Let’s face it … I typically don’t remember what I had for lunch the day before. Heck, where I ate lunch the day before often gets lost in some tiny corner of my brain.
 
But baseball moments have always had a tendency to stick to my cerebellum, or cerebrum, or cerebral cortex, or whatever part of the brain retains memory (if it’s science-related, those things typically get lost, too).
 
What makes baseball different from the other major sports is that it’s an individual game wrapped in a team sport. Every single pitch is batter vs. pitcher – or pitcher vs. batter. On any given day, something dramatic could happen. Every single game can create its own little story.
 
When I heard of Milt Pappas’ passing yesterday, I couldn’t help but think back to September 2, 1972. Yes, I remember the date. It’s one of those baseball things.
 
That was sort of a “Wonder Years” summer for me. I was just six years old, but baseball had begun mesmerizing me. Back then, there were only five real channels on TV in Chicago – 2, 5, 7, 9 and 11. You could mess around with the dial and try to find 32 and 44 – but there would have to be a reason to do it.
 
That was the summer of fighting with my brother over the one TV in the house. There were only so many kid shows to watch, although “Electric Company” was kind of cool. I wanted baseball.
 
And every Cubs home game was on Channel 9 … with Jack Brickhouse … in the afternoon. After summer camp, I’d race into the house and watch the last few innings when the team was in town. And if it was a glorious Saturday, I could watch a game from start to finish – either a Cubs game on WGN or the national Saturday afternoon NBC Game of the Week with Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek.
 
On Saturday, September 2, 1972, the Cubs were at Wrigley Field to play the San Diego Padres and their ugly mustard yellow uniforms. I had a chance to watch a Cubs game from “Leadoff Man” to “The 10th Inning Show,” with a lot of running into the backyard to let everyone know what was going on – whether they wanted to hear it or not.
 
We all know the game story. Pappas not only had a no-hitter – he had a perfect game. Two outs … 3-2 pitch … perfect game on the line … and umpire Bruce Froemming didn’t raise his right hand on a borderline pitch.
 
I can still remember Brickhouse’s words as Pappas got ready to deliver the pitch: “Perfect game on the line … No-hitter on the line … Watch it.”
 
Pure magic … “Watch it.” Those words still resonate with me today.
 
And then … the pop up to one of my favorite early Cubs – Carmen Fanzone – to seal history.
 
“It’s a no-hitter for Pappas. A no-hitter for Milt Pappas.”
 
Hard to believe, but in the thousands of baseball games I have been to, I never have seen a no-hitter live. There were a few close encounters ended in the ninth inning – Jose Guzman, Alex Fernandez, Dan Spillner – but none crossed the finish line like it did that afternoon in 1972.

Two Saturdays later, I didn’t watch a game on TV. Instead, my Dad and my neighbors took me on my first excursion to Wrigley Field. Walking up the stairs from the concourse – and seeing the green cathedral sprawled in front of me – I was officially hooked. It didn’t hurt that the Cubs beat the Mets 18-5.
 
I talked to Milt Pappas several times through the years. To the end, he was bitter about not getting the call on the 3-2 pitch. I just wish I had thanked him for giving a little kid the sheer enjoyment of watching the drama unfold – and reeling me even more into becoming a baseball fan.
​

There was a period of time during my media relations days where you could typically find me at some rock concert on a weekend night.
 
I was reminded of that last night, when I saw awesome performances from Dina Bach and Callaghan at this cool music venue in Evanston called Space. If you’ve never been there, figure out a time to go … the acoustics were amazing.
 
Both Dina and Callaghan sang great songs of their own, but on the way home, I couldn’t get Callaghan’s rendition of “Purple Rain” out of my head. In this day and age, if you hear a song and want to hear it again, just go to the internet.
 
That got me thinking about the good old days. Back in the day before iPods – heck, I’m talking 10 years before iPods – you learned your music through FM radio and MTV.
 
Thanks to baseball, I had the chance to do a lot of travel. Thanks to baseball, I had the chance to do a lot of work in hotel rooms – passing time until it was time to head to the ballpark. Thanks to baseball, I had to leave hotel rooms to help kill time.
 
Back in 1991, I learned of the existence of a new band called Pearl Jam thanks to a college alternative radio station in Montreal that rotated between English and French songs. That’s a whole different story.
 
The following year, back in Montreal again, I found the same station on the hotel clock radio – and once again heard a song with Eddie Vedder’s voice. This time, though, I was positive it wasn’t a Pearl Jam song. And on top of that, there was another voice sharing the lead vocals.
 
The song stuck in my head – and was on constant rotation. If you ever went to a baseball game at Olympic Stadium, where silence ruled the world, you know something can get into your head and never have reason to leave.
 
The next day, I had one of my rare WTF moments. I was determined to find out who recorded that song.
 
I went to the front desk and, being the ugly American, I asked for directions to a college record store. I asked in English, which was my downfall. The desk clerk looked at me blankly. It didn’t dawn on me that if I was checking out, he would have been able to ask me for money to pay incidentals.
 
Sadly, the only French I remembered from high school was ouest (west), est (east) and il neige (it’s snowing). So after the blank stare down, I used the only phrase I could think of – McGill University. That, he understood. He pulled out a train system map and highlighted how I could get from the hotel to the largely English-speaking campus.
 
Somehow, I navigated my way to the McGill area and found a record store on the outskirts of campus. Then it hit me … How the heck was I going to describe the song in my head?
 
I went into the store and went for it – which meant I looked as confused as I possibly could. The student behind the counter had no clue what I was talking about, but I must have been animated enough in telling my story. Another employee magically appeared with a cassette tape. The song I couldn’t get out of my head – “Hunger Strike” – was on a Temple of the Dog cassette. She started raving about it … You have to buy the album … the only radio stations who knew of this song were college alternative radio stations. I came this far. Of course, I was buying the cassette.
 
Of course, I didn’t have a tape player with me in Montreal, so the song was stuck in my head for the remainder of the road trip.
​

Back in February, I learned of a volunteer opportunity with eGirl Power – a 501(c)(3) nonprofit established to empower girls to improve their confidence, self-esteem, and reach their full potential. The key objectives of eGirl Power are to inspire, educate, and empower tween and teenage girls – and prepare them for college and career success.
 
I get to tell stories. In providing counsel to eGirl Power (http://www.egirlpower.org), I get to tell their story. Amy Mintz, the founder of eGirl Power, has an amazing story – and it’s one I want to share with you.
 
*****
 
Amy Mintz is very passionate when she talks.
 
The founder of a 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization is passionate about education. She’s passionate about giving back. She’s passionate about devoting time to help those who can’t speak up for themselves.
 
Inspired by her late father, who dedicated his life and career to helping those less fortunate, her dream has been to make a difference in the world by helping others.
 
Mintz and her team – the people of the celebrated nonprofit Project Pay It Forward – are taking it to the next level with their new newest endeavor, eGirl Power.
 
“Our eGirl Power program spun off of Project Pay It Forward, with a mission to bring awareness to gender equality and support girls’ education,” said Mintz, who is authoring a book for eGirl Power. “With Project Pay It Forward, our purpose is helping youth to improve self-esteem and confidence. Unfortunately, girls are affected more than boys by low self-esteem and a significant lack of confidence. With eGirl Power, we narrowed our focus to empower girls to improve their confidence, self-esteem and achieve their full potential.
 
“In our program, we incorporate several approaches that I like to call the 3 M’s. Multimedia provides an  engaging platform to raise awareness of gender equality, and a fun and creative way for girls to express themselves. Second, mentorship provides guidance as girls meet role models and learn the possibilities for successful career paths and potential college majors. Lastly, the multiple intelligences provide the framework for girls to explore and identify their unique skills and talents – and learn how those strengths can be applied.”
 
Mintz had a fascinating upbringing. Her father, Steven, was a diplomat with USAID (United States Agency for International Development) – and as the daughter of a United States diplomat, she grew up traveling across the globe. The enriching experience of living around the world had a profound influence on her.
 
Growing up in different countries allowed her to see varying levels of gender disparity and gender inequality. She has now made it her life’s mission to help others.
 
“It’s been something instilled in me from a very young age. And I feel very fortunate that it was,” she said.
 
“My father was my role model. He dedicated his career to working to alleviate extreme global poverty. Because of his career, we lived in many different third world countries throughout Asia and Africa. Living in these countries, where you see so many children that don’t have the opportunities for education that we often take for granted in the United States, you really see the power of education to change lives.”
 
She learned “the value of an education and the importance of helping others” from her father, who passed away years ago.
 
“It definitely has been something that’s always been an inherent part of my values and beliefs,” she said. “My father used to say to me, ‘How do you define success in a person?’ I think our society focuses a lot on superficial things to quantify success. But when I think about success, I think of somebody who is happy, fulfilled – and who is able to say they make a positive change in the world and other people’s lives. I define that as success. I got that from my dad.”
 
During her high school years, the Mintz family came back to the United States and settled in the Washington, D.C., area. She was on a “typical” career path until her father died – when she realized she wanted to build upon his legacy.
 
“His death devastated me,” she said. “It isn’t a grief you ever really get over. It becomes a part of your life.
 
“After he passed away, I decided to go into education to become a teacher. I had been doing graphic design and web design, which I had enjoyed. But when he died, it really made me stop and assess what I wanted to do with my life. I liked the creative aspect of what I was doing, but I realized I wanted to do something to make a difference like he did. So I went into teaching. I worked with disadvantaged youth at several Title I schools. Teaching is a lot of hard work, but the intrinsic rewards of helping children can’t be overstated. After teaching for several years, I left the classroom and founded my nonprofit organization – which is dedicated to supporting youth and education. I love what I do, and I’m able to reach out to even more youth than I could in just one classroom.”
 
While it wasn’t her first nonprofit program, Project Pay It Forward became Mintz’s first signature statement.
 
The mission of Project Pay It Forward is to encourage the youth to make a positive change by applying their special skills, unique talents and passions to make a difference in their community. Mintz said that when you inspire and encourage youth to volunteer and pay it forward, there are many benefits to the community. But the benefit to the actual child who is volunteering and assisting others helps to improve their self-esteem and confidence and instills a sense of belonging in the community.
 
eGirl Power is the logical next step in the process for Mintz. What makes the project unique is the multimedia manner in which it will be presented. Over the next year, her book will be followed by a graphic novel – which will be followed by an animated film. Mintz likes to refer to all of this as edutainment.
 
“The purpose of the book is to raise awareness in a fun and  engaging way,” she said. “The MI9 Team is a group of superheroes who are all very passionate about different social causes, and they each represent one of the nine multiple intelligences. While the team is a mix of male and female characters, I wanted female superheroes to embody strength in specific areas where there remains a gender gap. So the experts of the team in STEM and sports are strong, confident women. And the leader of the team is a female who cares deeply about gender equality and supporting girl’s education, having overcome a lot of gender discrimination herself.”
 
“All of the characters have struggled through a variety of obstacles and problems, and so between that and the multiple intelligences, there are qualities in these superheroes that all young people to relate to.
These superheroes also go up against their adversaries, who characterize some very negative qualities, while the MI9 Team members represent positive character traits.”
 
The graphic novel is set to launch in October.
 
 “The graphic novel is going to focus on two main characters in particular,” Mintz said. “Two sisters who are separated as children and wind up on drastically different paths in life, and the key factor in this difference is education. We see a lot of changes in their relationship, and a lot of internal changes and conflicts within themselves.”
 
Also in the works is an animated movie that will bring life to the story – an adaptation of the book, with the superheroes coming to life.
 
“I’m very blessed to be able to focus all of my energy and time on something I’m truly passionate about,” Mintz said. “eGirl Power focuses on supporting girls’ education and gender equality, which is so important.” 

As I was listening to the Harry Caray Cracker Jack game for my last story, I couldn’t help but laugh again – after Steve Stone said I resembled a puppet – when Harry started his sinister chuckling line of “Heh heh heh heh heh … Boy, they got to you, I can see. They got to you. What did it cost them Arne?”
 
If you were fortunate enough to watch a Cubs game on TV from 1982-1997, it’s very likely you couldn’t go nine innings without hearing the phrase “Hey Arne” – followed by a conversation in which the viewer only knew that Harry was talking to Arne – and Arne was talking back, at least on air.
                                
Arne Harris was the behind-the-scenes magician as producer/director of Cubs television, but he had a big on-screen role as the unseen party that Harry conversed with.
 
These one-sided conversations might have been nothing more than a few words starting with “Hey Arne” – or a whole soliloquy about some event, or somebody in the stands, or some thought bubble that just popped into Harry’s head. For the record, there’s a button a broadcaster could push to talk to the director, but that’s not how Harry operated. And Arne probably preferred viewers thinking it was a one-way conversation – just for the humor in it.
 
I can’t imagine how many Cubs viewers in the ’80s and ’90s thought of Arne Harris in the same way people thought of Vera, the never seen wife of Norm Peterson on Cheers – or Maris, the name without a face married to and divorced from Dr. Niles Crane on Frasier.
 
While Arne truly was a character, he really did exist. I was reminded of that not only in Harry’s words – but from a couple comments after the Cracker Jack story was posted. I even joked around with one of the “commenters” – some guy named Chip who claims he’s related to Harry – and all these images of Arne came flooding back into my mind.
 
Arne was just as much of a “one-name guy” as Harry was. If you walked into a TV truck and asked for Mr. Harris, you would be told there was no one there with that name.
 
Arne was this wonderful man who loved all things about the ballpark experience, period. He was a visual storyteller. He wanted the fans on WGN to feel as if they were at the game, too.
 
The game itself was part of the production – and no one loved bases-loaded situations more than Arne, so he could show runners leading off third, second and first. But he also loved his hat shots – so showing Chuck Wasserstrom in a Cracker Jack hat was right up Arne’s alley. He loved the sail boats on Lake Michigan … the CTA trains passing by the bleachers … the bikini shots during the summer months. It was part of the Wrigley Field experience.
 
Being the master that he was, he also knew when to use them. There was never the three-second bounce from player-to-player-to-player-to-player-etc. when the game was on the line. Pitcher … Batter … Period. Cubs games were reality TV, and Arne knew drama.
 
But it was the “away-from-the-yard” images of Arne that really stick with me. He could pack for a two-city road trip with one carry-on bag. He was a white pants/white shoes guy – even after Labor Day. He reminded me on team flights that peanut butter and jelly tasted better than airline food. He knew the hotel-to-ballpark routes – and made sure the cabdrivers didn’t take some tourists the long way. And I can still hear his “Bmmm Bmmm Bmmm” staccato sound he made when he was deep in thought.
 
The TV truck was his home, but it was on the road where Arne was royalty – and it was good to be with the king. I made a lot of trips to Houston during my Cubs media relations years – and on every Texas excursion Arne made sure we lunched at a place called Shuckers Sports Bar in the Westin Galleria. It didn’t matter which member of the wait staff greeted us; they all knew Arne’s oyster order before he sat down.
 
Twice on trips to Atlanta, I was lucky enough to tag along with him on trips to Friedman’s Shoes. Despite the store’s name, this shoe store is a big-and-tall shoe store – not a short-Jew-from-Skokie shoe store. And by big-and-tall, I mean this is where your garden variety 7-foot-tall person shops. It’s floor after floor of shoes for people with size 27 feet. But Arne walked in there and had salespeople tripping over themselves to sell him a pair of white shoes.
 
It’s hard to believe, but it’s been 15 years since Arne Harris directed a Cubs game. The thought of “Hey Arne” still makes me smile.

​Did you know I once was a guest star on a reality TV show?
 
No, I’m not talking about being in the background for a split second during an episode of “Undercover Boss.”
 
I’m talking about true “reality TV” – when WGN was WGN … and Harry was Harry … and you never knew what he might say during a live telecast.
 
And on this given day – June 16, 1993, to be exact – I was asked if I would do something potentially embarrassing to me.
 
Cracker Jack was celebrating its 100th anniversary, and all the Cracker Jack powers-that-be were at Wrigley Field that afternoon. I was asked, with just a bit of arm-twisting, if I would be OK putting on the Cracker Jack sailor hat and wearing it around the press box for the first couple innings of the game. The WGN cameras would show me on TV … Harry Caray and Steve Stone would get a good laugh at my expense … they would then talk about the deliciousness of caramel corn and peanuts and Cracker Jack’s 100th anniversary celebrating … and everybody would be happy.
 
I agreed to do it, as long as I got to keep the hat. Sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do. If it’s good for the ratings, who was I to argue?
 
Seriously, other than people making fun of me, what harm would it do if I wore Sailor Jack’s hat?
 
Let’s just say my confectionary military career lasted all of one inning.
 
*****
                                      
Sometimes, you have to let the story tell itself.
 
I’ll set the stage for you. Cubs vs. Marlins at Wrigley Field on this fine June 16, 1993, afternoon. Bottom of the first inning. One out. Jose Vizcaino stepping up to the plate.
 
Arne Harris, in the TV truck, with the Cracker Jack execs nearby, saying something like, “Hey, now’s a good time to put the camera on the press box. Look for Chuck in the sailor hat.”
 
Harry and Steve, take it away …

Harry: “There’s Sharon Pannozzo, the publicity director of the Cubs. And her assistant.”
 
Steve: “Chuck Wasserstrom. He looks kind of like a puppet today with that hat.”
 
Harry: “I don’t know what the big deal about Cracker Jack is. Did you ever go buy a pack of Cracker Jack thinking you’d get a prize and find no prize in the box?”
 
Mr. Stone starts laughing

​Harry: “Here’s the pitch … That might not sound important to some people, but when you’re a little kid, especially from humble origin, and they cheat you out of a prize … ”
 
Sound of bat hitting ball.
 
Harry continues on: “There’s a bouncing ball, second baseman has it, Barberie over to first … It’s hard to think in laudatory terms of the product.”
 
Steve: “I think there was an occasional box of Cracker Jack that found no prizes for the little Harry Caray many years ago.”
 
Harry: “You got that right. And boy, when a box of Cracker Jack to me meant a lot of money … Two out, and here is Sandberg … ”

Harry: “Heh heh heh heh heh … Boy, they got to you, I can see. They got to you. What did it cost them Arne? … Here’s the pitch, bounced foul … That’s the most asinine marketing I’ve ever heard of … One ball, one strike … These guys say, ‘Well, you sing about Cracker Jack.’ I said, ‘I only sing it because it’s in the song’ … Here’s the pitch, fouled back … And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised, even to this day, some youngsters buy a box of Cracker Jack and don’t find a prize in the box … One ball, two strikes, two out … If you’re going to talk about our congressmen being crooked … Here’s the pitch, fouled out of play … Why not talk about commercial products that don’t do what they represent to do … One ball, two strikes, two out … Baseball to me is apple pie, hot dogs, beer or soda pop – depending on your age, a nice juicy hot dog, sitting out at beautiful Wrigley Field, watching Ryne Sandberg face Luis Aquino – and going down swinging on a wicked curve ball … 1, 2, 3 … at the end of one, Florida leads 1-0.”
 
Cue the commercial.
 
When the top of the second inning started, the Sailor Jack hat was out of sight.

​

​It’s been pretty awesome reconnecting with some of the unique personalities I worked with during my quarter century with the Cubs – as I’m on a mission to track down players I worked with to talk about their playing days and find out what they’re up to now.
 
A few days ago, I caught up with Dennis Rasmussen – who pitched professionally for 15 seasons, albeit briefly with the Cubs in 1992. Dennis, a 6-foot-7 left-hander, was a super nice guy to be around – and he was one of the first former players to reach out to me after my Cubs time had ended. After his playing days were over, he went from minor league pitching coach into the investment business – before remarrying and becoming involved in his wife’s family business.
 
