Shallow | Center

What Do You Do When Your Shortstop Is Thinking About 'Hello Kitty'?

After running my first two practices as coach of my daughter's t-ball team, I'm trying to figure out with whom I can empathize more: her kindergarten teacher or Charlie Manuel.

Would it clarify matters to point out that we're talking about 10 5- and 6-year-old girls here? No, I didn't think so.

I played six years of organized baseball as a kid, and watched every practice and game of last year's t-ball and soccer seasons, but nothing prepared me for being the guy standing at first base and leading everyone in stretching. I thought holding one kindergartener's attention for more than two minutes was tough; a whole team's worth is damn near impossible. And while our girls did great hitting off the tee and catching grounders, and you can't stop them from running around the bases, by far the most enthusiastic reaction came when I unveiled our purple tie-dyed uniforms. Sadly, no one asked me to explain the infield fly rule.

That said, I'm having a blast with it. The girls are sweet and very interested in learning and trying, and as a coach, can you ask for anything more? Hell, I don't even mind that they leave runners on base. S|C

Tags: t-ball, coaching

A Rainy Sunday Afternoon ...

We now pause from our usual frivolity for some different frivolity.

I've been "nominated" by my fellow fantasy baseball co-owners to live-blog our annual draft so that those not available to be on site can see who's been picked in real time. Apologies to Bill Simmons.

Rule changes are being discussed now. Picks to be posted as they happen ...

At Least Mike Lieberthal Never Got Indicted

Yet Another Cigar Blows Up in a Certain GM's Face

THIS COULD have happened to only one general manager. Only one GM possesses the requisite baseball alchemy to spin gold into lead quite the was he has. Only the man who

• signed Jim Thome to a huge contract, then watched as his understudy blossomed into an MVP, thus necessitating a trade of Thome in which the GM had absolutely zero leverage
• traded for Kevin Millwood, then watched as the former 18-game winner disintegrated into a sweaty, out-of-shape whiner who wanted out almost as soon as he got here
• acquired steady clubhouse presence David Bell for several years, then watched as he sank into a funk of injury and limited mobility at third base
• rewarded Pat Burrell's one good season with a long-term, lucrative deal that handcuffed the team dreadfully when Burrell began flailing helplessly at every breaking pitch within 20 feet of home plate

could have traded for a former MVP to much funfare, then watched as the FBI announced he was under investigation for allegedly lying to authorities about steroids. Only one.

All we in Phillies City-State can say is: Astros Nation, we feel your pain. S|C

Maybe We Could Also Catch a Nordiques Game While We're There

LAST YEAR, for reasons still unknown, the Shallow Center household began receiving Health magazine in the mail. We never subscribed to it and never responded to the periodic subscription renewal requests we received, yet once a month it shows up on our doorstep. Health is clearly a female-oriented pub, yet I still like paging through it, because things such as maintaining work-life balance, managing stress, and eating healthy really aren't confined to one gender, and because there's usually an off-the-charts attractive model smiling on each issue's cover. (This month's, seen at right, is uber-cutie Kara Thomas.)

As the father of daughters and a pretty live-and-let-live kind of guy, I'm not at all bothered by Health's female bent, and when a travel-story sidebar headlined "Book this: 4 foolproof getaways" mentioned Montreal, where Mrs. SC and I will be headed this fall, I dove right in. My eagerness was halted abruptly, though, by this sentence:

Catch a Montreal Expos game and the jazz festival (www.montrealjazzfest.com).

Sacre bleu! The Expos moved out of Montreal for Washington after the 2004 season. My wife thinks it's sexist, but maybe a bit of a male viewpoints might have helped the pub's editors avoid such an obvious error. I look forward to reading the correction next month. Assuming, of course, we're still receiving it then. Um, our check is in the mail ... along with our order for Philadelphia A's season tickets.

Piffle or Not Piffle?

BACK IN the early '90s, Saturday Night Live ran a skit, "George F. Will's Sports Machine," mocking his and others' near-pornographic rhapsodizing about baseball. Pressed by Jon Lovitz's Tommy Lasorda on whether he ever plays ball, Dana Carvey's Will responds, for example, "If, by play, you mean drink deep the aura of the game ... " (The transcript and some photos, including one depicting Corbin Bernsen's spot-on Mike Schmidt, are here.)

It's easy to catch a game in the Cape Cod Summer League, as I did last week, and find yourself digging up SAT words in an effort to do justice to the throwback era the league seems to represent. Most of the players are college kids, and they are not paid. They are put up by residents of the Cape. The PA announcer reads sponsors' messages between innings, and you can catch a player or two carrying a helmet with raffle tickets being sold by the intern he's accompanying through the crowd. The game I saw -- Yarmouth-Dennis hosting Cotuit -- was played at a  high school. Granted, it was the nicest high school field I had ever seen, but it was still a high school. And when one of the Y-D Red Sox went yard, all of his teammates were waiting at home plate to high-five him.

