|
INDEX TO BOOK REPORTS
|
Book |
Author |
Date of
Report |
Page |
|
Ol’ Pete |
Jack Kavanagh |
07/28/98 |
1 |
|
Memories of Summer |
Roger Kahn |
08/26/98 |
3 |
|
The Heart of the Order |
Tom Boswell |
09/09/98 |
5 |
|
Joe DiMaggio—The Hero’s Life |
Richard Ben Cramer |
01/31/01 |
7 |
|
When Pride Still Mattered |
David Maraniss |
05/15/01 |
11 |
|
George Washington |
Willard Sterne Randall |
11/14/01 |
13 |
|
Stranger to the Game |
Bob Gibson |
12/03/02 |
15 |
|
A Flame of Pure Fire |
Roger Kahn |
02/20/04 |
19 |
|
The Game |
Robert Benson |
02/19/04 |
21 |
|
Lords of the Realm |
John Helyar |
02/19/04 |
25 |
|
The Teammates |
David Halberstam |
08/31/04 |
29 |
|
The Curse of the Bambino |
Dan Shonnessy |
10/19/04 |
31 |
|
October Men |
Roger Kahn |
12/16/04 |
33 |
|
Catcher in the Rye |
John D. Salinger |
04/26/05 |
37 |
|
Don Quixote |
Miguel de Cervantes |
04/26/05 |
37 |
|
Luckiest Man |
Jonathan Eig |
05/10/05 |
39 |
|
Baseball in Omaha |
Devon Niebling/Thomas Hyde |
07/26/05 |
41 |
|
The Head Game |
Roger Kahn |
01/05/06 |
47 |
|
Foul Ball |
Jim Bouton |
02/13/06 |
49 |
|
The Summer Game |
Roger Angell |
02/13/06 |
49 |
|
Game of Shadows |
Mark Wada and Lance Williams |
04/12/06 |
51 |
|
Ball Four |
Jim Bouton |
07/18/06 |
53 |
|
The Summer Game |
Roger Angell |
07/18/06 |
55 |
|
1776 |
David McCullough |
09/13/06 |
59 |
|
The Old Ball Game |
Frank Deford |
09/13/07 |
61 |
|
The Era |
Roger Kahn |
12/21/07 |
63 |
|
The Tender Bar |
J.R. Moehringer |
01/03/08 |
69 |
|
How Life Imitates the World Series |
Tom Boswell |
04/17/08 |
71 |
|
The Echoing Green |
Joshua Prager |
04/25/08 |
75 |
|
Three Nights in August |
Buzz Bissinger |
06/18/08 |
77 |
|
Clemente |
David Maraniss |
07/17/08 |
79 |
|
Big Russ & Me |
Tim Russert |
10/01/08 |
85 |
|
The Bronx is Burning |
Jonathan Mahler |
11/14/08 |
87 |
|
The Heart of the Order |
Tom Boswell |
02/03/09 |
89 |
|
A False Spring |
Pat Jordan |
03/06/09 |
93 |
|
The Last Best League |
Jim Collins |
05/21/09 |
97 |
|
George |
Peter Golenbock |
08/10/09 |
99 |
|
The Bronx Zoo |
Sparky Lyle with P. Golenbock |
10/28/09 |
103 |
|
The Machine |
Joe Posnanski |
12/04/09 |
107 |
|
Cracking the Show |
Tom Boswell |
12/23/09 |
111 |
|
The Snowball: Warren Buffett |
Alice Schroeder |
01/29/10 |
113 |
|
Chief Bender’s Burden |
Tom Swift |
03/04/10 |
115 |
|
9 Innings: The Anatomy of a Baseball
Game |
Daniel Okrent |
01/12/11 |
119 |
|
Last
Lion: The Fall and Rise of Ted Kennedy |
Peter Canellos |
02/09/11 |
121 |
|
The Yankee Years |
Joe Torre and Tom Verducci |
04/08/11 |
123 |
|
Counselor: A Life at the Edge of
History |
Ted Sorensen |
09/26/11 |
125 |
47. |
Five Seasons |
Roger Angell |
02/28/12 |
127 |
48. |
Robert Kennedy and His Times |
Arthur Schlesinger |
05/23/12 |
131 |
49. |
Confederates in the Attic |
Tony Horwitz |
09/28/12 |
133 |
50. |
My Life in Baseball—The True Record |
Ty Cobb with Al Stump |
12/27/12 |
137 |
51. |
Charlie Wilson’s War |
George Crile |
02/21/13 |
139 |
52. |
Season Ticket |
Roger Angell |
08/09/13 |
141 |
53. |
On the Road |
Jack Kerouac |
07/09/14 |
143 |
54. |
Rickey & Robinson |
Roger Kahn |
02/11/15 |
145 |
55. |
Wait Till Next Year |
Doris Kearns Goodwin |
02/11/15 |
147 |
56. |
You Can’t Make This Up |
Al Michaels with Jon Wertheim |
03/24/15 |
151 |
57. |
The Curse of Rocky Colavito |
Terry Pluto |
11/25/15 |
155 |
58. |
A Nice Little Place on the North Side:
Wrigley Field at One Hundred |
George Will |
12/23/15 |
157 |
59. |
Where Nobody Knows Your Name |
John Feinstein |
12/23/15 |
159 |
60. |
This Old Man |
Roger Angell |
02/05/16 |
161 |
61. |
Down to the Last Pitch |
Tim Wendel |
02/19/16 |
163 |
62. |
The Game |
Jon Pessah |
03/04/16 |
165 |
63. |
Alexander Hamilton |
Ron Chernow |
05/17/16 |
167 |
64. |
A Well-Paid Slave |
Brad Snyder |
05/25/16 |
169 |
65. |
Marvin Miller, Baseball Revolutionary |
Robert F. Burk |
05/26/16 |
173 |
66. |
Out of My League |
Dirk Hayhurst |
06/23/16 |
175 |
67. |
Bottom of the 33rd |
Dan Barry |
07/18/16 |
177 |
68. |
One Summer - America, 1927 |
Bill Bryson |
08/18/16 |
185 |
69. |
The Making of the President 1960 |
Theodore H. White |
10/28/16 |
189 |
70. |
Eisenhower in War and Peace |
Jean Edward Smith |
01/25/17 |
193 |
71. |
Killing the Rising Sun |
Bill O’Reilly and Martin Dugard |
03/17/17 |
199 |
72. |
Elon Musk |
Ashlee Vance |
05/17/17 |
203 |
73. |
Hillbilly Elegy |
J.D. Vance |
05/25/17 |
205 |
74. |
It Happens Every Spring |
Ira Berkow |
08/10/17 |
207 |
75. |
Hero of the Empire |
Candice Millard |
09/22/17 |
213 |
76. |
The Arm |
Jeff Passan |
09/30/17 |
215 |
77. |
Killing England |
Bill O’Reilly and Martin Dugard |
11/10/17 |
221 |
78. |
Summer of 68 |
