Mrs. Linklater's Only Baseball Column of The Summer [Thank Goodness]

Because this is a Cubs versus White Sox town, some radio jock posed an inflammatory question while I was driving home the other day. Something to raise the ratings, shake the rafters, and generally irritate me.

Was Kerry Wood's twenty strike out game, a decade ago, during his phenomenal rookie season with the Cubs, a more impressive achievement than White Sox pitcher Mark Buehrle's perfect game last week?

I didn't wait to hear, because I already know the opinions would follow northside and southside allegiances. By the way, even though I am first a White Sox fan, I go with Kerry Wood's strikeouts. Because his accomplishment was something he did by himself. Even more amazing, to me at least, he was working with a young catcher who had never caught him before -- Sandy Martinez. And if a lazy infielder had made a little more effort, he could have had a no hitter instead of a one-hitter.

Besides that's not the question that's been rattling around in my head looking for an answer.

My conundrum is whether lefty Mark Buehrle's perfect game is as impressive as lefty Dewayne Wise's unbelievable catch to preserve it. And, percentage-wise, are there more great lefthanded players or righthanded players -- not only in baseball, but any sport?

I've actually spent quality time [which could have been spent picking lint out of my navel] contemplating the pros and cons of both questions. Did I mention I'm lefthanded?

At first, Buehrle's perfection would seem to be the more difficult accomplishment, what with having to make it through nine flawless innings. Not only without a hit, but no walks, no errors, no nothing.

Which may make you wonder why I'm going with Dewayne Wise's catch.

That's because I was a pitcher back in the day [no, not Susan B. Anthony's day]. And while my X chromosomes relegated me to softball, I know that it's not hard to pitch well when everything you're throwing in warm ups is working right. [Assuming your teammates don't gum things up].

On a good day, when you know your control is really cooking, you can make a batter fly out, ground out, and strike out almost at will. I actually have more respect for pitchers who can win despite having an off game, when only one or two pitches are really working for them. Knowing you're going to get hit, but figuring out a way to make those hits go where you want, is a way underrated talent.

Mark Buehrle was in a zone. The fact that he set a major league record by pitching no-hit ball for another five plus innings in his next game is a testament to that. I bet the reason he finally got hit was that he lost focus. Or, more accurately, he needed to start focusing. Eventually your mind has to kick into gear. When you're in the zone you don't have to think -- only act, or react. So when you begin to slip out of that magic place, and you will, the synapses have to re-engage. You have to realize it's time to start pitching and not just throwing. Thank you Mrs. Linklater. Why aren't you aren't baking cookies or something?

Anyway, this was supposed to be about Dewayne Wise's spectacular catch. And that lefthanded thing. I've watched the catch again and again on ESPN, on the local news, on the national news, on the internet, wherever I can.

We've all been told that there have been only 18 perfect games in the MLB history. We're also told that there is always a remarkable defensive play to define every great pitching performance. I venture to say that Dewayne Wise's catch was as big, if not bigger, than the game itself. And I bet no other defensive play in those other perfect games comes close.

The first thing I noticed after the ball was hit was how effortlessly and quickly he took off after the ball. Watching the video, Wise looks like he sprinted close to fifty yards in about five seconds.

But unlike a sprinter who only has to get to the tape, an outfielder has to multitask. First he has to be a rocket scientist, estimating the speed and trajectory, angle and distance of a tiny orb that is about to drop out of the sky.

Second, he has to do all this while running at full speed toward an immovable object.

Third, to keep from crashing into the wall, he has to take his eye off the ball, which continues rocketing downward.

At this point he has a nano second to time his climb, determine how high he has to leap, and judge exactly where to put his glove for the one chance he has to make an impossible catch. Then he also has to be ready to catch it a second time with his bare hand before losing his balance and rolling on the ground.

