My terrier thinks she's in charge of keeping everything the same, so Halloween isn't her favourite day. Ketzel is a Miniature Schnauzer, with a personality many times larger than her 15 pounds. Every ghost and princess coming to the door would have triggered a barking frenzy, so when the first trick-or-treater arrived Friday night, it was time for a long walk.
For us, that meant a trip to Christie Pits, which in keeping with the ghoulish festivities, seemed darker and more deserted than usual. As we crossed Barton, the dog was excited, but I couldn’t help thinking about another evening in the park, a couple of months ago.
On the Tuesday after the big August blackout, the seventh game of the Intercounty League semi-finals was under way, with the hometown Maple Leafs and Brantford Red Sox tied 2-2 in the third inning. When the lights didn't come on, owner Jack Dominico was livid. His regular season champions lost their home-field advantage when the game was ordered to be finished the next night in Brantford, where they lost the series.
I spent a great deal of time at SkyDome that week, waiting to interview J.P., and was impressed by how the Jays did everything they could to conserve power but still played the games. Across town, the players and the fans weren't so lucky. It’s a damn shame the city pulled the plug on the Leafs; it may have cost them a championship.
My reverie was interrupted by a persistent tugging; I wasn't moving fast enough. Three years ago, our son wanted a cat, but he’s allergic. I wanted a "real" dog, one that said "woof" instead of a perpetual "roo-roo-roo" like Dino from The Flintstones. We compromised, and Ketzel (it's a Yiddish word for kitten, and the name fits perfectly) became part of the family. Now, she pretty much runs it.
After descending the steep hill behind the first base dugout, I flashed back to my 2002 Ursula Franklin Academy team, which lost our semi-final showdown with Jarvis on this diamond. It was like coaching the Bad News Bears that year; we got pounded 15-0 in our first game and whipped 8-1 in the second, before finding an unlikely groove and riding a winning streak into the playoffs. That team, with one star and a bunch of role players, a slow catcher leading off and a lefty third baseman, was a lot of fun to be around. I was flooded with memories of other high school games, and some classics from the Midget house league, where our Huskies won all those titles. The snow fences are up, but the field was alive for me.
Meanwhile, my dog, from a long line of ratters, scurried around looking for "prey" -- anything moving or edible –- under the bleachers and along the backstop. With the same scraggly beard featuring the same multiple shades of gray, we could be in a Fido commercial together. As Schnauzers go, she’s short, muscular, agile and tenacious as hell -– the Reed Johnson of the breed.
On the third base side, one of the Leafs’ stars crossed my mind. Former Blue Jay Rob Butler was selected to Team Canada in the Olympic qualifying tournament, now under way in Panama. We had a long conversation last spring at Stan Wadlow, just before the East York team he coached eliminated UFA from the high school playoffs. He was more interested in teaching kids the game than he was in playing "pro" ball again. Coincidentally, Bob Ellliott of the Sun mentioned yesterday that Butler, a former Olympian who did play in the recent World Cup in Cuba, was replaced on the national team because he was too ill to travel. Get well soon, Rob.
From a canine perspective, there’s a lot of park, and so little time. The ever-impatient one dragged me onto the grass toward the left-field corner, which triggered another pleasant memory –- chatting with one of the Leafs’ young pitchers in the bullpen, and watching him warm up.
Jon Lockwood, who first came into local prominence as a High Park Little Leaguer, went to North Central Texas J.C. and is now at Louisiana Tech. He's been with the Leafs the last couple of summers, but this year, the 21-year-old IBL all-star signed as a free agent with the Seattle Mariners. Though he's a longshot to make the Show, I think he’ll do well on a short-season pro team. I have a hunch that Jon's future is in the bullpen; he’s a fastball-slider strike machine. I wish him all the best.
Finally, we reached Ketzel’s favourite place -– the soccer field. Since she was a puppy, it’s been her game, instinctively "herding" the ball in the opposite direction, using her head, neck and shoulders to steer a ball twice her size, accompanied by a unique gnarl –- the soccer noise. If she was a baseball player, she’d be a second baseman (the K-Dog) who could get to anything on the ground or less than three feet in the air. Not much of an arm, though; worse than Shannon Stewart. Maybe she could run the ball to first for a lot of unassisted putouts.
We passed the boarded-up concession stand to the smallest of the three Christie diamonds, used for Tyke (age 10-11) play. One of my proudest moments as a coach and as a dad came there six years ago. My son, the lefty, was pitching the opening game of a Toronto Playgrounds tournament for the Lizzies against our nemesis, Annette. In a 2-2 tie in the fifth inning, they had runners on first and third with two away. Matt was just about gassed, and we had a relief pitcher warmed up. The lead runner was taking liberties, but our third baseman -- actually our ace, a big, hard-throwing righthander -- was known for his concentration lapses, especially when he wasn’t on the mound. Though he was ostensibly holding the runner, a catchable pickoff throw took him completely by surprise, and we surrendered the go-ahead run instead of getting out of the jam.
