Getting Ready For The Slippery Slope Ahead

Today I turned forty six years old. And it concerns me that I am now on the slippery slope to fifty.

Turning forty phased me only slightly. Forty five did just a bit more. But now as I hit forty six, I realize that fifty is just around the corner.

In my head I am still twenty five.

In my head I can still chase down a grounder behind second base and do the spin to throw to first, landing on my butt afterwards. In my head I can still jump a chain link fence by simply placing my two hands on the crossbar and flipping my legs over like a gymnast. In my head, I can still swim the 200 meter butterfly with the final spring in the last quarter lap.

However the body is not as willing – in fact it downright refuses - to hold on to those same memories.

Many years ago, in a land far away – I hurt my knee. When I was nineteen years old I tore my ACL (the ligament that holds your knee steady) in my right knee. And after that operation, my knee still popped in and out on occasion. But I could still play ball and work out and what not. And I did on every occasion I could find.

Three years ago, playing in a company softball tournament, I hit a long ball that my twenty five year old brain convinced me that I could turn into a homerun. And as I was hauling my fat butt around second at full tilt, I came racing around third only to have my lovely wife - who was coaching third at the time - hold up her hands and scream "STAY – STAY!". I stuck out that right leg to stop – the knee warbled and popped out – and I went down like a sack of wet oatmeal. I rolled on the ground in pain and wiggled my way back to the third base bag and got my hand back before the tag.

But the knee would not pop back in. And results of the following MRI showed that not only had I re-damaged the ACL but the cartilage under the knee – shaped like a cup to hold the knee in place.

I still shudder when I think about it.

So I have not been as active since then as I would normally be. I've tried to play ball since then, but they usually insist on a substitute runner for me since.

Right now I am forty pounds overweight. I have to ask people if my belt matches my socks. They usually respond by being nice and saying its not important if the socks match.

So I am doing something about it.

In a couple of weeks, I will be getting my knee fixed. By the same surgeons who fix the Tigers, Red Wings, Lions, and Pistons. And they say that it should be close to good as new – if I live up to my end of the bargain of physiotherapy sessions.

And then I can run and play again. And I will drop these forty pounds.

And I will try to remember my real age. It's actually harder than ever now to forget.

Last night we finally got our Wii game box. If you're not familiar with the Wii, it's a video game unit where you actually use the controller like you would a golf club if playing the golf game, or a tennis racket, if playing tennis. You wing it and it tells the game box computer what motion you made. It's really quite remarkable.

And it lets me pretend that I am twenty five again, and playing baseball. I make the motion of swinging the bat, and the computer does the running for me. And while I am laid up the first couple of weeks, I will likely be playing the Wii a lot. Hitting line drives deep to left and stretching the doubles into triples. Or slamming the tennis ball cross court as I charge the net.

It's the perfect compromise between my willing mind and unwilling tired old body.

Because I'm forty six now.

And the slope to fifty looks treacherously slippery.

Papa

When I was a boy, I only knew one of my two Grandfathers. My Mother's father passed long before I came along.

My Dad's father was known to the kids in my extended family as Papa. Papa was quite a man. Papa was already old and bald in my first memories of him. Hunched over with a cane as the result of a life of hard work.

He had a little tin case which held his current plug of chewing tobacco. The kind that looks like a little cake. And he would take a nip off the end and sit and enjoy it.

Each time we would visit in the summer we would usually find Papa in the kitchen at the table – ears on the radio and eyes on the television – with the Tigers game on. When the game was close, he would sit with fingers crossed. Not just two fingers crossed, but all of them, trying to will the Tigers to victory.

One of my earliest memories is being a very small boy and sitting between my Dad and Papa in Tiger stadium, half way up behind the third base side dugout. That was the day Al Kaline became my hero because he hit a game winning two run homer. He also made a diving catch in right field. I don't have a clue who they were playing.

But Papa was full of stories.

Wonderful stories of going across the river to watch Ty Cobb in old Briggs field – which became Tiger Stadium.

Wonderful stories about running cross country as a boy.