Tim Wendel |
01/19/18 |
223 |
79. |
Gator, My Life in Pinstripes |
Ron Guidry with A. Beaton |
04/18/18 |
233 |
80. |
A Season in the Sun/The Rise of Mickey
Mantle |
Randy Roberts & Johnny Smith |
05/16/18 |
235 |
81. |
A Higher Loyalty |
James Comey |
06/29/18 |
237 |
82. |
The Best and the Brightest |
David Halberstam |
08/10/18 |
241 |
83. |
Billy Martin: Baseball’s Flawed Genius |
Bill Pennington |
09/19/18 |
245 |
84. |
I’m Keith Hernandez |
Keith Hernandez |
10/26/18 |
253 |
85. |
The Fifth Risk |
Michael Lewis |
11/21/18 |
255 |
86. |
The Big Fella |
Jane Leavy |
01/25/19 |
259 |
87. |
Killing the SS |
Bill O’Reilly and Martin Dugard |
02/01/19 |
261 |
88. |
A False Spring (Redux) |
Pat Jordan |
02/08/19 |
263 |
89. |
Lincoln’s Last Trial |
Dan Abrams and David Fisher |
03/15/19 |
267 |
90. |
RED: A Biography of Red Smith |
Ira Berkow |
05/03/19 |
269 |
91. |
The Catcher Was a Spy |
Nicholas Dawidoff |
05/09/19 |
277 |
92. |
The Years of Lyndon Johnson: The Path
to Power |
Robert A. Caro |
06/20/19 |
282 |
93. |
The First Wave: The D-Day Warriors Who
Led the Way to Victory in World War II |
Alex Kershaw |
07/03/19 |
286 |
94. |
Indianapolis: The True Story of the
Worst Sea Disaster in U.S. Naval History and the Fifty-Year
Fight to Exonerate an Innocent Man |
Lynn Vincent and Sara Vladic |
08/02/19 |
288 |
95. |
Late Innings: A Baseball Companion |
Roger Angell |
08/13/19 |
290 |
96. |
No Ordinary Time - Franklin and
Eleanor Roosevelt: The Home Front in World War II |
Doris Kearns Goodwin |
09/13/19 |
306 |
97. |
Game Time, A Baseball Companion |
Roger Angell |
09/24/19 |
312 |
98. |
Once More Around the Park: A Baseball
Reader |
Roger Angell |
11/07/19 |
316 |
99. |
Master of the Senate |
Robert Caro |
02/27/20 |
334 |
SKIPPER’S TOP 10 FAVORITE BASEBALL BOOKS
10. |
To Every Thing A Season,
Bruce Kuklick (1991) |
9. |
The Boys of Summer,
Roger Kahn (1973) |
8. |
Men at Work, George Will
(1989) |
7. |
Ball Four, Jim Bouton
(1976) |
6. |
Summer of ’49, David
Halberstam (1989) |
5. |
Beyond the
Boys of Summer, Roger Kahn (2001) |
4. |
The Catcher was a Spy,
Nicholas Dawidoff (1994) |
3. |
Moneyball, Michael Lewis
(2003) |
2. |
October Men, Roger Kahn
(2003) |
1. |
Why
Time Begins on Opening Day,
Tom Boswell (1984) |
A few
comments on the above are in order:
** |
This list is not intended to be a paean
to Roger Kahn even though I have listed three of his books in the Top
10. I have read at least two of his other baseball books, The Head
Game and Memories of Summer, and found them to be somewhat
repetitive of his other works, and at times a bit maudlin. For my
money, however, you won’t find a baseball writer who has Kahn’s
vocabulary and his ability to turn a phrase, although Boswell can at
times give him a run for the money. |
|
|
** |
The No. 10 book on my list, To Every Thing a Season,
was a terrific historical read but not a favorite of the masses
because it dealt almost singularly with Shibe Park in Philadelphia.
You won’t find it in many bookstores, so if anybody wants to borrow my
copy, let me know. |
|
|
** |
If anybody hasn’t read The Catcher was a Spy,
you need to. It is a real page-turner, and Mo Berg was undeniably one
of the most interesting characters to don a major league uniform.
|
|
|
** |
I haven’t read Ball Four for at least twenty
years, and need to read it again to remind myself why I remember it so
fondly. If I do, I’ll let you know. |
|
|
** |
There were many great books that easily could have made
the list, and in particular, Lords of the Realm, The Babe,
The Iron Horse, Bunts, and biographies that I have read on Joe
Dimaggio, Ted Williams, Walter Johnson, John McGraw and Hank
Greenberg, the titles of which I am unable to recall. In retrospect,
I probably should elevate Lords of the Realm to the Top 10, as
it is the seminal analysis of the business of baseball, from the
reserve clause to arbitration to free agency. A long, but fascinating
study. |

BOOK
REPORT: ON THE ROAD
By Jack
Kerouac
07/08/14
Now
that I have finished reading the seminal book about the Beat Generation and
road-tripping across the USA, I can hardly believe that I waited this long
to pick up a copy and dig it. While it wasn’t one of those rare books that
I just couldn’t put down, it is definitely an intriguing story of travel and
the Beat lifestyle of a small cadre of some true and some self-styled
intellectuals. Personally, I would be uncomfortable sitting cross-legged on
a bed with any of you, staring into your eyes and “digging” you while you
blurted out some made-up nonsensical prose, following which we would both
snap our fingers. Awkward, with a capital A. But hey, I’m not judging.
