Happy Tuesday the 13th!
Yesterday was just a terrible day for me. If you are steady reader of the blog, you know why.
I couldn’t see for miles … heck, in the morning, I really couldn’t see at all, out of each of my eyes.
But as I figured, it took about two hours, and I was better, but far from good.
I forced myself to take a nap, which definitely helped matters, and by mid-morning, I could basically see again, although not very well.
Today, while it is not perfect, it is much better, and I can see again.
Happily, this is Tuesday the 13th and not Friday the 13thj, because if I was superstitious, I would say that if today was a Friday, I still might not have my sight.
Darn allergies! Thank God it’s Tuesday, and thank God it is raining outside as we speak.
Anyway, tonight, at Coors Field in Colorado, Major League Baseball will be playing its annual All-Star Game, and as usual, many of the game’s stars will not show up for the contest.
Yes, you have players that are injured, and one or two who are on maternity leave as their wives are about ready to give birth, and those players get a bye from me, because those are valid reasons to not play in the game.
But there are others—all four Astros players that are All-Stars, and the Mets’ Jason deGrom, among others—who are not playing, and not even showing up, because they claim to be nursing nagging injuries or claim that skipping the contest will help them get ready for the second half of the 2021 season.
This is all balderdash, of course, because they aren’t even going to show up to the contest, and their excuses really don’t hold water.
The Yankees’ Gerrit Cole—who threw more than 120 pitches in his last outing—is going to be there, even though he has absolutely no intention of playing.
There are others in a similar boat who are going to be at Coors Field, but won’t play.
They are representing their teams, and they are also representing Major League Baseball on the world stage as among the best players on earth … at least show up for the game, for crying out loud.
There should be no excuses for not being there, other than the ones I mentioned earlier about injury or impending births.
As we know, these players often breathe different air than we do, polluted by all the money that they are making, but to me, being named one of the best of the best in baseball … well, I would get to the game if I had to walk there.
I was a lousy athlete as a kid and a young adult. My mind was faster than my glove, and I just wasn’t athletically inclined, although I loved to play baseball and every variation the game, including softball, stickball, punchball, stoopball, slapball, and whatever other baseball-related games we could come up with.
When I was 12 years old, I was a scrawny kid, never the shortest one in my class but far from the tallest.
I had my bar mitzvah at age 13, and I was still this scrawny kid who couldn’t do very much on the ball field.
And then right after my bar mitzvah, I suddenly had the greatest growth spurt of my life.
I grew seven inches in the span of about four or five weeks, and I got a little larger on top, a little burlier all around. I remember that for a month or so, none of my clothes fit anymore, so my mother had to run out and get me a new wardrobe.
That summer, I went to camp as I always did each and every summer that I lived in Rochdale Village, South Jamaica, Queens, New York, and one of our usual activities was playing softball.
We seemingly played about three or four times a week, and while I had grown from about 5 foot two inches to 5 foot nine inches in the course of a few weeks, the kids I played against still saw me as Larry, the kid who couldn’t hit straight, and they played me all the way in because they knew I could barely get the ball out of the infield.
Well now, with a larger stature, I was not only getting the ball out of the infield, but I was hitting the ball way over their heads in the outfield, and all of sudden, I became a real baseball player for the first time in my life.
The reason I bring this up is that that one summer, I was named to the All-Star team of our camp, and I played in the one and only All-Star game I ever was named to.
All the other years, I was an umpire during these games, because even though I was not a good athlete, I knew the game pretty well, so I umped those games.
But now, suddenly, at age 13, I was a first-time All-Star.
I played catcher for a few innings, and I got up at least once, or at least once that I remember.
One of the counselors—who the camp mixed into the All-Star games as a player and whose name was Marc and who we called “Mark Kram”--was egging me on, daring me to hit the ball to him during my at bat.
Well, not only did I end up hitting the ball to him, but it was one of the hardest hit balls I ever swatted, a line drive that nearly took his head off at third base as it roared by him into the outfield for a single.
Redemption!
I don’t know if my team won or lost, but that was my All-Star moment, which carried into the Little League the next year, when I continued to hit balls over people’s heads in the outfield.
I guess that is why some of the MLB players disappoint me with their reluctance to attend the All-Star game.
They are acknowledged as being the best players in the world by fans, sportswriters, and by their peers.
That demands a lot of responsibility and a lot of respect, but some of these players simply do not see that.
For every Aaron Judge, who respects the game to the fullest, you have a Jose Altuve, who claims he is nursing some nagging injuries and won’t be there, yet just beat Judge’s Yankees with a walk-off home run during the game right before the four-day break.
All of this makes no sense to me, but then again, I made just one All-Star game in my entire life; these guys make then each and every year.
Maybe next time, the fans and others who pick the teams should pass over these players who bow out for selfish reasons, and pick players who look at the game differently, and actually would give anything to be named to be an All-Star.
I will never forget my one All-Star appearance, and maybe MLB players should think back to when they were kids and Little Leaguers, and remember the joy of playing the game without those big fat paychecks they get.
Take it from me, the All-Star game—any All-Star game—has lots of meaning, which somehow some players just don’t understand.
And just as a reminder, as I told you yesterday, I am going to have to take the day off from the Blog tomorrow, because I have a very important and early in the morning eye appointment, so I will speak to you again on Thursday.
