FLOAT LIKE A BUTTERFLY, STING LIKE A BEE. GONE LIKE THE WIND.

MUHAMMAD-ALI

Muhammad Ali.

There may be 6 or 7 people on Earth who don’t know that name … and that’s a liberal estimate. Muhammad Ali died last Friday. (I’d ask for a moment of silence, but silence and Muhammad Ali didn’t exactly go together.) Ali was a true heavyweight, and I’m not talkin’ about boxing. Life was his sport, and he excelled at it. Referring to his prowess in the ring, Ali used to say he was the greatest of all time. But his greatness wasn’t bound by the ropes, or his indescribable talent, or how hard he trained … not even if he won or lost. Ali was great because of his humanity, which is interesting because his chosen profession — boxing — has often been characterized as inhumane.

My first memories of this man were as a kid. My dad — who at the time continued to refer to him as Cassius Clay, as did the media — would rant about Ali’s conscientious objection to the war in Viet Nam and refusal to submit to the draft. I was way too young to know what was goin’ on. I didn’t know what the “draft” was, or where Viet Nam was, or why my Father wouldn’t call Ali by his chosen name. I mean, when he talked about John Wayne he didn’t call him Marion Morrison. Over the last 50 years, though, I figured out who my father is. Think Carlos Zambrano, only more so. I have to cut him some slack on this issue, though, cuz I also learned about the Nation of Islam and Elijah Muhammad whom Ali followed, and whose teachings included his claim that “the white man is the devil.” Men aren’t perfect. That includes Ali, and my dad.

I watched Muhammad Ali box. A lot. Hey, man cannot live by Cubs games alone (although the missus would tell you that I try pretty friggin’ hard). I didn’t see guys like Joe Louis or Jack Dempsey, but still, I have to think that Ali probably was the greatest. Like most everyone, I also heard him speak. It was pretty much unavoidable, cuz if he wasn’t reciting his own poetry about his next bout — which were a helluva lot more frequent than they are today — he was being interviewed by David Frost or Johnny Carson or William F. Buckley, or somebody else who mistakenly thought he could verbally spar with this guy who barely graduated high school. Ali was fluent in the languages of showmanship and principle which drew people to him. It was like Rizzo walkin’ into Murphy’s after a game, times a thousand. Complete pandemonium.

That’s why it’s been an uninterrupted, 24-hour-a-day avalanche of Muhammad Ali since Friday. He was, in a word, unforgettable. He was also charming and witty and loved tellin’ everyone how good lookin’ he was. He was fearless, too; taunting his opponents by dangling his arms at his sides, daring guys who could literally kill someone with their fists to try and hit him. And he was incredibly smart — rope-a-doping George Foreman into exhaustion and winning a match he was supposed to get pummeled in. But boxing wasn’t Ali. That was just something he did. People may have discovered him through the sport, but sayin’ Ali was a boxer is like sayin’ Einstein was a patent clerk. Nothing and nobody defined him. Instead, he defined everything around him, including the biggest, badass of them all, the Federal Government. Standing toe-to-toe with Uncle Sam, while sacrificing his title and the best years of his boxing career, Ali remained true to his religious beliefs, and the government ended up with a black eye.

Muhammad Ali wasn’t perfect, but he was gracious. He was a fighter, but a man of peace. His passing diminishes the whole of the human race, which saddens me, especially when I pull my nose outta the sports pages long enough to see the state the world is in, knowing that we all could use more Muhammad Ali’s.

Joe

ZERO, ZILCH, ZIP, NADA AND GOOSE EGGS. NOT TO MENTION DONUTS (OR DOUGHNUTS).

June 02 · 2016 Cubs, Joe Sez · donuts, doughnuts, National Donut Day

DONUT

Hey there, crullers. Joe Schlombowski, super Cubs fan here, reminding you that today is National Donut Day. Or “Doughnut” Day. I’d usually take a stand on an issue like that, but the pure, orgasmic pleasure that defines one of these epicurean delights is all that matters. Arguing over that is like arguing over whether an ump missed a call cuz he forgot his white cane or his seeing eye dog. Anyway, today you should honor the little powdered or glazed or old fashioned wheels of pleasure by consuming as many as possible. In my case that would be just enough to not quite ruin my appetite for a few game day Chicago dogs. Not that the Snakes tend to upset my stomach like, say, the Mets do, but I also gotta think about my Schlombowskish figure.

