Catching Lightning

My fondest baseball memories were not spring training or a visit to a major league ballpark; it was not meeting a famous ballplayer (although you could not pry my treasured official Mickey Mantle bat at that time, from my fingers). For me, it was learning to catch lighting; and field line drives with my Dad. As a youngster, my attention was not on major league baseball (see, A Budding Cubs Fan). The game, at that level, was always backgrounded noise from an old transistor radio tuned to 720 WGN Chicago. In Cuba, Illinois fans chewed on one another over the Chicago Cubs and St. Louis Cardinals.

For our family, baseball was always something we participated in, not something we paid to watch. My father (everyone calls him Doc) was an exceptional underhand fastpitch softball hurler for Cuba Merchants, a little-known team in Central Illinois. Back then, every small town had a team, and the local ball-field was where families gathered on the weekends.

After he enlisted in the Army, Dad was stationed at Fort Lee, Virginia. His commanding officer gave him two choices; tour (pitch) with the Army softball team, or deploy overseas stationed in La Rochelle, France. Luckily for me, he chose France. There he met my mother, they were married, in 1956, I made my appearance, and after his tour of duty, he moved the family back to Cuba, Illinois.

Once again, my Dad resumed his craft as a pitcher for a local softball team. Well, being the oldest son, my job was to help Dad warm-up for a game. We called it burnout; he threw the ball fast and hard, with pinpoint control. He would say to me, “You ready - this one is going to curve, stay in front of the ball." It would completely drop off the table or spin away to the left or right; sometimes, the ball would approach in slow motion. He could even make the ball rise, fooled batters every time. I could hear the ball whiz, then a loud clap of thunder as it smacked my glove. "Boy, that one stung," shaking off the pain between pitches. The local teams always wanted Doc to pitch for them. So, we attended ballgames, home games, city, county, and I believed in 1966 (Dad can’t remember the year, I’m still checking references) his team won the state championship.

However, it was not just my Dad that played ball, my brothers and I also played daily in the summer. We played ball with the local neighbor kids. During our scrappy yard games, the Heller boys tuned their portable transistor radio to the Cubs on WGN. We imitated Cubs players at-bat. Ernie Banks, Ron Santo, and Billy Williams were always favorites.

We joined a little league. And yes, Dad tried to teach us to pitch with absolutely no repeatable results. Strong arms, but no control. We were horrible. But, because of our daily burnout sessions, we could catch and field the ball like a pro. There was no fear; when you’re used to having a softball hurled at you between 60-70 miles an hour, you learn to catch it - or watch out!

During little league, my position was a shortstop; I could stab a line drive with the best of them. There were games the coach played me at first base. I would dive for the wild throws; Dad always said, "Stay in front of the ball." Nothing got by me (a little literary license here). That’s how I enthusiastically described our games.

So, baseball was our pastime. Not as couch potatoes but as excited participants in the game. As kids, we never make it to a Major League Ballpark. My fathers’ first visit to a major league park was Busch Stadium in 1998. It was the Mark McGuire, Sammy Sosa home run chase to catch Roger Maris. We were there during that historic season; we cheered when McGuire hit number 63 that night. My youngest brother (Rodger) was absent from his seat most of the game. When he finally returned, “Where have you been,” asked Dad. “Hanging out in Big Mac Land, trying to catch a home run ball,” but that’s another story.

To this day, my Dad is a devoted Cubs fan. He will give you a run-down on the Cubs pitching staff; just ask him sometime about ex-Cub Carlos Zambrano.

Now, if you will excuse me, tomorrow is opening day, the Cubs square off against the Pittsburgh Pirates at PNC Park, 10:35 a.m. on WGN America, Jeff Samardzija #29 starting his sixth season pitching the for the Cubbies.

I’m going to give my Dad a call and get the lowdown on this guy.

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The Pessimism Aversion Trap

In this episode, The Pessimism Aversion Trap Picture this: a room full of bright minds nodding in agreement as a bold new strategy is unveiled. The slides are polished, the vision is grand, and the future, we're told, has never looked brighter. Everyone beams—because who wants to be the one to say, "Um… this might not work"? Heaven forbid someone spoil the mood with a dose of reality. Better to smile, add a buzzword or two, and march confidently toward disaster. That's how the Pessimism Aversion Trap works. Even now, I can still hear the sound—a high-pitched shriek and a digital hum, followed by the slow, rhythmic clatter of data pouring from a 5¼-inch floppy disk. It was the late 1980s, and my makeshift home office (our living room) was dominated by what felt like a marvel of modern engineering: a used Tandy 1000 PC with not one, but two floppy drives. To top it off, we purchased a 'blisteringly fast' 300-baud modem—which, for the uninitiated, could downloa...

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