What I did
not know was that the “Beat” Generation had its true beginnings in the late
1940s, not the ’50s, and that most of these people were shiftless loners who
sponged off their friends and relatives to support their carefree
lifestyles. I found it somewhat surprising that there was not much talk
about the use of mind-altering substances to go along with the rampant
dialogue about all of the abundant free love that these dudes seemed to be
experiencing, until the very end of the book when they made a road trip
south of the border and got their hands on some really amazing smokes.
Timing-wise, it seems as if the Beat Generation essentially morphed into the
1960s decade of the hippies, and that the hippies took what they liked about
the beatniks (freedom, complete lack of responsibility, free-wheeling sex),
cut out the stuff they didn’t (phony intellectualism, finger-snapping), and
added in the psychedelic drugs to give their generation their own mark. Not
a terrible formula.
Bottom line
on the book: A good read. I’m guessing several of you (Stretch, Possum,
Tricko, Screech perhaps) have already read On the Road, but anyone
who hasn’t and who would like to borrow my copy, let me know and I will drop
it in the mail for your consumption. Hope you really dig it, man.
BOOK
REPORT:
SEASON
TICKET
08/09/13
 I
am
about
a
fourth
of
the
way
through
a
terrific
Roger
Angell
book
that
was
recently
loaned
to
me
by
an
attorney
friend,
one
of
which
I
was
not
heretofore
aware,
entitled
Season
Ticket,
published
in
1988.
I
thought
I
had
already
read
all
of
Angell’s
baseball
anthologies,
but
thankfully,
I
was
wrong.
The
Penguin.
From
my
late-night
reading
last
evening
from
the
Roger
Angell
classic
“Season
Ticket,”
in
which
the
erudite
Angell
characterizes
the
declining
fielding
skills
of Ron
“The
Penguin”
Cey
during
his
1986
season
with
the
Cubs
as
being
Rodinesque
(implying,
I
think,
that
he
emulated
a
molded
statue
while
in the
field),
and in
which
he
refers
to a
headline
in the
Chicago
paper
from
that
season
which
reportedly
read:
“WASHED
UP?
CEY:
IT
AIN’T
SO!” (from FTB 10/18/13)
BOB
BRENLY—A
GAME
FOR
THE
AGES
I
previously
shared
with
all
of
you
offline
an
excerpt
from
this
book
about
the
centerfield
counterparts
in
the
1982
World
Series,
Willie
McGee
of
the
Cardinals
and
Gorman
“Walking
Strip
Mine”
Thomas
of
the
Brewers.
Here
is a
short
clip
(from
pages
14-15)
about
Bob
Brenly
that
I
absolutely
love,
particularly
the
quote
from
Roger
Craig:
In
September
1986,
during
an
unmomentous
Giants-Braves
game
out
at
Candlestick
Park,
Bob
Brenly,
playing
third
base
for
the
San
Franciscos,
made
an
error
on a
routine
ground
ball
in
the
top
of
the
fourth
inning.
Four
batters
later,
he
kicked
away
another
chance
and
then,
scrambling
after
the
ball,
threw
wildly
past
home
in
an
attempt
to
nail
a
runner
there:
two
errors
on
the
same
play.
A
few
moments
after
that,
he
managed
another
boot,
thus
becoming
only
the
fourth
player
since
the
turn
of
the
century
to
rack
up
four
errors
in
one
inning.
In
the
bottom
of
the
fifth,
Brenly
hit
a
solo
home
run.
In
the
seventh,
he
rapped
out
a
bases
loaded
single,
driving
in
two
runs
and
tying
the
game
at
6-6.
The
score
stayed
that
way
until
the
bottom
of
the
ninth,
when
our
man
came
up
to
bat
again,
with
two
out,
ran
the
count
to
3-2,
and
then
sailed
a
massive
home
run
deep
into
the
left-field
stands.
Brenly's
accountbook
for
the
day
came
to
three
hits
in
five
at-bats,
two
home
runs,
four
errors,
four
Atlanta
runs
allowed,
and
four
Giant
runs
driven
in,
including
the
game-winner.
A
neater
summary
was
delivered
by
his
manager,
Roger
Craig,
who
said,
"This
man
deserves
the
Comeback
Player
of
the
Year
Award
for
this
game
alone."
I
wasn't
at
Candlestick
that
day,
but
I
don't
care;
I
have
this
one
by
heart.
I am
taking
Season
Ticket
with
me
on
my
sojourn
next
week
to
the
Great
Northwest,
and
will
be
sure
to
highlight
some
more
delectable
tidbits
from
the
erudite
Angell
to
share
with
you
later.
BOOK
REPORT:
“Wherever
I
Wind
Up,”
by
R.A.
Dickey
05/31/13
I
finished
reading
R.A.
Dickey’s
highly
publicized
book,
co-authored
with
Wayne
Coffey,
entitled
“Wherever
I
Wind
Up.”
It
is a
very
good
read,
with
lots
of
interesting
information
about
this
journeyman
pitcher
whose
life
was
turned
around
by
the
knuckleball
and
God,
although
not
necessarily
in
that
order.
