Don’t let all the football fool you, it’s baseball time
By Greg Sullivan
You might not know by looking at my front page of sports, but it's definitely baseball season.
Last Friday I walked across the street from the office to the Madison Chop House Grille where I made sure to catch the first televised pitch of Braves baseball this year.
Yes, the game was in Lake Buena Vista, Fla., which means it was spring training and counts for nothing, but I like the feeling of knowing that I'm doing as much as I can as a fan. And if that means watching my team while I'm on the clock, I'll do it, not that it's not pertinent to my job to make sure Jair Jurrjens is doing a good job on the mound, but maybe it is.
So about Jurrjens. He's from Curacao, and that's about all I know. He may end up being worthwhile. He might not.
But for now I want to go down there and tell the islanders to send me something up here a little more like Andruw Jones.
Not that if I really went down to Curacao I would ever come back. If anything would bring me back, though, it would be a Chop House chicken tender basket, but that goes without saying.
Just when you start to think I'm starting to stray a little off subject, here's something to chew on. What are the two most American things? Baseball and chicken finger baskets.
I have a friend who even orders chicken fingers at Mexican restuarants, and, of course, he's very good at baseball.
My own personal favorite baseball moment happened about this time of year, and it didn’t involve chicken fingers. I was in West Palm Beach with my family, skipping school while in the all-too-critical second grade, and watching the Braves play somebody, we'll say the Dodgers, and former Braves dugout coach Ned Yost gave me the great Damon Berryhill's bat.
So Berryhill was no Ron Gant, but a bat's a bat. And Ned Yost, well, he's gone on to bigger and better things.
Flash forward 16 years. If any intruder walks into my apartment at night, they could unsuspectingly receive the same object at the same impact speed as a ball that slammed over the ivy of Wrigley.
Please disregard the fact that Berryhill is burlier than me. Or at least that's how I remember him, a man better suited for chopping lumber than swinging it.
Of course, he was the only catcher when Greg Maddox pitched so maybe he was working up in the North Country four out of five days during the season. Maybe I'll find him and ask him, or maybe I’ll just go to Curacao.