John Jaso is every bit deserving of a spot on the North Coast all-time baseball team.
No doubt about it. No question. He starred at McKinleyville High School, went onto star at a community college and he reached the big league roster of the Tampa Bay Rays late last summer.
The damndest thing is that Jaso should've been the first guy I thought of as worthy of adding to the list I compiled when I worked up there at the newspaper...because he played for the Humboldt Dukes Junior American Legion coach that Duane Hagans and I started, and coached, in 1998 and 1999.
I had nothing to do with the sweet-swinging left-hand hitter's development into a star, into a big leaguer. But, he was on the team that no one can dispute was my brainchild. And, I did have the foresight to register the American Legion team as the Humboldt Dukes so as to potentially attract players to practices in Eureka — and Jaso did come to the Eureka-based team from McKinleyville. I also used great wisdom and listened to Roger Hawkins when he said, "There are a couple really good 15-year-olds in McKinleyville who could help the Dukes. One's name is John Jaso and..."
So, back to the all-time team, I didn't mention Jaso along with Nick Giacone because, in my mind, John Jaso's just a kid. It's hard to consider him an all-time, all-timer when it seems as though I just coached as a 15-year-old five minutes ago.
Jaso could do everything on a baseball diamond at 15 and, obviously, nothing changed as he grew older. And, clearly, he loved the game and did the things he needed to do to put the game first -- to show he respected the game he played so very well.
There might be one or two others I'd add to the all-time list using the criteria I came up with when the team ran under the newspaper's banner. Or, I might just eliminate the oldtimers I never saw play and do a list of my own -- with my own criteria.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
A Very Limited Husband
The defining scene in Clint Eastwood's "Dirty Harry" scenes, for me, wasn't one of the many that have gained elite status in pop culture. Not so much a fan of, "Go ahead...make my day," or "Feelin' lucky, punk?"
There's a scene in one film where Det. Harry Callahan's in the police chief's office getting reamed for stopping a crime and, in the process, shooting up the bulk of downtown San Francisco. The chief's a pencil-pushing, paper-shuffling geek and despises Callahan's more aggressive, pro-active approach to crimefighting. Callahan wants to beat a hole in the chief's face and, I figured, leaving him bloodied in his chair.
The chief's lecturing Callahan about proper police procedure and, I think, makes the mistake of telling Harry how he would have handled the crime scene. Harry does the Eastwood squint...shows absolute disgust for this ass trying to sit behind a desk and tell him how to do his job.
So, Harry slams his fist on the chief's desk and says, teeth clenched in that hushed, but threatening tone Eastwood uses: "A man's gotta know his limitations." Then, he spins around and leaves the chief flabbergasted.
From the moment I saw that scene, I took Dirty Harry's edict as a rule to live by. A man, this man ... I ... need to know my limitations.
It was a long journey from being the dorky kid who couldn't form sentences in a swimming pool with Nancy Nielsen in 1971 to falling in love early (twice, really,...slightly different levels of love, though)...to living with Amy...marrying Amy...divorcing...going through a "Big Lebowski" type experience at age 35 with a 24-year-old single mom named Carole (I was the Dude and the damndest people were in and out of my life whenever Carole was around and, more than once, saw things that left me saying something along the lines of "The Dude abides, man!" like the night a bunch of kids I'd coached showed up to have a few drinks at a New Year's Eve party at her house. Lebowski fans know that the Dude, who really doesn't know much, always winds up being the voice of reason in the company of people who don't seem to know anything.)
Then, the journey continued to living with Pam...Pam and I marrying...then we divorced...sometime around, oh, I don't know when, but I realized I had severe limitations as a husband or as a man on whom a woman could fairly rely on completely.
I actually became so aware of my strengths (a helluva guy to hang out with like a boyfriend...although no 52-year-old should ever call himself or be called a "boyfriend") that were attractive to women. Having been married and in a serious of committed relationships, I'm good at listening to women talk about their problems -- I only rarely try to fix them, which is something Oprah Winfrey says women enjoy.