He
is
clearly
a
very
faith-filled
man,
and
the
book
is
littered
with
prayers
to
and
praise
for
the
Almighty.
(Having
said
that,
I
have
a
mental
image
of
Itchie
racing
in
his
car
at
breakneck
speed
to
the
nearest
book
store
to
pick
up
his
copy
of
the
book.
Just
saying.)

The
three
most
interesting
things
that
I
enjoyed
about
the
book
were:
(1)
Learning
that
Dickey
was
actually
a
flame-throwing
fastball
pitcher
as a
youth
and
in
college,
pitching
the
University
of
Tennessee
(with
the
help
of
Todd
Helton)
into
the
College
World
Series
in
Omaha
in
1995,
and
throwing
two
wins
for
the
U.S.
Olympic
bronze
medalist
team
in
Atlanta
in
1996;
(2)
learning
that
it
was
a
photograph
of
Dickey
on
the
cover
of
Baseball
America
from
that
year
that
led
someone
in
the
Rangers
organization
to
recommend
an
MRI
of
Dickey’s
throwing
arm,
because
of
the
odd
way
that
he
was
holding
his
arm
in
the
picture—leading
to
the
discovery
of a
lack
of
an
ulnar
collateral
ligament
(UCL)
in
that
arm
and
the
retraction
of
his
$800+k
signing
bonus
by
the
Rangers;
and
(3)
discovering
that
Dickey
tried
to
swim
across
the
Missouri
River
on
June
9,
2007,
when
he
was
in
Omaha
with
the
Nashville
Sounds
for
a
game
against
the
Royals
and
staying
at
Ameristar
Casino
in
Council
Bluffs,
adjacent
to
the
river.
DUMB
JOCK
TAKES
ON
THE
MIGHTY
MO
As
to
the
river
tale,
as
the
story
goes,
Dickey
was
staring
out
of
his
room
on
one
of
the
upper
floors
of
the
casino,
admiring
the
majesty
of
the
great
Missouri
River.
He
was
reminded
of
instances
in
his
youth
when
he
swam
across
rivers
back
home
in
Tennessee,
and
decided
he
wanted
to
challenge
the
Missouri.
The
next
morning,
Dickey
walked
into
the
Missouri
River
on
the
Iowa
side,
wearing
only
a
pair
of
shorts
and
having
taped
a
pair
of
his
flip-flops
to
his
feet,
with
a
handful
of
teammates
on
the
shore
to
watch.
As
he
made
his
way
out
into
the
churning
Missouri,
he
realized
quickly
that
he
had
underestimated
its
strength,
and
struggled
to
make
progress
toward
the
Nebraska
shore.
Before
long,
he
realized
that
he
was
not
going
to
be
able
to
make
it,
and
turned
around
and
began
heading
back
toward
the
Council
Bluffs
side,
but
soon
realized
he
was
about
a
quarter
mile
south
of
the
point
of
his
embarkation.
As
he
fought
the
river,
the
muscles
in
his
arms
and
shoulders
filled
with
lactic
acid
and
became
practically
frozen,
reducing
him
to
the
dog
paddle
to
stay
alive.
As
he
was
almost
ready
to
give
up
the
ghost,
he
neared
the
Iowa
shore
and
the
hand
of a
teammate—Grant
Balfour—reached
out
from
the
heavens
and
helped
pull
him
out
of
the
water.
He
survived
the
swim,
and,
as
he
tells
it
in
his
book,
his
life
was
turned
around
from
that
moment
on
because
he
realized
that
he
was
not
the
one
in
control,
and
he
gave
his
life
over
to
his
Maker.
He
went
from
having
a
2-5
pitching
record
at
that
point
and
a mastodonic
ERA
to
winning
the
AAA
Pitcher
of
the
Year
Award,
and
the
rest
is
history.
When
I
saw
that
Grant
Balfour
was
the
teammate
who
pulled
Dickey
out,
I
looked
back
at
my
own
records
and
discovered
that
it
was
the
evening
prior
to
this
heroic
rescue
that
Balfour
had
uncorked
a
wild
pitch
from
the
Nashville
bullpen
at
Rosenblatt
and
struck
a
fan
named
Schrader
in
the
eye,
leading
to a
lawsuit
being
filed
by
him
against
the
Omaha
Royals
and
my
subsequent
taking
of
the
deposition
of
Mr.
Balfour
at
spring
training
in
Florida
in
2009.
A
pretty
eventful
two
days
for
the
Aussie
Balfour,
who
is
now
the
closer
for
the
Oakland
Athletics.
Book
Report:
Charlie
Wilson’s
War
02/21/13
Many
or most of
you have
probably
seen the
movie
Charlie
Wilson’s
War,
starring
Tom Hanks
and
Seymour
Hoffman,
but if you
haven’t
read the
book by
George
Crile, you
are
selling
yourself
short. I
just
finished
reading
this
marvelous
tale of
intrigue,
politics
and sex,
and it is
indeed a
page-turner.
Until
reading
this book,
I had
absolutely
no idea of
the amount
of money
that was
committed
by the
United
States to
fund and
arm the
Afghan
rebels in
their
thirteen-year
occupation
by and war
with the
Soviet Red
Army. And
from
reading
the book,
I have a
much
better
understanding
of why so
many
people
from that
region of
the world
hate the
United
States of
America—they
believe
that we
absolutely
turned our
backs on
them after
they
fought
this
surrogate
war
against
Communism
for us.
I recently
ran into a
couple of
lawyers
from East
Texas when
I was at
the
national
ABOTA
convention
in St.
Pete, and
they were
represented
by Charlie
Wilson for
many years
and
confirmed
the image
of him in
the book
as a
playboy/party-hound-turned-American-hero.
This book
is a great
read. I
heartily
recommend
it.