Today, Dennis is the Chief Burger Flipper at the Dairy Grille in Charlevoix, Michigan. That title was too good for me to resist. I knew I had to see what he was up to.

Chuck: How does one become a Chief Burger Flipper?
 
Rass: “I was coaching in 1998 with the Red Sox organization in Ft. Myers, and there was a left-handed pitcher that I was mentoring named Terry Hayden. He played five years in the minor leagues with the Red Sox and the Reds and ended up having Tommy John surgery. Anyway, we stayed in touch, and I came up to visit him 10 years later in 2008. We came up to Northern Michigan … we toured around. I’d never been up here in Charlevoix, so I saw his family and the Dairy Grille. The last night I was in town, I went out with his sister, Renee. We were both single. We started talking. After about a year, we started dating long distance. In 2010, I moved up here – and we later got engaged. A couple years later, we got married. Since I was now retired from the investment business, my father-in-law said, ‘What do you think about taking over the family business? My brother-in-law and I took it over. This is the 47th year in business. Uncle Jim Hayden started it. My father-in-law and mother-in-law then ran it for 24 years. This is now our third year. So I flip burgers and sling ice cream for six months of the year in a beautiful resort town in Northern Michigan on Lake Michigan.”
 
Chuck: I’m assuming that this wasn’t what you thought you’d be doing after your baseball career.
                                                                                                                                                                               
Rass: “All I did growing up was play sports and travel. I really didn’t work. I had a couple odd jobs during the summer, so it kind of came full circle. The funny thing was, as soon as it happened, my brothers – who had worked through high school – said, “It’s about time you got a real job and did something that we did back in the day when we were younger.” I’m doing the same things now that they did – and I’m in my 50s.”
 
Chuck: Do you look at this as a job?
 
Rass: “No, it’s our business. My brother-in-law and Renee – it’s really their business. I work for them. I’m up here five out of the six months. It works out great. I’m here until mid-June. We opened up this year on April 1 and had one of our biggest days ever. This is kind of a tradition up here. It’s a sign of spring. Everybody looks forward to the Dairy Grille. We take it seriously. We always open the end of March, beginning of April. We close the third Sunday of every September.”
 
Chuck: How do you spend the other half of the year?
 
Rass: “We live in Detroit. My stepson, Hayden, is a hockey player and a baseball player. As a freshman this year in high school, he made the varsity hockey team. He practices or has a game six days a weeks. When I get back to Detroit, I’ll play in a couple celebrity golf tournaments. The rest of the time, we’re going to hockey practice or hockey games – following him around.”
 
Chuck: Any chance you lace up the hockey skates?
 
Rass: “Oh no. Never. No. I went to Creighton University on a basketball scholarship and also played baseball there. I was drafted in 1980 and played until 1995. We were together in 1992 with the Cubs – when we first met. I retired in 1995, then went into the investment business for 10 years. Met Renee, we got together – and here I am in Michigan. I couldn’t be happier. I love it up here. It’s a resort town. I’ve made a lot of friends over the last three-plus years. I host a Major League Baseball alumni golf tournament/youth clinic each summer. We raise a bunch of money and get some former big leaguers up here and expose the local community to the players. It’s a lot of fun. I’m kind of the resident celebrity chief burger flipper.”
 
Chuck: It’s hard to believe you only pitched in three games with the Cubs. It seems like you had a longer career in Chicago. You had a nice long career, and you’re very personable, so it just feels like I spent a lot more time around you.
 
Rass: “Exactly. I sure wish I had spent more time there. It’s actually a great story how I wound up there. I was in Baltimore’s organization in Rochester (in 1992), and my contract said I could ask for my release if I was in Triple-A on June 1, which I did. I knew the Padres were playing a get-away day game in Wrigley Field against the Cubs – and I had spent the last four years in San Diego – so I drove all night to Chicago so I could meet the Padres manager for breakfast. I got there after driving all night and saw Greg Riddoch. I told him I was healthy and that I’d like to throw for him. He said, ‘Rass, I’d love to have you throw, but we have a lot of young guys and I don’t have any room.’ Then I saw Syd Thrift, the assistant GM of the Cubs, sitting in a corner of the restaurant having breakfast with an agent. I went over there, interrupted him, and he goes, ‘Wow, we were just talking about you. Meet me at the stadium. Do you have all your stuff?’ I said yes, and went to Wrigley. I waited for a couple hours, and all the players are coming through and wondered why I was there with my bag. The clubhouse guy gave me a uniform and I threw on the side. They called my agent, and they sent me to Iowa. I was there for two starts, then got called up when the late Frank Castillo got injured. After that was over, which was about six weeks, I got released. I drove across I-80 to Omaha, where I had made my off-season home. I called the Royals, signed with them, pitched in Triple-A. I then got called up to the Royals near the end of the season and pitched really well … and ended up getting a contract for the following season. You just never know. If you can still pitch, you persevere and find a way – especially as a left-hander.”
 
Chuck: It doesn’t hurt to have a good attitude, too.
 
Rass: “I always did. I was a professional, and I just loved to play the game.”
 
Chuck: Not that many people can say they had three careers. You had the baseball career, including coaching, before doing investments. Now you have the family business to run.
 
Rass: “I’ve been very fortunate. I love to tell stories about sports and baseball and basketball … I wouldn’t have changed a thing. This career keeps me young. It keeps me in shape. I don’t have time to rest. We’re open seven days a week, 11 in the morning until 9 at night. I get going around 9 am. It’s busy. You’re running around with young kids, keeping an eye on them and making sure they stay safe – and have fun along the way. It’s a training environment where they have an opportunity to grow. You mentor them; for most of them, it’s their first job. And to be able to see them save enough money in salary and tips to buy their first car … it’s very rewarding.”

“You’re never late if you’re early.”
 
I was only a couple weeks into my professional career when Don Zimmer said that to me over breakfast the Saturday morning of the 1988 Cubs Convention. I showed up a few minutes early for the meeting, but Zim was already at the restaurant waiting.
 
Thanks to this week’s trip to Chattanooga, I’ve been thinking about my first year full-time with the Cubs quite a bit. My rookie year was so long ago that Wrigley Field was lights-free – at least until I got there. Within my first month on the job, I’d been on my first Cubs Caravan, gone to my first Cubs Convention, had Cubs fans watch me eat breakfast with Zim, and was within shouting distance of the bigwigs down the hall when they learned that the Chicago City Council had approved lights at Wrigley Field. There would be night baseball on the north side of Chicago later that year.
 
Once spring training arrived, I knew – as a newbie – that I would be in Chicago while all the action was taking place in Mesa. But instead of it being a quiet six weeks, I got to experience media relations first-hand – as I worked directly with the media on items pertaining to the installation of lights. And as the spring went on, I had the opportunity to be the media’s point of contact – which meant that I got to stand in the Wrigley Field parking lot next to Yum Yum Donuts while a helicopter swirled over my head lifting light standards onto the roof.
 
My reward for not having a helicopter land on me: Road trip!
 
Back in the day, letting a 22-year-old kid serve as your team’s media relations representative was not the norm. But my boss, media relations director Ned Colletti, knew he and assistant director Sharon Pannozzo needed to be in Chicago during the days leading up to the first night game. The amount of media requests for Opening Night was unprecedented. As it turned out, 556 media members were in attendance for the inaugural Wrigley Field night game – which at that time made it the most widely covered non-jewel event in major league history. 
 
So Ned put the plan into place. I would meet him in Philadelphia during the Cubs’ road trip leading up to the 8/8/88 homestand – and he’d show me the ropes. The plan really was pretty simple: Meet the team in Philadelphia … travel with them to the Hall of Fame Game in Cooperstown … and continue on to New York. That was a neat little trio for one’s first trip.
 
Fortunately for me, there aren’t stories to tell if I keep things simple.
 
I could talk about my suitcase being left behind at the Philadelphia hotel – because the bellman thought I was kidding about working for the Cubs and didn’t put my bag with the other luggage going on the Cubs’ charter. But I’m not going to do that here.
 
I could write about the Hall of Fame Game experience, in which a certain Cubs player spent the game in the dugout wearing a monkey mask. But this isn’t the time.
 
I could fill you in on the team almost missing the game’s first pitch. That’s the direction I’m going.
 
This Thursday morning (August 4, 1988), for the first and only time during my media relations career, I took the later bus from the hotel to the ballpark. There were always two busses to the yard – one that went very early and usually included the manager, coaches, training staff and any players who wanted to get there early – and the other leaving about 2½ hours before first pitch. Back in 1988, most players were good with taking the second bus.
 
And on this day, only four or five players took the early bus. It was the last day of a 10-day trip … the team had played the night before … and Zim had cancelled batting practice. As long as everyone was at Shea Stadium about 90 minutes before first pitch, all was good.
 
Bus #2 left at the scheduled time. We managed to go about a block in the first 15 minutes, as the parking lot known as Manhattan was even slower than usual.
 
We finally got off the island and were making slow but steady progress when the bus started hissing. All of a sudden, players started yelling that there was smoke coming out the back of the bus. To make matters worse, a couple “high character” players activated smoke bombs on the bus to prove their point. How they knew to bring them, I don’t know. It didn’t amuse the bus driver.
 
The bus sort of went into lurch mode before the driver realized that the bus actually had smoke billowing out the back. He finally had the presence of mind to pull over and examine the back of the bus. After about 30 seconds of serious inspection, he came back on and told our traveling secretary, Peter Durso, that there was smoke coming out the back of the bus.
 
“No kidding,” is what a politically correct Mr. Durso said. For the record, Peter – a native New Yorker – was not using politically correct words. “What are you going to do?”
 
You could hear the wheels spinning in the driver’s head before he said, “I should probably call the bus company.”
 
He did – and was told that it would take at least an hour to get another bus to our location.
 
“We don’t have an hour,” Durso told him. “Unless the bus catches on fire, let’s go.”
 
“But ... “ the driver started to say.
 
“Let’s go … now!” Durso ordered.
 
So away we went. Slowly. Like 15 MPH slow. With full play-by-play coming from the back of the bus.
 
Every five minutes, I looked at my watch – and 10 minutes had passed by. We were cutting it a little too close.
 
The bus ride should have taken a maximum 30-45 minutes. On this day, we had left at 10:30 am for a 1:05 pm game. Due to our little issues, our smoking bus didn’t pull up to Shea Stadium until right around noon.
 
And that’s when things got interesting.
 
Because we had gotten to Shea Stadium so close to game time, the gate we were supposed to drive through was now locked. A savvy Shea Stadium parking attendance ordered our driver to get in the line with all of the other busses – also known as tour groups. The line was long.
                                                                                                                                                                           
Durso started arguing with the parking attendant. “We’re the Cubs … we’re the team you’re playing … there’s no game unless we get into the park.”
 
Peter was as diplomatic as he was going to get. The parking attendant wasn’t letting us get around the line.
 
Peter told the bus driver to pull around all the busses and had him drive the bus another 75 yards or so. Then, he told the driver to speed up and crash through the fence. He casually reminded the driver we were very late.
 
The bus driver wasn’t Keanu Reeves. He wasn’t going to smash through a fence.
 
Peter told him again to do it. The driver said no.
 
Peter screamed, “I’m firing you. I’m firing your bus company. I’m firing New York. Get off the bus. I’ll ram through the fence.”
                                                                                                                                                                               
The driver walked down the steps, and Mr. Durso got behind the wheel.
 
Thankfully, by now, a New York cop was quickly approaching the bus. Faster than you can say “WTF,” he got on the bus, looked around, said “WTF” – and realized we truly were the Chicago Cubs. He got Peter out of the driver’s seat, told the driver to get back on the bus, and “tour guided” us around all the tour groups and straight over to where we should have been dropped off over an hour before. By this point, it was roughly 45 minutes before first pitch.
 
Players literally sprinted to the clubhouse. As everyone entered the room, the image of Don Zimmer standing in the middle of the clubhouse with his arms folded and steam coming out of his ears was priceless.
 
Needless to say, I learned my lesson. From that point in time, I always took the early bus. You know, you’re never late if you’re early.

I was sitting at O’Hare Airport a couple days ago just watching the people go by.
 
It’s hard to believe, but I was about to get on an airplane for the first time since early 2013. And it was the first time I was departing on a “road trip” since I left for spring training in February 2012.
               
Gratuitous plug here … I was traveling to visit with a client. I indeed WILL write for money! I enjoy telling my stories here, but I have mouths to feed. Please contact me for all your content needs. Remember, content is king!
 
OK, back to the trip. It’s a different day than the last time I traveled. Somehow, I was able to get from the “departing the taxi” portion of my day to the “I cleared security” phase in 18 minutes. At a busy O’Hare. During morning rush, no less. Times sure have changed. I didn’t have to partially disrobe to get through the security checkpoint. Heck, I didn’t have to pull out my laptop or empty everything out of my pockets – include comb and pens.
 
For someone who used to fly charter and never go through the terminal, this wasn’t bad at all.
 
And then I entered the Terminal 3 Food Court, and all I could think was “Best Food Court Ever.” Wow, I sound like such a rookie. The thoughts of my first road trip in baseball are starting to float through my head.
 
I got to the gate and started my people-watching experience in earnest. I quickly figured out that the first 100 people to get on a plane use the airline app on their smartphones to board – and everybody else uses a physical boarding pass. Who knew? I, of course, was prepared to go either way.
 
That brings about a naïve little question … Why do people jockey in line to be the first person on the airplane – when you already know you’re sitting in seat 1A?
 
I haven’t been on a plane in a long time. Thank goodness they still spend a full minute explaining how to put on a seat belt, as I had forgotten that you have to grab the strap and pull tight.
 
A few thoughts/musings …

• I always like getting to the airport early to people watch. So what if there’s time to kill. Can you say “time to kill” at an airport these days?
• It really was amusing watching humans get in line more than half an hour before boarding began – then have to make way since they weren’t part of the first five groups being allowed to get on the plane. Is it possible they were all flying for the first time? That would explain the long demonstration of how to put on a seat belt. It all makes sense now.
• I was actually sitting close to the gate entry watching “airport life” when the pilot walked by me to get on the plane. He said Hi and asked, “Are you going to Charlotte?” I said “Eventually,” since I was in seating group 2 – which turned out to be the sixth group called. He laughed and said, “I’m not used to seeing someone sitting down this close to boarding.” Yep, that’s me: Chuck Wasserstrom, retro traveler.
• I long for the days when airline carriers boarded planes from the back to the front. The process seemed to flow smoothly. When you board front-to-back, people like me tend to have their backpacks smack aisle sitters in the side of the head. I apologize to the multiple people that met my backpack head-on. You should have waited to get on.
• If I’m sitting in row 17, and the plane continues for 10 more rows, how were all the overhead spots taken before I got to my seat – when there were only five people seated from rows 18 to the back of the plane? It’s a good thing I still pack for 10 days for a short excursion; I was one of the three people on board who paid the baggage fee.
• Random thought: If you can only bring one piece of carry-on luggage onto a plane, how did a bunch of people get two bags past security? Just asking.
• There’s something really awesome about breaking through the clouds and seeing a bunch of fluffy cotton balls below the wings. And it’s even “awesomer” when you have the theme from Jaws going through your head. Hat tip to “Airplane!” for creating that visual for me.
• In this day and age, there’s really something special about being Wi-Fi-free for a couple hours. No emails … no texts … just kicking back with the headphones on and listening to some music while staring out the window. Have you seen the GMC commercial featuring a ballpark shot from 35,000 feet while The Who’s “Eminence Front” was playing? Well, that song was on when downtown Charlotte appeared during the descent. Outstanding timing.

 
My friendly pilot must have been in a hurry to get here. We landed 30 minutes early, which meant sitting on a tarmac for 30 extra minutes. I guess that’s why you’re supposed to fly the speed limit.
                                                                                                                                                           
In order to get there that fast, we must have flown fast – as the landing was a tick on the hard side. You knew you were coming in hot when you can feel the brakes being applied before the wheels touched down. Now that I’m a travel writer, too, I have to be reminded that commercial planes can’t stop on a dime no matter how hard the pilot tries.
 
Actually, the landing reminded me of one from my Cubs days. We were flying into Utica for the Hall of Fame Game – as Utica was the closest airport to Cooperstown. Apparently, no one had warned the pilot that Utica has an extremely short runway. He started his descent, then pulled up and circled. He started a second time, then pulled up and circled again. Obviously, he wasn’t too confident about landing this puppy in one piece.
 
The third time, he went for it. We landed so hard that oxygen mask compartments flew open when we hit the ground.
 
I’m doing a lot of this typing between flights, as my trip continues on to Chattanooga. A few more thoughts:

• I forgot how big Charlotte’s airport is. I needed a plane to get me from my arrival gate in the C concourse to my departure gate in E.
• I have a serious question, since I had to take several people walkers. What exactly does “Walk on the Left, Stand on the Right” mean?
• Good thing I didn’t ask that out loud. The person who nearly brought a people walker to a grinding halt by standing still in the “walk” lane turned out to be the flight attendant on the connecting flight
• The Chattanooga flight is a regional plane, also known as a metal tube with wings. It’s about twice the size of an MRI machine. Those planes scare the asphalt out of me. On the flipside, they are small enough to actually land on a dime.

 
This is a new career, yet I can’t help but reminisce about my first baseball road trip. Come back in the next day or two, as I’ll be working on that tale on my return flight home.
 
Until then, I get to hang with Principal Richard Belding! It’s a brand new world out there.

Channeling my inner Ernie Harwell. If only he were still around to tell the story of Ron Santo’s toupee in his Southern-charm voice …
 
Opening Day is a day of hope. It doesn’t matter what your record was the year before … or what your club did (or didn’t do) over the offseason … or what happened during spring training. Winning the Cactus League didn’t come with a parade route.
 
Opening Day is a moment in time. It’s really just one day. Everybody is 0-0. And then it quickly becomes a reality check. If your team really isn’t very good, there are 161 more of these games to follow.
 
Opening Day is a day when you literally kiss the ground, whether you were in Chicago or on the road – as you finally were released from that purgatory known as spring training. Don’t get me wrong, the people in Arizona were great year after year. But spring training, from start-to-finish, becomes a whole lot of Groundhog Day and watching paint dry all rolled into one package. It’s a long time away from your own bed. It’s a long time away from family and friends. And no matter how nice the new spring training facilities have become, nothing beats the feel of walking onto the diamond of a big league ballpark on Opening Day – especially cathedrals like Wrigley Field.
 
Opening Day is a day to remember Ron Santo’s toupee. One of the all-time Ron Santo moments was the infamous Shea Stadium “Opening Day fire” in 2003 when Ron’s hairpiece nestled against an overhead heating unit and started smoking. The irony of it all: Ron’s least favorite city and least favorite ballpark (remember 1969?), and this was the place his hairpiece started smoldering. To top it off, Steve Stone was in attendance. I wish I had a recording of his word-for-word account, as I bumped into Stoney outside the visiting TV booth just seconds after it happened. Steve’s quick recap featured something along the lines of: “Hey Chuck, if it smells like dead squirrel, go check the bathroom. Ron’s hair just caught fire. It looks like someone took a divot out of his forehead.”
 
Opening Day is a day to reflect back on all the third basemen who tried to fill Santo’s shoes. From Santo’s last year with the Cubs (1973) until Aramis Ramirez’s arrival in a mid-season trade 30 years later, a mind-boggling 18 different players were season-opening starters at third base for the Cubs – Bill Madlock (1974-1976), Steve Ontiveros (1977-1980), Ken Reitz (1981), Ryne Sandberg (1982), Ron Cey (1983-1985), Manny Trillo (1986), Keith Moreland (1987), Vance Law (1988-1989), Luis Salazar (1990), Gary Scott (1991-1992), Steve Buechele (1993-1995), Jose Hernandez (1996), Kevin Orie (1997-1998), Gary Gaetti (1999), Shane Andrews (2000), Bill Mueller (2001), Chris Stynes (2002) and Mark Bellhorn (2003).
                                             
Opening Day is a meteorologist’s delight. It’s a time when the Chicago weather typically is beautiful for the home opener, followed by a 30-degree temperature drop the next day.
 
