Nowhere to hide
Chris Sale, a well-paid pitcher for the Chicago White Sox, did something really stupid last week. You probably heard about it. As most major league baseball teams do today, they have a throwback uniform jersey day. It’s cool to see the players in uniforms that are barely in our memory banks.
Of course the greedy major league teams do it for the reason they do most things —money.
The teams will sell these jerseys at their team store for some outrageous price. Sale did mention this to the media after his very stupid action.
I have to admit, the White Sox throwback uniforms are especially ugly. I think the ones the White Sox were ready to wear had collars and weren’t even to be tucked-in.
They were the brainchild of the White Sox’ owner back in the 1970’s —Bill Veeck. It was Veeck who brought the disastrous “Disco Night” to Chicago.
Fans were encouraged to bring and burn their disco records in center field. The riot that ensued was so bad that the White Sox forfeited their game against Baltimore.
Just in case you haven’t heard, Sale took a knife and shredded the throw-back uniforms. He was scheduled to pitch and wasn’t comfortable pitching in them.
Of course, Sale cited the business of baseball as being bad and his motivation for the knife attack. Did I mention that the White Sox’ business office writes $9.1 million in checks for the pleasure of watching him pitch every five days for six months out of the year? Business must be good for Sale.
I’m sure after Sale got done with his attack on the defenseless, yet ugly and uncomfortable uniforms, he stepped back and thought, “What have I done?” I’m absolutely sure he wasn’t very excited to face his bosses or the media.
The trouble is in sports, often there is nowhere to hide.
All athletes have had those moments. I had a uniform malfunction in the last game of the season my junior season.
Even though I wasn’t a very good player, my playing time had increased toward the end of the season. We were playing Friend High School.
The town motto found on a billboard outside of town was, “Write a friend in Friend.” Today, I don’t think, ”Email, Text of Snap Chat a friend in Friend”, can be found anywhere.
The Lincoln Journal-Star was covering the game. That next day, I opened the paper to find they had a picture of me reaching for a loose ball.
I had one arm and one leg stuck out to try and reach the ball. I had really skinny legs and the basketball trunks were very short. Sadly, my mother pointed out that those pants didn’t hold everything in place. My jock strap was clearly visible peeking out from my shorts. There was nowhere to hide.
I can think of a couple of other occasions where I tried to hide in my basement until people forgot something stupid I did. This didn’t even involve sports. Growing up, I lived across the street from the biggest bully in my small hometown of Clatonia, Nebraska.
His name was Jack and he bossed me around, but because we were neighbors, he took it a little easier on me than some of my friends.
Jack had a cat that was about as mean as his was, but just like Jack, the cat had a truce with me, too. It wasn’t like I could go up and scratch the cat’s ears, but at least I didn’t have to watch my back while the cat patrolled its territory.
One night, just before dusk, I was walking home alone when I saw the cat beside a tree near my house. I walked close and called “Kitty, Kitty.” With Jack not around, the cat wasn’t about to be friendly. He took over across the street and was immediately hit and killed by a speeding car.
I was sure Jack would find out I was the one who killed his cat. He even said if he found out who killed his cat, he would do the same to the unlucky stiff.
Of course, he meant the driver, but I was sure he meant me. I must have hid in my basement for a month to avoid running into the bully.
The one real time I wish I could have been invisible was after a junior varsity game my sophomore year. Clatonia had just consolidated, but we played one game in the Clatonia gym and even wore the old Clatonia uniforms. The same uniforms a group of players had worn as they won the state championship seven years earlier.
I was very proud to put on those uniforms. Even though I was a very average player, I was having a great game against the Hebron junior varsity team.
I would finish off the upset win when I jumped in front of a Hebron pass with eight seconds left in the game and my team trailing by a single point.
I had the ball and nobody was between me and the basket. All I had to do was lay the ball off the backboard and I would go to the locker room a hero.
I took one step and both my feet shot out from under me. I had stolen the ball right where Hebron had huddle just moments earlier. They had failed to wipe up the perspiration.
I looked up at the official who sadly signaled a traveling violation. Even he looked sorry for me. We lost by that single point, all because I had choked in the final seconds.
Even though I hadn’t trashed the old Clatonia uniforms, but I had disgraced them. There definitely was nowhere to hide.