BOOK
REPORT:
FIVE
SEASONS
02/28/12
 It
has been a
while
since I
have done
a book
report, so
let me
take this
opportunity
to tout a
sublime
baseball
read that
I just
finished,
Five
Seasons
by Roger
Angell.
First
published
in 1977,
Five
Seasons
is a
collection
of
Angell’s
writings
covering
parts of
the
baseball
seasons of
1972
through
1976.
If I had
the
ability to
write like
Roger
Angell, I
could
articulate
much more
pellucidly
why it is
that
Five
Seasons
is such a
great
read. In
spite of
my
limitations,
I will
try.
Angell has
a writing
style
which is
so
descriptive
and so
nuanced
that at
times you
feel as if
you are
actually
present
with him
when he is
making his
observations
about the
game of
baseball
and its
many
facets and
colorful
personalities.
I feel
like he is
showing me
a few
glimpses
of life
that the
general
population
never has
a chance
to see,
that I am
one of the
privileged
few who
get to
know his
thinking
on
baseball
matters.
I think my
favorite
part of
the book
was
Angell’s
recounting
of the
1975 World
Series
between
the Big
Red
Machine of
Cincinnati
and the
Boston Red
Sox, quite
possibly
the best
World
Series of
all time.
Angell
reminds us
that the
Red Sox
were ahead
of the
Reds in
every
single one
of the
seven
games,
despite a
clear
disparity
in talent,
but that
the Big
Red
Machine
was able
to come
back to
win four
of those
games,
including
the
deciding
Game 7 at
Fenway. I
love the
following
excerpts
from
Angell
about this
Series:
Bernie
Carbo,
pinch-hitting,
looked
wholly
overmatched
against
Eastwick,
flailing
at one
inside
fastball like
someone
fighting
off a wasp
with a
croquet
mallet.
One more
fastball
arrived,
high and
over the
middle of
the plate,
and Carbo
smashed it
in a
gigantic,
flattened
parabola
into the
center-field
bleachers,
tying the
game.
~~
And so the
swing of
things was
won back
again.
Carlton
Fisk,
leading
off the
bottom of
the
twelfth
against
Pat Darcy,
the eighth
Reds
pitcher of
the
night—it
was well
into
morning
now, in
fact—socked
the second
pitch up
and out,
farther
and father
into the
darkness
above the
lights,
and when
it came
down at
last,
reilluminated,
it struck
the
topmost,
innermost
edge of
the screen
inside the
yellow
left-field
foul pole
and
glanced
sharply
down and
bounced on
the grass;
a fair
ball, fair
all the
way. I was
watching
the ball,
of course,
so I
missed
what
everyone
on
television
saw—Fisk
waving
wildly,
weaving
and
writhing
and
gyrating
along the
first-base
line, as
he wished
the ball
fair,
forced it
fair with
his entire
body. He
circled
the bases
in
triumph,
in sudden
company
with
several
hundred
fans, and
jumped on
home plate
with both
feet, and
John Kiley,
the Fenway
Park
organist,
played
Handel’s
“Hallelujah
Chorus,”
fortissimo,
and then
followed
with other
appropriately
exuberant
classical
selections,
and for
the second
time that
evening I
suddenly
remembered
all my old
absent and
distant
Sox-afflicted
friends
(and all
the other
Red Sox
fans, all
over New
England),
and I
thought of
them—in
Brookline,
Mass., and
Brooklin,
Maine; in
Beverly
Farms and
Mashpee
and
Presque
Isle and
North
Conway and
Damariscotta;
in Pomfret,
Connecticut,
and
Pomfret,
Vermont;
in Wayland
and
Providence
and Revere
and
Nashua,
and in
both the
Concords
and all
five
Manchesters;
and in
Raymond,
New
Hampshire
(where
Carlton
Fisk
lives),
and
Bellows
Falls,
Vermont
(where
Carlton
Fisk was born),
and I saw
all of
them
dancing
and
shouting
and
kissing
and
leaping
about like
the fans
at
Fenway—jumping
up and
down in
their
bedrooms
and
kitchens
and living
rooms, and
in bars
and
trailers,
and even
in some
boats here
and there,
I suppose,
and on
back-country
roads (a
lone
driver
getting
the news
over the
radio and
blowing
his horn
over and
over, and
finally
pulling up
and
getting
out and
leaping up
and down
on the
cold
macadam,
yelling
into the
night),
and all of
them, for
once at
least,
utterly
joyful and
believing
in that
joy—alight
with it.
~~
The
seventh
game,
which
settled
the
championship
in the
very last
inning and
was
watched by
a
television
audience
of
seventy-five
million
people,
probably
would have
been a
famous
thriller
in some
other
Series,
but in
1975 it
was
outclassed.
It
was a good
play that
opened on
the night
after the
opening
night of
King Lear.
~~
Rose led
off with a
single in
the
sixth.
(He got on
base
eleven
times in
his last
fifteen
appearances
in the
Series.)
With one
out, Bench
hit a sure
double-play
ball to
Burleson,
but Rose,
barreling
down
toward
second,
slid high
and hard
into Doyle
just as he
was firing
on to
first, and
the ball
went
wildly
into the
Boston
dugout.
Lee, now
facing
Perez,
essayed a
looping,
quarter-speed,
spinning
curve, and
Perez,
timing his
full swing
exactly,
hit the
ball over
the wall
and over
the screen
and
perhaps
over the
Massachusetts
Turnpike.
The Reds
then tied
the game
in the
seventh
(when Lee
was
permitted
to start
his winter
vacation),
with Rose
driving in
the run.
The
Cincinnati
bullpen
had
matters in
their
charge by
now, and
almost the
only
sounds
still to
be heard
were the
continuous
cries and
clappings
and shouts
of hope
from the
Reds’
dugout.
Fenway
Park was
like a
waiting
accident
ward early
on a
Saturday
night.
Five
Seasons
is a
quintessential
baseball
read and a
delightful
baseball
companion.
