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WEEK
7:
TRIBE
IN
FIRST
Brethren,
In
what
is
shaping
up
as
the
biggest
Indian
rout
since
Custer’s
Last
Stand,
Underbelly’s
Tribe
remains
in
firm
control
of
the
Hot
Stove
League
through
seven
weeks
of
play.
Through
the
first
49
days
of
the
2009
season,
the
HSL
standings
look
like
this:
STANDINGS
THROUGH
SEVEN
WEEKS
|
Upper Division |
| |
1. |
Tribe |
2977.00 |
|
| |
2. |
Skipjacks |
2830.70 |
|
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3. |
Monarchs |
2823.80 |
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4. |
Chiefs |
2800.40 |
|
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5. |
Wahoos |
2734.30 |
|
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6. |
Cubs |
2645.70 |
|
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Lower Division |
|
| |
7. |
Bombers |
2645.60 |
|
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8. |
Blues |
2600.80 |
|
| |
9. |
Tigers |
2552.00 |
|
| |
10. |
Redbirds |
2517.00 |
|
| |
11. |
Bears |
2466.90 |
|
| |
12. |
Highlanders |
2360.70 |
|
| |
13. |
Senators |
2340.80 |
|
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And
here
are
the
point
totals
through
the
seventh
week
of
play:
POINTS
DURING
WEEK
7
|
1. |
Cubs |
566.20 |
|
2. |
Skipjacks |
519.90 |
|
3. |
Chiefs |
479.10 |
|
4. |
Senators |
458.90 |
|
5. |
Wahoos |
452.50 |
|
6. |
Tribe |
427.70 |
|
7. |
Redbirds |
421.90 |
|
8. |
Monarchs |
420.90 |
|
9. |
Bombers |
400.90 |
|
10. |
Highlanders |
374.60 |
|
11. |
Tigers |
355.60 |
|
12. |
Blues |
347.60 |
|
13. |
Bears |
296.90 |
Although
there
may
be
just
a
little
bit
of
slippage,
the
Tribe
still
appears
to
be
destined
for
their
first-ever
Hot
Stove
League
title
in
2009.
Oops,
sorry,
Bob,
I’m
not
supposed
to
jinx
your
chances
by
saying
it
out
loud
or
in
print,
but
your
team
still
looks
like
the
odds-on-favorite
as
we
head
into
the
Memorial
Day
weekend.
JINXIE
THE
CAT
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Many of you may have wondered why Underbelly has been so conspicuously quiet on the Message Board. According to B.T., the de facto head of the Art FX Shipping Department is just a little bit superstitious, and is living each day in dread fear that he will jinx himself out of the HSL title by making a posting on our website Message Board, or by doing anything different on one day that he didn’t do the day before. We all know that baseball is full of players and managers who believe in Lady Luck, and who engage in all manner of superstitious rituals in order to appease the Baseball Gods and to avoid jinxing their chances of continued success. U-Bob has reportedly bought into the jinx business hook, line, and sinker.
The staff here at FTB has it on good information that Underbelly accesses the Yahoo! website at precisely the same minute each night to check on his team’s performance and to make any necessary moves or transactions; that he brushes his teeth each night with exactly the same number of strokes and in precisely the same direction; that he drinks his warm cocoa each evening with exactly the same number of marshmallows in it before heading to the master bedroom; that he has Jody rub his head the same number of times each night and in precisely the same direction before assuming the usual position (enough said on that, some things are sacred); that he sets his alarm for precisely 3 a.m. each morning, and then wakes up after hitting the snooze button exactly seven times; that he goes out for his morning constitutional at exactly the same time, taking the exact same number of steps and stepping over each and every crack and joint in the sidewalk; that he returns home, grabs the same Tony the Tiger breakfast bowl, and counts out 174 Cocoa Puffs which he wets down with the same 14 (not 13, mind you) ounces of skim milk; before heading into the bathroom for his three-minute, seventeen-second shower. After Jody finishes toweling him off, U-Bob grabs the community brush and strokes his 52 remaining hair follicles exactly 52 times, before donning his crusty black ball cap with the “I Live to Ship” embroidered logo; and then heads out the door to make his way to Art FX for another day of having it stuck to him by The Man.
