike out, or complete the save? Nothing else I can think of can deliver such a full range of the human condition. I reckon maybe, people today don't think they have the time to devote to witnessing such triumph and failure.
Any way, the Brave's season is done. I'll sit around until pitchers and catchers report around Valentines day to see what we do with Lowe, Heyward, and Prado. Can't hardly wait.