Wise had spent most of the game trying to stay warmed up and ready to go. In fact, he didn't even know Buehrle had a no hitter working until the sixth inning. In the postgame interviews he mentioned how big plays seem to find a player that has just been inserted into a game. I've also heard announcers point out the number of times it seems a lead off batter has just been on the field involved in a major defensive play.

In the end I will always think Dewayne Wise's catch was better than Buehrle's perfect game. Especially since by itself, even without its impact on the game, the catch stands on its own.

As for lefties being better in sports. Lefties comprise 10 percent of the population. According to the internet, which is never wrong, lefty pitchers made up 27% of MLB in 2008. I didn't track the batters or the fielders. This entry is getting long enough.

Among the top tennis players in the world, there will always be a lefty -- from Rod Laver to Jimmy Connors to John McEnroe to Martina Navratilova, to Rafa Nadal. And those are just the ones I can remember. Not so much in golf -- probably because nobody has to hit a ball served up by a lefty. A golfer's main opponent is usually the course.

I say usually, because in every competitive endeavor, right handed or lefthanded, in the zone or out, you also have to contend with the voices inside your head.

Time to bake something.

Cat's In The Cradle

I've been watching my stepmother's kitty cats while her right knee is being replaced with spare parts from a '67 Mustang. At least this would explain why the nurses have been calling her 'Shelby' for the first couple of days in rehab.

I guess I was having so much fun test-driving my entirely artificial hips [some days I just feel the need for speed] that she wanted in on the excitement of my new life as a robot. In four months we've removed, replaced, and re-habbed three complete body parts between us. I wonder what the value of titanium is up to on eBay these days. Actually, I would like to know if RoboCop has a profile on Match.com. . .

But this entry is for the kitties.

I have forgotten the power of salmon breath to wake me from a sound sleep. The pain of being mistaken for a scratching post. And does one ever forget the experience of cleaning the kitty litter?

Despite the flood of repressed cat memories, I do notice that kitty litter cleaning has improved considerably. Not that it will ever replace a vacation in the Maldives. But I confess that I have become absolutely fascinated by the technology that has overtaken the field. Somewhere there are people who have spent their entire lives, or at least the last couple of decades, worrying about what to do with kitty peep and poop.

Which reminds me -- the R & D guys [hereafter referred to as "poor schmucks"], who work on feminine hygiene products never say "period." They say "menses." And they always use blue fluids to test their products.

As I wallow in thoughts of pets and products from the past, I am also reminded that a kitty litter CEO once enthusiastically introduced himself to those of us in a meeting by saying, "We're No. 1 in the No. 2 business." But I digress.

Since the demise of my last kitty, Ebony, who was sent to the great cat box in the sky only to be returned to me as a cup of ashes in a tiny little metal container not suitable for anything, another bunch of R & D types has managed to invent a kitty litter product that turns cat urine into bricks.

No longer does kitty pee sink to the bottom of the container [casserole dish, fondue pot, whatever] to fester and fume in dampness until the odeur of cat begins to waft through the house, causing everyone who walks through the front door to ask, EEEWWWW, what's that smell?

Au contraire. That toxic waste dump at the bottom of the basement stairs can be turned into a profit center. Ordinary kitty litter now has extraordinary properties. Watch it transform regular old cat pee into rock hard, hockey-puck sized clumps suitable for building homes. I smell stimulus package.

After the cats have finished eliminating waste and contributing to our country's jobs program, they sit and watch me while I eat. When I finish eating, they follow me to the bathroom to sit and watch me while I brush my teeth, while I take a shower, while I read the LL Bean catalog. They sit and watch me while I'm sleeping, although it's hard to sleep knowing that something is just sitting there watching you. With salmon breath. They sit and stare at me while I'm on the computer, while I'm on the phone, when I play the piano. I can't do anything alone.

Which makes me wonder, what do they do when I leave?

Time to end this riveting entry.

I have to get up at 4:30 [that's AM] to be at Union Station for a Christmas Holiday gig put together by Disney to promote a new movie. Snow. Carolers. The whole nine yards.