My fatal flaw, however, is that I'm not a good husband. I'm a good dad. I breed well, apparently. I just can't get a handle on that 50-50 split of responsibility -- maybe because I'm irresponsible? I've never done more than argue loudly with a woman, and I didn't even argue with Amy in the decade-plus we were together. My biggest displays of temper were breaking a picture frame during my break-up with Amy and throwing a running shoe on the bedroom floor -- my best fastball -- arguing with Pam. (The shoe bounced up and hit the cheap closet door so hard it made a hole in it. Nice memory of what an ass I can be.)
When Tyren and Trent were born, I virtually stopped being a husband and became a dad with a wife. Man, that's brutally unfair to a woman, isn't it? Being a dad was easy. Being a husband, for me, was hard. That might be why I didn't think I'd ever get married. Oh, well...who knew Amy would be there to literally save my life when my mom died when I was 17? You know? When I vowed to remain single, I didn't consider a woman giving me the will to live.
I'm an only child of a single mom. So...can you imagine how many ballgames and stuff Amy had to sit through? She actually would go cover H-DNL football games with me when I first started at the Times-Standard. I have a photo of us somewhere, sitting side-by-side on top of a truck...her keeping stats and me jotting play-by-play...in the rain at a St. Bernard game at the Babe Ruth Field. Looking back, I think that was probably the type of moment from which a lifetime of devotion could've sprung.
I check out of relationships really easy, especially if I'm pushed to connect even more. Pam hates that I write about my personal life...but, I consider it a tutorial for young guys who read it. Don't do what I did. She also hates that I'd say whatever I thought she wanted to hear, even if I had no intention of doing what she wanted me to do. And, it bothers her that I thought doing a task was enough...doing it well, or like she wanted it done, was...too much trouble. I did some work in the garden for her once...she followed me in and re-did the job. Instead of apologizing or asking to help, I said, "I'll never work in the garden again." Very mature for a guy who was over 40 at the time.
As hurt as I was when Amy left, I look back and wonder what took her so long. She bounced around to low-level bank jobs because I bounced around looking for happiness that I really needed to find inside myself. Take me out of her life and Amy would be a high-powered bank executive today.
Pam wanted, and deserved, a grown-up for a husband. She wanted children...but, really, my vasectomy reversal and our two beautiful kids isn't exactly enough to allow me to say, "Hey...I did my part!" I didn't do enough and then, I broke the one vow I actually did hold sacred, and I left her. (I only moved around the corner, but a divorce is a divorce is a divorce.)
Amy wanted very, very little from a husband. And, I couldn't give it. I was hell on wheels as a boyfriend, though, I think. You'd have to ask her. Pam wanted a great deal from a husband and I couldn't come close and, I did try ... a little. As a beau...I rocked. I was different than her other guys. More stable. More mature. Didn't party. Then, we got married.
A man's gotta know his limitations. I wished I'd learned mine before my mid-40s.
There's a scene in one film where Det. Harry Callahan's in the police chief's office getting reamed for stopping a crime and, in the process, shooting up the bulk of downtown San Francisco. The chief's a pencil-pushing, paper-shuffling geek and despises Callahan's more aggressive, pro-active approach to crimefighting. Callahan wants to beat a hole in the chief's face and, I figured, leaving him bloodied in his chair.
The chief's lecturing Callahan about proper police procedure and, I think, makes the mistake of telling Harry how he would have handled the crime scene. Harry does the Eastwood squint...shows absolute disgust for this ass trying to sit behind a desk and tell him how to do his job.
So, Harry slams his fist on the chief's desk and says, teeth clenched in that hushed, but threatening tone Eastwood uses: "A man's gotta know his limitations." Then, he spins around and leaves the chief flabbergasted.
From the moment I saw that scene, I took Dirty Harry's edict as a rule to live by. A man, this man ... I ... need to know my limitations.