Tales about running with a friend through old Detroit in the 1920s when it was a beautiful city with a friend of his named Jack. Papa was known for his long distance runs – a passion I myself nor any of my other family never really shared. On this one particular day, he and Jack came accross the event of a gangster murdering someone. As they passed, the gangster noticed they saw him and he took off after them in a car. They both speeded up to run as fast as they could to get away. As Papa looked over to see how Jack was making out, he heard a gunshot – and watched as Jack's strides go limp and he fell to the ground. Papa kept running.

As the story continues, Papa is in a Detroit courthouse, to testify against the mobster who shot down Jack. As Papa was sitting waiting, the mobster came in and walked up to the Judge. They shook hands and had an extensive conversation, smiling, laughing, and patting each other on the arm from comment to comment.

The mobster got off.

There were so many other stories, but in the twenty five years now that Papa has been gone, that is sadly the only one that I remember.

Papa loved all of us grandkids the exact same amount. I remember one family visit at my Uncle Fred's when Papa approached each and every one of us privately and slipped us each ten or twenty dollars. As he did he would grasp our arms in a hugging fashion and whisper in our ears "This is because you're my favorite." I only learned this because after he did this with me, I overheard him with the others, saying each time "This is because you're my favorite."

For most of my years knowing Papa, the family was always concerned that the next time we saw him would be the last. And yet he kept on plugging away. Through my childhood, Papa lived in a three or four story apartment building on Ouellette Avenue in downtown Windsor. The Maple Apartments. He was the building supervisor, living in a nice but small basement apartment that he shared with my Grandmother before she passed away. He kept the gardens outside rich, full and beautiful. The halls of that building were wide and shiny, and were a lot of fun for us kids to slide and play in. And across the hall was a large furnace room. Each week, a coal truck would come and drop huge piles through a coal chute into the room. So from time to time in the winter, I would accompany Papa into the furnace room to watch him shovel coal into the furnace.

As we grew to young adults, we were more and more certain that every time we saw Papa would be the last. Every time but one.

In 1983 my cousin Jenny married her husband Carter. At that event, Papa perked up into a spirited man like we hadn't seen for the last decade. And the whole week or so there with Papa was wonderful. And we were all so happy. In fact the photographer who took those wedding pictures took a special one of Papa – in his blue suite with corsage on the lapel. Eyes twinkling and a happy most contented grin. She won an award for that picture in a photo contest of some sort.

Papa passed away some three months later.

I guess he waited until everything he needed to accomplish was done.

But then I also think that in 1984, when the Tigers last won the World Series, Papa had something to do with it.

Hey Papa, we could use a little help down here this year too!

It’s About Time

Thank God that's over.

I have just come in from the garage. That's where my radio is. The radio I listen to the ball games on.

I tried using the stereo in the family room. But everyone else is watching TV or playing music on the computer. So my little portable stereo sits in the garage until the weather warms up enough to spend my evenings on the back deck. That's where the ball game sounds best. On the back deck – preferably with the sizzle of the BBQ in the back ground and the splash of kids in the pool.

But it's only the second week of April.

Tonight I spent the night in the garage, listening to the second Detroit Tiger game of three against the Boston Red Sox – at Boston. At old Fenway park. Green Monster and all.

It's a formidable venue to play in. And the Red Sox – defending World Series champs – are a formidable foe in the best of circumstances.

But these weren't the best of circumstances.

The Tigers lost their first seven games of the year.

Yes, the same Detroit Tigers that were picked by countless authorities to win their division, win the American League, and by Sports Illustrated to win the World Series this year. They even put them on the cover. Don't you think that Sports Illustrated would know that when they make a prediction and put it on their cover, they put a curse of immeasurable proportions on the team or person they predict on?

I'm positive that's what happened.

Ok, I don't believe in magic. And I don't really believe in curses.

But I am superstitious.

Some of the games that we lost were ugly. Huge scores by the opposition. Silence from the bats of our all-star lineup. Errors by gold glove winners. And pitching that would serve better in men's softball beer leagues. Sunday against Chicago, the White Sox were actually laughing at us from the visiting dugout.

And you know what? We deserved to get laughed at.

The whole city of Detroit was in a panic. I was no exception.

But those with saner heads kept saying "be patient".

"Because it's only the second week of April".

Patience was nowhere to be found. Other pundits were pulling out historical statistics:

"No team has ever won the World Series after losing the first four games".

"No team has ever made the playoffs after losing the first seven games."

But the optimists were saying "It's a long season of 162 games. It doesn't matter where in that period you slump".