Opening Day is a day to show off a farmer’s tan. After six-plus weeks under the Arizona sun, you’re exposed parts brown very nicely. I haven’t been in Mesa since 2012 – but my right wrist continues to feature the white watch line accrued from many spring trainings.
 
Opening Day is a reminder of how quickly things can change. Thanks to re-reading my diary last week from the Cubs’ season-opening trip to Japan in 2000, I found the game notes I wrote for the media. How about this nugget … only six players from the Cubs’ 1998 25-man National League Division Series postseason roster were members of the 2000 25-man Opening Day roster — Felix Heredia, Matt Karchner, Kevin Tapani, Mark Grace, Henry Rodriguez and Sammy Sosa (Kerry Wood and Glenallen Hill began 2000 on the disabled list).
 
Opening Day is a snapshot. The players getting introduced in pregame ceremonies just happen to be the 25 players on the active roster that day. Every year, you headed to spring training in mid-February. The reality was – after all that time – the only non-injury battles that really mattered for the start of the season were for the 23rd, 24th and 25th spots on the Opening Day roster. And those guys rarely made it through April. My Japan retro series brought back memories of Tarrik Brock, Cole Liniak and Danny Young – remember them?
 
Opening Day is a pinnacle day – a day that can’t be taken away from those that were part of the festivities. No matter what, Brock, Liniak and Young can always say they were on a major league Opening Day roster. Hector Villanueva can always say he was an Opening Day starter at catcher (1992). Jim Bullinger, who struggled as a minor league infielder, was a major league Opening Day starting pitcher (1995). Jose Nieves was the Opening Day starter at shortstop in Japan in 2000. And it’s not just players I’m thinking about. I can’t imagine what was going through the head of Bobby Dickerson – who I worked with regularly during his time in the Cubs’ farm system from 2002-2009 – on Opening Day 2013. He was added to Baltimore’s major league coaching staff that year after spending 27 years as a minor league player/instructor/coach/manager.
                                                 
Opening Day is a day to reminisce about Tuffy Rhodes. For one magnificent afternoon in 1994, the baseball gods smiled upon Tuffy and watched him go deep three times off Doc Gooden. Tuffy peaked as a Cub that afternoon; heck, he hit only five more big league homers in 94 more games in ’94 and none in 23 games in 1995. But he went to Japan in 1996 and became a baseball god there, hitting 464 homers in 13 seasons overseas.
 
Opening Day is a day that winds up being – no matter how you try to avoid it – the excuse for the way the rest of the season goes. I can’t help but think of April 5, 2010, when the Cubs scored three times in the top of the 1st inning in Atlanta – only to have the Braves put up a six-spot in the bottom half of the frame. Just like that, the “gut punch” season began. Three straight winning seasons, including division championships in 2007 and 2008, quickly became a distant memory.
 
Opening Day is a day that puts a smile on my face. I remember Jerome Walton, fresh out of Double-A, trying to contain his excitement prior to the 1989 Opening Day festivities. Mesa ’89 was the last spring training I missed until 2013. I remember getting the big bear hug from Jerome prior to the season opener. I had met Jerome for the first time at the Cubs Convention in January; his agent brought him into Chicago for the convention, and then inexplicably left Jerome at the event. It might not have been a big deal, except that Jerome was staying at his agent’s place that weekend. Not only was it his first trip to Chicago, but he didn’t have his agent’s address. That Friday night in January, I volunteered to help Jerome find his agent’s condo. It only took about two hours of driving, literally going block-by-block until landmarks started ringing bells for him. If I only had thought of driving past The Second City and Pipers Alley 90 minutes earlier … sigh. But it created a great bonding moment. And Jerome went on to have a stellar 1989 campaign – winning the National League Rookie of the Year Award. Note to self, maybe I need to track Mr. Walton down to see how he’s doing.
 
Opening Day is a day to say “Welcome to Opening Day.” So … Welcome to Opening Day!
​

Dear Grandma Rose,
 
I’ve been thinking about you a lot lately.
 
I know … you’re not actually going to be reading this. In fact, you probably would have preferred texting – because that’s what the kids do. And you always liked bonding with the grandkids.
 
I hadn’t been exactly sure what brought about all these recent memories of you, other than the belief that you had been watching me from afar right now and played a part into steering me back toward writing.
 
You used to send me hand-written postcards all the time when I was a kid. I sort of remembered that, but I recently came across some of those postcards. In fact, at that top of screen, I scanned one of them for you. Kind of funny, even back in 1973, you led off by asking me a baseball question. Even funnier was the Chas. Wasserstrom line – which appears on all of the postcards you sent me. But it was nice to see “Dear Chuckie” at the top of the postcard.
 
The postcards just sort of turned up. They were in a scrapbook-related box Dad gave me a few years ago when he was cleaning up part of the basement – and they were in my house.
 
I had done a lot of soul searching in recent years trying to figure out the next chapter in my life. Hard to believe it’s only been two months, but the writing bug bit me in a huge way for the first time in a long time.
 
I always wondered where that writing bug came from. It’s not that Mom and Dad don’t write – but math and engineering aren’t exactly human interest/storytelling subjects.
 
Just like you used to brag about your family, I love bragging about my girls. You would have loved watching them play sports, even though I know sports weren’t your thing.
 
Thankfully, they get all their athletic genes from Michelle. I know you referred to her as “What’s her name?” It wasn’t meant to be mean; old age had already started creeping in. Heck, I wish your mind had stayed around longer to get to know her better. You would have really liked her, and she would have really liked you. She says all the time that little kids, old people and dogs really like her. When Michelle sees Auntie Florence, she’s really good with her. Yes, your sister is still kicking! She hasn’t gotten any taller, though.
 
You know, it’s hard to believe you’ve been gone for close to 11 years. Sadly, I was there for your last breath. I won’t allow being there that day to be my last memory of you.
 
I’m sure I think of you a lot more these days because of where the girls are in school. I remember back in the day when you were sort of the official “field trip chaperone” because you could be – and because you wanted to be. You probably got more out of all of those museum tours than anyone in the class.
 
I also think of you a lot in years when I need to renew my driver’s license. And 2016 is one of those years. I so remember that day back in 1981 (October 20, to be exact) when I was finally legal. After dumping Mom and Dad off at the house, I grabbed Pucci the Wingdog and headed over to your apartment to take you for a spin through the McDonald’s drive thru. I always knew how to woo the ladies.
 
Since you never learned to drive, you relied on the kindness of children and grandchildren to get you from place-to-place.
 
Somewhere along the way, you handed me an envelope. I don’t remember when, but I do recall you saying something along the lines of “Don’t open this now. Put it away.” You didn’t elaborate much, which was unusual, since talking was one of your core skills. The only thing you told me was that you had found something, but it would mean more when I was older.
                                                                                                                                        
I took the envelope, and then we probably started talking about important issues – like where we were going to eat. And then I forgot about it.
 
Magically … mysteriously … karma … whatever word you want to use, I recently found that envelope in a box in Mom and Dad’s basement. My guess is that I just threw it aside, but since Dad doesn’t throw anything away (Thanks Dad!), that white envelope with your unmistakable handwriting was there when I recently started looking for mementos that could supplement my musings.
 
I opened the envelope, and I found another envelope inside – an old parchment envelope.
 
Inside that envelope was a letter on old faded stationery. But it was more than “just a letter.” I discovered where my writing bug must have come from. Grandma, you instilled it in me way back when, and you must be making sure that it’s the path I’m following now.
 
It was a typed letter sent to you back in 1933 – just before your 16th birthday – from H.F. Harrington, the director of the Medill School of Journalism at Northwestern. You probably saw humor in that your last name was misspelled! But getting past that, it was a letter suggesting a career that you probably wish you would have gone into.
 
The second paragraph tells me exactly why you would have wanted me to see the letter now.
 
“Journalism is really a serial story, so that this first chapter will probably lead to further developments and achievements in your writing career. We hope that when you come to make a decision on the school of journalism where you may continue your work under competent supervision, you will consider the advantages of the Medill School of Journalism of Northwestern University.”
 
As I’ve returned to the passion that drove me to Missouri’s Journalism School in the first place, I’m guessing you’ve been involved in setting this course I’m now on. You have reenergized me. You have taken the steering wheel away from me to drive me in the direction you would have liked to have followed yourself.
 
I didn’t thank you enough for everything when you were physically around.
 
But wherever you are now, please know that you’re still playing a big role in who I am and what I do. Thank You!
 
I don’t know if I should sign this “Chuckie” or “Chas. Wasserstrom” – but in either case, you know who I am: Your grateful grandson.

Kevin Tapani is one of the most normal human beings I came across during my baseball days, because there’s nothing about him that screamed baseball player.
 
I’m not talking about physique. I’m talking about basic human being. You couldn’t help talking to him, since he was just as likely to start the banter as anyone else in the clubhouse. And it didn’t matter if it was his day to pitch. He just liked to stay loose and relaxed. Some pitchers didn’t like if you looked at them on the day they pitched. Tap walked around looking to initiate conversations.
 
When I called Tap to talk about his playing days, there was no reason to “script” anything out. I had a few bullet points, but the rest was never going to be a question-and-answer session. It was an unscripted conversation – just like in the good old days at 1060 W. Addison. I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.
 
Chuck: When I tracked you down to set up this interview, you said you recently found some old Kangaroo Court paperwork. What did you unearth?
 
Tap: “I looked through it, and it’s either really boring or it’s not fit for print. There’s not a lot of middle ground with it.”
 
Chuck: Most people may not be familiar with the phrase “Kangaroo Court.” Why don’t you explain what it was – and you’re role in it.
 
Tap: “Kangaroo Court was a way for players to be policing players – and making it fun. It’s not where you complain about what somebody’s doing. For instance, you know a guy is going to the back of the weight room every day after batting practice and gets on his cell phone for 15 minutes instead of doing what he’s supposed to be doing. Another player can write him up, say what it is, and the judge will go and fine you ‘x’ amount because it’s outside of what we want you to do as a team. It’s kind of different from front office rules or Major League Baseball rules. It’s the team’s way of policing how they want things done. It could be the type of clothes you wear to a home game, or something really outdated, or wearing something with a logo from a former team. It helps prevent having big blowups and players having hard feelings with what other players are doing. It gets everyone together on a regular basis. My role was the court reporter. People would come to me with any problem, grievance or claim. I would write them down, and when we held court, I would present the defendant and the accuser to whoever was the judge. The judge would take it from there and decide what the punishment was. Then I would record it and make sure it was all taken care of. A lot of times, if there were money fines, the money would go to periodic team get-togethers on the road.”
                                                       
Chuck: Being court reporter kept you from getting fined, right?
 
Tap: “No. I think a lot of times it made me more of a target. A lot of times guys didn’t know they were being brought up on charges until they’re in court. So there wasn’t a tip off. In some ways, you become a little bit of a target for a few things.”
 
Chuck: I don’t know how you could ever be considered a target.
 
Tap: “I didn’t see it, either. But it happens. Certain guys would look at things a little differently than me and you would.”
 
Chuck: I recently talked to Jon Lieber and I told him I’d be calling you. He said to let you know he’s never changed his phone number.
 
Tap: “He just doesn’t answer his phone, and his voicemail is always full. You’ve experienced that, haven’t you?”
 
Chuck: Not since yesterday.
 
Tap: “He’s letting the people talk to him again?”
 
Chuck: Well, I left him a message and he hasn’t called back.
 
Tap: “But there was room to actually leave a message? I kind of figured I wasn’t even in his contacts list because I figured if he just saw my name but didn’t leave a message, he’d figure out to call back. I realize I haven’t gotten that far with him.”
 
Chuck: I have a couple important questions to really get this going. And I was reminded of this the other day when I was talking to your wife. As she was handing the phone off, she referred to you as Tap. Are you in trouble if she calls you Kevin?
 
Tap: “Ah, yeah. Something’s different if she calls me that. I really don’t have anyone who calls me that. I guess my parents do, but that’s OK since they named me. Other than that, I don’t know of anyone else that does call me Kevin.”
 
Chuck: Sticking to nicknames, how did you come to name me Bulldog?
 
Tap: “I think your way of policing the media probably brought that on a little bit. You were a fierce obstacle for them to try and cross.”
 
Chuck: Whatever worked …
 
Tap: “It was effective. We started to notice it when you had somebody cross the line – someone like (editor’s note: he named a certain writer here, but I’m leaving it to the imagination) – and he would continue on, even though you told him this wasn’t going to happen right now or the player doesn’t have time. And then he’d continue and try anyway. Pitchers have a lot of free time, so we’re just able to sit back and watch this and see what happens. The Bulldog would be turned loose on him, and (unnamed writer) would be heading out and keep an ongoing conversation that no one wanted to be listening to.”

​Chuck: You’re making me ask this next question earlier than I thought I would. It applies here because it ties in to that writer. You’ll know why after you answer the question. I want you to think back in time … July 20, 1998 … Turner Field, Atlanta … Denny Neagle on the mound … bases loaded … Kevin Tapani at the plate. What happened next?
 
Tap: “I got the grand slam. And that was before either (Mark) Grace or (Sammy) Sosa had hit one, correct?”
 
Chuck: That would be correct.
 
Tap: “All I could think of is … being a pitcher, I never took it as being insulting. But all the hitters, when they do something good, always talk about pitchers being stupid. That was the one time I came back to the dugout thinking the same thing, because he threw me a 3-2 changeup. Right into my bat speed. He slowed it down enough so that I was right on time with it. If he throws a fastball for a strike, it’s probably over. He tried to trick me. But throwing a changeup to a guy with a slow bat … from a pitcher’s view, that was dumb.”
 
Chuck: And you took advantage of it.
 
Tap: “But it was a weird sensation. You’d think hitting your first grand slam would be pretty exciting, but all I could think about running the bases was how I’d hate to be the guy on the mound who just gave it up. I couldn’t really smile or do a Kirk Gibson around second base. I didn’t want to celebrate or anything when I got back to the dugout. I wanted to go up the tunnel and yell something up there. But not where a pitcher could hear it, because that would be the last thing I’d want to have happen to me.”
 
Chuck: Here’s my reference to the writer you were talking about. The last Cubs pitcher to hit a grand slam before you was Burt Hooton in 1972 in my first-ever baseball game. And he hit it off Tom Seaver.
 
Tap: “That’s impressive. I’m actually disappointed that Denny didn’t get into the Hall of Fame – so that I’d be able to tell my grandkids about that someday.”
 
Chuck: There’s still time.
 
Tap: “Hopefully the Veterans (Committee) will vote him in. I’m rooting for him. He was a former teammate with the Twins, too. We spent a little time together … It’s one of those things where now you wish you had a few more reunions. Certain guys you’d like to be able to say, ‘Remember that time.‘ This might be one of them.”
 
Chuck: You did a lot of mentoring as a pitcher, whether you intended to or not. What was it like working with players like Jon Lieber and Kerry Wood – especially with what I’d call ‘dead time’ for the starting pitchers?
                                                                                                                                                            
Tap: “It’s really helpful when you have guys that get along, and certain staffs seem to come together – where each guy has a certain role or is able to push the others. I don’t know if you call it competition with each other, but what each one is doing seems to make the other ones a little better. We had that with that staff in Chicago with Jason Bere and Woody and Lieb. I was the old guy in the group. We all got along really well. We pushed each other, and it was a competitive staff. Even the relievers – we were close knit. We didn’t have the egos or attitudes. It was about trying to win games or put the team in aposition to win.”
                                                                      
Chuck: You added the cerebral side to it.
 
Tap: “I’ve never been accused of that.”
 
Chuck: You definitely have a dry sense of humor. Lieber said he never was sure if you were telling the truth. He said you kept him off guard, which he thought was good.
 
Tap: “I always tell the truth. I kind of scratch my head and wonder sometimes – looking at it from the other side. I don’t know what might not be good advice to do or leading them the wrong way. I don’t know where that comes from.”
 
Chuck: Probably because people aren’t used to others who always tell the truth.
 
Tap: “I know, even now coaching high school baseball, I get that from a few of the players who have graduated and come back. They go, ‘When you said to do this, we didn’t know if you were serious or just messing with us.’ I kind of think there’s a certain point where you have to be relaxed to perform well, and you can start taking things too seriously. Grinding down on things doesn’t help. Some personalities, it does help – but you need a little break every once in a while. Pitchers have a lot of down time, a lot of hours and time to kill.”
 
Chuck: You carry yourself that way. You weren’t any different with front office people or media.
 
Tap: “For whatever it is, I’d like to see it from the other side. My wife says it to me a lot – that you kind of look at things a little bit differently, and I’m not always sure where you’re coming from on this. Then she just leaves the room. I’m not sure what that actually means – or if it’s good or bad.”
 
Chuck: You do look at things differently. I’m going to drop a couple of words on you that you were successfully able to drop into radio interviews – “whelmed” and “horts.”
 
Tap: “What were those two words?”
 
Chuck: Whelmed.
 
Tap: “Oh yeah. Instead of being overwhelmed or underwhelmed. Just being whelmed. Once again, I think that just goes into the boredom of being a starter. I think a few guys used it to try and mix in that word to see if anyone would pick it up and think – what is he talking about? I seemed to enjoy it, because a lot of interviews get to be kind of routine or clichés. I think most guys did it.”
 
Chuck: Your interviews stood out, because you dropped those type of words in the proper place in an interview – and you could pull it off with a straight face. The other word I know you dropped in once was “horts.”
 
Tap: “Can you spell that?”
 
Chuck: H-o-r-t-s. As in there wasn’t anybody else with you, so you didn’t have a cohort.
 
Tap: “I was just a ‘hort.’ I forgot about that one. The origin of words is what it comes back to. I was a wordsmith.”
 
Chuck: Changing subjects here. You didn’t play high school baseball in Escanaba, Michigan, as your school didn’t have a team. As a result, do you look at baseball a little differently – since you never would have gone through the “burnt out” factor at any point growing up?
 
Tap: “It really helped my overall health. Not being a physical specimen by any means, I didn’t have the height, the angle, the leverage, the things you really look for. The only thing I really had going for me was body control. You can really see it in a lot of guys who were big name college players. When I was playing at a smaller mid-major (Central Michigan University) that got to compete against a lot of the good teams, we were successful for the conference we were in. But you saw there was a definite step up to the really elite programs and to the elite pitchers. Then you’d see those same pitchers in the minor leagues, and a lot of them were already on their way down – and I was still working to try to get to a peak. So I think it helped me overall. It got to a point where, when I had the opportunity to see if I could make it in the big leagues, I was really healthy – and the ability started to peak at that time, too.”
 
Chuck: Can you talk about growing up in an area where baseball wasn’t king? You played other sports, but you didn’t go through the normal wear-and-tear that pitchers go through.
 