It’s not easy coaching your own kid. It’s especially difficult taking the ball from him when he’s pitched a great game. When he’s eleven, and on the verge of tears, it breaks your heart. While our reliever took his final tosses, I slowly walked Matt all the way out to right field, reminding him of the fine job he'd done, and urging him to shake off his disappointment, because the whole team needed him to focus on the next pitch. Sure enough, the batter hit a soft flare just over the first baseman’s head. It looked certain to score another run, until Matt came out of nowhere to make a spectacular, diving, tumbling catch. We lost the game, but the memory is indelible.
One of the star players on that arch-rival team ended up playing for my high school this year. The young man was very much on my mind as we toured the empty park, and in another eerie coincidence, there was his name in the Sun the next morning. "Kris Dabrowiecki pitched four runless innings allowing three hits" last week for Team Ontario in the 75-team Perfect Game/Baseball America World Wood Bat Association tournament. He's quite a prospect, but also a good student, so I expect him to go to college. If his busy schedule permits next spring, and it doesn't mess up his rotation with his other teams, I hope Kris can pitch for us against Harbord.
Ketzel, who is quite opinionated, prefers the soft outfield grass to the infield gravel. She pulled me to the edge of the Peewee diamond, near that short left field fence, so attractive to 13-year-old sluggers, where I recalled more great matchups between Annette and the Lizzies. We beat them once, right there, in a championship game. I thought of all those kids it's been my pleasure to coach, reflecting on what the game -- not just the big-league sport -- means to my life.
Just as I realized that we'd been walking for over an hour, and I hadn't thought once about $20 million contracts, Jeffrey Loria, or any other MLB nonsense, Batter's Box crossed my mind. It's a year old, you know. On this very weekend in 2002, "Gideon" joined me and we switched to this format. We didn't imagine 250,000 hits or any of the other amazing things that have happened; it has been a truly wonderful season. Inspired by the surroundings, I sent out "Happy Birthday" wishes through the cosmos to us, to my son, who turned 17 last week, and to Jordan, who is considerably older but still celebrated yesterday.
Suddenly, finally, the hyperactive dog relaxed, sprawling on the ground. I swear she looked up at me and smiled; we were both tired, thirsty and happy. In the dark, I felt like Ray Kinsella, waiting for a message. Then it became clear –- it's not Christie Pits that's haunted by baseball, it's me.
For us, that meant a trip to Christie Pits, which in keeping with the ghoulish festivities, seemed darker and more deserted than usual. As we crossed Barton, the dog was excited, but I couldn’t help thinking about another evening in the park, a couple of months ago.
On the Tuesday after the big August blackout, the seventh game of the Intercounty League semi-finals was under way, with the hometown Maple Leafs and Brantford Red Sox tied 2-2 in the third inning. When the lights didn't come on, owner Jack Dominico was livid. His regular season champions lost their home-field advantage when the game was ordered to be finished the next night in Brantford, where they lost the series.
I spent a great deal of time at SkyDome that week, waiting to interview J.P., and was impressed by how the Jays did everything they could to conserve power but still played the games. Across town, the players and the fans weren't so lucky. It’s a damn shame the city pulled the plug on the Leafs; it may have cost them a championship.
My reverie was interrupted by a persistent tugging; I wasn't moving fast enough. Three years ago, our son wanted a cat, but he’s allergic. I wanted a "real" dog, one that said "woof" instead of a perpetual "roo-roo-roo" like Dino from The Flintstones. We compromised, and Ketzel (it's a Yiddish word for kitten, and the name fits perfectly) became part of the family. Now, she pretty much runs it.
After descending the steep hill behind the first base dugout, I flashed back to my 2002 Ursula Franklin Academy team, which lost our semi-final showdown with Jarvis on this diamond. It was like coaching the Bad News Bears that year; we got pounded 15-0 in our first game and whipped 8-1 in the second, before finding an unlikely groove and riding a winning streak into the playoffs. That team, with one star and a bunch of role players, a slow catcher leading off and a lefty third baseman, was a lot of fun to be around. I was flooded with memories of other high school games, and some classics from the Midget house league, where our Huskies won all those titles. The snow fences are up, but the field was alive for me.
Meanwhile, my dog, from a long line of ratters, scurried around looking for "prey" -- anything moving or edible –- under the bleachers and along the backstop. With the same scraggly beard featuring the same multiple shades of gray, we could be in a Fido commercial together. As Schnauzers go, she’s short, muscular, agile and tenacious as hell -– the Reed Johnson of the breed.