Once at the Sweatshop, U-Bob punches in at exactly 4 a.m. each morning, then heads into B.T.’s darkened office after jimmying the lock; rearranges Scott’s desktop and hides or throws out a few bills or other important pieces of correspondence; takes a leak in B.T.’s wastebasket while flipping the bird at B.T.’s $1500 leather chair; and then heads back over to Shipping to begin his official workday; after shackling Hung Lo to the screen printer and checking the toxicity level of the workplace, Underbelly fires up a pot of Peruvian dark roast and begins putting out orders for the UPS delivery truck driver in a caffeine-fueled frenzy of activity.
When the lunch whistle blows at exactly 11:30 a.m., Underbelly picks up the phone and buzzes The Man and utters in the same chipper tone, “You ready for lunch, boss?” And then Old Jinxie fires up the Art FX limo and swings around to pick up B.T. and Rod for their daily visit to Taco Town, having already called in the same exact lunch order for the three of them that they have dined on for the past 49 days. During lunch, Underbelly steadfastly refuses to comment on any question posed to him by Scott or Rod having to do with the Tribe team or the performance of any of its players, or the Hot Stove League in general, instead engaging in meaningless conversation about global warming, the crisis in the Middle East, the Pope’s newest headdress, the hoax of the Holocaust, and the virtues of Union featherbedding. After lunch, Jinxie reaches for the moist towelette, and, after first sanitizing himself, wipes the excess taco sauce and meat off of B.T. and Rod’s faces and upper extremities, before excusing himself to bring the company car around for the ride back from Taco Town.
After returning to the workplace, Underbelly heads back over to the screen printer to give Hung Lo his slice of white bread and a ladle of cool water, checks his pulse, and then pats him on the head and promises him an extra bowl of rice if he keeps quiet about last week’s 65 hours of overtime; he then heads over to the shipping dock and slips the FedEx driver a fin for dropping off half of the day’s shipment at the Hurlbut garage, where Jody uncrates the wares and puts them out for display at her weekly neighborhood “rummage” sale.
At precisely 2 p.m., Underbelly clocks out, stops by B.T.’s office and says, “Another day, another dollar! See you tomorrow, boss!”, and heads home; once in his castle, he then plops into the EZ boy, fires up a Cuban, and watches The View, Oprah, Dr. Phil and Jerry Springer, courtesy of the marvelous invention known as TiVo; at exactly 5 p.m., he shuts down the television with the remote, rolls out the Persian rug, settles into the lotus position, facing east, and spends the next three hours chanting “The Tribe must win” exactly 2009 times.
And there you have it, every day in the life of Bob “Jinxie” Hurlbut during this 2009 campaign. Let’s hope it works.
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WILL
ERNST:
CATCHER,
PITCHER,
BALLPLAYER
I
know
I
promised
you
I
would
keep
my
kid
boasting
to a
minimum
this
season,
but
since
McJester
has
given
me
carte
blanche
to
brag
away,
and
since
I
thought
Will’s
latest
exploits
on
the
diamond
were
too
good
not
to
share,
I
will
have
Linda
cut
and
paste
below
my
recent
recap
of
one
of
his
recent
baseball
games,
in
the
form
of a
letter
to
our
young
fireballer.
(Don’t
feel
obligated
to
read
all
of
these
proud
Papa
recaps,
I
won’t
be
offended
if
anyone
simply
skips
to
the
next
headline.)
Will,
Last
night
you
made
a
couple
of
great
baseball
memories
for
the
two
of
us,
and
I
had
to
get
them
down
on
paper
so
that
we
will
both
have
a
clear
account
of
last
night’s
heroics
when
we
reminisce
about
your
baseball
career
later
on
in
life.
We
bought
you
a
brand
new
baseball
bat
yesterday
afternoon
at
Dick’s
Sporting
Goods,
your
first-ever
plate
weapon
that
wasn’t
a
hand-me-down
from
Joe.
Your
new
stick,
which
you
have
dubbed
“White
Heat,”
is
an
inch
or
two
longer
and
a
few
ounces
heavier
than
your
last
bat,
which
clearly
had
become
too
short
and
light
for
you.
You
put
your
new
stick
to
good
use
right
away,
cracking
out
a
sharp
single
in
the
second
inning
against
the
Blue
Jays
at
Marick
Field.