Anyway, the whole reason I bring up Donut (or Doughnut) Day in the first place is cuz, so far this year, the Cubs have dished out 363 zeros to opposing teams. That’s 363 innings that the long, long line of highly-paid, bat-flippin’, best-on-planet-Earth Major League hitters have been stuffed by our staff and the marauding defense that hunts down and destroys anything they accidentally get their bats on. 363 zeros in the box score. 363 donuts (or doughnuts). Call ’em what you will — zeros, goose eggs, ohs, whatever — while Cubs bats have been channeling Babe Ruth, Ted Williams and Willy Mays all rolled into one three-headed monster of ka-boom, our defense has been handing out donuts (or doughnuts) like it’s some kinda Good Samaritan thing.

You know how one of the traditions at Wrigley is throwin’ any opposition’s dingers back, like they’re contaminated (which they are)? Well, I’m thinkin’ that today we pelt the Snakes with donuts (or doughnuts) every inning they get zeroed. What do you say, Chicago?

Joe

IS THERE ANYTHING WRONG WITH THE CODE OF BASEBALL?

May 30 · Baseball Rules, Joe Sez, News · Buster Olney, Chase Utley, Noah Syndergaard, Rob Manfred, Umpires

Code: \ˈkōd\
1) a set of laws or regulations
2) a set of ideas or rules about how to behave

Codes, unlike rules, are often unwritten and informal. No official book. No company manual. No government-like posters in the lunch room. They’re phantom collections of understandings between members of a group. For example, Chicago has a hot dog code that says you never, ever, never, never ever put ketchup on a hot dog; there’s no law preventing it, but if you’re from the Windy City you just wouldn’t ever do that. And if you did, you’d have to take the extra-large ration of doo doo — justifiable, by the way — that your friends would dish.

There are other kinds of codes, too. Like, say, a code of ethics. That’s the kinda thing Hillary Clinton wouldn’t recognize if it jumped up and took a bite out of her pantsuit-wearin’ donkey. Another would be a code of conduct. Donald Trump couldn’t identify that one if it was sittin’ on top of whatever it is that’s already sittin’ on top of his head. But that’s not what’s at issue here. In November, yes. What I’m talkin’ about now, though, is a code of honor. Semper Fidelis is the Marine Corp version. It means remaining faithful to the mission, to each other, to the Corps and to country, regardless of whatever kinda hell is happening all around them. Even the Mafia has a code. It’s called Omertà, and it means you never rat on your friends, you don’t cooperate with authorities, and you keep your nose outta the illegal actions of others. If you’re a wise guy, Omertà isn’t something you wanna treat with a casual attitude; like Alfonso Soriano used to have in the batter’s box. You could end up wearin’ cement shoes. If you’ve ever seen Prince Fielder run, you’d know that’s somethin’ you want to avoid.

Which brings me to the point; that unwritten code in baseball that says if one of your guys takes out one of our guys — whether it’s a hard slide into second base or some chin music that actually hits a high note — there’s gonna be some kinda retaliation. It’s part of the game — even the sissified, pink tutu-wearin’, give-a-warning-to-both-teams version Bud Selig turned it into. When I was a kid though, if you did a Chase Utley against the Cards, for example, you’d have to expect Bob Gibson to attempt a little brain surgery on you the next time you came to the plate. Not givin’ someone a tit when they’ve obviously tatted you is just plain cowardly, my friend. It’s baseball, not figure skating, and if you’re gonna put on the uni it’s your duty to stick up for each other. Period. Plus, it adds a dimension of Omertà to things, cuz you never know when, where or necessarily who is gonna pay the price. Bryce Harper thinks flippin’ bats and admiring your own work at the plate makes the game more interesting? That’s just ego in a very jackassian sorta way. Throwing a 97 mph heater at a guy’s numbers, on the other hand, tends to start a conversation — one that uses ALL the words in the english language, and that sometimes ends up in a spontaneous all-team dance on the infield grass. Now that’s interesting, pallie. You can keep your friggin’ bat flip.

The reason this is top of mind at the moment is because of what we’ve witnessed over the past few weeks. (Besides the Cubs continuing to clean their spikes off on the rest of the National League, that is.) There have been 3 obvious “code” incidents, where guys were throwin’ what I call “pigeon balls” — pitches that come with messages. Buster Olney wrote a good piece about this the other day, describing each of these exchanges and what led to them. The key questions Buster raises are 1) Is it acceptable for pitchers to throw a baseball at or near a hitter to deliver a message? And 2) Should a history of bad blood between teams and players matter? I say yes to both, just in case you haven’t been paying attention. Where Buster misses the mark, IMHO, is his dissatisfaction with how differently each of these events, although very similar, were handled by the umpires, and his call for “MLB to determine what will be tolerated and what won’t be, and to send a message of its own, loudly and clearly, perhaps by reaffirming the rules that should apply in these moments.”