On the third base side, one of the Leafs’ stars crossed my mind. Former Blue Jay Rob Butler was selected to Team Canada in the Olympic qualifying tournament, now under way in Panama. We had a long conversation last spring at Stan Wadlow, just before the East York team he coached eliminated UFA from the high school playoffs. He was more interested in teaching kids the game than he was in playing "pro" ball again. Coincidentally, Bob Ellliott of the Sun mentioned yesterday that Butler, a former Olympian who did play in the recent World Cup in Cuba, was replaced on the national team because he was too ill to travel. Get well soon, Rob.
From a canine perspective, there’s a lot of park, and so little time. The ever-impatient one dragged me onto the grass toward the left-field corner, which triggered another pleasant memory –- chatting with one of the Leafs’ young pitchers in the bullpen, and watching him warm up.
Jon Lockwood, who first came into local prominence as a High Park Little Leaguer, went to North Central Texas J.C. and is now at Louisiana Tech. He's been with the Leafs the last couple of summers, but this year, the 21-year-old IBL all-star signed as a free agent with the Seattle Mariners. Though he's a longshot to make the Show, I think he’ll do well on a short-season pro team. I have a hunch that Jon's future is in the bullpen; he’s a fastball-slider strike machine. I wish him all the best.
Finally, we reached Ketzel’s favourite place -– the soccer field. Since she was a puppy, it’s been her game, instinctively "herding" the ball in the opposite direction, using her head, neck and shoulders to steer a ball twice her size, accompanied by a unique gnarl –- the soccer noise. If she was a baseball player, she’d be a second baseman (the K-Dog) who could get to anything on the ground or less than three feet in the air. Not much of an arm, though; worse than Shannon Stewart. Maybe she could run the ball to first for a lot of unassisted putouts.
We passed the boarded-up concession stand to the smallest of the three Christie diamonds, used for Tyke (age 10-11) play. One of my proudest moments as a coach and as a dad came there six years ago. My son, the lefty, was pitching the opening game of a Toronto Playgrounds tournament for the Lizzies against our nemesis, Annette. In a 2-2 tie in the fifth inning, they had runners on first and third with two away. Matt was just about gassed, and we had a relief pitcher warmed up. The lead runner was taking liberties, but our third baseman -- actually our ace, a big, hard-throwing righthander -- was known for his concentration lapses, especially when he wasn’t on the mound. Though he was ostensibly holding the runner, a catchable pickoff throw took him completely by surprise, and we surrendered the go-ahead run instead of getting out of the jam.
It’s not easy coaching your own kid. It’s especially difficult taking the ball from him when he’s pitched a great game. When he’s eleven, and on the verge of tears, it breaks your heart. While our reliever took his final tosses, I slowly walked Matt all the way out to right field, reminding him of the fine job he'd done, and urging him to shake off his disappointment, because the whole team needed him to focus on the next pitch. Sure enough, the batter hit a soft flare just over the first baseman’s head. It looked certain to score another run, until Matt came out of nowhere to make a spectacular, diving, tumbling catch. We lost the game, but the memory is indelible.
One of the star players on that arch-rival team ended up playing for my high school this year. The young man was very much on my mind as we toured the empty park, and in another eerie coincidence, there was his name in the Sun the next morning. "Kris Dabrowiecki pitched four runless innings allowing three hits" last week for Team Ontario in the 75-team Perfect Game/Baseball America World Wood Bat Association tournament. He's quite a prospect, but also a good student, so I expect him to go to college. If his busy schedule permits next spring, and it doesn't mess up his rotation with his other teams, I hope Kris can pitch for us against Harbord.
Ketzel, who is quite opinionated, prefers the soft outfield grass to the infield gravel. She pulled me to the edge of the Peewee diamond, near that short left field fence, so attractive to 13-year-old sluggers, where I recalled more great matchups between Annette and the Lizzies. We beat them once, right there, in a championship game. I thought of all those kids it's been my pleasure to coach, reflecting on what the game -- not just the big-league sport -- means to my life.
Just as I realized that we'd been walking for over an hour, and I hadn't thought once about $20 million contracts, Jeffrey Loria, or any other MLB nonsense, Batter's Box crossed my mind. It's a year old, you know. On this very weekend in 2002, "Gideon" joined me and we switched to this format. We didn't imagine 250,000 hits or any of the other amazing things that have happened; it has been a truly wonderful season. Inspired by the surroundings, I sent out "Happy Birthday" wishes through the cosmos to us, to my son, who turned 17 last week, and to Jordan, who is considerably older but still celebrated yesterday.
Suddenly, finally, the hyperactive dog relaxed, sprawling on the ground. I swear she looked up at me and smiled; we were both tired, thirsty and happy. In the dark, I felt like Ray Kinsella, waiting for a message. Then it became clear –- it's not Christie Pits that's haunted by baseball, it's me.