Tap: “When you realize how little baseball I actually played, it’s amazing that I ever played at that level. I don’t think you can recommend it to anybody today and think they’re actually going to get there. Before I got to college, I don’t think I played more than 25 games in any summer. Even walking on when I went to Central – I wasn’t recruited for that. I played football and basketball in high school. Our football team won the state championship. I was the quarterback and the starting safety. Because we won it and I was the quarterback, people had at least heard of me and thought I was an athlete. So that helped a little bit with baseball. When I went to Central, I went to a baseball tryout and did alright. I was asked if I wanted to come out for baseball, and I said ‘Sure.” That was kind of it. Then I was in class for about two weeks in the fall, and I got a phone call in my dorm room. The coach said he thought I was going to come out, and I said when baseball starts in the spring – I’ll be there. I didn’t know college baseball had started two weeks before that. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. So I showed up in sweat pants – and everybody else was in uniform. I wound up making the team and being the team’s fourth starter my freshman year. I stayed in school four years. By my senior year, I was ready to compete at the professional level.”
 
Chuck: Now, you’re coaching a high school team (Providence Academy in Minnesota). How does your own unique experience help you as a coach?
 
Tap: “It’s funny. It’s not only the coaching stuff. Because I played, a lot of people ask me to speak to college groups and for banquets – things like that. Most of it seems to be with the idea that I’d be gung-ho about playing baseball 12 months a year. ‘The more you do, the better you’ll be’ sort of thing. Then I tell my actual story … Professionally, the season ends in October. Sometimes, it’s the end of the month. Sometimes, it’s the first couple days of the month. As professionals, you’d put the gloves and bats away for a few months and pick them up again in January – and some guys don’t do it until February. You can’t just keep going. Today, some guys – all they’re doing is baseball. At least with coaching our kids at the high school, we try to find some sort of balance. More baseball doesn’t necessarily make you a better baseball player. I think playing high school football – and having to take care of yourself and understanding mentally and physically what you needed to do to push yourself out of your comfort zone – that helped me as much in baseball as much as playing baseball did. It was a completely different experience. It really helped in footwork and stuff like that. I really encourage our kids to play other sports. I had this one kid – he was 6 feet, 230 pounds – and I talked him into going into cross country in the fall. I told him it would help his body control and that he’d shed a few pounds. He didn’t look like any other cross country runner out there, but he competed hard. By his senior year, the cross country coach thought of naming him a captain because his attitude was so good. And he really benefitted from it. He came back and said the same thing; he realized he was able to do some things that he couldn’t do before. He had looked at me cross-eyed when I first brought it up. He had three other guys go into it with him to try it. One of the kids was a nervous kid, and was actually the best conditioned for cross country. I remember their first meet, I got a text from one of the other guys saying that this kid had pulled off the trifecta. I said, ‘What is that?’ He said the kid threw up before, during and after the race. But the kid went back and kept doing it. I give the kid a lot of credit.”
 
Chuck: Your own children are past the high school years (one is in the working world, two are in college), but you’re still coaching. Do you still enjoy it?
 
Tap: “I’m not a particularly good game coach because I don’t get a kick out of doing something strategy-wise to try and win a game. So I’m glad this year that I’m back as an assistant coach. I really enjoy the practice-type stuff where you help a kid get better. It’s a better role for me. I just work with the kids and help out where I can. That stuff I enjoy. You get to know the kids and really get some good relationships there – even though they let me know the difference in age. For a while, I thought I was keeping up and doing OK with them. But some of the comments I get on occasion – they let you know that I’m an old guy.”
 
Chuck: But then you can break out a World Series ring and show them who’s in charge.
 
Tap: “None of them were born when that happened. I don’t think that carries a whole lot of weight. Maybe they’d want to wear it to school for a day.”
 
Chuck: I could talk more, but I’ve got plenty of stuff here.
 
Tap: “Good luck putting that together. And if Lieb ever calls you back – share my number with him. Even if he doesn’t want to call, ask him if he’d put the number into his phone – so if I do call him, he’d know it was me. I’d just like to know if he’s caller ID’ing me or ignoring me because he doesn’t recognize the number.”

​It’s hard to believe, but this is the Sweet 16th anniversary of the Cubs’ 2000 season-opening trip to Japan. To commemorate the blessed event, I found the original unedited Chuck Wasserstrom day-by-day recap – which turned out to be my original blog. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it back then – and reading it now. Apparently, I was funny back in the day!
 
This is the third and final installment of my retro posting. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed reminiscing about the trip.
                       
March 29, 2000 (Day 6 Recap): Sunnyside Up In The Big Egg …
 
It’s really late here in Tokyo as I recap the day, but I’m under deadline pressure now (I’ll explain a bit later).
 
As you probably already know, we won the season opener 5-3 over the Mets. It was nice to get at least one regular season win out of this trip, as an 0-2 start would have made for a very, very long trip.
 
In case you were wondering, the “cute” nickname they have for the Tokyo Dome is “The Big Egg.” But anyway …
 
Before I give you a couple tidbits from this evening, I thought I’d share my morning activity. Because of this series, the U.S. Embassy in Tokyo hosted a reception today in honor of some of the celebrity Americans making the trip to Japan. So a few of us tagged along which honored America’s own Mike Piazza and, of course, Sammy Sosa.
 
It was a neat experience, as I had never been to a U.S. Embassy before. I met Tom Foley, the U.S. ambassador to Japan, who formerly was the Speaker of the House (and not the Tom Foley who was formerly a middle infielder with the Reds and the Expos). Others in attendance including Hall of Famers Billy Williams, Ernie Banks, Hank Aaron, Lou Brock and Tommy Lasorda.
 
After the reception, which also included a buffet lunch and a nice dessert bar (best cheesecake I’ve had in Japan!), I went to the ballpark — and basically ran around for the next 9 hours. That brings about the question, can you legally run around with your head cut off like a chicken inside the Big Egg?
 
Once we got closer to game time, it was nice to have real gameday duties to do again. And one of the things I was scheduled to do was the in-house P.A. in the press box.
 
Approximately 40 minutes before first pitch, though, the in-house P.A. — which didn’t work for the two exhibition games — still wasn’t working. That’s when MLB gave my boss (Sharon Pannozzo) a gift to give to me — a bull horn to make announcements. Big mistake on their part. That also clinched that the in-house P.A. would work.
 
In the interim, though, I got to walk to the press box shouting “Konnichiwa” over the bull horn. Then, since we had a lineup change, I had the chance to use the device in the press box. This bull horn was the Mercedes Benz of bull horns, too! It was like giving a kid a book of matches. Of course, I probably woke up the electrician in the process.
 
The way the press box was set up, though, the official scorer (Bob Rosenberg) was 1 1/2 rows away from me. He literally had to send signal flares down toward me for me to make the announcements. At least I had the foresight to beg and grovel to the umpiring crew to signal all changes to me since there is no phone communication to the dugouts.
 
A couple last thoughts for tonight about the Big Egg … While it is absolutely uncommon for booing to occur at baseball games in Japan, that practice did occur when Sammy Sosa walked twice. Also, just so you know, when they do the wave here, it goes from left-to-right — just like in the States.
 
That’s all for now. Sayonara.
 
P.S. — As for the first-line mention of deadline pressure … It seems that my diary has been picked up by our publications department for Vine Line. I hope they have the guts to run my first-day “ass spray” line. As part of the diary, our team photographer, Steve Green, followed me around part of the day. It’s the first time I’ve had my very own paparazzi stalker. Or, as one of our coaches asked, “What’s the singular of paparazzi?” I’m sure you’ll all be looking forward to my Jaws Kiel smile.

March 30, 2000 (Day 7 Recap): The True Japanese Shrine …
 
We treated the Japanese people to one of the finest elements of America this evening — a four-hour extra-inning game. As I’m sure you’re aware, we lost, but at least we got out of here with one victory.
 
Before I tell you about my day, a travel tip for you — Don’t bruise a heel when you’re on the road!! Teeth … you can survive without. But when you hurt your heel and insist on going on long walks …
 
Another travel tip, Tokyo style. The best way to get around the trains is to travel in a flock. I don’t know why, since none of us can read the maps. But at least you seem to get where you want to go.
 
Anyway, I started my day with the nice breakfast buffet on the New Otani’s second floor. It’s very Americanized — so much so that tater tots and carrots have been part of my daily breakfast. I did get bold and try the Japanese version of Raisin Bran, which actually tastes like kibble.
 
After breakfast, a group of us headed for one of the Japanese shrines every visitor must see — the Pokemon Center. Yes, Virginia, Pokemon does exist here. Apparently, you have to go to this mecca to purchase the manna. I promise, no more made-up cliches.
 
I know just as much about Pokemon as my grandmother does (Hi Grandma!!), but this craze does exist. When the group got there, all you saw was this huge line going halfway down the block. Being ugly Americans, though, we bartered our way to the front of the line. Which leads me to …
 
I waffle-faced a little kid today!
 
The Pokemon Center is approximately the size of the players’ area in a clubhouse. Not a bad size for 40-60 people, but not quite big enough for double that amount. Unfortunately, keep multiplying up for an approximate number of people in this place.
 
Pokemon Center was like the train ride back from Tokorozawa, only with shorter people. And these children were just as unruly as their American counterparts.
 
One such future politician slammed into the side of me as he was running around. The reflex action (yes, I sometimes have reflexes) caused the bucket in my hand to bounce off his face. He had a little waffle mark, but he kept going. I don’t think I even slowed him down.
 
I think it’s safe to say that Pokemon Center had as much Pokemon-related paraphernalia as there is out there, although I can’t read Japanese. Since I was picking up stuff for others, I spent almost 12,000 yen — mostly on trading cards (I don’t think they have stale bubble gum in the card packs, though).
 
After the train ride back to the hotel area, I returned to the noodle shop I was at for lunch earlier this week. My Japanese is getting better, as I was able to order beef-u and rice-u — and please bring the fork-u. I believe those are three of the ten English words spoken in that establishment.
 
After returning onto hotel property, I finally got a chance to roam through the New Otani’s famous outdoor garden. That, of course, leads me to …
 
I stepped on a big fish today!
 
This garden had everything you’d picture of a Japanese garden — men trimming trees, carefully groomed bushes, flowers, waterfalls, and of course, big fish.
 
Fish the size of the children at Pokemon Center live in a small lake-like area. To cross the area at one point, you need to walk from rock to rock to rock — with about one-foot water gaps in between the rocks. I was taking pictures of the fish from one of the rocks, and I stepped aside to let some people by. As you can figure, Charlie Tuna had a human briefly standing on his back. The fish was fine. My shoe got wet.
 
Before heading to the ballpark, I stopped by a one-hour photo center in the hotel. They have this neat little thing here in which if you are willing to wait three hours for the film to develop, they will deliver it to your room — for a price less than if you want the pictures within the hour. As promised, my photos were waiting for me when I returned from the Tokyo Dome — along with a thank you for choosing them to develop my film. Can’t beat that!
 
I feel that I need to thank a few people for their help at the ballpark — most notably the umpiring crew and my press box translator. I spent more time talking to the umpires the last few days (Randy Marsh, Angel Hernandez, Ron Kulpa and Marty Foster) than I probably did over the course of the last five years.
 
Then there’s Nobuhisa “Nobbie” Ito, who translated every P.A. announcement in the press box into Japanese. Nobbie is the coordinator of international relations for the office of the baseball commissioner in Japan. He went to college in the U.S. at Ohio University — and had an internship with a minor league club in Boise, home of the Boise State University blue football field. This was his first time ever speaking into a microphone or assisting as a translator. I did my best to Westernize him in two nights.
 
That just about wraps up this installment — which probably is the end of the diary for me. We have an early morning workout tomorrow, then I’ll probably just come back to the room and get some work done. We need to leave for the airport four hours before our 7 p.m. flight (I hope that’s enough time), and then I get my first course in time travel — as we “technically” land more than three hours before we took off.
 
Assuming this is the final chapter of my Tokyo trip, I want to thank you for reading. I hope you received at least a fraction of the fun reading it as I had typing it.
 
For now, Oyasuminasai (good night), and Sumimasen, nihongo was wakarimasen (Sorry, I don’t speak Japanese).
 
See you soon.
 
Editors Note: No fish or small children were harmed during the typing of his journal entry. However, a heel is still bruised

​I had this great thought bubble that – if I could reminisce about my adventures in Japan and get people to read 16-year-old stories – wouldn’t it be great to tell the stories of someone who spent several years there and not just one week?
 
And as I was thinking about who I should reach out to about baseball in Japan, a great Facebook post came across my timeline last week – a very simple "Man I sure do miss me some Korean BBQ." Talk about karma.
 
After I laughed, I instant messaged Micah Hoffpauir to let him know I would love to talk to him – something along the lines of “Hey Micah! I would love to talk to you!” Which was quickly followed by his response of “I would love for you to do a story!”
 
You have to love when no begging, groveling or arm-twisting is needed.
 
Hoffpauir spent the 2011-2013 seasons playing for the Hokkaido Nippon-Ham Fighters after spending eight pro seasons in the United States – including parts of three with the Cubs from 2008-2010.
 
When I caught up with him a few days ago, I immediately started with the Korean BBQ angle. I have to admit, Korean BBQ sounded good.
 
“Korean-style BBQ is a really neat environment,” Hoffpauir said. “You go to a restaurant, you sit at a table, and in the middle of the table is an open grill. You order pieces of meat and they're usually in bite-sized portions. They cook them at the table, and they have meat, vegetables, fish, shrimp – anything you can think of. And obviously, they have rice and noodles. Overall, a really neat experience – and very good food."
 
Hoffpauir, who now works in marketing for Grace Hospice in his native Texas (“It’s for terminally ill people who need end-of-life care … it’s an absolute blessing to see people being taken care of … it’s been a very humbling experience to see the way people are cared for), first reached the big leagues in 2008. He wasn’t exactly on the fast track, as he was in his seventh professional season – and his fourth as a Triple-A regular.
 
Near the end of the 2009 season, a scout approached him about playing in Japan – putting overseas thoughts in his head for the first time. During the 2010 campaign, the Cubs traded Derrek Lee to Atlanta in-season, and Hoffpauir platooned with Xavier Nady during the final six weeks of the season. It was during that time that he talked about his big league future with general manager Jim Hendry.
 
“Jim and I had a little conversation, kind of what his thoughts were,” Hoffpauir recalled. “We just felt I wasn’t going to get a shot to start in Chicago. At my age, I started thinking about doing the most to help my family’s future. My agent said there was probably interest in Japan, so we reached out to a couple teams. They decided they wanted to pursue me a little bit with the blessing of the Cubs – and Jim let me go there.”

Some guys go overseas and it's a one-and-done – or they don't even survive one year. Hoffpauir signed a one-year contract with a player option for a second year – which is quite unusual by Japanese standards – and returned to Asia for a third season. He played in exactly 300 Japanese Pacific League games.
 
“You've probably seen the movie Mr. Baseball, where Tom Selleck is sitting in the dugout – and everything is very serious,” Hoffpauir said. “It's business; it’s not a game. It's about winning games. If you are losing the game, nothing is funny.
 
“There was this one day in spring training when one of our young players, Sho Nakata, missed a bunt sign. In the States, if you miss a sign, they're going to fine you, or someone says ‘Hey dude, pay attention.’ Well, Sho missed a sign – and again, this is spring training – and we're all sitting in the dugout after the game – and they’re talking about it. First of all, I have no idea what they're saying. My interpreter is whispering things in my ear as I need to know them. All of a sudden, the coach calls Sho up in front of everyone. He's standing there, and the coach is there – and he completely changes his voice. I could tell there's anger there, that he's upset. He starts talking to Sho, then all of a sudden the guy just thumps him on the forehead hard. It made this loud ‘THUMP’ sound. It hurt. Of course, my reaction was ‘’WHOA.' It was crazy. I've never seen anything like that. I said to my interpreter, ‘What the heck is going on here?’ He said the guy missed a sign, and that was his punishment. I looked at him and said, ‘Listen, if I miss a sign and that happens to me, we’ll be rolling around in the dirt out there.’ He laughed. I said, ‘I'm serious. I can't do that.’ He said that would never happen to me, that things were different for me. I had to understand their culture was different. I said, ‘Perfect. As long as he knows he can't do that to me.’ “
 
Hoffpauir played with some big-name teammates during his three years with the Cubs, but none could have approached the level of Yu Darvish, who had reached “rock star” status in Japan by the time the two were teammates in 2011 (Darvish came to the States in 2012 to pitch for Texas). Hoffpauir talked about a poll he saw that year naming Darvish as the second most recognizable person in Japan – and that the pitcher couldn’t go anywhere without being swarmed.
                                                                                                                                       
“What an awesome guy to get to watch play, and to watch his off-the-field routine and the things he goes through,” he said. “I’ve played with guys who work hard, but I’ve never played with an individual who works as hard as that guy does. Very, very, very intense. Very impressive workouts. Very intent on being the best. He was dead set determined to be the best. I don’t see that changing. Very impressive human being.”
 
Hoffpauir was able to bring his young family with him overseas all three years, which certainly helped create a bonding experience for his family.
 
“In the States, after games, you sit down in the clubhouse and talk about the game and about frustrating things that are going on,” he said. “Over there, you don’t.
 
“You have one or two guys on the team who spoke English. For us, they were pitchers. In Japan, pitchers don’t have to stay for the whole game if they’re starting pitchers. So they got their workout in and stayed for a couple innings – like spring training – and then they went home. After the game, I didn’t have anybody to talk to. So I’d go home and sit with my wife. She heard a lot more about baseball in the three years over there than the eight when I was in the States. We really grew closer together. And our kids got to experience some things that most people don’t get to do. It was really an awesome experience.”
 
And, of course, with limited English spoken there, Hoffpauir said he had his share of “lost in translation” moments. He said those moments for him and the other U.S.-born players took place “every day. Every day for all of us from the States. If you ever get to talk to Matt Murton, ask him about ‘lost in translation.’
 
“You have to understand Japanese baseball. If you’re hitting well and doing well, you’re never questioned. But as soon as your average gets below where it’s supposed to be or you haven’t hit a home run in a while, then they start asking if other things are affecting you. Matt made an error in the outfield – he overthrew somebody. And the pitcher asked him, ‘Why did you do that?’ Like he chose to make this error. And Matt’s like, ‘What do you mean, why did I do that?’ When he questioned the pitcher, it was funny – because the press made it into a New York scandal.”
 
As much as he enjoyed his time in Japan, nothing quite compares to getting told you’re going to the big leagues. For Hoffpauir, that came in the form of a phone call – in familiar surroundings.
                                                                                            
“We were in Round Rock, Texas, which made it even cooler since my family was there,” Hoffpauir said. “(Manager) Pat Listach called me one morning and asked if I was in my hotel room. I’m like, ‘Yeah man, what’s up?’ He said he had to talk to me.
 
“My wife is in the room with me. I got off the phone, and she asked, ‘What’s wrong?’ I said I didn’t really know. She asked who it was on the phone … and I told her … and I said he wants to come to our room – and it was just weird. There were only a couple things that could be. We thought the worst. We were concerned. I had just come back from an injury. “He ended up calling me back and said, ‘Hey, I’ve got to get to the field. You’re going to the big leagues.’ I was like, what? ‘You’re going to the big leagues. Get yourself to the field and get your stuff together. You’re going to Chicago.’ I’m like … OK.
 
“I get off the phone and my wife says, ‘What is it?’ And I said, ‘He just told me I’m going to the big leagues.’ First thing you know, she starts boo-hooing. Then we start calling our family. And I’m sure people in the hotel could hear my family up and down those halls screaming ‘Yeah! Yeah!’ I flew into Chicago that afternoon and went to Mike Fontenot’s house and slept on the couch. I got up the next morning and went to the field. We were playing the Pirates. I got a pinch hit at-bat in the 7th inning, and they changed pitchers. They brought in John Grabow, and he could have thrown beach balls up there and I would have swung and missed them. I couldn’t do anything … I was as nervous as I’ve ever been in my life.
 
“After that game, we flew back to Houston to play the Astros. The second day in I got to start against Shawn Chacon and got my first big league hit in front of my family and tons of friends. I could not have written a better story.”