However,
the
place
where
you
really
excelled
last
night
was
in
the
field,
not
at
the
plate.
Coach
Schafer
put
you
in
to
catch
in
the
top
of
the
6th
inning.
The
very
first
hitter
attempted
a
bunt,
and
popped
the
baseball
up
about
five
or
six
feet
high
about
three
or
four
feet
in
front
of
the
plate.
Like
a
cheetah
springing
to
catch
its
prey,
you
leaped
out
from
behind
the
plate,
not
even
having
time
to
flip
off
your
catcher’s
mask,
and
stretched
your
body
out
to
its
full
length
to
snare
the
baseball
and
record
the
first
out.
After
making
your
diving
catch,
you
hit
the
dirt,
then
promptly
reached
into
your
mitt
to
grab
the
baseball
to
show
the
umpire
that
you
had
held
onto
it,
following
which
the
plate
umpire
made
a
fist
and
thrust
it
in
the
air
to
emphatically
announce
the
out.
If I
hadn’t
seen
it
with
my
own
eyes,
I
wouldn’t
have
believed
it.
An
Ernst,
we
of
the
German
and
Danish
lineage,
exploding
from
behind
the
plate
at
the
speed
of
sound
to
snare
the
attempted
bunt,
a
play
that
even
a
Johnny
Bench
or a
Carlton
Fisk
or
an
Ivan
Rodriguez
could
be
proud
of.
As
if
your
catching
heroics
weren’t
enough
for
one
day’s
work,
in
the
top
of
the
7th
you
began
the
frame
behind
the
plate
once
more,
but
when
our
new
relief
pitcher
(T-Rex)
walked
the
first
two
hitters
and
then
gave
up a
run-scoring
single
to
the
third,
Coach
Sorensen
called
upon
you
to
shed
the
Tools
of
Ignorance
and
to
take
the
mound
to
try
to
stop
the
bleeding.
With
runners
on
second
and
third
and
nobody
out,
you
took
the
horsehide
from
the
Coach
and
fixed
your
attention
on
the
task
before
you.
In
spite
of
an
umpire
with
an
erratic
strike
zone,
you
promptly
fanned
the
next
three
Blue
Jay
hitters
in
order
to
close
out
the
inning,
stranding
the
two
runners
at
second
and
third
and
giving
the
Dirtbags
a
chance
to
come
back
and
win.
Unfortunately,
the
Dirtbag
hitters
were
unable
to
get
anything
going
in
the
bottom
of
the
7th,
and
our
team
fell
to
the
Blue
Jays
for
the
first
time
in
three
match-ups.
While
I am
sure
you
would
rather
have
had
the
win
than
the
personal
success,
at
least
you
were
able
to
leave
the
field
knowing
that
you
did
everything
in
your
power
to
help
the
team
compete
in
this
game.
Will
Ernst.
Hitter,
catcher,
stopper,
baseball
player.
Well
done,
lad.
Well
done.
As
the
official
bookkeeper
and
statistician
for
the
Omaha
Dirtbags
Baseball
Club,
and
having
recently
updated
our
team
stats,
our
Young
Gun
has
recorded
34
strikeouts
in
just
20.2
innings,
and
has
an
ERA
of
2.37.
To
put
his
earned
run
average
in
perspective,
our
staff
ERA
is
6.86,
so
Young
Will
has
been
earning
every
penny
of
his
paycheck.
As I
shared
with
Underbelly,
I’m
not
sure
why
it
is
so,
but
Will
has
always
had
a
little
extra
pop
on
his
fastball
than
the
other
players
on
his
teams,
and
I
don’t
know
if
it
is
because
of
his
delivery,
his
grip,
or
if
he
was
just
born
with
a
little
shot
of
lightning
in
his
right
arm.
Because
his
hands
are
as
small
as
raccoon
paws,
I
don’t
know
if
he
will
ever
be
able
to
take
it
to
the
next
level
by
adding
a
curveball
to
his
arsenal
(our
pitching
coach
doesn’t
let
our
players
throw
a
true
curveball
just
yet),
but
hopefully
when
he
reaches
puberty
his
hands
will
grow
along
with
the
rest
of
his
body.
