A week ago I said, in part:

"…are you really, really convinced on young mister Derek Holland? I guarantee Nolan Ryan knows more about pitching than I do, and I like Holland’s moxie (to use a baseball cliché) but I see a fastball with little movement, a predictable slider and a tentative curveball. Might have been better to let him get 30 AAA starts this year."

There's been some confusion as to what I meant. (Last night Holland threw shut out ball for 8 2/3's, gave up two hits, walked only one and struck out 10.)

What I meant was I guarantee Nolan Ryan knows more about PITCHING AND PITCHERS than I do.

Any other questions?

Thank you.

Hey…how in the world do some guys drink beer and play sports? I like a cold brewski now and then but chug-a-lugging and running around? No huh.

One does get thirsty while playing sports, that’s a fact, but here’s another. Comes from a comedian (wish I could tell you his name, sorry) who said this:

“Played baseball as a kid, started drinking beer as a young man, got old, started playing softball, and then started drinking beer after playing softball. I loved playing softball because it was slowed down enough where I could feel like I was playing like a 17 year old. Crushing the ball, making great stops, diving for balls…it was great. Now, as an old guy, unless a ball is hit right at me it’s a base hit. Ain’t none of that diving anymore. Might spill my beer.”

To me, playing sports and drinking beer won’t ever be mistaken as old friends. I know I probably sit in the minority but I am convinced thanks to a lesson learned on the golf course.

Many years ago I was at the very first company conference I’d ever attended. It was a big event, held in a suburb of Palm Springs, CA.We got to play golf at this shindig and that too was another first – I’d caddied as a kid but never actually played the game.

So I practiced before the trip, went to the driving range early the morning of our game, and in general felt pretty good about things. As luck would have it, I ended up in the Vice President foursome.

When something like that happens, it can define a career. I was with my guardian angel VP who knew and loved me, the VP of marketing, and - raising the status of our foursome - the President of our company. I’ve always been pretty good at working the etiquette of those situations, so I wasn’t worried. Looked forward to, it actually.

Part of the reason came a week before the deal. My VP buddy confided, “Kevin, I have never played the game; I’m not a sports guy at all, so you help me out, okay?”

“Sure.”

Well, people, he was not lying about his abilities. By the fourth hole – and considering the value of that PGA golf course we played – he’d moved more real estate than Century 21 the previous year. Maybe the entire 1990’s. I was doing okay.

Around the 8^th hole or so, President guy says, “It’s about time we get some beers, ain’t it?”

What? It’s 9 AM! But I more than understood I better grab a beer when they do, even if I only sip and spill the thing for the next ten holes.

President guy drinks beer like it’s his job, marketing VP tries to keep up, and my buddy is grateful for something to end his misery. He says, “Put me down for 145 right now, I’ll drive the cart and drink beer.”

Now there’s more of a spotlight on me and I inadvertently chug-a-lug that first beer. I guess it’s the “dry heat” they always talk about out there, but those twelve ounces of fermented grain get me supercharged and I get the giggles.

Prudence dictates that I speak when spoken to with this group, and then only in golf clichés, meaning outright laughter is a no-no. I keep up on that, but the giggles begin to take on a life of their own. Are you with me? Good! Now I have to back up half a step. Don’t lose your spot here; meet you back on the 9^th tee.

In golf, professionals pretty much hit the ball where ever they want while decent amateurs know they have issues with their swing and adjust for it. The rest of us furrow our brows, swing furiously and, “let the big dog hunt,” hoping someone saw where it went. President guy fell somewhere between the first and second group. He owned a slice that made you swallow your tongue the first time you saw him hit. What’s a slice? (From ‘About.com)

Definition: "Hook" describes a trajectory or ball flight in which the golf ball starts out to the right (for a right-handed golfer) before curving severely back to the left and missing its target to the left. (Reverse those directions for left-handed golfers.) A hook is the opposite of the slice. Hooks are often the bane of amateur golfers and, for amateurs, can be tough to straighten out. A popular golf saying is, "You can talk to a slice but a hook won't listen."

To explain further: please picture a regular player standing on a line parallel to the direction he wants to hit it, with the ball at his feet. When he actually hits it, the ball might go a little this way or that, sometimes he even tops it and watches it dribble twenty feet from his shoes, but it heads down that-a-way towards the hole.

Back on the first tee, President boy- let’s call him Mike - stood at a forty-five degree angle to the ball and the direction we all looked for it to take. I watched as he waggles at the ball and wondered what in the world he’s doing but kept my mouth shut.

He rared back, swung viciously, and the ball took off for Mexico. Due south, baby. There we stood facing west towards the Pacific and he cranked a howitzer blast for the Baja.

As we watched, the ball magically curved back toward the United States, stopped and showed its passport, waved at the people in customs, headed back to the golf course and landed softly in the middle of the fairway. His ball traveled seven hundred miles as the crow flies, only 225 down the fairway, but it ended up a great shot.

