Orel Hershiser finishes off the Mets to send the Dodgers to the 1988 World Series.
The guy has like a million hit songs in his career. Here are my two favorites — “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” and “Candle in the Wind.”
This picture of Mike Trout (LA Angels) and Clayton Kershaw (LA Dodgers) appeared in ESPN Magazine this past summer.
It’s a cool image in that both players won MVP awards this week — Trout in the AL, Kershaw in the NL.
My old friend from college, Wayne Drehs, wrote the ESPN article.
NL MVP/CY YOUNG WINNERS
Year Player Team
1956 Don Newcombe Dodgers
1963 Sandy Koufax Dodgers
1968 Bob Gibson Cardinals
2014 Clayton Kershaw Dodgers
What an honor. Clayton Kershaw won the National League’s Cy Young and MVP awards this week. First NL pitcher to win MVP since 1968.
My second-favorite pitcher, Jeremy Hellickson, was traded from Tampa Bay to Arizona today. Sorry to hear that, because now I’ll have to cheer against him more often.
I started a new position at work this week, one with a lot more responsibility.
I was honored to be thought of for the job, and I look forward to the challenge.
Still, it’s hard to leave behind a role that I was really good at. Climbing out of bed has become a little bigger chore this week as I prepare myself for an uncertain day.
I like to use baseball analogies to put things in perspective. In this case, I bet it’s very easy for Clayton Kershaw to jump out of bed on the morning he has to pitch. He’s so good and so talented and eager to attack the day. That’s how I felt about my previous job.
A middling triple-A player, meanwhile, whose next error or strikeout could mean a demotion to the minor leagues, probably has a tougher time rolling out from under the blankets each day. For guys like that, it’s a struggle to compete against the best players in the world, and those pillows feel pretty good.
So I’m telling myself to keep grinding, as all the major-leaguers do. The games never stop coming, it’s just one after another — in baseball or in my business. If you have a bad day, there’s no time to feel sorry for yourself. Gotta get up and attack the next day.
“The Green Fields of the Mind,” by A. Bartlett Giamatti
It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart.
And then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone.
You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.
Today, October 2, a Sunday of rain and broken branches and leaf-clogged drains and slick streets, it stopped, and summer was gone.