His
brother
Joe,
also
a
very
decent
pitcher
but
without
the
same
extra
zip
on
his
fastball,
has
huge
hands
and
long
fingers,
which
enable
him
to
throw
a
nasty
knuckleball
and
a
still-developing
slider.
Joe’s
Legion
season
starts
this
Saturday
with
a
game
at
Yutan,
and
I
can’t
wait
to
see
how
he
does
under
the
tutelage
of
his
Mount
Michael
coaches,
which
include
a
young
man
who
has
pitched
out
at
Kearney
State
for
several
years.
But
enough
about
the
Ernst
hurlers.
Thanks
for
indulging
me,
a
proud
baseball
father.
BOOK
REPORT:
THE
LAST
BEST
LEAGUE
 I
just
finished
reading
a
great
book
by
Jim
Collins
called
The
Last
Best
League,
subtitled
“One
Summer,
One
Season,
One
Dream.”
This
marvelous
and
eminently
readable
(263
pages)
baseball
book
chronicles
a
single
summer
season
(2002)
in
the
storied
Cape
Cod
Baseball
League,
an
amateur,
wooden
bat
league
which
features
the
best
of
the
best
of
the
college
baseball
players
who
are
trying
to
ready
themselves
for
a
future
in
the
professional
ranks.
This
tour
de
force
by
Collins
follows
the
2002
season
of
the
Chatham
A’s,
primarily
through
the
eyes
of
its
coach,
John
Schiffner,
a
high
school
history
and
social
studies
teacher
in
Plainfield,
Connecticut,
a
veteran
of
the
Cape
Code
Baseball
League,
and
a
recruiter
of
baseball
talent
extraordinaire—and
several
of
the
stud
players
from
his
2002
A’s
team:
Jamie
D’Antona,
a
third
baseman
at
Wake
Forest;
Tim
Stauffer,
an
ace
pitcher
from
Saratoga
Springs,
New
York,
who
played
college
ball
for
the
University
of
Richmond
Spiders;
and
Thomas
Pauly,
a
stud
pitcher
from
Jacksonville,
Florida,
who
was
an
academic
star
in
chemical
engineering
at
Princeton
University
and
a
standout
pitcher
for
the
Ivy
League
school.
The
Last
Best
League
is
one
of
the
best
baseball
books
you
will
ever
read.
Two
chapters
into
it,
I
was
already
making
mental
plans
for
a
summer
trip
to
the
Cape
to
witness
a
few
of
these
unparalleled
contests
for
myself.
When
my
plans
are
a
bit
more
concrete
for
such
a
trip
(probably
2010
or
2011),
I
will
let
all
of
you
know,
and
would
welcome
the
company
of
each
and
any
one
of
you.
In
fact,
maybe
we
should
look
at a
future
HSL
Trip
to
Cape
Cod,
one
of
these
seasons
when
we
do
not
have
a
brand
new
ballpark
to
explore.
Anyway,
I
could
not
recommend
The
Last
Best
League
any
more
highly
to
you.
Read
it,
and
savor
the
experience.
THIS
AND
THAT
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** |
 Perhaps some of you (probably all of you) read of the passing of former Major League manager (Philadelphia Phillies, 1973-1979; interim manager for San Francisco Giants, 1984), Danny Ozark. Reportedly loved by everyone that he managed, Ozark was probably best known for his Yogi-ish malapropisms. One of my favorites was listed in his recent obit, “Even Napoleon had his Watergate.” Love it.
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Last week in Pittsburgh for my annual pancreas exam with brother Dan, our doctor joined us for a visit to PNC Park and the Pirates third and final game of a series with the St. Louis Cardinals. On a spectacular spring evening in one of the most beautiful baseball jewels ever, with the great Albert Pujols present to behold, the Pittsburgh citizenry turned out in numbers approximating 10,000 fans, a crying shame if ever there was one. From our right field seats in the $25 “All You Can Eat” section (unfortunately, not all you can drink), I was treated to a triple by my Pirates first-sacker Adam LaRoche, but had to watch my pitiful Pirates lose by the score of 5 to 1. Even though they were able to crack out ten or eleven hits, the hapless Buccos were only able to plate a single run. The Great Pujols went 1-for-4, his solitary safety being a screaming single which drove across the final two Cardinal runs. What a pleasure to watch Pujols, who was dialed in for each at-bat, played stellar defense at the first sack, and even stole a base by a country mile with a jump on the pitcher that would have made Rickey Henderson proud. I hope and pray that the great steroid scandal never touches Prince Albert, a modern day hero.