“And that’s how you do that,” he muttered with great smugness. 

We all stumbled over ourselves to give him affirmation and headed down towards our next shot.

Got all that? Okay, back to the 9^th hole…

Don’t look now, but…

…this kid playing shortstop for the Rangers is the real deal. He’ll hit .255, maybe .260 this year, steal 30-40 bases, hit ten triples but the best thing is just what they’d told us it would be – he is a natural at short.

In my life, I’ve seen two guys in two sports that appeared similarly gifted as rookies; Alan Trammel and Steve Yzerman. On the other hand – we all remember Ruben Mateos, don’t we?

Still, next chance you get to see a game in person, watch Elvis as much as you can, keep a scorecard, take some pictures. I think you’ll be telling your grandkids about it some day.

…the Rangers have 69 games left. If they go 38 and 31 – basically the same .550 pace they’re at now – they’ll win 90 games. How about that?

…let’s HOPE there are no trades in the time between now and the trading deadline in July 31st. If it’s a “something for nothing,” then sure, but we are extremely fortunate to be seeing this now – it wasn’t supposed to begin to happen until next year. The team is very capable of winning 40 more games. Let’s see what happens with that.

…are you really, really convinced on young mister Derek Holland? I guarantee Nolan Ryan knows more about pitching than I do, and I like Holland’s moxie (to use a baseball cliché) but I see a fastball with little movement, a predictable slider and a tentative curveball. Might have been better to let him get 30 AAA starts this year.

…if it’s me, I go to Kinko, print line up cards for the next ten years with David Murphy in LF; one half of the stack with him batting seventh, the other half with him batting sixth. He’s my leftfielder until he retires. He plays the game, as they say, the way it’s supposed to be played.

…93 games left, five days between starts means somewhere between 15 to 18 starts for Millwood, Feldman, and the rest. I’ll take 15 wins from Feldman, thank you, and send Mike Maddux a fruit basket for whatever him and Nolan have done with these guys. Remember, we don’t have Jack Benoit or Eric Hurley out there the whole year. Spring training next year will be very, very interesting around the mound.

…there goes Michael Young; tenth in batting in the AL. We’ll be telling our grandkids about him, too.

Thing I miss most about corporate life are the funny stories. I don’t know about your industry, but because mine was/is restaurants, I can’t share a lot of stuff for a number of reasons, but some I can.

* * *

I was running the meeting and had a group of about twenty folks who were together for the first time. Those things tend to be a bit tense at first, so one thing that breaks the ice nicely was: “Let’s go once around the room and tell us what CD you’re playing the heck out of in your car.” (This was before IPods and MP3’s.)

One guy piped right up and said his was the GO-Go’s and he was real proud when he said it. The comedian of my gathering, with perfect timing, said, “What…is it stuck?”

A woman said her number one CD was the Greatest Hits of REO Speed Wagon

My guy says, “Greatest hits? Both of ‘em?”

* * *

An unforgettable meeting saw ten of us spread around a gorgeous, dark wood conference table, sitting on very plush, puffy, and comfortable office chairs that rocked, rolled, and spun in three-hundred-sixty degree circles.

Person leading the meeting was passionate yet boring and as she turned to write some stuff on the white board, I discovered my chair was strategically placed so as to enable me a complete circle without banging my knees, legs, and or feet on the table. Game on!

I nod to my meeting buddy and she discovers hers is also perfectly placed; she spins and comes back around facing me with a big smile. She nods to her tablemate and so on.

With my encouragement, nine adventurers set out on a quest of National Geographic proportions and when our leader turned around (maybe it was the wind blowing her skirt up that caused her to stop scribbling?) she saw nine of her best and brightest, spinning around like second graders. One of us wasn’t spinning, but…er…she knew me and I got the lecture anyway.

***

Pre conference call chatter is always interesting, because someone usually says something they get busted for, right? Many years ago, there was this:

“…yeah, that was kinda ironic,” one guy says.

“What’s ironic mean?” someone asked honesty.

First guy to pipe up was the guy I knew it would be. He ran the Houston market, and that’s all I need to say about that. Houston people are…different. This is kinda gross but funny so read with caution, but I swear it’s true and an exact quote because I’ll never forget it. Not sure if it was original but it was the first time I’d heard it.

“Well,” the Houstonian begins, “it’s like when you’re driving along in your car and you’re kinda rooting around in your nose and you pull the mother load out. It’s so big it that when it comes out, it makes a suction noise and your eyes water. There’s a datgum hair in the middle of it. And then you look out your driver’s side window and see an extremely hot blonde staring at you with her mouth wide open. That’s ironic.”

Right on cue, the silent-up-until-that-point Vice President says, “Yeah, and my wife was exceedingly grossed out, too, Clay, but thanks for starting this call off with a bang.”

*Sniff* Ah...those were the days.