​

It’s hard to believe, but this is the Sweet 16th anniversary of the Cubs’ 2000 season-opening trip to Japan. To commemorate the blessed event, I found the original unedited Chuck Wasserstrom day-by-day recap – which turned out to be my original blog. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it back then – and reading it now. Apparently, I was funny back in the day!
 
This is the second installment of my first-ever retro series. And it’s even a trilogy!
                    
March 27, 2000 (Day 4 Recap): Pearl Vision by Day, Giants Fiasco by Night …
 
Monday morning/early afternoon …
 
After not having much of an appetite my first couple days here, I finally was hungry this morning. After brewing myself a cup of the in-room coffee (tastes kind of like Starbucks — but stronger) and reading the Daily Yomiuri, an English newspaper, I headed to one of the many coffee shops located in this hotel. They had a great Western-style buffet, as I had an omelette, pancakes and tater tots for the unbelievably low price of 2887 yen (approximately $28).
 
A group of 16 of us then went to The Yonamine Company, a highly recommended store for pearls located in the Roppongi section of Tokyo. The store is operated by Japanese Hall of Famer Wally Yonamine, who also played football in the United States for the San Francisco 49ers in the early 1940s, and his wife, Jane. The store specializes in pearls and gives discounts to celebrities. Thankfully, right now I’m considered one!
 
Jane gave about a half hour lecture on the different types of pearls (yes, I paid attention for a few minutes), explaining the difference between oysters, mussels, and the ligaments the pearls can come from. She then basically sat back and watched as we all spent money. She has designed/sold jewelry to a lot of celebrities, as evidenced by the pictures she and her husband have in the store from people named Hillary Clinton, Elizabeth Taylor, Brooke Shields and nearly every major leaguer who has been in Japan over the past decade.
 
Her shop was on the fifth floor. After we left, the elevator stopped at the fourth floor — into a dentist’s office. I did my Jed Clampett smile for a dental assistant who was trying to get on the elevator. She smiled back — and backed right off the elevator!
 
After that little excursion, I went to lunch with one of our beat writers, Bruce Miles of the Daily Herald. I would have settled for McDonald’s, but he talked me into being an explorer. We eventually wound up at a place where the only English anywhere was the restaurant’s website address (www.ramia.net/torigen/ — if you want to try and tell me where I was!!). The word “noodles” apparently translates well into Japanese, as I received a huge bowl of chicken noodle soup. At least I think it was chicken. It was outstanding, though, and we might go back if we can. As strange as it was to be a foreigner, though, my afternoon was made when the chef, who didn’t speak English, thanked me in Japanese for coming to the restaurant (I was able to understand some of the words). I bowed and dropped an “arrigato” and a “konnichiwa” on him. He laughed and said, “Adios.”
 
On the way back to the hotel, I got to stop at the Golden Arches. Sprite tasted very good.
 
Now it’s off to the ballpark. Talk to you soon.
 
*     *     *     *     *     *
 
Monday Night …
 
I could sit and write and complain about the fine folks at Major League Baseball who sucked all the joy of Japan out of me, but I’ll hold off for now. (I don’t want to waste a good whine session too early in the trip).
 
OK, I will bitch about one thing. MLB “pressured” the Yomiuri Company into keeping the fans quiet for the game so that they wouldn’t be a distraction. Surprisingly enough, a quiet, subdued crowd in a domed stadium makes for a boring evening.
 
Anyway, we had a crowd of about 45,000 for the exhibition game against the Yomiuri Giants — and we lost 6-0. Their two stud players, Hideki Matsui and Yoshinobu Takahashi, each homered.
 
I found it interesting that the Yomiuri jerseys solely had English on them (team name, team nickname, player’s name). If you were a player and didn’t know how to read English, how would you know which jersey was yours?
 
I also found it interesting that during the Giants’ batting practice, they had two batting cages next to each other — meaning two batters were hitting at the same time. Of course, with the extended BP, guys with uniform numbers in the 100s were needed to complete the BP sessions.
 
If you’re getting up at 4 a.m. Chicago time Wednesday to watch the game, here are some things you might find interesting about the Tokyo Dome:

• There are no warning tracks anywhere. About five feet in front of the outfield wall is a painted white line. The wall collisions here must be legendary.
• There are no bullpens on the field. Tucked inside each clubhouse is a batting cage/mound area. If you have a pitching change, the reliever has to be phoned – then has to race onto the field from inside the clubhouse.
• Stealing one of my ideas, this ballpark has screens that go literally from one foul pole to the other. Fans don’t get hit by line drives. Fans don’t leave the ballpark missing eyeballs and teeth.
• The mound is almost pitch black. It’s like watching the pitcher throwing atop grounds of Maxwell House.

 
While I didn’t understand most of the in-house advertising, one ad did jump out (so to speak) — as it featured a trio of Japanese Budweiser frogs.
 
That’s it for now. Tomorrow, we play the Seibu Lions in Tokorozawa, which is 45 miles from here — an anticipated 2 1/2-hour bus ride. Talk to you later.

​March 28, 2000 (Day 5 Recap): What a Long Strange Trip It’s Been …
 
Tuesday …
 
In case you didn’t already know, I hadn’t gone to Tokorozawa before. And just so you know, I believe the English translation for Tokorozawa is “You Ain’t F***ing Getting There In A Hurry.”
 
Tokorozawa, the home of the Seibu Dome, is roughly 18-20 miles outside of downtown Tokyo. The bus ride to the ballpark was a wonderful 2 hours, 40 minutes. With that in mind, I’m dividing my day into the Tokorozawa Trilogy.
 
1. The Bus Ride
 
In all seriousness, Tokorozawa is at most 20 miles from this hotel. In double seriousness, it took us 2 hours, 40 minutes to get there this morning.
 
The highway was nauseatingly stop-and-go. Once we got off, there’s only one road you can take into town — and there’s only one lane going in each direction.
 
The following are things I wanted to ask our non-English speaking busdriver (but didn’t) on the Road To Tokorozawa:

• I realize the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, but don’t you think if you took little-traveled surface streets instead of the non-moving highway that we might get there faster?
• Was it necessary for traffic engineers to set the traffic signals so that we must stop at every intersection?
• Is it a crime in Japan to make a lane change?
• What’s the purpose of driving a Mercedes Benz-made bus in Japan? Aren’t there a few car companies over here?
• Since so many people on the streets are wearing surgical masks (to prevent the spreading of cold/cough germs), how exactly do they get the food in their mouths when they eat?
• How come my hotel room has TVs in both the bedroom and the bathroom, with 12 channels on each TV, yet they’re two different sets of channels? And with that in mind, how come the closest thing to English I could find on TV was a dubbed-in-Japanese version of “Mr. Holland’s Opus?”
• How come the dubbed-in-Japanese version of “Mr. Holland’s Opus” was better than the subtitled “Speed 2” we’re watching on this bus right now?
• Why is the lowest paper monetary form of the yen the 1,000 bill? That would be like not having a $1 or a $5 back home. With all the coins I’m carrying, I sound like a Salvation Army bell when I walk.
• Honestly, Mr. Bus Driver … How many years does it take to drive across this island?

2. The Seibu Dome
 
You haven’t seen anything like this place.
 
The Seibu Dome, the home of the Japanese Pacific League’s Seibu Lions, is literally a spaceship hovering directly over the park. Outside of a few cement cylinders, the dome sits about 25 feet above the top row of seats — as the gap between the two is open air. People near the top rows have to get rained upon despite being in a “domed” park.
 
When you walk into the Seibu Dome, you had to walk down 7 flights of stairs to get to the clubhouse level. Then, if you were like me and had to go to the press box, you had to walk around 10 flights up.
 
This park has its nuances. The manager/coaches office is about 10 feet by 10 feet with a coat rack. The office is located directly behind home plate and has blinds, but if you don’t close the blinds all the way, people looking in could see coaches getting dressed/undressed. The main clubhouse wasn’t much bigger. For that matter, neither was the press box. The press box was enclosed, just like Cincinnati’s Riverfront Stadium.
 
One of the weirdest things I’ll probably ever see took place in the 4th inning. Through 3.0 innings, Cubs pitcher Scott Downs had a perfect game. While Chicago radio personality Les Grobstein was doing his no-hit pool among the American media, the Japanese media were conducting their no-hit pool — in the rock/paper/scissors variety. I hadn’t seen that since Hebrew school — and very few of the Japanese media looked Jewish. By the way, Kazuo Matsui broke up the no-no with a 1-out double in the 4th.
 
We won the game 6-5, rallying to score 3 runs in the 9th on a Mark Grace homer and a Damon Buford 2-out, 2-run homer.
                                                          
3. You're Out Of Your Mind If You Thought We Were Busing Back
 
Thanks to the bus ride to Tokorozawa, and the thought line that a 2:40 bus plus a 3-hour game plus a 2:40 bus would almost equal the time necessary to fly back to Chicago, most of us — players, staff, media — took the train back to Tokyo. I’ve been on New York subways during rush hour before, but this was something absolutely unbelievable.
 
As we were leaving the Seibu Dome, the pre-rain fog was rolling in through the dome’s gap, giving the ballpark a very surreal feel. The group of us — probably 50 in total — walked through the rain to the Tokorozawa train stop, which is located about 1 block from the ballpark.
 
The last train from Tokorozawa to Tokyo leaves at 7 p.m. As a group, we just barely made it. In Japanese society, that’s not good enough, as the rule seems to be — if they can breathe, keep shoving more in. Police literally keep pushing people into trains until there no longer is the possibility of movement.
 
The first train, which we were on for five minutes, was tolerable. The second train — a 30-minute ride — was less so. As that train’s doors opened, a huge rush of screaming people came pushing and shoving all those in front of them into the train. Thoughts of The Who at Riverfront Stadium entered my mind as I was flying forward with my roughly 80 pounds of equipment that I travel to ballgames with. You hear how orderly the Japanese are, but this is something that could never happen in New York without fatalities. I now know how sardines and blocking dummies feel.
 
We had to make one more train change, which was slightly more orderly. In total, though, the three trains got us from Point A to Point B in 1 hour, 5 minutes, so there was an up-shot to all of it.
 
The regular season finally starts Wednesday night (or Wednesday morning for most of you). I’ll talk to you then.
 
P.S. — For those of you who have asked, I will not have anything done to my tooth until I get back home. Our team doctor advised me against it, since the dentist he talked to seemed a little too eager to drill without knowing what the problem was.
 
Also, the next time you’re in Japan, you have to try Pocky Chocolate. They are thin pretzels covered in milk, white and strawberry chocolate. As the box says, they’re “The Super Snack.”

It’s hard to believe, but this is the Sweet 16th anniversary of the Cubs’ 2000 season-opening trip to Japan.
 
Sixteen years ago today, I spent my first full day in Tokyo. The night before, the Cubs landed in Japan for the first-ever regular-season games outside of North America. I’m still not sure how the combined time of the two flights (13 hours) equaled leaving Mesa early on a Friday morning and landing in Tokyo late Saturday afternoon. Of course, the direct return flight from Tokyo to Chicago had us leaving Friday evening … spending 14 hours in the air … and landing in Chicago Friday afternoon. Time travel rules!
 
Anyway, to commemorate the blessed event, I found my daily dairy – which turned out to be my original blog. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it back then – and reading it now. Apparently, I was funny back in the day!
 
I’ll post this in three parts over several days this week. Enjoy!
                       
The Japan Itinerary – March 2000

• Days 1-2: March 24 (Friday morning) – depart from Arizona … fly to San Francisco … fly to Tokyo, arriving March 25 (Saturday night)
• Day 3: Sunday, March 26 … First full day in Tokyo
• Day 4: Monday, March 27 … Cubs vs. Yomiuri Giants at the Tokyo Dome
• Day 5: Tuesday, March 28 … Cubs vs. Seibu Lions in Tokorozawa
• Day 6: Wednesday, March 29 … Opening Day against Mets (Tokyo Dome)
• Day 7: Thursday, March 30 … Cubs vs. Mets (Tokyo Dome)
• Day 8: Friday, March 31 … depart Tokyo early evening … fly directly to Chicago, turning back time and arriving Friday mid-afternoon
• Then, thanks to some stellar scheduling … daylight savings time on Sunday, April 2 … fly to St. Louis April 2 … fly to Cincinnati (EDT) April 7 … fly back to Chicago (CDT) April 9 … have no off-day built in, with the Wrigley Field home opener on April 10.

 
March 25, 2000 (Days 1 and 2 Recap): Toothless in Tokyo …
 
Hello from Japan!
 
Sorry it’s taken a while to write, but apparently AOL can only be used between certain hours.
 
As I write this, it’s 10:15 p.m. Saturday night (7:15 a.m. in Chicago). I woke up Friday morning in Mesa, Ariz., at 4 a.m. (which translates to 8 p.m. here), so it’s been a 26-plus hour day for me. Anyway …
 
After our early start, we flew to San Francisco on a charter — then traveled to Tokyo on a 747. If you haven’t been in a Tokyo-bound 747 before, what can I say but ‘Wow.’ I had a 6-way seat/recliner with a personal pop-up TV screen — and I was in business class. I sipped on some Dom Perignon, and got to look down upon Alaska – as we traveled really far north, went past the international date line, then went south along the Pacific coast until landing in Japan. The 11-hour flight didn’t seem so bad.
 
I did have one tiny little mishap, though, and anyone who knows me knows that this could only happen to me. Approximately two hours into the trip, I bit down on a Haagen Dazs ice cream brick and shattered the front half of my false tooth. The only pain is in the self-deprecating humor. I do have that Deliverance/Alfred E. Neumann look going for me, though, as the inside of the tooth is silvery black. Check back later on my trip to the Japanese dentist.
 
Once we landed at Narita Airport, we pretty much coasted through customs and immigration. The coasting ended, though, when we bused to downtown Tokyo. Narita Airport is exactly 60 kilometers from downtown (which by my math should be around 40 miles), yet the bus ride took a solid 2 1/2 hours. So about the only thing I can say I’ve seen in Tokyo thus far is traffic. And they drive on the wrong side of the road here, too, which probably explains why no one moves.
 
The jet lag, I survived. The bus lag — that still exists.
 
The hotel we’re staying at, the New Otani, appears to be the size of the Merchandise Mart. There are 100-plus stores here and nearly 20 restaurants. However, at this point in time when I am typing this, no one can tell me how to access AOL.
 
I have already taken to some of the Japanese culture thanks to some of the hotel’s amenities. I’m sitting here drinking Oolong tea, wearing an extremely comfortable karate-like kimono robe and listening to a Japanese alternative music station (they just played a Japanese cover of an Aerosmith song).
 
Most of the room controls are located in one wall panel. The panel, which is located near the headboard of the bed, draws the curtains, regulates air conditioning and room lighting and has six radio station buttons to choose from (I’m sticking with the music one, though). I can also activate the Do Not Disturb sign by pressing a button on that console.
 
There’s not much TV to choose from. The only English stations are CNN International and BBC — although you can get The Golf Channel, the Playboy Channel and the Pioneer Karaoke Channel through the pay-TV menu.
 
One last thing to tell you about is the toilet. Not only is it heated, but you can squirt your bottom with water as part of the cleansing process. I guess it’s true that you haven’t lived until you’ve been “ass sprayed.”
 
Anyway, enough with today’s rambling. We have a workout at 10 a.m. tomorrow morning in preparation for our four days of games. I plan to explore after that, so hopefully I can enlighten (or bore) you with more info the next time I write.
 
For now, Sayonara!
 
Editors Note: I was told on Sunday morning that the reason AOL didn't work when I tried earlier was because I didn't plug the phone line into the right outlet. Apparently, the fax/modem line is located INSIDE a drawer by this desk

​March 26, 2000 (Day 3 Recap): Pokemon Doesn’t Exist …
                                                                                       
Day #2 in Japan (this was the first real day to see anything here, and it was quite an interesting day).
 
First thing’s first — you have got to avoid the jet lag. Surprisingly enough, since I can get jet lag on the St. Louis-to-Chicago trip, I survived this first day quite nicely. I stayed up until 11:15 last night and slept until 7 a.m. — with just a brief wakeup around 4 a.m. Most of the people in the traveling party got 6-7 hours of sleep, but that also had them up for good around 5 a.m. So, in recap, I haven’t adjusted to the time for the better part of 34-plus years in the States, but I could do it in one night here. It must be the sumo blood in me!
 
The club had a 10 a.m. workout at the Tokyo Dome this morning. The Tokyo Dome, which is modeled on Minneapolis’ Metrodome (I’m afraid to ask why), is known as The Big Egg. It was obnoxiously loud today during the workout. From what I understand, the exhibition games tomorrow night against the Yomiuri Giants and Tuesday against the Seibu Lions will resemble big-time rivalry college football crowds, with fans standing the entire game … bands playing … music on the P.A. The press box is “outdoors,” as it’s in the middle of the crowd. I’ll have a great view for the festivities.
 
They had Kid’s Day festivities as part of the workout, as the first 10,000 children to show up at the Dome were allowed in for free. It was nice to see all the kids in uniforms — with real stirrups being worn.
 
In fact, you can tell how much the kids revere baseball in this country — much better than back home. On the bus ride to-and-from the ballpark, we passed quite a few Little League games. We also passed a Denny’s, several McDonald’s and a couple 7-11’s, but I felt like a foreigner by not seeing a Starbucks at every intersection.
 
After we got back to the hotel, I went off by myself and took a nice long two-hour “observational” walk. It was really very fascinating — and quite humbling – because the further I got from the hotel, the less communicating I was able to do. Every employee I’ve met in this hotel speaks some level of English. Go a couple blocks from here, though, and it’s another world. Consider the fact that there’s a population of around 30 million here, and you realize just how small Chicago is.
 
During my walk, I took a trek along a Central Park-ish path and saw kids training in martial arts, archery and tennis — and of course, a Little League game. It’s amazing to watch 9-10 year olds throwing curve balls and doing the Hideo Nomo hitch.
 
The park let off at Kojimachi, a street that resembles Michigan Avenue — just much longer. Among the things I noticed during this part of the walk:

• You must look both ways very carefully when crossing the street, as traffic goes in the wrong direction.
• There are vending machines all over the place, and not just for Coke. You can buy beer and cigarettes on the streets — but you didn’t see any kids doing that.
• As for the Coke machines … Coca-Cola must have a vested interest in this country, because there are no Pepsi products anywhere. Fanta, however, I can find.
• I bought a Diet Coke out of one of the machines (120 yen, which is approximately $1.20 U.S.), and it is much sweeter than Chicago-area regular Coke. In fact, everything I’ve had to drink here except the hotel room’s Oolong and Green teas is extremely sweet. I’m toying with actually trying a Coke, since it would probably re-grow the enamel on my tooth.
• If you have a cough or a cold here, the doctors make you wear a surgical mask so that you can’t spread the illness. As the weather here is very similar to Chicago, you see a lot of people looking like they’re going into surgery.
• Pokemon doesn’t exist. It’s just some U.S. phenomenon. I’m serious. You see the Peanuts gang and Winnie the Pooh all over the place, but no Pokemon characters. I knew people were making that up!
• Bagels do exist here, at least at one bakery on Kojimachi. I don’t have the teeth to bite into one, however.
• Sammy Sosa is really big here. I saw ads for him and his endorsement products all over the place.

 
After returning to the hotel, I went with a group of people to the Akihabara district — the electronics district of Tokyo. If you have a picture in your mind involving Tokyo, this was it. It was like walking around Las Vegas — only with a lot more neon lighting and a lot more glitz. We went in a few stores, as I saw some unbelievable flat screen TVs and some amazing DVD players. Outside of some souvenirs, the only thing I bought was a transistor radio — which is the size of a credit card and can fit in your wallet.
 