Motoring

Seriously, How Can You Not Root for the Tigers?

SOMEWHERE THOMAS Magnum is smiling. His beloved Detroit Tigers are this season's Cinderellas, and they're sure making the most of their time at the ball. Their turnaround from recent futility -- though that word hardly describes just how awful they've been -- is as stirring a storyline as you'll find this October. And when they sent the mighty, $200 million Yankees back to New York and the wrath of the tabloids, their charm became that much more potent. Surely Jim Leyland, the living embodiment of the baseball lifer, plays a large part of Detroit's appeal. And of course the Tigers are the ultimate underdog, with a cheap roster, little-known players, and a beaten-down city to call home. What ultimately does it for me, though, is history. Detroit is Ty Cobb and Charlie Gehringer and terrific, old-school unis and a legacy that stretches back to 1901. It is the polar opposite of the focus-grouped and market-researched Marlins and Diamondbacks, new teams that have unfairly won three World Series over the last decade. I can't help but think that if the sad-sack Tigers can write a new chapter in their lengthy history, then so, perhaps, can my favorite team.

Out of Town, Out of Mind

Rooting for Your Guys on the Road is No Mean Feat

THIS WEEKEND I'll be in Washington to watch the Phillies play the Nationals at RFK. I'll have my Phils cap on, and I'll make a lot of noise for the boys in gray, conveniently forgetting just how much hatred I have for the out-of-towners -- day-trippers, vacationers, whatever -- who wear their teams' garb to Citizens Bank Park. It's a fine line to walk, this notion of rooting for your guys in person during a road trip. You want everyone to know whom you're there for, and you're proud as hell for having the stones to show up in a hostile environment. At the same time, you run the risk of a beat-down should you display your pride too obnoxiously. This thought was running through my head when I was in Baltimore last weekend, when the Yankees were in town. Bombers fans were everywhere, with their A-Rod and Jeter jerseys, and like typically self-possessed New Yorkers, they didn't give a damn what anyone thought of their Yankee fervence. One guy I spied sitting at a sidewalk cafe wearing a New York t-shirt that read "Got Rings?" On any other person I'd assume this was a note about deep-fried onion products; on him there was no doubt it referred to diamond-laden jewelry awarded for World Series championships. Had I been an Oriole fan, I'd have dumped a beer on the son of a bitch; as a Phillies fan, all I could do was seethe with jealousy.

Just a Bit Outside

Final Thoughts on an Ump with a Big Heart and a Big Strike Zone

IS THERE anyone among us who heard of Eric Gregg's passing and didn't wonder how on earth he made it as long he did? The man was enormous, as if his diet consisted of nothing but Chickie's & Pete's crab fries and pitchers of Yuengling. Gregg's death conjured up several memories of the man -- his strike zone, nearly as massive as he was; his clowning with the Phillie Phanatic whenever his duties took him to the Vet; his new job pouring suds at Citizens Bank Park. What I recall most was his appearance on Good Morning America shortly after fellow umpire John McSherry's collapse and death on the field in Cincinnati. Joan Lunden, clueless on her best days, talked with Gregg about his own weight struggles and asked a man grieving for his friend and colleague whether he kept a food diary as a way to keep track of what and how much he was eating. Gregg, I think, was too out of it to give Lunden the "Bite me" she deserved -- or maybe he was too nice a guy. The final thought on Eric Gregg, then, is this: He was a lousy ump but a genial presence. Rest in peace, big fella.

First Pitch

HOW APPROPRIATE that on this, one of the truly great days of the year, we have opened our windows for the first time since last autumn. It is, after all, Opening Day, and here in Philadelphia it's sunny and bright and comfortably in the 60s. It's perfect early-April weather, and a true reflection of the optimism fostered by the start of every baseball season. For just as spring brings the renewal of life, so does baseball foster a renewal of hope. Possibilities are endless, dreams yet to be squelched. The Phillies are still in first place, the birds are singing, and rounding third and headed for home is a brown-eyed handsome man. Anyone really can understand the way I feel. Play ball!

Grilled, Please

The First Schmitter Since Last Season Rekindles the Desire for Opening Day

THE RUSSIAN DRESSING combined with the melted cheese and dripped down my fingers in a way that just doesn't happen at Citizens Bank Park. Schmitters at the ballpark are delicious, but lunch today was at McNally's Tavern, the sandwich's home, and the experience was transcendent. Piping hot and crafted with love, unlike the good-but-lukewarm sammies slapped together by the high school kids at CBP, my Schmitter this afternoon did more to get me in the mood for baseball season than the World Baseball Classic, Barry Bonds's steroid problem, and the Phillies' suspect starting rotation combined. Is it Opening Day yet?