Three broadcast stations, 2, 4, and 7, channel 9 from Canada, a fuzzy Toledo, OH channel 11, and three, depending-on-the-weather UHF choices – 50, 56, and 62 – made our boobtube line up. There was seldom more than one choice of what to watch at a particular time anyway but Walter was my father’s choice.

During the CBS Evening News we’d sit quietly, even during the commercials, because that’s how Dad played it. He never commented on anything said – just watched and maybe glanced at the paper.

As for me, I remember this one thing: starting in 1967 – with my oldest brother in Vietnam – my attention concentrated to a laser focus when the little box appeared over Cronkite's left shoulder showing enemy dead and wounded as compared to American dead and wounded.

I’d hold my breath momentarily when I knew the box was about to appear and then slowly exhale as the inevitable results – like the score of some fairy tale, happy ending, never lose, hometown baseball team – told the, “Hey, rest easy; more of them then us,” score.

Walter’s broadcast was a well-oiled, calm and professional machine that all seemed to fit. Nary a frantic, "OMG! A Democratic duck’s kidney has been transplanted into a Libertarian transvestite’s body; stay tuned!" piece rolling on for days and weeks bolstered by unnamed sources. Certainly it was, is, and always will be TV, meant to sell, sell, sell and Cronkite produced higher ratings and more advertising dollars, but at least – even to a nine-year-old – it appeared written and produced by serious, intelligent people for folks of the same ilk.

Walter might close with an ironic story, and update of something earlier in the week, or just a throw in piece, but my favorite was when he’d add some amusing bit of not quite fluff onto the end of his newscast and then with an every so slight, wry smile, close with his line.

Right after that…every single night I can remember…my Dad would repeat, “And that’s the way it is, Walter,” and head back to his paper, while I jumped back to my children’s world.

I don’t watch the news anymore; haven’t watched the news in many years but from what I can tell, there really aren’t any news shows on anyway.

We know what Walter would say about that, don’t we?

Then. Thick, made-of-glass eye glasses. I’ve had specs since the third grade and let me tell you, some of those early pairs were so heavy, the stems lowered my ears half an inch and made the muscles along the bridge of my nose, ripped, toned, and cut. I could lift a Volkswagen with that beak.

Now. Lasik, et al. We’ve gone over this before, but let me repeat…THEY SHOOT LASER BEAMS IN YOUR EYES. Sheesh.

Then. Franklin Planner, etc. You remember all those seminars and systems, yes? In spite of all that money we spent, a buddy of mine worked the all-time best system.

"It's an old one," he said, "and my Dad used it forty years ago, but it's an effective and stress-free method."

He said it with such confidence we had to pause while he explained.

"This pile," he said, pointing to a small stack of five or six papers, "I know what to do with and when someone needs me to do something with one of these papers, they'll call me for it."

We all nodded.

"This pile," he said, pointing to a mountain that reached the ceiling, "I have no idea what to do with, and when someone needs me to do something with one of these papers, they'll call and send another copy of it."

And with that, he shoved the huge pile in the garbage can. The Two Pile System.

Now. Whatever calendar software you use. I use Outlook. Do you know as Outlook gets close to 2 gigs, it starts to be a bad, bad girl? Gets petulant, moody, doesn’t play well with other software if it doesn’t feel like it and takes its sweet time to boot up. You are, however, tied into it forever.

Then. “Hey, do you know Mike over there at XYZ Consolidated? You do? Well, he said you were good people and could help me with….”

Now. “I’m Tom in Hong Kong; connect with me, okay?”

Then. “OK, everyone hush now, Ed Sullivan is starting.” And everyone was there, sitting quietly and watching.

Now. DVR’s. The missus gurgles for air she’s so far backlogged on recorded TV dramas. She had five episodes of “24” taped, watched them all one Friday evening and got so pumped I thought she was going to pull out an Uzi and empty a clip in the living room.

Then. (Early July) Hey…the Rangers look pretty good this year. (Early September) Well, maybe next year.

Now. (Early July) …the Rangers look pretty good this year. (Early September)????

I was calling her about the voicemail she left me. I tried texting her, but who knows what the heck I really typed. Pigs text faster and better than me.

I called her cell and another number, got some guy’s voice on one and that computer generated voice on the other, so I’m not sure who exactly I left messages for.

I posted something on her wall, twittered her, and sent an email (kids, email is something us old people use). I checked her All-In and a couple of other things, but she hadn’t updated anything recently so I’m not sure if she’s still using.

Echoing in my ear the whole time was the sound of Fred's mother, forty years ago, hollering across the back fence for my mom so she could talk to her about the newly planted flowers I “accidentally” trounced. 

Even being halfway down the block I heard her and hustled home, working through an excuse the whole time. In a matter of minutes, I was getting my behind tanned and young people, we ain’t talkin’ about UV rays here.

The conclusion? There's something to be said about technology, I'm just not sure if it's pro or con.