A few of us then took the subway back to the hotel. The train was absolutely spotless.
 
Tonight, the Yomiuri Shimbun Company threw a reception for both the Cubs and the Mets at the Akasaka Prince hotel. It was your basic finger food reception, although there might actually have been fingers involved, as most of the food was unidentifiable. And they didn’t even have a shrimp boat, which was quite disappointing. I think I ate meat, but I can’t be too sure.
 
As you can probably guess, I am enjoying myself — and I’m trying to soak in as much as I can in a short time. After a day full of little head-nod half bows, arrigatos (“Thank You”) and konnichiwas (“Good Day”), I’m now signing off. Thanks for reading!

When you know you’re going to be interviewing someone for a story, it is incumbent that you do your homework and that you’re thoroughly prepared. There’s nothing worse than getting blindsided by something you should have known about.
                                                                                                                                            
And when you’re interviewing someone you haven’t talked to in 20-plus years, it is imperative that you do extra research. In this instance, I did … or at least I thought I did.
                                          
Thanks to the internet, I periodically have checked up on Lance Dickson – who had a meteoric 1990 on the mound and basically disappeared off the face of the baseball world soon after that. I knew he really hadn’t disappeared; in fact, he was quite successful in the business world.  
 
I recognized that when I reached out to him, it was to tell his story in a positive way. Plain and simple, he didn’t need me telling him he was snake bit after he reached the majors. He certainly has heard his name as part of the “first-round bust” and “he must be flipping burgers” discussions. After being selected by the Cubs as the 23rd overall pick in the 1990 draft, he made minor league stops in Geneva (NY), Peoria (IL) and Charlotte (NC) before reaching the majors just two months after the draft. But it wasn’t his grand plan to make three big league starts, get hit by a comebacker, and never see a major league mound again. It wasn’t his grand plan to have a strong 1991 Triple-A first half ended by a broken right foot. It wasn’t his grand plan to injure his left shoulder the following year, something he couldn’t overcome. He kept trying to come back, but his baseball career was over in 1995 – at the age of 25.
 
When we did talk yesterday afternoon, I was planning on mostly staying away from baseball. His post-playing career success was much more interesting to me.
 
But what I learned as the conversation went on startled me. And it’s something I wasn’t prepared for – as the only way I would have been ready for it would have been if I Googled certain specific keywords. Life has thrown him some curves off the field, too.
 
This isn’t a story about baseball. This is a story about resiliency.
 
*     *     *     *     *     *
 
Well, actually, this is a lot about baseball.
 
Dickson, as a 20-year-old junior for the University of Arizona in 1990, threw seven complete games in 16 starts while fanning 141 batters in 119.2 innings. The southpaw was rewarded by the Cubs with a first-round selection in the June draft.
 
And that was just the beginning.
 
“That whole year was quite a whirlwind,” Dickson recalled. “Being picked in the first round, then showing up in Mesa to get ready to go to the Finger Lakes of Geneva … and then Peoria … and then Charlotte … and then Chicago. I was in four different cities in 10 weeks. I lived out of a suitcase that whole summer. I’d thrown a whole season in college, and then 11 starts in the minor leagues, and then I got called to the big leagues.”
 
He was on a Double-A road trip in early August when he received a call from his pitching coach – Rick Kranitz – who told Dickson to “Pack your bags. You’re going to the big leagues,” he said. “It was pretty surreal.
 
“I didn’t see it coming. I didn’t know anybody. It was my first year in the organization. I didn’t know the personnel, the pitching staff. I was pitching really well. I was very much locked in and felt like I was going to win every game that I was pitching. But I did not see it coming.”
 
He headed to Chicago, making the first of his three major league starts August 9 against St. Louis.
 
“I focused on not getting caught up in terms of where I was and the fact that I was 20,” he said. “It was 60 feet, six inches. There’s the catcher. There’s the hitter. There’s the umpire. It’s the same scene that I’ve seen 1,000 times. I think I did stay focused in what my job was. So it didn’t seem like it was a fog or a dream at all. It was a surprise, no question about that. It was exciting. It was awesome.”
 
And in a snap, the dream turned into a nightmare. In his third big league start, he was struck in the knee by a one-hop comebacker – which ended his season. The injury bug had taken its first bite. Moving forward, it was one injury after another.
 
“My baseball career … there’s no bitterness. No anger. I don’t like how it ended for me. But I couldn’t control it,” he said. “I couldn’t stay healthy. It’s that karma deal. I’d make fun of people in the training room in college. ‘Get out of the training room. Get on the field. Let’s go.’ Then all of a sudden I’m on the early bus and in the training rooms for literally my entire career with the Cubs. That was not planned. I had a different plan for how my career would go. It didn’t go that way. So you can be bitter and feel sorry for yourself, or you can pick yourself up, dust yourself off and get after the next chapter of life. I chose the latter.”  

​With his baseball career prematurely cut short in 1995, Dickson returned to Tucson to finish his undergraduate degree in business at the University of Arizona. He was just like the rest of us; he didn’t know what he was going to do with his life, and he was a few years older than his classmates.
                                                  
He wound up in the one place he never figured he’d be. Tucson.
 
“It was the last place I wanted to be,” Dickson said. “I was coming back here to finish school. I was speaking to my agent, who was in San Diego – where I’m from – and I was making plans to go back home and maybe go to law school. I think you have to if you’re going to be an agent in terms of mediation and all that stuff. So I was contemplating what my next move into the real world was going to be. I was considering working with my agent. I did not anticipate staying in Tucson at all.”
 
Instead, Tucson became a big component of his elevator pitch.
 
“Life’s good. I’m the chief operating officer here in Tucson at a mortgage bank,” he said. “I’ve been here for over 20 years, right after my career ended. I came back to Tucson to finish my schooling and stayed here as a result of catching on with a mortgage bank and learning this business. I’m doing pretty well in it as both a loan officer and then moving up the ranks in the company. Now, I’m a partner and the COO. The company is Nova Home Loans.
 
“I needed a real job after my baseball career. I interviewed with this company. It felt good. I felt like I could do that – provide financing for folks who needed a home loan. Most everyone needs what I’m selling in terms of loans and interest rates and the service I provide. It seemed to be an easier sell to me than typical widgets that people sell, like cell phones or whatever the product is. This was selling money. I felt like I could do pretty well in it. So I started part-time as I went back to school, and it turned into full-time. I started doing really well in this business. I’ve been ranked among the Top 200 loan officers in America for 16 straight years, so it’s been a really good business for me. I started moving up the leadership ranks 10 years ago. I’ve been the chief operating officer here for eight. So it worked out. There certainly isn’t any reason now for me to leave Tucson. My business is here. My kids are here.”
 
He talked about how his baseball career, albeit brief, helped prepare him for the business world.
 
“Anyone who played high-level sports and is in high-level business will tell you what you already have heard 1,000 times – there are absolute parallels between the two,” Dickson said. “How to win. How to lose. How to lead. How to follow. How to be a team player. All of those principles are just as much business as they are sports. I treated this like a sport. This was just my new sport. I looked around and saw who was doing what and how they were getting it done. And I felt like I could compete – and it’s worked out.”
 
Dickson acknowledged that, at times, he was sad about how his baseball career turned out. And mad, too. It didn’t go anything like his entire career before professional baseball. He just couldn’t stay on the field.
 
“I had never been hurt before in my life,” he said. “I never missed a start at U of A. I’d never been hurt. To break my foot … to go through the three shoulder surgeries … it was really, really frustrating. Coming back here and refocusing on what I needed to do in order to get a real job certainly put my focus on my life and business and whatever I needed to do now that baseball was over.”
 
Business was going to be his career path. Coaching at any level above Little League was not an option.
 
“I didn’t want to be in coaching,” Dickson said. “I didn’t want to be around baseball, because my baseball career just didn’t go the way I wanted it to. I wanted to be around business and just turn the page, if you will, and focus on other things.
 
“I got immersed in this business. Got married. Started a family.”
 
He went on-and-on about his daughter, Samantha, a 16-year-old sophomore already looking at big-name colleges like Stanford, Vanderbilt and Duke. He spoke glowingly about his two sons – Jack (14) and Luke (8).
 
“My daughter is in the National Honor Society and she plays high school volleyball,” Dickson said. “My boys are great little students and great little young men and human beings. I coached my oldest son through Little League. He’s playing club baseball now and will play high school baseball. I’m now coaching my youngest son and I’ll coach him through the balance of his Little League career.”
 
And then, as he talked about his children, he dropped the bombshell that my research hadn’t uncovered for me.
 
“Unfortunately, five years ago, my wife died suddenly,” Dickson said. “I’m a single dad.
 
“She was perfectly fit. Perfectly healthy. Never even a cavity. She had a massive pulmonary embolism in the middle of the night.”
 
Cristian Dickson. Mother of three. She passed away March 6, 2011, at the age of 40. This month marked the five-year anniversary of her sudden passing.
 
“My kids are really, really special. They’re great kids,” Dickson said. “They were 10, 8 and 3 when this happened. Their whole world was completely turned upside down. But they’ve bounced back. They’ve gained a strong footing in terms of where they are. They’re doing wonderfully. They’re healing wonderfully from something that was pretty devastating.
 
“You see the stories. It happens every day. How did that happen to a marathon runner? She had run a 10K just the week before. Fit … healthy … the last person I would have expected something like that to happen to. No health issues ever. Literally, not a cavity. I used to make fun of her. ‘Can’t you just get a cavity? Just be normal.’ It’s crazy how the world is and what the big guy’s plan is. That was a serious curveball for my family. But … you know … it wasn’t the first and it won’t be the last in terms of what you see on a daily basis. Unfortunately, my family went through it.”
 
With what the Dickson family had to deal with five years ago, there isn’t a place for a “Why Me” when it comes to a baseball career that truly ended before it started. There are far more important things to worry about.
 
“It’s been a busy world, in particular the last five years – kind of wearing the mom and dad hat,” he said. “And I’m in charge of 800 employees. I’m very grateful and blessed for all I have. But it’s a very busy time – and my children, of course, are my first priority. The combination of life at home and life at work makes life really, really busy. But really great. And really rewarding.
 
“I’m doing well in my world. I like my world. I’m grateful and blessed. I’m happy – I truly am. It’s a good life. We’ve learned a lot of life lessons along the way in terms of what’s truly important and what’s really not. I think when you go through a sudden tragedy like that, it’s cliché – I know that – but you just recalibrate your perspective of what’s important and what’s not important.
 
“I’ll have a random somebody say something online like, ‘What happened to that guy?’ And then somebody commented back that I was probably flipping burgers somewhere. I get a good laugh out of that.”

It’s been pretty cool reconnecting with some of the unique personalities I worked with during my quarter century with the Cubs – as I’m on a mission to track down players I worked with to talk about their playing days and find out what they’re up to now.
 
A few days ago, I caught up with Jon Lieber – a 20-game winner for the Cubs during his 2001 All-Star campaign. Lieber pitched in the majors from 1994-2008 – and was a Cub from 1999-2002 and in 2008.
 
Chuck: Jake Arrieta won 22 games last year and was a Cy Young Award winner. Greg Maddux won 20 games in 1992 and was a Cy Young Award winner. You won 20 in 2001 and got nothing for it. Are you bitter?
 
Lieber: “No, not at all.”
 
Chuck: I was kidding there. But do tell me about your memories of your 20-win season.
 
Lieber: “It was just a season where I felt like I started figuring things out. Maturity wise, I felt like I was more in control of the game as the season went on. I think the guys that surrounded me on the team, in the lineup or on the bench; they definitely contributed to me winning 20 games. It just wasn’t me. A lot of things have got to factor in that. Your offense. Your defense. You have to have a good team around you to win a lot of ball games. As far as winning the Cy Young, that would have been great, but there’s no doubt in my mind that the three guys that were ahead of me – (Randy) Johnson, (Curt) Schilling and Matt Morris were more deserving than I was. No question about it.”
 
Chuck: One thing I remember – heck, anybody who watched you would remember – was that you were known for quick games and low pitch counts.
 
Lieber: “I’m a firm believer that when you keep your defense on its toes and you get them into the batter’s box, that’s all they want to do. They want to hit and score runs. That was always my goal throughout my career – to get the guys on-and-off the field as quick as possible. Obviously, being smart out there while I’m pitching was the key. I wanted to get off the field as quick as possible. Looking back now, I think a big success in my career is that I wasn’t afraid to pitch to contact. I was very simple in my approach in my games. I was basically a two-pitch pitcher throughout my career – fastball , slider. I took a lot of pride in being able to locate on both sides of the plate and being able to throw strikes and get ahead of hitters. I think that’s what makes the games go fast. You put the guys you’re facing into a defensive count, and they’re going to swing more likely. It’s going to lower your pitch count. The game’s going to be much faster.”
 
Chuck: One of your career highlights had to be pitching in the 2001 All-Star Game. Looking back 15 years later, what was that like for you?
 
Lieber: “It was great. It was unbelievable. It was something you always dream of as a little kid. When you’re in the background, you put yourself in those moments. Here it is, I’m finally living it at 31 years old. I’m taking it all in. That was the greatest thing – the guys on the team. I remember Curt Schilling, and I lockered next to him, he said, ‘Man, get as much stuff signed and you can, because you never know if you’re going to make it back to one of these. That was probably the best advice going in, because I was a little gun shy. I probably wouldn’t have asked for anything. I’m very thankful that I did. I really savor those items. I hope to hand them down to my kids. Looking back at it, I’ve got stories to tell about it. It seems like it just happened yesterday. But now we get to the game time situation, and that’s all the stuff I want to forget. I get out there, and the first two hitters (Derek Jeter and Magglio Ordonez) hit home runs off me … I’m thinking this is going to be embarrassing. I knew a lot of people were watching this game, but I was able to wiggle my way out of it, just giving up the two solo shots. Wish it could have been better, but it’s definitely something I’ll never forget.”
 
Chuck: I’m going to go back one year to 2000. We opened the season in Japan, and you were selected to make the Opening Day start. What was that like for you?
 
Lieber: “Man, that was exciting. Making the trip overseas where games counted. And then all of a sudden you find out you’re going to get the first game that actually means something. That doesn’t happen every day. I took a lot of pride in that. I was excited. That was the first time in history that those games actually counted and meant something, so it was a great opportunity. I had a blast. I hadn’t been there before. It was a lot of fun. I wish I had the opportunity to do it again.”
 
Chuck: Kevin Tapani – mentor or bad influence?
 
Lieber: “Mentor. No question.”
 
Chuck: With you, I wasn’t sure which way you’d answer that!
 
Lieber: “Definitely a mentor. Tap, what can I say? He was the first guy to really step up and make me feel welcome. The funny thing is, the way he comes across, he’s got that dry sense of humor. You didn’t know if he was serious or not. Or if he was playing a joke on you. Looking back now, I’m so thankful that I had the opportunity to play with him, to get to know him for those three years. Tap was one of the best teammates I ever had the pleasure of playing with. I wish I’d stay in better touch with him. It’s very rare to come across people like Tap. He was just one of a kind. He was a very special person, a great teammate, and a great guy to hang out with.”
 
Chuck: My favorite post-Cubs Jon Lieber story was ripped directly from the Deadspin.com headlines. I vividly remember tapping into the site during spring training (in 2007), and there was a story there titled “Jon Lieber Has A Big-Ass Truck.” It seems you had a little truck that stood 9 feet, 2 inches tall.
 
Lieber: “I was in Philadelphia, and I remember it like it was yesterday. I was sitting around with Tim Worrell, a great teammate, and he pulls out this magazine. He shows me this site that makes these trucks in Georgia. We both were like, ‘That’s awesome. Let’s call them.’ I make the phone call. The guy said, ‘I’ll bring one over. I’ll let you look at it. I’ll let you drive it. So he does, and I fell in love with it. I look back now, it was a stupid purchase. I wish I wouldn’t have done it. My wife sat there and said, ‘Please don’t do this. Please don’t do this. Please don’t do this.’ It was in one ear and out the other. It was just a toy. But we had a lot of fun in this toy. It had all the bells and whistles. It had an authentic train horn. When I say authentic, I could blow that horn, and people two miles away would think there was a train close by. It was one of those impulsive buys that I wish I wouldn’t have done. You can’t take it back. It is what it is. I had it for about three years before selling it in 2010 … The truck actually had a tractor trailor motor in it. This thing had some horsepower. The gas mileage was actually pretty good. The truck got 10-to-12 miles per gallon. It could turn on a dime. It could park in-between two cars. It could almost do it all. It was a lot of fun”
 
Chuck: The article said it originally cost $211,000. Is that correct?
 
Lieber: “It was actually closer to $256,000. Then again we’re over the $200,000 mark, so it really doesn’t matter.”
 
Chuck: What are you doing now?
 
Lieber: “I have four children. I’m really involved with the kids. We purchased a bunch of property here in Mobile (AL) about 15 years ago. I’m into residential development now. I got involved about four years ago and pulled the trigger on it about two years ago. We’ve developed this neighborhood just outside of Mobile. We’re just taking it a little bit at a time.”

Scouts tell great stories. Veteran scouts tell really great stories. When you scout for as long as Gary Hughes has, you move into that elite category – Master Storyteller.
 
Boomer, as he is affectionately called, has been a scout since 1967 – making this year 50 in the profession for him. These days, he’s a major league scout with the Boston Red Sox. I had the joy of working with him for nearly a decade with the Cubs – as he was one of Jim Hendry’s top lieutenants. I always liked to think of myself as Mr. Hendry’s big toe; if that was actually true, then Boomer was Jim’s right hand.
 
There aren’t too many grownups out there who go by Boomer – heck, out of deference, I usually call him Mr. Hughes. We caught up a couple days ago, and I asked for the refresher on how he got his nickname.
 
“When I first started with the New York Yankees,” Mr. Hughes recalled, “I was with our scouting director who was also the player development director. His name was Jack Butterfield. We were in Oakland, and I was just an area scout, and we had a guy who was going to crosscheck my players who lived in Southern California. He was an ex-big league player named Bob Nieman. And Bob was a big guy for nicknames. Burly Bob Nieman. So I walked in with Jack Butterfield. And as Bob’s getting up, he looks at me and he goes, ‘Wally’ – since I had a mustache.
 
“I said ‘No.’ I knew what he was doing. I didn’t have any idea that he was a nickname guy or any of that stuff, but I did know he was trying to call me Wally based on my mustache. Wally the Walrus, or whatever. So then he says, ‘How about Boomer?’ I said that would be fine. And that’s where it all started.”
 
I could always count on Mr. Hughes … OK, Boomer … to help me out whenever I was in need of assistance. He’s been a big supporter of my budding writing career, and he was there for me as usual when I called him the other day.
 
I wanted to hear his version of a famous story about Fig Newtons. I also wanted to learn more about his friendship with Jim Hendry. They have been through the baseball wars together – spending three years in the Florida Marlins’ organization (1992-1994) and nearly 10 full seasons with the Cubs.
 
When Jim had his heart-related issues at the Orlando winter meetings in December 2006, we all looked to Boomer for guidance.
 
“That’s one of the scariest things I’ve been around,” he said. “I can say all these nice things about Jim, but he’s pigheaded, too. He’s there and he’s working on a free agent signing of Ted Lilly. He thought all of that stuff was way more important than his health.
 
“He told me, ‘I’m not feeling good. I haven’t slept much.’
 
“I said, ‘You’ve got to go to the doctor. Let’s go. You’ve got to get there.’
 
“He said, ‘No, I have too much to do.’ But he didn’t have too much to do. And he probably wouldn’t have had anything to do if a doctor hadn’t gotten involved in it.
 
