My Apologies.....

My apologies, but this will have to be one of those "I'm sorry I don't have time to write a real blog post" posts. Along with it being Super Tuesday, we had two interviews after school today, I had a hair appointment, and then Hubby and I went to see our godson play against my alma mater (boy did THAT feel conflicted - I was wearing UGA gear because that's all I HAVE, but we sat behind the Kennesaw State dugout and cheered...loudly...for KSU) in a college baseball game.

The afternoon was so busy that we wound up eating at McDonald's for dinner. I know, right? McDonald's. Really? Really. I justified it in my head by saying it was much cheaper than eating $6 hot dogs at the ball field (the game was played at the Gwinnett Braves stadium, a minor league venue with major league prices), then I went and bought a $3.50 pretzel, for heaven's sake.

My toes may thaw out sometime in June.

Not a great picture, and you may not be able to tell, but he wears #10.

My New (Second) Favorite Baseball Team.......

I can't have an absolutely new favorite team, because I've always pulled for the (almost) hometown Atlanta Braves. Since back when you could go to the games and CHOOSE where you wanted to sit. Back when the players knew the fans' birthdays. (Not my line - hold the rotten tomatoes.)

I realized a couple of days ago that after days of angst-ridden hand-wringing and hoping and crossing my fingers, I never let my (four) faithful readers know what the outcome was for Warrior Princess' son (my "godson") in the Major League Baseball draft.

I won't boggle your mind with all the details, mostly because I don't understand them all. The draft occurred while Katydid and I were on BRAG, and I couldn't be with Warrior Princess when the most needed me. I must truly SUCK as a friend. I did watch online for about 5 or 6 picks of the first round, when we were certain he would NOT be taken, but I am an eternal optimist. During the draft, each team has five minutes to make their picks for the round, and they TAKE. EVERY. SINGLE. MINUTE. OF. IT. During that five minutes, you have to listen to commentators speculate on whom each team MIGHT take, who was taken in the last round, and what each prospect had for lunch on the second day of fourth grade. I might be exaggerating on that last one.

The kid was originally expected to go in the first or second round, then his injury occurred midway through his senior season, and that brought a lot of uncertainty. Unfortunately, professional sports teams use uncertainty as bargaining tools. To their advantage, of course.

Apparently the whole ordeal was just that .... an ordeal. Phone calls flew, agents pulled their hair out, scouts for teams who thought they knew whom their teams were going to pick almost quit in frustration (literally, I'm NOT exaggerating this time), and the kid heard he would go in the fourth round.

He did NOT go in the fourth round, nor the fifth, nor the sixth. According to the Warrior Princess, when his name was finally called in the seventh round (which is still pretty darn high for a kid just out of high school), he was so numb that he didn't even hear his name at first.

He was taken by the Texas Rangers (NOT the team we thought would draft him), and that makes them officially my new (second) favorite baseball team.

I already had a soft spot for the Rangers. When Frogger Blogger and I lived just outside Dallas, we had very little money for anything fun. She was a single mom, and I was a college student surviving on social security payments. We did scrounge together a few dollars one weekend, though, and we bought upper level tickets for her, her kids, and me at a Rangers game. I think upper level tickets for adults were two dollars, probably a buck for each of the kids. It was the first professional team of any sport I had ever seen in person, and I was thrilled to be there. I have no idea what team they played against, what the score was, who won. I didn't even know the difference between the American League and the National League, what a designated hitter was, how a curveball differed from a cutter, or under what circumstances the infield fly rule is invoked. I still don't know a lot of those things.

In addition to drafting my "godson," the Rangers also drafted two UGA baseball players, one of whom was paralyzed in an on-field collision with a teammate (the other UGA player drafted). For them to draft a paralyzed college player showed more class than I can wrap my head around.

The kid's future is still uncertain at this point. He has until August 15th to make a decision as to whether he will enter the world of professional baseball or go to college for free on the scholarship he has been offered. Negotiations will continue through the summer as to what his signing bonus will be, which is what he will pretty much have to live on for the next several years while he makes his way (we hope we hope we hope) up through the minor leagues to the bigs. If the negotiations aren't favorable, he will play college ball for at least three years, and he will have another shot at the draft after his junior year.

