Time again for this old hack to play ball

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There was a point between wanting to be a comedian and wanting to be a veterinarian that I actually wanted to be a basketball player when I grew up.

Then, as now, I wasn't very smart. But even I was smart enough to know a not-quite-6-foot Jewish kid with the speed of a plow horse and the leaping ability of a sumo wrestler probably wasn't going to be able to hang with the likes of Bob McAdoo and Jamaal Wilkes.

So I gave up on that dream -- and, soon enough, would give up on the idea of being a veterinarian when I discovered to my horror that I'd actually have to take science and math while going to college for something like eleventy-zillion years -- to become a writer.

No regrets ... but that doesn't mean I'm still not a wannabe jock. And these days, that means doing the few active things I can do and hopefully not get maimed in the process.

That was a long introduction to say this:

It's softball time again!

Yes, for the second straight year, I'm playing in the Charlotte Senior Sports softball league. The season just started but already I've seen my share of excitement. Believe it or not, the Sons of Pitches actually traded for me a couple of weeks before the opener. Hey, if Babe Ruth, Nolan Ryan and Jeff Bagwell weren't too good to be traded, neither was I!

Our manager, Pat, and his first-round draft choice, Tom, were major contributors on my championship team from last year and decided they wanted me as a teammate again.

For comic relief, I assume.

In reality, I'm pretty sure Pat acquired me because he and I had been among the only folks who regularly went out for a beer after games last season. I'm an OK ballplayer who is willing to play anywhere the manager wants, and I'm a team-first chatterbox who makes wise cracks to keep everybody loose, but really, all Pat wanted was his drinking buddy back.

So anyway, we played our first game of the season Tuesday. It was a back-and-forth affair that we lost 19-18 in the final inning. I played catcher and batted 10th, both of which were absolutely fine by me. A lot of people don't like catching, but I think it's fun to handle the ball on every play and maybe be on the receiving end of a huge play that can decide a game. As for where I bat in the lineup, I'd be worried about my team if I was placed too high in the order.

I was fine at the plate, with two singles, a walk and three runs. As one might guess looking at the score, we had several players who did as well or better than I did. We struggled some in the field, though, which will happen in a season opener. The other team didn't exactly flash a bunch of Gold Gloves, either.

Aside from the final result, it was a fun night -- even if I had to disappoint Pat and opt out of postgame libations. I've been battling a cold and I decided that NyQuil, not Stella Artois, should provide my alcohol for the evening.

Hopefully, next week will be a different story, both on the scoreboard and afterward.
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A-Rod sits, Ibanez hits, and sports remains the best reality TV

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Impressed with Joe Girardi, who had the guts to pinch-hit for Alex Rodriguez.

Impressed with A-Rod, who at least outwardly cheered on his teammate.

And really, really, really impressed with Raul Ibanez, who took A-Rod's place, delivered the game-tying homer in the ninth and followed with the winning shot in the 12th as the Yankees beat the Orioles to take control of their AL playoff series.

It couldn't have been an easy decision for Girardi, who had stuck by the struggling A-Rod through thin and thinner.

Despite some of the most incredible stats in history, Rodriguez probably isn't going to be a Hall of Famer because the majority of voters simply won't check the box next to the name of any juicer. Already fighting a reputation as a choker, it had to be tough to be lifted for a pinch-hitter in the ninth inning of a playoff game. A-Rod no doubt sees himself as an all-time great, but let me tell you ... nobody ever pinch-hit for DiMaggio, Gehrig, Ruth or Mantle in a postseason game.

Oh well, he'll have to make do with his $275 million consolation prize.

As for Ibanez ... he sure made Girardi look like a genius, didn't he? Those were the most impressive hits for an over-the-hill bald guy since, well, since my last softball game.

Actually, I wasn't much of a hitting stud in Tuesday's game. But I didn't embarrass myself much as the mighty Blue Thunder won again.

We're now 7-0, everybody contributes every game, we like each other and it's great fun.

The only downer: I failed to accomplish my main goal of getting through the entire season without any medical issues. Going from first to third on a teammate's hit, I tweaked my right hamstring. Though I stayed in the game, I was hobbled. 