Apparently nobody got the memo that it is July.

Bo Jackson Might Still Be Playing

Tom Watson has won the British Open five times. Thursday, after round one, at the age of 59, the most advanced age ever to lead a major, he was tied at the top of the leaderboard -- five under.

And he was still on top after two rounds, tied with five under going into the weekend, setting old fart records right and left. Meanwhile, Tiger didn't make the cut. [UPDATE: After three rounds, Watson is sitting all by his lonesome at 4 under as we head into Sunday.]

Did I mention that Tom Watson is 59? Fiff-tee-nine. That by itself is remarkable. But, along with his seriously advanced age [especially for pro sports], he just had surgery for a new hip nine months ago. Having to have a hip replaced is normally the time when the geez factor kicks into high gear and it's time to head for the La-Z-Boy.

But Watson didn't have just any hip replacement surgery. He didn't have just any minimally invasive hip replacement surgery, either. He had [trumpet flourish] ANTERIOR hip replacement surgery, the surgery I keep raving about again and again [okay, ad nauseum]. Because it's the surgery I chose for my two new hips. [We'll just see if I'm out on tour anytime soon.]

Watson's surgery was performed by Joel Matta in Santa Monica, the doc who is mostly [if not entirely] responsible for training all the other docs in the US who do this surgery -- my doctor, Michael Stover, for instance [in case you need anterior hip replacement the next time you're in Chicago].

By his own admission, Watson has known he needed to replace that left hip for several years. Unfortunately, people usually wait until they can barely walk, drive, or bend without pain. And then they wait some more, until they finally can't sleep without drugs. By that time, if they're not on crutches or in a wheelchair, someone is helping them put on their socks and wipe their butts. Not that I speak from experience.

Jack Nicklaus has had a hip replaced. I don't know who did his surgery. Or what kind of surgery he had. Based on how he walks these days, I would bet it wasn't anterior hip replacement. Later Nicklaus became a spokesperson for an implant manufacturer, Stryker, I believe. For a time I thought that the implant was key. After reading about the different implants, titanium, ceramic, and the like, I learned that they aren't the most important part of a hip replacement. What matters is the type of surgery. [NOTE TO DR. STOVER: Next time, if I'm around in fifteen years, I still want to try ceramic].

I guess Nicklaus and his old friend and nemesis, Mr. Watson, discussed the options. Watson also did a lot of research, probably the same way I did, combing the internet, reading articles. He finally decided, like me, after considerable investigation, that anterior surgery was his preferred choice. And Joel Matta was his go-to guy for the surgery that he needed. Since I was in Chicago and Matta is in California, I looked for more geographically desirable surgeons who had trained with Dr. Matta, i.e., Dr. Stover.

Here's my point [finally]. Do you think that Watson would be on top of the British Open leaderboard at the age of 59 with a new hip, if he hadn't chosen anterior hip surgery?

I think not. In fact, I'll go out on a limb here: I don't think Tom Watson would be leading the British Open nine months after surgery, if he'd opted for ANY of the other hip replacement techniques. If he should happen to win, I hope Al Michaels can do the call, "Do you believe in miracles?"

Which brings me to Bo Jackson, whose hip was necrotic, meaning that the blood supply was compromised. He didn't have osteoarthritis, like most of us. He had something worse, from what I can tell. So I don't know whether anterior hip replacement surgery would have helped to restore his dual careers in baseball and football. But as I watch Tom Watson cruising around the links, playing like he was thirty years younger, I can't help but wonder if Jackson might have enjoyed a similar recovery and a few more years doing something he loved.

Too bad we'll never know.

Quick! Who's Levi Johnston?

My initial impression of Levi Johnston, when he was first introduced to us as the father of the 'inglourious basterd,' sorry, grandchild, of soon-to-be-ex Governor Palin, was L-O-S-E-R. Jobless, lacking a high school diploma, and packing his private parts into places they didn't belong, he was the poster child for Slacker Nation, Iditarod chapter.