And if you
spend the
evening at
the
ballpark
with
Roger, you
will not
wake up
with a
ringing
Jägerbomb
hangover
such as
you might
experience
after
hanging
out with
certain
other
baseball
companions.
Just
saying.
BOOK
REVIEW:
Counselor:
A
Life
at
the
Edge
of
History
(09/26/11)
Finally,
let
me
commend
to
you
heartily
a
wonderful
book
written
by
Lincoln
native
Ted
Sorensen,
entitled
Counselor:
A
Life
at
the
Edge
of
History.
This
marvelous
book
details
some
of
the
high
and
low
points
of
Sorensen’s
career
in
politics
and
law,
including
being
“in
the
loop”
for
such
historic
events
as
the
Bay
of
Pigs,
the
Cuban
missile
crisis,
the
launching
of
the
space
program
to
beat
the Ruskies
to
the
moon,
and
the
establishment
of
the
Peace
Corps.
I
did
not
know
that Sorensen’s
father
was
once
the
Attorney
General
for
the
state
of
Nebraska,
and
a
reported
shoo-in
for
a
federal
judgeship
in
Lincoln,
until
partisan
politics
intervened.
I
also
did
not
know
that
his
mother
was
of
Jewish
lineage,
and
a
nut
case.
I
probably
knew
at
one
time
but
had
forgotten
that
Jimmy
Carter
nominated
Ted
Sorensen
to
lead
the
CIA,
until
he
found
out
that
his vetters
had
missed
the
fact
that
Sorensen
was
a
conscientious
objector,
ultimately
leading
to
Sorensen’s
painful
withdrawal
from
the
Senate
confirmation
process.
It
was
quite
clear
from
the
book
that
Sorensen
has
little
respect
for
the
former
peanut
farmer
from
Georgia,
or
for
Senator
Joe
Biden,
who
turned
his
back
on
Sorensen
during
the
CIA
confirmation
fiasco.
My
favorite
quote
from
the
book
was
about
the
CIA
after
agency
heads
persuaded
JFK
to
approve
of
the
Bay
of
Pigs
mission.
The
CIA:
“Often
wrong,
but
never
in
doubt.”
Sounds
like
somebody
in
this
league
that
we
all
know
very
well.
My
second
favorite
quote
in
the
book
is
from
Harry
Truman,
whom
Sorensen
cited
for
the
famous
“If
you
want
a
friend
in
Washington,
buy
a
dog”
line
after
his
support
to
be
the
director
of
the
CIA
collapsed
like
a
house
of
cards.
In
any
event,
you
will
do
yourself
a
favor
if
you
choose
to
read
this
great
book.
If
you
want
to
borrow
my
copy,
let
me
know.
THE
YANKEE
YEARS
(04/08/11)
I’m
about
two-thirds
of
the
way
through
an
excellent
book
called
The
Yankee
Years,
written
by
Joe
Torre
(sort
of)
and
Tom
Verducci
(mostly).
To
lead
with
a
quote
from
the
Daily
News,
it
is
“one
of
the
best
books
about
baseball
ever
written.”
I
agree.
Verducci
is
an
excellent
writer,
and
Torre
is
full
of
great
insight
about
his
Yankee
teams
from
1996
to
2007.
It
is
absolutely
required
reading
for
a
Yankee
fan,
so
Screech
and
Mouse,
get
busy.
However,
if
you
are
merely
a
baseball
fan,
and
all
of
you
are
rabid
ones
at
that,
you
should
do
yourselves
a
favor
and
read
this
book.
Just
to
whet
your
appetite,
one
of
the
fascinating
things
that
is
pointed
out
by
the
book
is
how
important
healthy
starting
pitching
is
to a
team’s
success.
During
Torre’s
years
at
the
helm
of
the
Yankee
Clipper,
there
was
one
year
when
only
two
of
his
starters
made
at
least
25
starts,
and
that
was
2005.
In
1997,
2001,
2002,
2004
and
2007,
three
of
his
starting
pitchers
made
at
least
25
starts.
In
1996,
1998,
2000,
2003
and
2006,
four
of
his
starters
made
at
least
25
starts.
In
1999,
five
of
his
starters
made
at
least
25
starts.
Torre’s
four
World
Championships
came
in
1996,
1998,
1999
and
2000,
all
in
years
in
which
either
four
or
five
of
his
team’s
starters
made
at
least
25
starts.
Obviously,
not
just
a
coincidence.
There
is
much
more
great
stuff
to
share
with
you
from
this
book.
If I
remember
to
do
so,
I
will
include
a
few
more
tidbits
in
future
Bullpens.
BOOK RECOMMENDATION:
Last Lion: The Fall and Rise of Ted Kennedy
(02/09/11)
Before I close out this short issue of From the Bullpen, let me just put in a short plug for a terrific book that I just finished reading, Last Lion: The Fall and Rise of Ted Kennedy, authored by a team of reporters at The Boston Globe, and edited by Peter Canellos. I can sense that seven or eight of the rock-ribbed Republicans in this group are already turning their noses up at the idea of reading anything about Ted Kennedy –– you know who you are –– and so I’m going to suggest to those of that ilk that it is especially important that each of you read this book, if you can possibly do it with an open mind. Haa! Maybe when pigs can beam through space. But if you can, I think that you will come away from reading this book with an entirely different perception of Ted Kennedy than you have right now. For at least the last ten or fifteen years of his life, Kennedy actually did a whole heck of a lot of good, whether you agree with his political philosophy or not, and my whole perception of him has changed after reading this extremely well-written book.
For the proletariat members of the league, Last Lion will be a rallying cry for justice and equality for all.
So, bottom line, whatever your party affiliation, whether you are on the leftist fringe, a committed right-winger, or a sensible centrist like myself, this book is a good and worthy read.