“He went to the hospital. He’s sitting on a gurney with tubes stuck in him. And he’s talking to Ted Lilly’s agent finalizing the free agent acquisition. And here he is in a hospital gown with all kinds of tubes sticking out of him, and the last thing he was worried about was himself.”
 
I asked Boomer what the initial impetus was for him to hire Jim for his first professional job – as a scout and minor league manager with the Marlins in 1992. Boomer talked about it mostly being Jim’s personality, but that he had been intrigued with Jim’s handling of his Creighton University baseball teams.
 
“I didn’t know him that well when I brought him over to the Marlins,” he said. “My Number 1 scout, Orrin Freeman, knew Jim a lot better than I did and he recommended him. And I had always been very, very impressed when I’d seen his teams play. We were acquaintances at the time; we weren’t really good friends. But obviously, it developed into a very good friendship.”
 
And it was during their early years together when the friendship developed – and following story took place. Sit back and – using your eyes – listen to a scout spin a yarn. I have heard Jim’s version of this story many times. But this was Boomer’s time to tell his side of the story.
 
“The first year I brought him in for the draft … I think it was the 1993 draft … I only brought three guys in, and they were my crosscheckers. And we would make calls to all of the area scouts, and they’d give them time on the phone – and we’d interview the scouts about the players. But I never brought in any of the area scouts.
 
“Jim was the area scout and, by that time, it was becoming pretty apparent that he was special. He was the area scout in south Florida, so I brought him in just to give him a little work to do. I told him just be in the room. If we have something for you to do – like move around the names on the board – we’ll tell you. But you’re not allowed to talk or say anything unless we ask you something. And we’re not going to be asking you a lot of questions.
 
“So he was in the room, and he was there for four or five days prior to the draft. David Dombrowski was the general manager. And that was at a time when we were trying to get everybody in better physical condition.
 
“So now the draft is going on, and it’s come to a round where he has a lot of players up on the board. He was sitting in the back of the room where we told him to sit. If we need you, we’ll let you know.
 
“I call him up to the front of the room. The time in the draft is coming up where he thinks he’s going to get one of his players. He’s thinking I’m going to ask him about one of his guys.
 
“So he comes up to the front, and he thinks I’m asking about a player. Instead, I told him, ‘I hate to do this, but all of us are busy doing stuff, and you’ve become the guy we can send out if we need anything, and we’re out of cookies.’ Again, it was a healthy thing, we were eating fat-free Fig Newtons.
 
“So I said, ‘Jim, will you please go down to the store and pick up some more of those fat-free Fig Newtons? The guys like them, and you’re the only guy here we can send out.’
 
“He said ‘Sure,’ being the good soldier that he was.
 
“Around that time, he had a chance to go back into college ball. Miami had lost its head coach, Ron Fraser – who was a legendary guy – and they talked to Jim about coaching there. Jim had said no, he wanted to stay in scouting and in professional baseball. He thought there was potential there for him, which obviously there was.
 
“Anyway, now he’s walking around a Publix supermarket with a grocery cart full of fat-free Fig Newtons. He was madder than heck at me for having him do it. He never once showed that he was upset or mad about it or anything like that. He came back, and everybody got the fat-free Fig Newtons.
 
“It was years later before he ever complained to me about it.
 
“I remember him saying, ‘Do you know what you did to me? You sent me out there for cookies.’ ”
 
“And I said, ‘Well … we needed them.’ ”

“Baseball is the President tossing out the first pitch of the season. And a pudgy schoolboy playing catch with his dad on a Mississippi farm.”
 
I remember the start of that speech as if it happened yesterday. It was one of the coolest little talks I ever was part of.
 
It was the Sunday before the All-Star break in 2001, and the Cubs were finishing the first half in Detroit. Manager Don Baylor, one of the nicest guys I met in the game and the person who introduced me to Jordan wine, wanted to do something special for the team prior to the break.
 
Don had heard Ernie Harwell recite a poem he had written about baseball, and he reached out to the Hall of Fame broadcaster prior to our trip. He thought it would be a neat experience to have his players hear Harwell talk, especially since Ernie was nearing the end of his legendary career. Ernie, then 83, retired the following year.
 
“Baseball is a spirited race of man against man, reflex against reflex. A game of inches. Every skill is measured. Every heroic, every failing is seen and cheered – or booed. And then becomes a statistic.”
 
Due to playing in separate leagues, this was only the second time that the Cubs had traveled to Detroit for regular season games. Rumor has it that the Cubs had played World Series affairs against the Tigers, but that was way before my time.
 
During my previous trip to Detroit in 1998, a good word to use for the trek there was “chaotic.” Sammy Sosa and a large-and-growing media throng had come to town during his historic 20-homer June – and he didn’t disappoint, first tying then setting the major league record for homers in a month. His 18th homer of the month June 24 at old Tiger Stadium tied Rudy York’s August 1937 record, while his 19th roundtripper June 25 established a new standard (he finished the month with 20).
 
But this second trip to Detroit – this time at Comerica Park – became just as memorable for me.
 
“Baseball is a rookie (his experience no bigger than the lump in his throat) trying to begin fulfillment of his dream. It’s a veteran, too – a tired old man of 35 hoping his aching muscles can pull him through another sweltering August and September.”
 
Ernie, a very gracious man, was more than happy to talk to the team. He had initially published a piece in The Sporting News in 1955, and he continued to tweak his poem. He would recite his love affair with the sport whenever he could, in his wonderful Southern voice, mesmerizing the group in front of him.
 
I met Mr. Harwell for the first – and only – time that morning. Don had talked all week about how great the speech was going to be, and made it a point to bring me into his office to introduce me to Ernie.
 
As it was the last day before the break, there was no batting practice. Everyone was dressed in their road uniforms when Ernie entered the players’ portion of the clubhouse.
 
“Baseball? It’s just a game – as simple as a ball and a bat. Yet, as complex as the American spirit it symbolizes. It’s a sport, business and sometimes even a religion.”
 
This particular Sunday morning, I really needed to hear a baseball story. I had spent the better part of that weekend refereeing a battle between a coach and a beat writer over stupid stuff, and I needed an escape.
 
I needed to be taken back in time, and Mr. Harwell didn’t disappoint.
 
“The fairy tale of Willie Mays making a brilliant World Series catch and then dashing off to play stick ball in the streets with his teenage pals – that’s baseball. So is husky voiced Lou Gehrig saying, ‘I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.’ ”
 
I remember listening to Ernie’s words – but not staring at him as he talked. Instead, I was off to the side, watching the faces of the players and coaches. Guys like Joe Girardi … and Eric Young … and Ricky Gutierrez … just hanging on his every word.
 
This was storytelling at its finest.
 
“Baseball is cigar smoke, hot roasted peanuts, Sporting News, Ladies Day, Down in Front, Take Me Out to the Ball Game, the Seventh Inning Stretch and the Star-Spangled Banner.”
 
When Ernie completed his speech, several players wandered over to thank him. Being the Southern gentleman that he was, he thanked them for listening to him talk.
 
The great Ernie Harwell then came over to me and asked, “So, was that OK?”
 
Was that OK? He could have done his speech in a Foster Brooks voice or as Elmer Fudd, and I would have said it was awesome.
 
At that point, Ernie started telling me that he always liked to write, but that he didn’t get to do it enough.
 
He then told me he had hard copies of his original poem at home – and he asked if I’d like a copy of it to pass on to anyone who wanted it.
 
I said "Yes," then gave him my business card with the ballpark address. He then went upstairs to the press box to finish preparing for that day's broadcast.
 
“Baseball is a man named Campanella telling the nation’s business leaders, “You have to be a man to be a big leaguer, but you have to have a lot of little boy in you, too.”
 
Ernie literally went home and put the check in the mail. A couple days later, an envelope arrived for me at Wrigley Field. It was a copy of his article, along with a hand-written note.
 
I didn’t keep a lot of mementos from my Cubs days, but one thing I did keep were the personalized notes. And I’m so glad I held on to them – especially when a Hall of Famer sends you a note.
 
“This is a game for America – this is baseball.

“A game for boys and for men.”

It’s been a few years, but most of my St. Patrick’s Days celebrations were spent in Arizona – so I’ve had my share of green beer.
 
I can’t say any specific St. Paddy’s Day festivities were overly remarkable, but hanging out at a Mill Avenue bar in Tempe – just blocks from Arizona State University – always provided a lot of scenery.
 
Honestly, I was more excited about spending Valentine’s Day eve in Mesa-area Super Walmarts. That … was … entertaining.
 
If I wanted to be green on St. Patrick’s Day, I could have eaten corned beef cooked by a Ho. There was just something about feasting on corned beef prepared in the HoHoKam Park press dining room that didn’t sit well with me.
 
My favorite “almost St. Patrick’s Day” celebration didn’t take place in the Mesa metropolitan area.
 
Back in the day – or in this case, 1992 – the Cubs and their Phoenix-area Cactus League brethren went on overnight excursions to Yuma and Palm Springs. The San Diego Padres spent half the spring in the Valley of the Sun and half in lovely Yuma, Arizona. The California – yes, California – Angels spent half the time in the Phoenix area before heading off to Palm Springs.
 
Yuma was an interesting place, right there on the United States/Mexico border. As legend has it, there was a little stretch where – if you were heading east and you rolled down your car window – your fingertips would be in Mexico.
 
At least back then, Yuma was a horseshoe. Pull into town heading west … make a left turn … then make another left turn – and pull out of town heading back east. One chain restaurant after another after another, and then you were gone.
 
When teams traveled to Yuma, they were guaranteed to play games – since rain was never part of the forecast. As it was roughly a four-hour trip from Mesa, extra games were scheduled to make it worth your while. We’d get there to play a “B” game so the minor leaguers could get some action in … then play a regularly scheduled night game … then play an afternoon game the next day. Three games in 24 hours, then continue on your merry way to Palm Springs.
 
It was beyond a night-and-day difference, as Palm Springs was the “get away from Hollywood” glamour home for many in the entertainment industry. Hey look – there’s a Bob Hope golf course! Gene Autry, the Angels’ owner, was almost guaranteed to be at a spring game. And if you didn’t see him, a boulevard with his name on it ran adjacent to the ballpark.
 
So here we were in Palm Springs in 1992, a few days after St. Patrick’s Day, and a group of the “peripherals” – trainers, strength coach, low-level PR guy – happened to walk into a bar where several players had already set up shop for the evening. Not a good thing for a lightweight like me.
 
And on this night, the Miss Palm Springs competition was taking place at this bar. There was plenty of alcohol flowing, and the players were taking care of the support staff. Again, not a good thing for a lightweight.
 
Several players made it their mission to make sure I had a good time.
 
I make it a point not to sell out players unless the story merits it to avoid name-dropping, but I’m selling out Paul Assenmacher here. Paul, being left-handed, thought it would be a good idea for Chuck to do multiple Jagermeister shots. I can barely handle multiple Miller Lites.
 
The rest of the night was … I guess … a blur, maybe? I have no idea, other than hair will grow on your tongue if you drink enough Jager shots.
 
Please don’t ask me who won Miss Palm Springs. I know I missed the swimsuit portion of the competition, as the bar was moving on me. I’m guessing the winner was blonde and tan.
 
Please, don’t ask me how I got back to the hotel. I really have no idea.
 
What I do know is that I was quite green the next morning. I did learn a lesson about Gene Autry Boulevard – in that the hotel and ballpark were a couple miles apart, and I needed every step of the boulevard and every breath of fresh air possible for my brain cells to recover.
 
I just remember thinking that if I didn’t make it to the yard, my epitaph would have included the words “Wasserstrom, Assenmacher and Jagermeister.” Not exactly an Irish-sounding pub. 

​On paper, I understand why Adam LaRoche wants to have his son, Drake, around him. As a father, there’s a short window of time before your kids are grown up.
 
On paper, I understand why the White Sox don’t think every day should be “bring your kid to work day.”
 
But honestly, from 1,400-plus miles away, I’m way beyond stunned at watching the LaRoche situation play out. If you’re willing to walk away from $13 million, then I’m squarely in your corner.
 
Adam LaRoche is the son of a former major league player – as his dad, Dave, spent 14 years in the majors. Dave’s last year as a player was 1983; his first year as a coach was 1984. It’s pretty safe to say that Adam LaRoche grew up in a baseball clubhouse.
                                                                                      
Do I think Cal Ripken Jr. grew up as a person and a baseball player in a clubhouse? Yes I do. Do I think Ken Griffey Jr. grew up as a person and a baseball player in a clubhouse? That’s also a yes. What about sons of players I worked with, like Brian McRae and Gary Matthews Jr.? Yes and yes. Or Eric Young Jr., who I was fortunate to see many times during his dad’s two years with the Cubs? Definitely a yes.
 
The argument that “a kid can be there some of the time, but not all the time,” is only valid if the kid is a problem – and other players are saying the kid is a problem. The clubhouse belongs to the players, and – trust me – they know how to police themselves. If Adam LaRoche is as respected among his teammates as I believe he is, and if Drake LaRoche is the great kid that everyone says he is, then what’s the issue?
 
Baseball is not normal. It’s not a Monday-to-Friday, 40-to-50 hours per week job. Yes, the players get paid extremely well. But they don’t get to lead a “normal” life from roughly Valentine’s Day through October 1 (or longer for the postseason teams).
 
How many companies in this country have a child around every day that some would say shouldn’t be there? And I’m not talking about a 14-year-old kid minding his own business. I’m referring to a kid who is hand-delivered a job after high school or college because of a well-placed parent. Guess what, it happens. And those kids probably don’t do half of what baseball sons do.  
 
The baseball sons who were in the Cubs’ clubhouse all the time earned their keep. They helped the equipment guys do laundry. They helped shine shoes. They shagged fly balls during batting practice.
 
Most of the kids were sons of coaches – who weren’t making big money. With rare exception, the kids were great kids. I wanted to see them every day to say Hi.
 
Baseball is a family game, right?
 
Heck, just the other day, I was having lunch with an old acquaintance. This guy is a sports entrepreneur who lives and breathes sports. He makes his living off sports. And he started the conversation saying something along the lines of, “I don’t know how you did it.”
 
And he elaborated on his thought process. “There’s no amount of money that could get me to work in a baseball front office … I can’t imagine the stress level a general manager and his staff have … I couldn’t do that to my wife and my family.”
 
It’s funny. I just had the same type of conversation with Steve Trachsel. After I completed my interview with Trax a few days ago, I turned off the tape recorder and we talked for a few more minutes.
 
He talked about his upcoming marriage to his fiancée, Rebecca. Although he has two teenagers, he was excited about starting another family.
 
The whole conversation was interesting, because it’s a reminder that players are human beings, too. And the baseball life takes its toll on families.
 
And it’s interesting that – on the record – Mr. Trachsel talked about how hard it would be to get back in the game after having been out of it, telling me that his fiancée is interested in his pursuing a baseball career. Off the record, he talked about a “failed” broadcast attempt before centering on the “people don’t understand” area – where being away from the family just kills you inside.
 
Another former Cub, Terry Adams, echoed those sentiments in a comment about the story (after, of course, taking a dig at the notoriously slow Trachsel).
 
“Trax always pitched on getaway days. It was tough! He is absolutely correct about getting back in the game. Wives have no idea the time it consumes and the travel away from family.”
 
It’s not just wives. Your whole identity can get locked into working in the sport.
 
When my Cubs days ended, I didn’t look for another big league opportunity. With a family and young children, I didn’t need that life anymore. The nights … the weekends … the being “there” physically, but being “somewhere else” mentally because of something going on at work … the inability to ever escape the grind, since the baseball season actually is harder during the off-season than the day-to-day of in-season.
 
Baseball can be tremendously tough on a family. I was lucky, because my wife worked in pro sports and understood the life. The reality is that I saw too many good people have their family lives spin out of control because Dad wasn’t around very much.
 
My last full year with the Cubs (2011), I was away from the Chicago area 13 full weeks – a full one-fourth of the year. As much as I loved what I was doing workwise, was it really worth it?
 
Why did I do it as long as I did? I worked for the frickin’ Chicago Cubs, that’s why. I wasn’t just living my dream; I was living many people’s dream lives. When you’re part of it, the rest of the world can oftentimes be floating on the periphery.
 
But then you’re not there anymore, and you can reflect. And this is what I realized right away … All the hotel points and my annual awesome Cactus League farmer’s tan will never cancel out the fact that I missed my girls’ first season of AYSO soccer – as I wasn’t available to get there any Sunday. I missed their second grade music show, as I was already in spring training. I was out of town when they first began reading, and all I could do was listen to their excitement on the phone when they called me to tell me about it. I was on the road when they decided they were done with diapers and that they were big girls now – and toilet-trained themselves. On that one, all I could do was listen to the excitement on the phone when my wife called me to tell me about that.
 
In the grand scheme of things, my daughters don’t care that I wasn’t around for those events. But I did. As they close in on their teenage years, they probably don’t want me around as much as I am now. But they don’t get to make that choice … I do. 
 
And no team should be making you choose between baseball and your family. 

​I had the opportunity to work with a lot of players during my time with the Cubs – and by a lot, I mean A LOT. I did some research yesterday afternoon, and a grand total of 491 players appeared in at least one game for the Cubs from Opening Day 1988 through August 14, 2012. And that number doesn’t include the players I only spent quality time with in spring training, the minor leagues or during my intern years.
 
Some players I knew a lot better than others – specifically, starting pitchers and left-handed middle relievers. Starting pitchers typically had extra time on their hands a few days of the week. Left-handed relievers tended to be, well, left-handed – so there were some excellent southpaw bonding opportunities.
 
As I’m now writing and telling stories, I’ve started reconnecting with some of the unique personalities I worked with during my quarter century with the club. I thought it would be pretty cool to let you know what they’re up to now – and to talk about their playing days.
 
A few days ago, I caught up with Steve Trachsel, who pitched in the majors from 1993-2008 – and wore a Cubs uniform from 1993-1999 and in September 2007.
 
Chuck: When you came up, you looked like you had a little bit of an edge to you. But when I was with you away from the field, you were fine; you didn’t exhibit that same type of personality. Did you purposely try to have an edge on the field?
 
Trax: “I really didn’t realize it. I know there was a conscious effort to leave whatever happened at the ballpark, leave it there. I didn’t want to take it home with me. Obviously, sometimes that was harder than others. Mostly over big losses, that type of thing. If I could leave it at the ballpark, it always seemed to make the rest of my life a little bit easier. I don’t know if it was a competitive edge-type thing while I was on the field. On days I pitched, after the game, I could be there a good couple hours before I could leave to be sure that I left as much there as possible.”
 
CW: You came up at a time when being a college pitcher was in vogue, and you came up pretty quick.
 
Trax: “Yeah, two and a half years. The big thing I had to deal with early on was being touted as Greg Maddux’s replacement, which was a little unfair. That’s someone you couldn’t replace. Especially then, since he was continuing to get better and became a Hall of Famer. Being 22 years old and getting tagged with that was a little difficult to handle.”
 
CW: When you came back in 2007, you seemed a lot more comfortable in your skin at that point in your career. Obviously, there’s a big difference between coming up at 22 and being a veteran 36-year-old.
 
Trax: “Oh yeah, definitely. I’d been around a long time. My role had changed at that point of my career. Being 22, I was just trying to establish myself. My career was on the upswing. In 2007, I could see the end of my career coming. I was just trying to stretch it out as long as I could. It was another opportunity to be in the playoffs in 2007, even though I knew it was more of an insurance policy. It was something I tried to take full advantage of and enjoy as much as I could, knowing there was a good chance it would be my last opportunity.”
 