Oh, sure, he was cute, in a hockey jock from Wasilla, Alaska kinda way. But his social networking page [facebook, myspace, whatever. . .] revealed, or rather, confirmed, his redneck persona. Here was a young buck who admitted in public that he wasn't ready for fatherhood, a confession which truly embarrassed a girlfriend whose pregnancy was past the point of no return. And no doubt pissed off her mom and dad, whose own marriage may have started off in a similar fashion.

His mother's arrest for drugs a few months later only confirmed a direct DNA link to his questionable decisionmaking skills.

But I just read a profile on the kid in GQ, a magazine, by the way, that should change its name to Gay Quarterly. The first evidence I encountered was the writer, male, of the Dating Life column, who confesses to having issues with his dates, female, because of their unfortunate choice of attire. His concerns are those which only someone of Christian LaCroix's persuasion could appreciate. "When your blind date shows up in the wrong top and last year's jeans, what's a way too fashion conscious. . .guy to do."

Come out of the closet, if you ask me.

Levi can be found tucked way in the back of this homoerotic issue [faux or not], one that features Bruno on the cover, buck naked. How I ever found the article about Bristol's sperm donor in the midst of so much distracting Austrian flamboyance is a miracle.

There are the required butched up photos of Levi with a flirty, come and get me look, wearing high end camo and carrying a rifle like a decorative accessory on his shoulder. I turned the page before suddenly realizing that the handsome, boyish hunter wasn't some New York model, but Levi himself in his element. Damn. He's telegenic. He's also featured shirtless changing his baby boy's diaper. It's a shame we don't get to see him in hockey pads and skates.

During the interview, Levi sounds like a real Let's Eat Grizzly For Breakfast outdoorsman. "I killed a big ass bear," he announces to his lawyer/publicist/buddy. Something he's been doing since he was a kid. This skill makes him perfect for one of those Saturday morning cable shows about fishing, hunting, and camping. By his own estimate, according to the article, he possesses "as much fishing, camping, and hunting experience as anybody my age in the country, if not more."

Mr. Johnston, Babe Winkelmann is on hold.

Here's the problem. I had a friend who received a classical education, meaning he could read Aristotle in the original Greek and speak Latin in casual conversation. I was suitably impressed until he said, "Yes, I've been trained to be Roman Emperor, but the job is no longer available."

Levi is more than well equipped to be an 18th century frontiersman, a trailblazer who could map the wilderness and claim virgin territory for his country. Until you check the calendar.

Despite the challenges, the article's writer suggests, rightly so, that someone ought to give Levi his fifteen minutes of fame. He has that certain je ne sais quoi which makes reality stars so fascinating. Why not find a way to let him do what he's been training for all his life? And make a little money in the process. Tiger Woods was playing golf at two. Levi has been shooting game and skinning hides almost as long. Playing hockey extremely well, I might add -- although he quit before his last year of high school eligibility, because what's her name was p.g., a guaranteed college scholarship killer. Part of the problem these two lovebugs had was being home-schooled. In the same house. Apparently when they were studying together, there was nobody monitoring study hall.

Meanwhile, it sounds like Levi may have actually loved the girl who dumped him for a chance to travel the country and promote a life of abstinence, while evidence to the contrary has been mewling and puking in her arms. Or at least he loved her as much as an unexamined life can muster up.

"I think we were in love. I wasn't one to stick with a girl for three years if I wasn't."

This story ain't over yet. They were texting each other during his interview.

And the fat lady hasn't been seen anywhere near the building.

Experiment in Video

Just bear with me. I've got some videos that I can't view on my computer, but magically, they show up on my blog. If I find one I like I'll leave it posted.

This is my younger daughter and her husband the day they got married at Chelsea Town Hall in London three years ago.