Then there’s that pesky little Rule 8.02: Throwing at the Batter. It reads as follows:

The pitcher shall not intentionally pitch at the batter.

If, in the umpire’s judgment, such a violation occurs, the umpire may elect either to:

Expel the pitcher, or the manager and the pitcher, from the game, or may warn the pitcher and the manager of both teams that another such pitch will result in the immediate expulsion of that pitcher (or a replacement) and the manager. If, in the umpire’s judgment, circumstances warrant, both teams may be officially “warned” prior to the game or at any time during the game.

(League Presidents may take additional action under authority provided in Rule 9.05)

Rule 8.02(d) Comment: Team personnel may not come onto the playing surface to argue or dispute a warning issued under Rule 8.02(d). If a manager, coach or player leaves the dugout or his position to dispute a warning, he should be warned to stop. If he continues, he is subject to ejection. To pitch at a batter’s head is unsportsmanlike and highly dangerous. It should be – and is – condemned by everybody. Umpires should act without hesitation in enforcement of this rule.

Go ahead and reaffirm that rule. Not a damn thing will change.

Yeah, these incidents were kinda handled like they were from different planets. You read the rule … what can you expect? It’s full of words like “judgement” and “may” and “circumstances” and “should.” It’s dealing with something that’s not an absolute, which is why the rule was written that way in the first place. If the nature and severity of code retaliations were always the same, you could have one, all-powerful way of handling them. But they’re not. Too many variables. How hard was the pitch thrown? How close, exactly, was it? Was it really intended to hit a guy or was it just a “hey, I could hit you if I wanted to” thing? Where was it located? Is the pitcher a control guy, or not so much? What was the cause of the retaliation? How severe was it? How long ago was it? Yadda yadda yadda. This is an issue that’s never gonna be etched in stone, and if you try to treat it like it is you’re gonna have a lot more of the Syndergaard/Utley thing than you want. It’s a Pandora’s box, my friend. I say, lock the damn thing and throw away the key.

Look, there are two issues, as I see it: 1) The rule, as written, allows for a lot of interpretation on the part of umpires and 2) Major League Baseball has umpires. Like the code, umpires are part of the game. Do they get stuff wrong. Yeah. Does it drive me to the friggin’ moon and back when they do? Without exception. Do I wanna see Rob Womanfred and his band of merry minions continue to turn baseball into something I hardly recognize by turnin’ umps into zombies, or replacing them altogether with some sort of cyclops-techno-wiz-bang robot that you can’t kick dirt on? HELL no! This is baseball, not u-friggin-topia. The more perfect we try to make the game, the less perfect it’s becoming.

Of course, I could be wrong. But I’m not.

Joe

INTO EVERYONE’S LIFE A LITTLE RAIN MUST FALL; SOMETIMES WHEN YOU’RE AT A GAME.

May 27 · Joe Sez · rain delay

WRIGLEY-RAIN-DELAY

You know what I like about rain delays? Pretty much everything. Of course I’m lookin’ at it from my own personal Joe Schlombowski perspective, which I freely admit is pretty friggin’ warped in a side-by-side comparison with just about anybody. The missus tells me I look at everything through Cubs-colored glasses. Guilty. I hesitate to point out, though, that I take my glasses off whenever she’s feelin’ frisky. I don’t really need to be wonderin’ what Joe Maddon would do in that situation, or who oughta be brought in for relief. Know what I’m sayin’?

Aaaaaaanyway … rain delays are my friend. Maybe not so much in April, cuz the green plastic can cause frostbite to at least one cheek, sometimes both of ’em. The ones in today’s game, though, were kinda like yellow flags at the Indy 500; I get a chance to make a pit stop, fuel up with a couple of loaded Chicago dogs and an Old Style, then head back out to my seat whenever I feel like it. Sometimes I like hangin’ in the concours for a while. Hey, Midwesterners are flat out the nicest people in the solar system, so you make a little small talk and, BANG … you gotta a new friend. Other times you GOTTA hang up there cuz the rain is biblical … like Noah’s ark is gonna be pulling up at Clark and Addison any minute. That’s what we had today. Loved it. Why? Cuz being at Wrigley is the most fun you can have with your cloths on, my friend. A rain delay is just baseball’s version of Viagra; it makes the game last longer, but you don’t have to seek medical attention if it’s longer than 4 hours.