It was a long journey from being the dorky kid who couldn't form sentences in a swimming pool with Nancy Nielsen in 1971 to falling in love early (twice, really,...slightly different levels of love, though)...to living with Amy...marrying Amy...divorcing...going through a "Big Lebowski" type experience at age 35 with a 24-year-old single mom named Carole (I was the Dude and the damndest people were in and out of my life whenever Carole was around and, more than once, saw things that left me saying something along the lines of "The Dude abides, man!" like the night a bunch of kids I'd coached showed up to have a few drinks at a New Year's Eve party at her house. Lebowski fans know that the Dude, who really doesn't know much, always winds up being the voice of reason in the company of people who don't seem to know anything.)
Then, the journey continued to living with Pam...Pam and I marrying...then we divorced...sometime around, oh, I don't know when, but I realized I had severe limitations as a husband or as a man on whom a woman could fairly rely on completely.
I actually became so aware of my strengths (a helluva guy to hang out with like a boyfriend...although no 52-year-old should ever call himself or be called a "boyfriend") that were attractive to women. Having been married and in a serious of committed relationships, I'm good at listening to women talk about their problems -- I only rarely try to fix them, which is something Oprah Winfrey says women enjoy.
My fatal flaw, however, is that I'm not a good husband. I'm a good dad. I breed well, apparently. I just can't get a handle on that 50-50 split of responsibility -- maybe because I'm irresponsible? I've never done more than argue loudly with a woman, and I didn't even argue with Amy in the decade-plus we were together. My biggest displays of temper were breaking a picture frame during my break-up with Amy and throwing a running shoe on the bedroom floor -- my best fastball -- arguing with Pam. (The shoe bounced up and hit the cheap closet door so hard it made a hole in it. Nice memory of what an ass I can be.)
When Tyren and Trent were born, I virtually stopped being a husband and became a dad with a wife. Man, that's brutally unfair to a woman, isn't it? Being a dad was easy. Being a husband, for me, was hard. That might be why I didn't think I'd ever get married. Oh, well...who knew Amy would be there to literally save my life when my mom died when I was 17? You know? When I vowed to remain single, I didn't consider a woman giving me the will to live.
I'm an only child of a single mom. So...can you imagine how many ballgames and stuff Amy had to sit through? She actually would go cover H-DNL football games with me when I first started at the Times-Standard. I have a photo of us somewhere, sitting side-by-side on top of a truck...her keeping stats and me jotting play-by-play...in the rain at a St. Bernard game at the Babe Ruth Field. Looking back, I think that was probably the type of moment from which a lifetime of devotion could've sprung.
I check out of relationships really easy, especially if I'm pushed to connect even more. Pam hates that I write about my personal life...but, I consider it a tutorial for young guys who read it. Don't do what I did. She also hates that I'd say whatever I thought she wanted to hear, even if I had no intention of doing what she wanted me to do. And, it bothers her that I thought doing a task was enough...doing it well, or like she wanted it done, was...too much trouble. I did some work in the garden for her once...she followed me in and re-did the job. Instead of apologizing or asking to help, I said, "I'll never work in the garden again." Very mature for a guy who was over 40 at the time.
As hurt as I was when Amy left, I look back and wonder what took her so long. She bounced around to low-level bank jobs because I bounced around looking for happiness that I really needed to find inside myself. Take me out of her life and Amy would be a high-powered bank executive today.
Pam wanted, and deserved, a grown-up for a husband. She wanted children...but, really, my vasectomy reversal and our two beautiful kids isn't exactly enough to allow me to say, "Hey...I did my part!" I didn't do enough and then, I broke the one vow I actually did hold sacred, and I left her. (I only moved around the corner, but a divorce is a divorce is a divorce.)
Amy wanted very, very little from a husband. And, I couldn't give it. I was hell on wheels as a boyfriend, though, I think. You'd have to ask her. Pam wanted a great deal from a husband and I couldn't come close and, I did try ... a little. As a beau...I rocked. I was different than her other guys. More stable. More mature. Didn't party. Then, we got married.
A man's gotta know his limitations. I wished I'd learned mine before my mid-40s.
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