It's a classic win-win situation. I am so proud of him.

And I'm now pulling for the Rangers. Until they meet the Braves in the World Series.

To Ask or Not to Ask.....

I am in a bit of a quandary.

We mercifully received only two graduation invitations this year, one from Hubby's great-niece, and one from our "godson."

I realize I'm now using the word "mercifully" almost as much as I use "apparently," "clearly," and "realize."

Money is about the only graduation gift we ever give, and even though I know it isn't wise, I almost always mail cash. I mailed both cards from school early last week, dropping them in the outgoing basket in the front office for the mail lady to pick up. (I mean the basket is for outgoing mail, not that it's a basket with a lot of personality.)

I haven't heard from either of the graduates, and I'm nervous. I don't want to call or email either of them (or, in the godson's case, his mother) to ask if they received the cards, because I don't want it to sound like I should have received a thank-you note by now. But I also don't want them to think I didn't send anything to acknowledge their graduations. Especially not the godson.

I'll give it a couple more days. I may be having lunch with the Warrior Princess tomorrow, so I'll ask her if I get a chance. She will not be offended if I explain. Is it too soon to ask? What if they didn't receive the cards? Do I shell out the cash again and consider it a lesson learned? In the words of Pooh, "Oh bother......"

In the meantime, I just have to share this photo of the godson from his girlfriend's prom. They went with a group, and someone took a picture of the gentlemen picking their dates up. Because he just had a screw or two put in his elbow, however, godson was unable to pick his girl up.

They had a solution for that. Aren't they gorgeous?

Rest assured, this is no little boy. He's an ATHLETE, for Pete's sake. I don't want to mess with this girl!

Update on My Godson........

I had another blog post prepared for tonight, but since I shared the heartbreaking news about a very special high school baseball player a couple of weeks ago, I wanted to share what SHOULD be very good news. But it's still tinged with bittersweet.

Turns out his UCL is NOT torn (neither "frayed" nor "hanging by a thread," as reported by two different radiologists) and he does NOT need Tommy John surgery. That's the good news.

Several pro baseball teams contacted his parents while they were returning from a doctor's visit in Birmingham yesterday (same doc who operates on major league pitchers - I told you this was big time) to say they were still interested. That's the better news.

It turns out his injury is a stress fracture that he has had for three years and should have been fixed at least last year, if not the year before. Even THAT was misdiagnosed at first as tendinitis. (Did you know it's spelled "tendinitis" although it affects a "tendon"? You're welcome.)

That's the bittersweet part.

The kid even diagnosed himself. He looked at his own MRI and saw a fracture. Official report? "No fractures observed."

The doctors are first going to try a bone stimulator, whatever that is, to see if it heals on its own. If not, they will put a screw in his elbow to repair the fracture. Recovery time? Four to six WEEKS. Not the eight to twelve MONTHS he was looking at with Tommy John surgery.

Like his parents, I'm trying to look at the bright side. Some good teams are still interested. Injuries are nothing big in the majors. They know how to handle them. If he doesn't do well in the draft, there's always college. It's a win-win situation.

But the kid missed a huge part of his senior year, a year in which he could have made himself EXTREMELY marketable. Instead of just so-so marketable. A year that he would have had if his injury hadn't been misdiagnosed IN THE FIRST PLACE. As awesome as he was this year before the latest injury, it's hard to imagine just how awesome he might have been. And let's not forget this is an eighteen-year-old kid and it was his SENIOR year. He can never get that back, no matter what happens in the draft.

The draft is in four weeks. (Yikes - that means BRAG is in four weeks. Am I ready?) We will know more about his future after the draft takes place. ("We" as in the world, not "we" like I'm a major decision maker in his life.) I can't promise I'll shut up about him even then, but at least we will know more about whether he's headed for college or the pros.

Tune in tomorrow night for another Jason story. One of many which I optimistically hope to turn into a book someday.

Broken Dreams.......

I've been thinking a lot about the Langston Hughes poem "A Dream Deferred" since last Thursday. A young man whom I call my "godson" received a shocking blow, and his dreams may be dead for the immediate future.