Wish me luck!
Yesterday was just a terrible day for me. If you are steady reader of the blog, you know why.
I couldn’t see for miles … heck, in the morning, I really couldn’t see at all, out of each of my eyes.
But as I figured, it took about two hours, and I was better, but far from good.
I forced myself to take a nap, which definitely helped matters, and by mid-morning, I could basically see again, although not very well.
Today, while it is not perfect, it is much better, and I can see again.
Happily, this is Tuesday the 13th and not Friday the 13thj, because if I was superstitious, I would say that if today was a Friday, I still might not have my sight.
Darn allergies! Thank God it’s Tuesday, and thank God it is raining outside as we speak.
Anyway, tonight, at Coors Field in Colorado, Major League Baseball will be playing its annual All-Star Game, and as usual, many of the game’s stars will not show up for the contest.
Yes, you have players that are injured, and one or two who are on maternity leave as their wives are about ready to give birth, and those players get a bye from me, because those are valid reasons to not play in the game.
But there are others—all four Astros players that are All-Stars, and the Mets’ Jason deGrom, among others—who are not playing, and not even showing up, because they claim to be nursing nagging injuries or claim that skipping the contest will help them get ready for the second half of the 2021 season.
This is all balderdash, of course, because they aren’t even going to show up to the contest, and their excuses really don’t hold water.
The Yankees’ Gerrit Cole—who threw more than 120 pitches in his last outing—is going to be there, even though he has absolutely no intention of playing.
There are others in a similar boat who are going to be at Coors Field, but won’t play.
They are representing their teams, and they are also representing Major League Baseball on the world stage as among the best players on earth … at least show up for the game, for crying out loud.
There should be no excuses for not being there, other than the ones I mentioned earlier about injury or impending births.
As we know, these players often breathe different air than we do, polluted by all the money that they are making, but to me, being named one of the best of the best in baseball … well, I would get to the game if I had to walk there.
I was a lousy athlete as a kid and a young adult. My mind was faster than my glove, and I just wasn’t athletically inclined, although I loved to play baseball and every variation the game, including softball, stickball, punchball, stoopball, slapball, and whatever other baseball-related games we could come up with.
When I was 12 years old, I was a scrawny kid, never the shortest one in my class but far from the tallest.
I had my bar mitzvah at age 13, and I was still this scrawny kid who couldn’t do very much on the ball field.
And then right after my bar mitzvah, I suddenly had the greatest growth spurt of my life.
I grew seven inches in the span of about four or five weeks, and I got a little larger on top, a little burlier all around. I remember that for a month or so, none of my clothes fit anymore, so my mother had to run out and get me a new wardrobe.
That summer, I went to camp as I always did each and every summer that I lived in Rochdale Village, South Jamaica, Queens, New York, and one of our usual activities was playing softball.
We seemingly played about three or four times a week, and while I had grown from about 5 foot two inches to 5 foot nine inches in the course of a few weeks, the kids I played against still saw me as Larry, the kid who couldn’t hit straight, and they played me all the way in because they knew I could barely get the ball out of the infield.
Well now, with a larger stature, I was not only getting the ball out of the infield, but I was hitting the ball way over their heads in the outfield, and all of sudden, I became a real baseball player for the first time in my life.
The reason I bring this up is that that one summer, I was named to the All-Star team of our camp, and I played in the one and only All-Star game I ever was named to.
All the other years, I was an umpire during these games, because even though I was not a good athlete, I knew the game pretty well, so I umped those games.
But now, suddenly, at age 13, I was a first-time All-Star.
I played catcher for a few innings, and I got up at least once, or at least once that I remember.
One of the counselors—who the camp mixed into the All-Star games as a player and whose name was Marc and who we called “Mark Kram”--was egging me on, daring me to hit the ball to him during my at bat.
Well, not only did I end up hitting the ball to him, but it was one of the hardest hit balls I ever swatted, a line drive that nearly took his head off at third base as it roared by him into the outfield for a single.
Redemption!
I don’t know if my team won or lost, but that was my All-Star moment, which carried into the Little League the next year, when I continued to hit balls over people’s heads in the outfield.
I guess that is why some of the MLB players disappoint me with their reluctance to attend the All-Star game.
They are acknowledged as being the best players in the world by fans, sportswriters, and by their peers.
That demands a lot of responsibility and a lot of respect, but some of these players simply do not see that.
For every Aaron Judge, who respects the game to the fullest, you have a Jose Altuve, who claims he is nursing some nagging injuries and won’t be there, yet just beat Judge’s Yankees with a walk-off home run during the game right before the four-day break.
All of this makes no sense to me, but then again, I made just one All-Star game in my entire life; these guys make then each and every year.
Maybe next time, the fans and others who pick the teams should pass over these players who bow out for selfish reasons, and pick players who look at the game differently, and actually would give anything to be named to be an All-Star.
I will never forget my one All-Star appearance, and maybe MLB players should think back to when they were kids and Little Leaguers, and remember the joy of playing the game without those big fat paychecks they get.
Take it from me, the All-Star game—any All-Star game—has lots of meaning, which somehow some players just don’t understand.
And just as a reminder, as I told you yesterday, I am going to have to take the day off from the Blog tomorrow, because I have a very important and early in the morning eye appointment, so I will speak to you again on Thursday.
Wish me luck!
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