Rain delays also give everyone a chance to see some of the unsung heroes of the Cubs organization: the grounds crew. Who thinks about them … ever? Their mothers maybe? Their wives? Those guys get no love, but they’re a big part of the reason that Wrigley is the cherry on top of the Major League baseball park sundae. Would you like to be rollin’ the tarp out there when the sky is falling? Yeah, me neither. A rain delay always reminds me that the grounds crew does a lot more than drag the field and lay a little chalk down. I tip the Joe cap to those guys.

Now I suppose if I’m runnin’ up and down the aisles the whole game hawkin’ souvenirs and cotton candy, I’m none too keen on rain delays. Why? Well, how the hell would you like it if your work day got longer every time it rained? Not fun. Remember that the next time you’re at the park, and be sure to give a little somethin’ extra for the effort.

Another thing I like about delays is wondering what’s gonna happen when play starts again. A long pause in baseball ain’t like pausing your DVR in the middle of Game of Thrones. You do that and it has absolutely zero effect on whether or not someone’s head is gonna get chopped off. You press play again and … THWACK!!! In baseball, though, a rain delay can totally derail what was a sure fire win, or a devastating loss. The guys get a little tight, a little cold … maybe have a few too many ham sandwiches … they could come back out on the field with about as much energy as a vasectomized dog. Let’s say Rizzo gets a Dear John text from his girlfriend. Might effect his play, right? Or, maybe she texts him some kinda selfie that says hurry the hell up and come home cuz this here is waitin’ for ya. That might have an impact on his play, too. Either that or he might purposely get thrown out of the game. Anyway, a good rain delay introduces an element of uncertainty, although without the same level of impact that it had before the Cubs turned into the 1927 Yankees.

To quote Bull Durham’s Nuke LaLoosh, “Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose, sometimes it rains.” And we all know what a friggin’ genius he was.

Joe

WILL JAKE ARRIETA EVER LOSE AGAIN?

May 26 · 2016 Cubs, Joe Sez · Jake Arrieta

HOWDY-DOODY-JAKE-ARRIETA-LOSE

Is the sky blue? Is the Pope Catholic? Does Howdy Doody have wooden balls? Yesterday against the Cards, the right arm of Jake Arrieta wasn’t quite as bazooka-like as it has been for the 22 starts that immediately preceded it, but it had enough boom shaka-laka to get the win; his 23rd in a row, tying the Major League record and sparking the stupid question, will Jake Arrieta ever lose again? Actually, there are no stupid questions, just stupid people asking questions … which makes it difficult to distinguish them from White Sox fans.

The obvious answer, though, is that, yes, Arrieta is gonna lose again. Oh … I suppose he could get run over by the team bus before his next start, in which case then, yeah, he’ll never lose again, but 1) I think he’d rather lose again and 2) winning streaks are overrated. The problem with streaks is that after a while they start to get inside your head; you begin thinkin’ about not losing — not breakin’ the streak — instead of focusing on winning. And there’s a difference, pal. The fact that that question was even asked is proof that there’s something to my theory. Of course, it was asked by a member of the media, and there’s really no way to gauge just how far down the moron scale those can be. If you wanna keep a winning streak in perpetual motion, you gotta ask different questions. Do you think Jake will throw another no-no this season? How many times will he strike out the side tonight? Which will be the bigger story in October, the Cubs winning the Series or Arrieta going undefeated? If your mind is in the right place, you’re a lot more likely to get what you want. (That’s what the missus tells me, but it’s difficult to square that during baseball season.)

Anyway, winning streaks aren’t important. I’m probably more superstitious than the next guy, and am known to exhibit all kinds of borderline psychotic behavior to keep them going. But I’d much rather the Cubs win 85 games, make it to the playoffs by the skin of their teeth, then win their last game, than see them win 30 in a row. Think about it; if you get through the season with a hundred W’s, but never more than 3 in succession, you’re gonna get a shot at the hardware. Arrieta’s streak is nice, for sure, but there’s a 100% chance it won’t last. Even if it does, it has about as much influence on the fate of the Cubs as Donald Trump’s hair spray.

When Jake loses, the thing to ask won’t be, “Will this ruin his season?” or “You think this will get in his head?” Rather, we should all wonder if his next winning streak will be longer than the first. That, and whether the Pope shits in the woods.

Joe