But our patience had been exhausted. And we thought these boys would never win.

Until tonight.

Finally, in the eighth game of the season, the team that will win the 2008 World Series finally won their first game. A 7 - 2 victory. At Fenway. Against the Red Sox.

Atta-boys.

And they did it in really great fashion. Strong pitching from Jeremy Bonderman, a guy the city was ready to give up on. He pitched hard for six innings only giving up two runs.

Good defensive play highlighted by five double plays.

Great at bats, highlighted by a two run homer by Marcus Thames fourth and a solo shot by Carlos Guillen in the ninth just to make sure.

Pudge finally got his 2,500 career hit.

The bullpen, the Achilles heel of the Tigers, stepped up and held the Red Sox scoreless through the final 3 innings. But it was a scary bottom of the ninth as Tiger's closer Todd Jones walked the bases loaded after being one strike away from ending the game. Had Youkilis gotten on base, the tying run would have come to the plate. Manny Ramirez no less.

But Jones got Youkilis to pop up to shallow right. And the game was over.

You could feel the air pressure rise as this entire region breathed a very deep sigh of relief. I think my ears popped.

So there are now 154 games left to be played. And the rest of the season will be full of national media statements reminding us that no team has ever made the playoffs, let alone winning the World Series, after losing their first seven games. And I am certain that Sports illustrated cover will also be mentioned again and again.

And I will spend the summer, on the back deck, listening to the national media pundits belittle our chances on my portable stereo.

And I will simply muse to myself "It was only the second week of baseball!"

Thank God that's over. It's about time.

Masters Week

Of all the sporting events the world has to offer, my favorite is the week The Masters is held at Augusta National.

The Masters is to golf what Wimbledon is to tennis. What the Kentucky Derby is to horse racing. What Indianapolis is to auto racing.

Augusta National is a spectacle to behold. It is in my opinion the most beautiful setting for a sporting event that there is to offer.

The perfection of the fairways.

The perfection of the greens.

The lush landscaping of flowers, most notably azaleas.

The history is widely known, and nothing I could state would extend your knowledge of the place. But the fact that it was founded by Bobby Jones, arguably the greatest golfer to ever play the game. As arguably great as Jack Nicklaus, Ben Hogan, or even Tiger Woods. Arguably so because Bobby Jones remained an amateur throughout his career.

Bobby Jones is the only player to win all four major events in the same calendar year. He won the U.S. Amateur, U.S. Open, British Amateur, and British Open in 1930. It is true that in those days – before the modern Open era – that only an amateur could accomplish such a feat. Professionals are not allowed in amateur events.

My family lived in Georgia from 1975 to 1980. It is a beautiful state. But back then, I did not know anything about golf. I had probably heard of the Masters, but gave it no second thought as it was a game for old men in funny clothes. Our Dad tried to convince my brother Paul and I to give golf a go. But it did not interest us at that time.

What a mistake.

Once we left Georgia, we both took up the game with a passion.

To see the Masters played at Augusta National is one of the hardest tickets to get. There is a waiting list I am told to be ten years long. They say the entrance to Augusta National is as beautiful as the course. A long entrance road between two perfect rows of Magnolia trees arrives at the front steps of the building. I don't know. I have never been there. I have seen pictures. But I have only visited Augusta National in my dreams.

The only players invited to play in the Masters are those that have won on the PGA tour, or those in the very top of it's rankings. The greatest come from around the world. The greatest come to play what some say is the most difficult course, under the most beautiful setting. And the player that wins the Master automatically becomes a member of Augusta National. They are invited back to play every year until they decide to hang up their clubs. They can visit and play the course anytime they please.

Who needs to win a purse when the prize includes an open invitation to play Augusta National anytime you like?

The events begin with a Champions dinner, where all past champions gather for a dinner hand-picked by last years Champion. They wear their green jackets. They talk about things that green jacket wearers talk about. What that could be, I could only guess.

Wednesday is the par-three tournament – a fun event I believe held in pro-am style. The cardinal rule of this event is not to win. No player ever to have won the par-three contest has ever gone on to win the Masters.

If there was ever an event to behold in high-definition television, it is the Masters. But I will be sitting in front of my old primitive analog TV, watching every stroke that I can, and it will still be beautiful.