Baseball dad follows lure of the field

My summer travel plans start tonight — when the Bull Pen Bulls baseball team takes on the Brazos Valley Renegades at Franklin Ranch Community Park in Franklin. I have no idea where that is, but I have GPS in my car and a room reserved at the Hilton Garden Inn.

It’s the Bulls’ opener in the “Perfect Game 17U South Super Regional” tournament — 17U means all the players must be 17 or younger.

Friday, the Bulls take on Lone Star Blue from Baytown. Saturday, as Ernie Banks used to say, “let’s play two,” against the South Texas Black Sox from San Antonio and the Austin Banditos. My kid is on the mound for one of those games.

Forty teams are entered in the Perfect Game tournament. If we, I mean the Bulls, beat the Renegades, Blue and Banditos, we’ll advance to the knockout round scheduled for Sunday and Monday at Blue Bell Park, home of the Texas A&M Aggies.

That’s how I’ll spend my summer — chasing children chasing college scholarships playing baseball. Over the next eight weeks, I’ll follow the son (great song by the Beatles) to tournaments at the University of Houston, the University of Louisiana at Lafayette, San Jacinto College, the University of This and the College of That … with coaches and scouts in the stands.

I never figured a college

scholarship would be so expensive. It’d be cheaper just to write a tuition check.

The Bulls are managed by Derek Hurley, owner of the Bull Pen Scouting and Training Facility in Waller Elite Sports Park. He’s got an elaborate baseball complex, with several fields, indoor mounds and batting cages. In all, he has four teams with high school players, and six teams with younger boys and girls.

I picked the Bulls for my son because Hurley was a lefty pitcher for Seton Hall and played in the minors for the Pittsburgh Pirates system. My kid is a lefty pitcher, too, so they connect. Lefties are weird.

So far, it’s been his best summer baseball experience.

The Bulls will play in tournaments against other top-level Houston select teams, like the Angels, Banditos, C2, Saints, HEAT, Storm and Thunder.

Are those baseball teams … or Frank Billingsley’s weekend weather report?

In addition to pitching for the Bulls, my kid is playing for the West U Seniors as they challenge for the International Seniors title in Bangor, Maine.

I am one step short of being Honey Boo Boo’s mother.

For his 17th birthday last week, he wanted a subwoofer for his pickup truck. I checked the buttons on his radio — they’re all country and rap stations.

When did I lose control of my empire?

Remembering good advice

David Burgin died this week. He was the editor of the Houston Post when I worked there in the late ’80s.

We had a strange relationship. I think he liked me. I know I was scared to death of him.

He was a crusty guy with a loud voice, even when he wasn’t yelling, which is what he was doing most of the time.

He was an oldfashioned editor that way. He could have starred in “The Front Page” with no rehearsal. He did everything but shout, “Great Caesar’s ghost,” like Perry White.

When he wanted to, man, he could ream you out until there was nothing left of you.

I swore he wouldn’t get me. My desk was near his office. When I left, I would walk completely in the other direction, along the opposite side of the newsroom, across the back wall to avoid talking to him. And by talking to him, I mean being yelled at by him.

Burgin left the paper in 1990. The Post closed in 1995.

I went to his goingaway party. He came up to me and asked, “You think I didn’t notice you avoiding me? I saw you walk on the other side of the newsroom. Why did you do that?”

I’m pretty bold at bosses’ going-away parties … “Why? Because you’re a maniac. I didn’t want you to yell at me.”

Burgin looked surprised and said, “But I liked you. I thought it was because you didn’t like me.”

Really? Whatever gave you that impression?

Then he grabbed me and pulled me close. Like the Crystals’ song … “and then he kissed me.” He also whispered something in my ear.

I had no idea what he said. It was in some foreign language.

“Do you want to know what I just told you?” he asked.

To myself, I said, “No, not especially.” To him, I said, “Of course, what?”

“It’s an Irish saying that means, it’s a tough world, don’t let the (expletives) get you down.”

It was good advice. It’s hard sometimes, but I don’t.