BOOK REPORT:
9 Innings: The anatomy of a baseball game
Finally, although I don’t have the time to do a full book review for you, I want to commend to you an excellent baseball book that I finished reading last fall, entitled 9 Innings: The anatomy of a baseball game, authored by the seasoned baseball scribe, Daniel Okrent. The entire book is centered around a single baseball game between the Milwaukee Brewers and the Baltimore Orioles which took place in June 1982. There are lots of great excerpts from this book, some of which I may share with you later when time allows, but my favorite story is about the Orioles' crusty manager, the Earl of Baltimore, Earl Weaver, as follows:
Weaver drank a lot, and managed to disarm his critics by acknowledging his frailty and by managing to issue the perfect response in the most embarrassing situations. At his most recent arrest, which resulted in the suspension of his driver’s license, the arresting officer had asked if Weaver had any physical disabilities. “Only Jim Palmer,” he said, referring to the cranky nonpareil of the Baltimore pitching staff.
Great stuff. Do yourself a favor and read this great book. |
BOOK
REVIEW:
Chief
Bender’s
Burden
(03/04/10)

Speaking
of
the
book
Chief
Bender’s
Burden,
I
finished
it
up
on
my
flight
home
from
California,
and
so
let
me
give
you
this
short
review.
Written
by a
relatively
unknown
Minnesota
author
by
the
name
of
Tom
Swift
in
2008,
this
book,
published
by
the
University
of
Nebraska
Press
in
Lincoln,
is
based
on
the
premise
that
Bender
was
the
subject
of
much
anti-American
Indian
sentiment
and
prejudice,
and
that
he
had
to
learn
to
survive
in
the
white
man’s
world
in
order
to
become
a
star
baseball
pitcher.
The
subtitle
is
“The
Silent
Struggle
of a
Baseball
Star.”
My
overall
assessment
of
this
book
is
that
it
is
an
earnest
attempt
by a
neophyte
author
to
make
the
case
that
Charles
“Chief”
Bender
was
worthy
of
the
baseball
Hall
of
Fame
because
of
his
struggles
against
prejudice,
as
much
as
for
his
statistics,
which
seem
marginal
compared
to
qualifications
of
modern
starting
pitchers
who
are
under
consideration
for
the
Hall
of
Fame.
Swift’s
book
begins
with
Chief
Bender’s
preparations
to
pitch
the
opening
game
of
the
1914
World
Series
between
the
powerful
Philadelphia
Athletics
of
Connie
Mack
and
the
“Miracle”
Boston
Braves,
who
were
in
last
place
in
the
National
League
in
early
July
1914,
fifteen
games
behind
the
powerful
New
York
Giants
of
Mugsy
McGraw.
On
July
15
of
that
season,
the
Braves
were
in
last
place
with
a
record
of
33-43,
while
McGraw’s
Giants
appeared
to
be
cruising
to a
fourth
straight
NL
pennant.
However,
the
Braves
caught
fire
in
the
second
half
of
the
season,
and
ended
up
winning
the
National
League
pennant
over
the
Giants
by a
whopping
10-1/2
games.
They
then
boldly
thumped
the
powerful
Mack
Men
in
the
1914
Series,
beating
the
theretofore
almost
invincible
Chief
Bender
in
the
first
game
of
the
Series
and
rolling
on
to
an
unthinkable
4-0
Series
sweep.
While
Bender’s
Burden
provides
some
great
information
about
the
powerful
Athletics
in
the
first
two
decades
of
the
last
century
and
the
general
state
of
things
in
the
dead
ball
era,
Swift’s
prose
often
jumps
around
from
year
to
year
in
such
a
way
as
to
be
distracting,
and
it
is
often
hard
to
follow
which
season
and
which
team
he
is
talking
about.
Unlike
most
of
the
books
I
have
reviewed
in
From
the
Bullpen,
I
cannot
heartily
recommend
this
one
to
you.
Rather,
allow
me
just
to
share
with
you
a
few
of
the
interesting
revelations:
* |
Charles Albert Bender was born either on May 3 or May 5, 1883 or 1884 in Crow Wing County in Northern Minnesota, about 20 miles east of Brainerd, which is often called his birthplace. His father, Albertus Bliss Bender, was one of the early white settlers in Minnesota, a homesteader-farmer of German-American descent. His mother, Mary Razor Bender, was believed to have been a member of the Mississippi band of the Ojibwe tribe, and her Indian name was Pay Shaw De O Quay.
|
* |
Shortly after his birth, the Bender family moved to the White Earth reservation in Minnesota, and Bender spent many of his young years on the reservation. Eventually, after receiving a kick in the pants from his father (the details of all of this seem quite suspect), Bender ran away from the reservation and found his way to Carlisle, Pennsylvania, where he attended the famous Carlisle Indian Industrial School of Jim Thorpe fame. Although he pitched for the Carlisle High School team, his high school athletic prowess would have led no one to believe that he would go on to become a Hall of Fame pitcher for the Philadelphia Athletics.
|
* |
After high school, Bender was recruited to play for the Harrisburg (PA) Athletic Club, and his success with that organization in the early years of the century led to his signing by Connie Mack in 1902, reportedly to a contract which would pay him $300 a month. He made his major league debut on April 20, 1903 in relief of Rube Waddell, and made his first start on April 27, 1903, twirling the Athletics to a 6-0 win over the Highlanders. At 19 years of age in 1903, Bender had one of the best age-19 seasons in the history of the major leagues. He won 17 games, completed 29, and shut out 2 opponents. He ended up with a 3.07 ERA in 270 innings of work, striking out 127 batters and walking only 65. In spite of his pitching prowess, the Athletics finished second to the powerful Boston Americans by 14-1/2 games in the inaugural major league season of the American League, and the Americans went on to beat the Pittsburgh Pirates in the first World Series.
