Of All The Things To Talk About

Well, on my second straight flight delay, I’ve decided to sit down and write. On my way to Chicago I was delayed almost 2 hours; so far tonight they’re only anticipating a half hour or so. So far, that is. To top it off the handle of my suitcase arm – the part that lets you roll it – broke off as I exited the Blue Line so I was hauling it all over O’Hare by hand, which normally wouldn’t have been a problem because I travel lightly but in this case I got about 7 books for Christmas and my sister returned 3 more, all stowed in the bottom of the suitcase with wheels rendered worthless.

I sigh. In my head, not out loud, because I am in a busy airport terminal looking at a whole lot of people who look just as done with Christmas traveling as I am, and there is nothing that any of us can do except sit and wait, resolute. So this is what I will do.

The last time I sat down in an airport to write I weighed in on Nomar Garciaparra on my way to St. Louis, a column that generated several positive responses. I didn’t realize as many people were still behind Nomar like I was, because they had not yet become vocal about it. Now of course Nomar is a Dodger, and I have a sneaking feeling he’ll be hitting somewhere around .325 at the end of May. So it goes.

It was the worst kind of drab winter day here n the Midwest, so my gloomy feeling is a consequence, and temporary. Actually, I suppose it was the second worst kind of winter day because the worst was the game I attended at Soldier Field last January where it was well below zero with 35mph winds shooting straight off the lake and onto our laps, sitting at the North end zone. I never leave sports games early, but despite ridiculous layers of clothing my roommate and I had to leave at halftime. This year’s Bears team might have been worth braving the most bitter cold there could be at Solder Field but last year’s was not. Not that afternoon.

Today, anyway, was dark and dingy and cold and wet, and as the last remnants of snow melted from sooty gray mounds into dirty gray puddles, there is something inside of me that just wants to give up. I look at the world and say check back with me in March. (I won’t bring up the weather in Texas that I’m flying home to, and I say ‘home’ now and in some ways I’m starting to mean it.)

Still, it was a fun Christmas. I went to the Pistons game in Detroit, and they’re playing exceptionally good basketball right now. On the way my father and my brother and I talked baseball, discussing the best players at each position not yet in the Hall of Fame. It was sparked by an article in the Sporting News or Baseball Digest or one of those magazines my dad reads. Ron Santo was the clear choice at third base, but my brother and father were surprised that George Foster wasn’t on the list, he being perhaps the best hitter on the Big Red Machine. The room in my parents house still has an old Reds World Championship pennant signed by many of those players. I used to collect pennants – there are probably 40 hanging and several more in my closet – and when my uncle realized I was collecting pennants he dug those old Reds banners out of his closet and he and my father told me stories about the Big Red Machine.

For Christmas, my father got himself the set of cards featuring the plaque of every current Hall of Famer, including Ryne Sandberg. He addressed it to himself, and then joked about how it must have been from my mother or Santa Claus. As he pawed through them, he was visibly excited. My father has a lot of old baseball cards and has nearly every Topps set from the late ‘60s or mid ‘70s to the mid ‘90s when he stopped collecting because he no longer saw the point as prices were skyrocketing. I doubt he’ll return to regular baseball card set collecting, but he was enjoying the Hall of Famer set, no doubt about it.

I bring this up because the cards were oversized a little bit, and reminded me of the old Cubs team set I got at Wrigley when I was a youngster. The set came wrapped in cellophane, and had Shawon Dunston on the top. The cards had a wide white border, and they were sponsored by a hotdog company – probably Vienna Beef but I can’t remember for certain. Someone gave me a second set which allowed me to compromise: I could keep one set wrapped in cellophane, mint condition, and open the other.

My brother in law started quizzing us on HOFer trivia from the set. I got Johnny Bench correctly (revolutionized hitting – did you know he was the first catcher to catch one-handed?) and my brother got George Brett (batting titles in three different decades), but to be honest it was easier for me because I realized the set was organized alphabetically and so it was easier to get a catcher whose last name must begin with ‘B.’

We debated the Mark Prior for Tejada trade possibilities. My father said he would make that deal in a heartbeat, but I’m still hesitant. There can be no doubt that Tejada is a special, elite player and it’s probably true that those of us who watch mostly NL games probably don’t appreciate how good he is. But I can remember a certain night in Wrigley when I sat in the left-center field bleachers and watched Prior snap unhittable curveballs and I just can’t shake the feeling that Prior is a Cy Young level pitcher.

There was some chatter, I saw, about how those trade talks are breaking down and also how Prior is perhaps not yet open to an extension on the Cubs’ terms, but I wonder: why should he be? If he steps up the way I’m anticipating this season, he could win 20 games and get the contract he’ll deserve as a result, and the Cubs should be happy to pay it. It’s a win-win. Although first Prior has to win those games, and it’s still early for predictions, so I’ll let it go for now.

Anyway, I guess the only thing I can offer resembling a point is that it was fun talking baseball again. It’s a fun aspect of Christmas. It almost balances out the layers of enveloping gray clouds. And my laptop battery is dying, so I’m going to save this and post it when I get home.

Editor’s Note: I finally got home at about 1:00 AM. Gotta love Christmas season traveling. Or something.