This kid has been a baseball phenom since he could walk. Folks at the major league level (I'm talking professional baseball here, folks) have known about him since he was about eleven years old. One of the scouts for a major league team has told him since pre-teen days, "You don't need an agent. You don't need an agent. You don't need an agent."

This time last year, that same guy said, "Get an agent."

You would have to know this kid and his family to appreciate this story fully. They are humble (as in not arrogant, not as in poor), down-to-earth, REAL people. 

Every single team from MLB has sent a representative to their home at least once. Some have made multiple visits. The kid has also been offered a wowser of a scholarship at one of our state's universities (but not my alma mater).

When the pros came a-calling, his parents said, "This is kind of fun, but there's always college." As it became more and more real, they still said, "He's got a college scholarship waiting for him." Never once did I hear them brag about his accomplishments, his being so heavily recruited, the visits from big-whigs. These aren't bragging people.

He's not the stereotypical jock either. This is the kid who took calculus his senior year in high school as an ELECTIVE. He could very easily have taken an easier math (or a weightlifting class) during spring semester of his final baseball season. 

Last Wednesday, the kid tore whatever ligament behind the elbow requires major league pitchers to have Tommy John surgery. He's a catcher. It makes no sense at all, a high school player, let alone a catcher, to have this kind of injury.

And the draft is about eight weeks away.

They had to have a conference call with a lot of important people to let them know about the injury and impending surgery. They had to let them know that the kid is probably off the table as far as the major league draft is concerned.

What a heartbreak.

I know all the platitudes, and I'm sure his parents have heard them plenty in the past week.

"He's young; he'll recover quickly."

"There's always college."

"It's amazing what they can do these days."

"It could have been much worse."

"The recovery period is only about eight months."

It still sucks.

Not only is his dream of playing professional baseball dead (for now), but the rest of his senior year as well. His team is headed to the playoffs, but he won't be behind the plate.

The whole thing sucks, but especially the timing. This injury happened Wednesday night. On Tuesday, he had received a package via UPS from Major League Baseball. In it was a drug test kit that they only send to the players projected to go in the top four rounds of the draft. That's the 200 best players IN THE COUNTRY. And he is one of them. 



He's just a good kid.

There are still all kinds of possibilities. One team that has shown a tremendous amount of interest also happens to have 12 picks in the first four rounds of the draft. (And that exhausts my knowledge of how the draft works.) His "advisor" (because he's not technically allowed to have an agent yet) said there's a possibility that a team might still take him, even with his injury. But that possibility is slim.

I'm trying to look on the positive side. Worst case scenario is that he goes to college. For free. And he'll be ready to play his freshman season. Because of some quirky rules, once he starts college the pros can't touch him until after his junior year. (I know, I know, it makes no sense to me either. They can take them straight out of high school, but they they have to wait until after the junior year of college.) So maybe he plays THREE years. Heals nicely. And the majors will probably still be interested in him.
It still sucks. Not just because his mother is my best friend and I wanted to get him to autograph the cover of Sports Illustrated when he appeared on it.

Because he's just a good kid.

Good-looking, smart, well-mannered, sincere, and just downright nice. 

With all due respect to Langston Hughes, I hope a dream deferred neither festers nor explodes. I hope it gets watered, tended with loving care, pruned at just the right time, and then blossoms into magnificence that you have to look at kind of sideways because it hurts the eyes to look at it directly.

Because if anyone ever deserved to have his dreams come true, it's this kid. And his mama and daddy. And even his (precious, adorable, witty, lovable and loves me to pieces) little sister.

The Heartbreak of High School Baseball.......

Our local high school baseball team played one of their biggest rivals tonight, a team they can never seem to beat. Their games almost always come down to one run. It was glorious to see our "godson" hit a two-run homer early in the game. With scouts from our nearby professional team watching, no less.

I didn't know how to console the Warrior Princess, however, when her son struck out to end the game with a runner on third. He wanted nothing more than to beat that team. He has played travel ball with some of their team members, and he really wanted to win. I could see him standing with the team as they gathered in the outfield after the game, and I could tell from his posture that he was already beating himself up.

The thrill of victory, the agony of defeat indeed.