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I read recently that Evan Longoria, arguably the best player in the Majors this season (with an ML leading 46 RBIs), was not even drafted out of high school, and did not receive a single Division I scholarship offer. Instead, Longoria attended a small junior college just eight miles from his Southern California home, where he flourished and then was able to transfer to Long Beach State, where he became a fabled Dirtbag baseball star. Great American story, especially if Longoria lives up to his promise and enjoys a long and star-studded career. From humble beginnings . . . .
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Just a short note of thanks to Brother Mouse, who has gone above and beyond the call of duty to help make our 2009 HSL Trip a best-ever. Mouse has lined up all of our hotel accommodations for our three nights in New York, has secured all of our baseball ducats, and is presently working on ground transportation from the Big Apple to Cooperstown. Great work, Mouse, and many thanks for taking the bull by the horns and making this happen.
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THOUGHTS
FROM
THE
SEAT
OF A
McCORMICK
TRACTOR
On
Tuesday
afternoon,
I
spent
a
glorious
two
hours
on
my
$1,000
1948
McCormick
tractor
that
God
blessed
me
with
several
years
ago,
mowing
down
the
tall
fescue
on
the
westernmost
part
of
One
Particular
Harbor.
It
was
a
Chamber
of
Commerce
afternoon,
the
sun
was
shining,
and
I
had
two
hours
of
absolute
peace
for
some
much-needed
introspective
reflection.
If
there’s
a
better
place
to
solve
the
world’s
and
one’s
own
problems
than
from
the
helm
of a
beautiful
old
chugging
tractor,
I
have
yet
to
find
it.
I
had
more
great
thoughts
in
those
two
precious
hours
than
I
can
usually
muster
up
in a
whole
damn
year,
but
the
three
themes
that
kept
reverberating
around
in
my
anterior
lobes
went
something
like
this:
1.
Happiness
has
to
come
from
within,
and
those
of
us
who
are
happy
(including,
I
take
it,
all
of
you)
are
damned
lucky;
2.
To
respect
others,
you
have
to
respect
yourself.
I
hope
and
pray
I am
teaching
this
to
my
kids;
and
3.
If
you
ever
have
your
choice
of
ten
million
dollars
(inflation)
or a
close
circle
of
friends,
set
a
match
to
the
pile
of
currency
and
take
the
friends
every
time.
During
this
my
period
of
domestic
tumult,
I
can’t
tell
you
how
much
the
support
of
good
friends
has
meant
to
me,
including,
predominantly,
the
twelve
of
you.
As
Itchie
put
it,
you
guys
are
my
Board
of
Directors
at a
time
when
a
lot
of
direction
is
needed.
From
my
hours
and
hours
of
counseling
sessions
with
Father
Scott,
almost
all
of
which
have
involved
some
belly
laughs
(i.e.,
my
test
drive
in
the
Popemobile)
and
a
renewed
spirit;
to
my
tavern
therapy
with
Foster
Thielen
and
his
always
solid
suggestions
(“Yager
bombs
for
Big
Johnny
and
his
friend!”;
internet
surfing
on
Craig’s
List;
16-year-old
Russian
chambermaids;
internet
gambling
diversions;
implants;
and
much
more);
to
the
e-mails
and
conversations
from
and
with
the
rest
of
you,
I am
more
appreciative
than
you
can
ever
know
for
your
support
and
concern.
No
matter
what
the
future
holds
for
the
Old
Skipper
and
his
First
Mate,
I
have
four
great
kids;
the
twelve
of
you—my
Board
of
Directors—and
a
lot
of
other
great
friends;
baseball;
and
at
bottom,
a
great
life.
Thank
you
all
for
your
friendship.
I
look
forward
to
spending
four
days
with
you
all
in
the
Big
Apple
next
month.
Until
then,
let
up
on
the
gas
pedal
a
bit
and
let’s
see
if
we
can
get
the
Senators
out
of
the
HSL
cellar.
Skipper
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