CW: Speaking of playoffs, for me – the greatest moment watching you pitch – was Game 163 in 1998 (Trachsel pitched 6.1 shutout innings in a 5-3 victory over San Francisco in the Wild Card tiebreaker). In your own words, tell me what it was like being there, as it was a different atmosphere that night.
 
Trax: “It was almost indescribable. I would have to say, without having been in a World Series, I’d like to think that’s what the atmosphere is like for every game. Being in Chicago, where it had been so long since they’d been to the playoffs. Harry had passed that year. It was a one game win-or-go home type situation. The absolute electricity the entire day. There was this constant buzz everywhere you went around the city. You couldn’t turn on the TV or the radio. It was all everyone was talking about. The pure excitement of the entire moment is definitely one of the highlights of my career. One of the biggest games I’ve not only been able to participate in, but to witness.”
 
CW: When you say buzz, you could audibly hear buzzing. It was like there were locusts all over.
                                                                                                                                      
Trax: “And it was everywhere. Around Wrigleyville, it was crazy. Downtown was crazy. And then you get to the ballpark. I still remember this ginormous Harry Caray balloon floating out beyond the leftfield wall. Even more than a buzz, there was this electricity going off everywhere.”
 
CW: I have to ask about this. You heard about it. You were painfully slow to watch. Was that a conscious decision, or was that something you might have had even in your Little League days?
 
Trax: “It definitely wasn’t from Little League. Definitely, not conscious. Since I’ve retired, I’ve gone through the painful process of moving all the tapes that my parents had of me pitching from VHS to DVD, and I could consciously see as I was doing them that … the games earlier in my career, I was able to fit a couple games on a DVD. But later in my career, only one would fit. Obviously, early in my career, I wasn’t working slowly. Somewhere around year four, five, six – games started getting longer for some reason. I know going back and thinking about them, the games definitely felt like they were moving really quickly – at least in my head. I know by the time I got to New York, there was a definite conscious decision to try to speed back up again – both by my coaches and by myself. Going back and watching my tapes after the games. I realized how long it actually was between pitches. So there was actually a definite decision with (Mets pitching coach) Charlie Hough – where I asked him to use a stopwatch in between. It started in one of the spring training games. We tried to make it a focal point in my head of how much time was going on. I got better later in my career. But there was probably a good five-year period where my infielders probably thought it was painful for them. I know it was painful for some umpires as well. There would be comments made by them beforehand – especially the guys behind the plate. ‘Oh God, I’ve got Trachsel’s game.’ ”
 
CW: You liked to wear your hat low. Was there any reason you didn’t want people to see anything other than your eyes?
 
Trax: “It was a focus thing. I tried to block out the crowd, or anything above, or behind the dugout when I was coming off the field. Just trying to narrow my focus as much as I could. It was easy for me to block it out sound-wise. But visually, I tried to keep it out. I remember the first time I was in Montreal, Shawon Dunston pulled me aside a day or two before and said, ‘Hey, try not to be distracted.’ I guess there were TVs in the Stadium Club behind home plate. I know he was conscious about them. He said every once in a while, a ground ball would come out of the TV and he would lose it. He mentioned to me that other pitchers said that the TVs distracted them. It might not have started there, but I pulled the hat down low, so that everything beyond the umpire was blocked out while I was on the mound. It was easier for me to just concentrate on the glove.”
 
CW: Looking back now on your career, if there were things you could have done differently, what would you have done? Or are you comfortable with how your career played out?
 
Trax: “I’m sure there’s stuff I would have done different. If I had worked quicker, I probably would have had some better defense. My style probably helped my defense get relaxed and on their heels a little bit. At the time, it wasn’t a focus of mine. But now going back, I can see where that would have helped everybody. I would have liked to have gotten to know guys better. I always felt with as many players moving in and out, I didn’t want to have to face a friend – so that’s something I always battled with. I probably would have gotten more memorabilia signed from guys I played with for my own personal stuff. Other than that, being a mid-round starting pitcher, I think being around 15 years – I did pretty well.”
 
CW: You made over 400 starts, you had close to 150 wins. Is there ever a point where you kind of pinch yourself and say “I can’t believe I got that opportunity?”
 
Trax: “A little bit. Not too much. Opportunity wise, I put a lot of work in. I knew, once I got to Double-A, seeing some of the guys I played against … who had similar type stuff … and had been called up to the big leagues and were succeeding … I knew that as long as I stayed healthy, that I would get an opportunity. I just wanted to make sure that when I got that opportunity, I was at the top of my game and that I was focused. Luckily, I was able to stay healthy for a very long time, so I think that really helped out a lot. When I was drafted, I was a small skinny kid. I wasn’t done growing. I kind of sprouted late, and I think that’s what really helped me out.”
 
CW: Final question … What are you doing now, and do you have plans to try and get back in the game?
 
Trax: “Right now, mostly taking care of the kids. My son (Brendan) is playing freshman baseball. So that’s going six days a week right now. He’s 15. He’s the same size I was my senior year of high school, and he’s just a freshman, so I’m kind of curious to see how that’s going to turn out for him. My daughter (Lauren) is 13 and in competition dance. She’s doing that six days a week as well. So I’m putting a lot of miles on the car driving around to their events. I just got engaged in October. So we’re working on trying to plan a wedding and round two of family. As far as getting back into the game, I know it’s really difficult to get back in once you’ve been out. I don’t know if I’d want to do the travel that would be required. I know my fiancée (Rebecca) says that she would like to see me get back in, but I don’t think she knows the extent of what it takes out of a family when you’re going through all that. I think if I did get back in, it would be more along the lines of helping out with the high school or that type of stuff.”

​What’s the most exciting live event you’ve been fortunate to witness?
 
I’m talking about the “I can’t believe what I just saw” moment. Something that stands up to the test of time. An “I was so lucky to be there” instant that still gives you the chills years later. One of those events that has 30-for-30 written all over it.
 
A couple days ago, I was talking to someone about a possible freelance writing assignment. I hadn’t spoken with this person before, so I tracked down his bio online to learn a little bit about him. And I found out one of his life highlights was that he was at Three Rivers Stadium for Franco Harris’s “Immaculate Reception” in 1972. How cool would it be to say you were there for that?
 
I know I have an unfair advantage over most people when asking the “top moment” question. I’ve been to thousands of sporting events, and there have been countless moments I can talk about. But for the purpose of being there live, I’m eliminating the games I was working from the discussion – since I was paid to be there. That automatically eliminates the Kerry Wood 20-strikeout affair … the Bartman game … the Hank Blalock game-winning 2-run homer off Eric Gagne that gave the American League the victory in the first All-Star Game “that mattered” … anything/everything that took place during the Sammy Sosa/Mark McGwire home run chase.
 
As a 10-year-old, I was at Mike Schmidt’s four-homer game at Wrigley Field in 1976. That was both cool and not cool.
 
I was at Super Bowl XVII in 1983 – when John Riggins had his famous 4th quarter, 4th-and-inches 43-yard touchdown run to lead Washington past Miami. That was really cool (don’t tell my Dolphins-loving wife, though). Not as cool as participating in an “Up With People” halftime celebration that day, but cool nonetheless.
 
In 1995, I was backstage when Pearl Jam played Soldier Field. There were 50,000 people watching, and I was less than 50 feet from Eddie Vedder. I can’t wait to share that story.
 
On a softball field on a beautiful Saturday last June, my “pitcher kid” threw a no-hitter and my “catcher kid” cleared the leftfielder twice for two more triples than this Wasserstrom ever had. I get goose bumps thinking of it.
 
None of those moments compare to the Franco Harris catch, but if I ever do a bio of myself, I’m happily listing “Sat in the nosebleeds for Bo Jackson’s 1989 All-Star blast” on that profile.
 
I started full-time with the Cubs in January 1988. One month later, the Chicago City Council approved the proposal allowing the Cubs to add lights to Wrigley Field. Shortly after that, it was announced that the 1990 All-Star Game would be played at The Friendly Confines.
 
I had never been to one of baseball’s jewel events, so I thought it would be a good idea to attend the 1989 All-Star Game and get the feel of the Midsummer Classic. So me and the posse – also known as Dr. Scott and Uncle Al – headed off to Anaheim. We were just happy to be there, so the seat location –upper deck, rightfield corner, literally next to the foul pole – was inconsequential.
 
After a tremendous pregame show – including the introduction of Cubs all-stars Ryne Sandberg, Andre Dawson, Mitch Williams and Rick Sutcliffe – the National League pushed across two runs in the top of the 1st inning.
 
In the bottom of the 1st, my favorite childhood Cub – Rick Reuschel – took the mound for the National League. Reuschel, then 40 years old and in his 17th big league season (he pitched through 1991), was just a wonderful pitcher to watch – mainly because he relied totally on deception and didn’t look like much of an athlete. Thanks to his size, he was known as “The Whale” during his early years with the Cubs. He graduated to “Big Daddy” during the latter half of his career – and was in the midst of a 17-win season with the Giants in 1989.
 
So here we were. Reuschel on the mound – and Bo Jackson coming to the plate. Big Daddy, the aging hurler, facing Bo – who knows how to make his presence felt. Bo was already a star on both the MLB field and the NFL gridiron, and he was a national phenomenon.
 
Up in the nosebleeds, we were soaking in the atmosphere. There was a buzz in the air, but no one knew what was about to happen. But we were a captive audience.
 
First pitch, low. Ball one.
 
Reuschel, being the quick worker that he was, got the ball back from catcher Benito Santiago and almost immediately went into his half-windup.
 
The pitch … super quick swing … and the next thought was … Holy Sh*t.
 
Bo didn’t just touch the ball with his bat. He mangled it. He destroyed it. It didn’t matter that we were sitting three-quarters of a stadium up, over 100 yards away from home plate. The bat hit the ball, and it made this tremendous, almost indescribable sound. You didn’t believe what you just saw or heard.
 
“THWACK” is a descriptor for it, but in billboard-sized letters. There are line drive homers. There are towering shots. This one was different. It had that sound.
 
“THWACK” … Like a missile, the ball rocketed halfway up the centerfield embankment. Bo was credited with a 448-foot home run, but the line drive was still rising when it “landed.” It took just three seconds for the ball to get from his bat to the black tarp in centerfield. From up high, you knew immediately that it was out of the park; it was just a matter of how far – and if the people in the bleachers were going to be safe. From our rightfield perch, it was a thing of beauty.            
 
I know Wade Boggs followed Jackson’s blast with a home run of his own, and I know the American League won the game, but the rest of the night was a total blur. Frankly, the game didn’t matter. All anyone was talking about was Bo’s blast.
                                           
It was immaculate in its own way. And I was there to see it.

​Way back in the day, the Cubs played their spring games at old old HoHoKam Park in Mesa, AZ – not to be confused with newer old HoHoKam Stadium, which was my spring training “home away from home” from 1997-2012.
 
Old Old HoHo was, shall we politely say, quaint. Much closer to a cemetery than a ballpark needs to be, there was a small parking lot, a no-frills grandstand, and a detached trailer for the 8-to-10 front office personnel who were Mesa-based for six weeks. That was our glamorous lifestyle. For me, the best part was being able to brag about having a desk inside a detached trailer, as in “You know you’re a redneck when your office is on wheels.”
 
The facility was even “quainter” inside the ballpark shell. Directly behind home plate, the top row of seats was directly in front of the open air press box. If fans stood up, you couldn’t see. If you were deep into a conversation, a fan sitting right in front of you would often stand up and interject. And since this was 1990-something, electricity wasn’t prevalent yet in Arizona – so there were barely any electrical outlets or an in-house public address system to make announcements.
 
Most of the time, you dealt with it. There were more important things to whine about when you’re “stuck” in the Valley of the Sun.
 
But most of the time didn’t include weekend home games when WGN-TV was broadcasting games live – when WGN was WGN, and Harry Caray, Steve Stone and Arne Harris ruled the landscape.
 
Harry wasn’t overly fond of old HoHoKam – and who could blame him. He was a creature of habit; he had his pregame routine, and there wasn’t much space for him to get his work in. During exhibition games, fans were always standing up in front of him to get his attention.
 
Harry was good with taking care of kid requests. He was real good with female fans. Most male fans, he took care of. And then there was Ronnie “Woo Woo” Wickers.
 
I won’t say that Harry always had issues with Ronnie, but Harry wasn’t a Ronnie booster in Mesa. Woo Woo was always trying to get on television. It was great for TV, but not for the Hall of Fame broadcaster.
 
I wish I could remember the year, but there was a weekend game in the mid-1990s that stands out as my greatest spring training story ever. For whatever reason, Harry wasn’t the happiest of campers that afternoon, and the crowd in front of him was less than cooperative. Despite his constant pleading that they sit down so he could see the game, Harry was fighting a losing battle.
 
A couple innings in, through the sea of fans, came that sound you just didn’t want to hear that day: “Cubs Woo! Cubs Woo! Harry Woo! Harry Woo!”
 
When Ronnie Woo Woo gets started, there is no stopping him. How he got to Arizona every spring, I have no idea. How he got to Tokyo for the Cubs/Mets 2000 season opener is an even bigger question.
 
On this particular day, Ronnie was coming through “loud and clear” on the WGN-TV microphones. It was hot in the press box, there was barely any wind cooling us off, and Harry was just not in a good mood. After a while, he had enough, and he marched over to my perch.
 
A normal conversation with Harry typically started with “Heyyyyyy ……. Chuuuuuuck.” When the “Hey” wasn’t there, he was serious – and there was no small talk. It meant I should do what he wanted me to do. Now.
 
“Chuuuuuuuck,” he said. “Keep him away from me. I don’t care what you do. Keep him out of here.”
 
Through all his whistling sounds, about five feet in front of us in the top row of the stands, Ronnie must have heard every other word Harry said. He started walking to the press box gate.
 
Mesa, circa 1994, was still the Old West. Things were very different in Arizona than they were in Chicago. The cops in Mesa WERE the cops on the TV show of that name.
 
With that in mind, if Harry wanted Ronnie Woo Woo kept away from him – then I better be doing my job.
 
I raced to the one (and only) press box entrance, beating Ronnie there by a good 30 seconds. It gave me time to prep the Mesa police officer guarding the entrance.
 
I made it very clear that Harry did not want Ronnie getting near him. I told him that Ronnie could not enter the press box – and that I didn’t care what the officer did as long as he kept Ronnie away from Harry.
 
By this point, Ronnie was quickly approaching the press box. I politely tried to shoo him away. If he had followed directions, this would not have been a story.
 
“Ronnie, Harry does not want you up here.”
 
“Harry loves me!,” he said.
 
“No Ronnie, he couldn’t have been more clear. You’re not getting up here.”
 
“Harry wants me on TV,” Ronnie said as he put his hand on the press box gate, swung it open and started to take his first step into the box.
 
Then it got surreal – as Ronnie knew what was happening before I did.
 
The police officer’s weapon was parallel to my left ear – and pointing directly at Ronnie’s head. Ronnie slowly and cautiously slinked backwards, and he quietly went away without putting up a fight.
 
I turned to the cop and said, “You know I was kidding about that, right?”
 
Without blinking an eye, the officer said: “Yeah, but I wasn’t kidding. I can’t stand that chirping.”
 
Needless to say, Ronnie stayed away from Harry the rest of that spring.

​Friday was already a sad day for me. I’ll get to why in a bit, but the day ended when I learned of the passing of Shannon Forde.
 
As I’m sure many of you know by now, Shannon was a member of the New York Mets’ media relations department – and she was one of the great people in the game. Baseball is a unique industry, and you get to meet a lot of wonderful humans who don’t care about the long hours … or the nights … or the weekends. They do it for the love of the game.
 
And Shannon loved the game and the people who were part of the game. She had a warm personality and a great laugh, and she was particularly helpful to media relations staffers from visiting teams. Beyond being helpful and making sure whatever you needed was waiting for you, she always made you smile.
 
I lost my Cubs job in August 2012. Shannon was diagnosed with cancer in August 2012. I have nothing to complain about.
 
Shannon was a behind-the-scenes/under-the-radar type, but she was far from it. And the past few days have proven it. As sad as I am about her passing, it’s awesome to read the tributes written about her. She was obviously beloved by those who worked with her.
 
Shannon was just 44 years old. She left behind a husband and two young children. I shed a few tears when I learned the news late Friday night. I hope she knew how much she was loved.

In one of the worst coincidence-days ever, I was driving to a meeting Friday morning in Evanston – and I was heading down a familiar route, getting off the Edens Expressway at Dempster and heading east toward the lake.
 
And as I drove through Skokie and continued toward the downtown Evanston area, memories of Kevin Foster popped into my head. I drive that road all the time, but I hadn’t thought of Kevin in quite some time.
 
Kevin pitched for the Cubs from 1994-1998. He was a nice guy, a reflective type who went to Evanston High School and attended Cubs games as a youngster.
 
But that’s not why I was thinking of him. During his time with the Cubs, I lived in Evanston – just a couple miles from the house he grew up in. And despite being a big league player, he still lived at home. And yours truly, the little media relations staffer, got to drive him home after the road trips I went on. He’d always ask that day before, “You going with us? Dropping me off at home, right?!”
 
I’m guessing I drove him home 8-to-10 times. He would talk about taking the train to Wrigley Field as a kid, just like I did. He would talk about his family, how close he was with them, about how they kept him grounded, about why he didn’t see a reason to move out. He wondered how often he’d get home cooking if he moved out.
 
And he often talked about looking forward to the days after baseball. There were so many things he wanted to do that the money he was making might allow him to do. There were places he wanted to travel to. The world was in front of him.
 
Arm injuries derailed his career, and his major league career ended for good in 2001. In October 2008, just six months after being diagnosed with renal cell carcinoma, he was gone – at just 39 years old … leaving behind four sons.
 
Through my time in baseball, I was fortunate to come across so many wonderful human beings. Sadly, too many have been taken from us far too soon.
 
It’s not right that Kevin Foster wasn’t around to see his children grow up.
 
But if I can twist it and put a happy spin on it, I’d rather do it that way – in a “Rock and Roll Heaven” fashion, the song popularized by The Righteous Brothers.
 
Wherever Kevin might be right now, I envision Frank Castillo also being there, quietly watching in a corner, a little bit of a smirk on his face, soaking everything in. Quietly watching … very quietly watching, but with assassin’s blood. He drowned while swimming in 2013 – at the age of 44.
 
I see Jeremi Gonzalez getting ready to pull a practical joke on some unsuspecting teammate – or pulling the “No habla ingles” on someone when he fully understood everything. And I mean everything. He had his own agent fooled for years. He was 33 when he was struck by lightning in 2008.
 
I see Jessie Hollins, who overcame a rough upbringing, finally having some peace. He drowned at the age of 39 in 2009.
 
There’s Rod Beck, beer can in hand, just enjoying the moment. He died in 2007 at age 38. The cause of death was drug related.
 
Dave Smith, cigarette in hand, quietly observing everything in front of him before dropping a well-timed one-line quip. He died of a heart attack (in 2008) at 53.
 
I see the coaches who lived long and exciting lives and had wonderful years with their grandchildren – but I also see coaches who too died way too young – like Larry Cox (who died at the age of 42 after suffering a heart attack) and Oscar Acosta (killed in a car accident at age 49).
 
Two of my old Cubs colleagues are there in the background, blending in. That’s what behind-the-scenes people do. Kathy Tomasetti with her big booming laugh, smiling ear-to-ear because I’m talking about her. Mike Hill, rolling his eyes because I’m talking about him. I expect that he’ll shoot me one of those “you can’t pass that around at work” e-mails.
 
I came across a lot of people in baseball, and that’s what made that world so special. Baseball players are real people, too. These are some of the people I wish you would have had the chance to know. They all need to be remembered.