Pride, Courage, Perseverence

I note this week the shocking sudden passing of a colleague. Apparently she had cancer, told no one, and continued to function with a pleasant demeanor, till the end. Her conduct, ultimately revealed, inspires the rest of us to bravely carry on.

Last Friday night, the wife and I attended a Maryland Bluecrabs game, another scene, where people, if nothing else, carry on regardless, not knowing final outcomes. The team is affiliated with the Atlantic League and depending on with whom you talk, like Brooks Robinson, an owner, or friend Larry, it's respectively either a credible arena for players who still have a chance to make it to the Majors, or, "it's a beer league."

As alerted to his presence by an obnoxious drunk on a church-group outing, Carl Everett stepped up to the plate. An uncle of Gary Sheffield, both out of the same Tampa High School, Carl reached the majors in 1993 with the Marlins, playing over the next 13 years, with the White Sox, Mets, Astros, Red Sox, Rangers and Mariners.

Everett's commonly known as a solid hitter and 'head case.' If it was otherwise, why would any baseball player's on-line sketches mention he doesn't believe in dinosaurs, or the Apollo moon landings, or that gay people exist. It's hard to imagine Hall of Famer Brooksy reaching that pinnacle of success if he'd taken on Everett's "I thrive on being hated which keeps me on top of my game," as his mantra and approach to the sport of baseball.

Ironically, a shouting match with Mariner's manager Mike Hargrove was one factor which led to Everett's final MLB release. A year later, after a reported dispute with another Mariner's star, Hargrove, himself, embarked on a dramatic career change. At the top of his form, he resigned, causing geeks to record that no manager had resigned since 1900 while his team was on an 8-game winning streak.

Hargrove moved home to Texas where he presently manages the Liberal Bee Jays, a team of college players from around the country who are heavily scounted by Major League teams. Hargrove himself is one of about 150 Bee Jays alumni who've made it to the Big Leagues - he says, "I had been wanting to give back to people and places that had some influence in my career. You can either give back monetarily or with your time, so I decided to come back and do this - I don't think there's ever an instance that giving back with your time doesn't mean more."

Astonishingly, back at Legacy Furniture Stadium, home of the Bluecrabs, alongside teammate Everett, playing for the Long Island Ducks, PJ Rose, came up to bat, displaying the same stance and mannerisms as his infamous dad. I first saw Jr. in 1990 playing for the Frederick Keys in the Single A Carolina League. It's hard to know whether he was ever a legitimate prospect since sons of Mickey Mantle and Tom Tresh also passed through during that era besides names like Barry Bonds, Andy Pettite, Jorge Posada and Bernie Williams. In a career spanning 18 years, Pete, Jr. played in the majors for eleven games hitting .143 for the Reds.

Everett, I understand, posting solid numbers for the Ducks, still has a chance to make it back as a DH. Pete has no chance. Why play? Is his love for the game so real, he swallows his pride in the face of morons who shout insults every night about him and his whole family? Or, perhaps Pete's merely content, and blessed, to play a boys game, no matter at what level, for most of his Peter Pan life (not counting the six months in jail), rather than embrace a work-a-day daily grind?

I note last week on the Espy's, an anniversary tribute to Tommy Smith and John Carlos, who stood on the risers at the Olympics in Mexico City, fists raised, 40 years ago this summer. Their politcal committment to all intents and purposes destroyed their careers and personal lives. Yet, four decades later, they're inspirationally honored for an act of defiance that eclipsed their gold medal sports performance. Long-time book critic for the Washington Post, Jonathan Yardley, once wrote, 'the only thing you can learn from sports, is sports.' How could such an voracious reader miss so many good stories?

As I sat there at the Legacy Furniture Stadium, six months from retirement, shifting every few seconds to alleviate neck and back pain, enduring idiots shouting nonsensical insults, holding hands with my beloved bride in the small-town atmosphere where I'll spend the rest of my life, sports, indeed, may not have yielded the meaning of life, but it sure provided the time, between pitches, to ponder fate.