But don't worry, everybody. Seriously, DO NOT WORRY. I mean it. Stop worrying, will ya?

A few Advil later, I'm doing much better. I even spent about an hour at the driving range today and didn't card a single bogey.

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I get dough for each page view, so help me raise money to aid Jewish nuns.

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Albert's other 3 games. Also: ESPN announcing follies

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The Bald Truth

Albert Pujols is one of the best hitters of any era. Any team would love to have him.

That being said, his World Series has consisted of one monster game ... and three others in which he went a combined 0-for-10. His Cardinals lost two of those three while scoring four total runs.

So let's be content with calling Albert merely great, and let's hold off on the comparisons to Babe Ruth, Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretzky and Joe Montana, OK?

The Balder Truth

The Fraudulent Illini started the season 6-0 ... and very well could finish 6-6. But hey, at least they're bowl eligible! Time to extend Ron Zook's contract another five years.

THE BALDEST TRUTH

It would be hard to find a more entertaining sporting event than Saturday night's Michigan State-Wisconsin game, which featured numerous amazing plays and ended with a desperation TD heave that required several minutes of replay reviews before the Spartans were declared victorious.

The game -- especially the finish -- was so fantastic that it's a shame normally outstanding announcers Brent Musburger and Kirk Hirbstreit fell flat at the end.

Musburger kept calling the winning play a "miracle," as if he knew firsthand that God was getting Sparty and the points over Bucky Badger.

And Herbstreit offered this meaningless drivel disguised as analysis: "It comes down to a battle ... to see who wanted to win the game more."

Does Herbstreit really think Michigan State wanted the game more? Do people really think the Rams wanted to win the 2000 Super Bowl more than the Titans but didn't particularly want it two years later when they lost to the Patriots?

Such a declaration supposes something nobody possibly could know. While meant to praise the winner, it's a ringing indictment of the loser: If only he (or she or they) had just wanted it more.

It's a cliche, it offers no insight and Herbstreit knows better.

I mean, how many championships did he win as Ohio State QB? What's wrong? Didn't he want it badly enough?

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Happy 50th to Wayne Gretzky, a great one on and off the ice

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The Great One turned 50 on Wednesday, meaning he is just a few months younger than me. Makes me feel younger. Or older. I'm not sure which.

Some of my fondest memories of my years as a young AP hockey writer came from my many trips to Edmonton covering The Greatest Show on Ice.

Those immensely talented and entertaining Oilers were hockey's version of the Showtime Lakers, and Wayne Gretzky was his sport's Magic Johnson. Only better.

After Gretzky moved on to L.A., I made a trip to Winnipeg to cover his 2,000th point. It was an unheard-of achievement at the time ... and he went on to score nearly 1,000 more before he retired. And those don't even include the records he holds as hockey's all-time postseason goal-scorer and assist man.

I also got to cover him almost singlehandedly lifting the Kings to the 1993 Stanley Cup Finals -- only Wayne Gretzky could make Los Angeles a hockey town -- and his one Olympics as a player (Nagano in 1998, which also was my last Olympics).

As often was the case in my job, though, my favorite memory involving Gretzky was of something little, not of a big event like the Stanley Cup or Olympics.

He got off to a dreadful (for him) start in the lockout-shortened 1995 season. When the Kings came into Chicago for a game against the Blackhawks that March, I decided to do a story on him.

I didn't have to beg the Kings' media-relations people for access after the game-day skate. I simply waited for practice to end and for him to step off the ice. I asked if he had a minute; he gave me almost 15. And when another member of the media tried to join in, Gretzky politely waved him away and said, "I'm talking to this reporter now. Let us finish, please."

I never felt more important.

After he answered the many very tough questions I asked him about his rare slump, he shook my hand and said, "Thank you" even before I could thank him. He then spent a couple of minutes with others in the media before leaving the United Center.

This is an example of why most folks who have spent any time around Gretzky consider him one of the classiest, least-pretentious superstars in sports history.

No team sport athlete -- not Michael Jordan, not Babe Ruth, not Jim Brown, not anybody -- dominated his sport as completely and as long as Wayne Gretzky did.

That he was (and still is) such a good guy, too ... well, it seems almost impossible.
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