|
* |
Bender began earning his reputation as a big-game pitcher in the 1905 World Series, when he threw a 3-0 shutout in Game Two of the ’05 Series against Christy Mathewson’s Giants, besting Iron Man Joe McGinnity. In Game 5, he valiantly pitched a five-hitter against the great Christy Mathewson, but Mathewson threw his third shutout of the Series and the Giants beat the Athletics by the tune of 2-0.
|
* |
Bender would go on to be the starting pitcher for the Athletics in Game One of the 1910, 1911, 1913 and 1914 World Series. He ended up with a 6-4 World Series mark, a 2.44 World Series ERA, and the utmost respect of his peers and of Connie Mack for his clutch pitching.
|
* |
Swift suggests, with very little proof, that an Itchie-like battle with the bottle was the reason that Bender got battered in the Opening Game of the 1914 World Series by the clearly inferior Boston Braves, and that this same native taste for illicit spirits was the reason that Connie Mack put him on waivers at the conclusion of the 1914 season. Seems more likely to me that it was Bender’s signing with the upstart Federal League that led to his waiver by Mack.
|
* |
Bender completed his major league career with 212 wins, 127 losses, a 2.46 ERA, pitching 3017 innings, giving up 2645 hits, striking out 1711 batters and walking 712. His career WHIP of 1.113 is phenomenal. He was elected to the Hall of Fame by the Veterans Committee in 1953, and died on May 22, 1954 in Philadelphia.
|
* |
It is clear from Swift’s book that Bender was an upright, intelligent, articulate and honorable individual who was well-liked by all who crossed his path. It is also clear that he did in fact overcome great prejudice to become one of the great major league pitchers of all time, and likely the greatest American Indian pitcher.
|
So
now
you
know
the
story
of
Chief
Bender’s
Burden.
BOOK
REPORT:
The
Snowball:
Warren
Buffett
and
the
Business
of
Life
(01/29/10)

For
those
of
you
who
have
not
yet
read
it,
I
highly
recommend
the
seminal
work
on
Warren Buffett,
titled
above,
written
by
Alice
Schroeder,
who
was
granted
virtually
unlimited
access
to
Buffett
and
his
cadre
of
business
associates,
friends,
and
family
members,
including
the
Cardinal
of
Curmudgeons,
Charlie
Munger.
In a
word,
the
book
is
fascinating.
At
800
pages
in
length,
it
is a
bit
intimidating
to
start,
but
it
is a
page-turner
that
I
polished
off
in
about
three
weeks.
The
Oracle
of
Omaha
is a
incredibly
brilliant
man,
but
as
Ms.
Schroeder
demonstrates
in
abundance,
he
is
an
extraordinarily
complex
man
with
a
highly
underdeveloped
ability
to
deal
with
his
own
emotions.
Perhaps
because
of
his
refusal
to
deal
with
his
own
father’s
death,
or
because
of
the
emotional
battering
that
he
and
his
siblings
took
from
their
crackpot
mother,
Buffett
simply
cannot
deal
with
the
illnesses
and
deaths
of
his
family
members
and
close
friends.
Remarkably,
he
was
not
even
able
to
attend
the
memorial
service
of
his
late
wife,
Susie,
although
the
celebrated
Bono
was
there,
no
doubt
trying
to
cement
a
large
donation
to
one
of
his
many
charitable
causes.
There
are
so
many
great
stories
from
“Snowball”
that
I
could
share
with
you
to
whet
your
appetite
for
this
book,
but
I
don’t
want
to
spoil
it
for
you.
Let’s
just
say
that
if
you’re
from
Nebraska
and
you
like
to
read,
you
won’t
want
to
miss
out
on
this
great
book.
BOOK
REVIEW:
CRACKING
THE
SHOW,
by
Tom
Boswell
(12/23/09)
THE
RUINATION
OF
FERNANDO
I am
almost
done
reading
another
excellent
book
from
Tom
Boswell,
entitled
“Cracking
the
Show,”
which
is
basically
another
collection
of
his
newspaper
articles.
Good
God,
I
love
this
man.
I
could
read
his
stuff
every
single
day,
and
for
the
most
part,
I
do.
Anyway,
Boswell
has
a
chapter
in
the
book
called
“Won’t
Fade
Away,”
which
includes
an
article
about
Fernando
Valenzuela
dated
May
20,
1989,
captioned
“Valenzuela
Syndrome.”
The
subject
of
the
article
is
the
overuse
of
rookie
sensation
Fernando
Valenzuela
by
the
Dodgers
between
1982
and
1987,
and
the
impact
it
had
on
his
career.
At
the
time
he
wrote
the
article,
Fernando
was
still
pitching
for
the
Dodgers,
but
was
coming
off
of a
5-8
season
in
1988
and
a
14-14
campaign
in
1987,
and
was
showing
all
the
signs
of
being
washed
up.
Although
he
finished
the
1989
season
with
a
record
of
10-13,
at
the
time
Boswell
wrote
his
article,
Fernando
was
winless,
and
as
said
by
Boswell,
“reduced
to
junk
balling.”
As
Bowell
put
it,
“the
Los
Angeles
Dodgers
have
all
but
ruined
him.
They
didn’t
mean
it.
They
just
didn’t
know
then
what
everybody’s
learning
now:
The
faster
you
rise,
the
faster
you
fall.”
Boswell
later
asks
the
question,
“How
slow
is
Fernando?
When
utility
man
Mickey
Hatcher
pitched
in
the
Dodgers’
blowout
recently,
the
radar
gun
clocked
him
at
82
mph—the
same
speed
as
Valenzuela,
who
sometimes
can’t
get
to
80.
This
is
the
same
man
whose
fastball
once
set
up
1,048
strikeouts
in
seven
years.”
After
reading
this
great
article,
I
looked
up
Fernando’s
stats.
Sure
enough,
he
was
abused
badly
by
the
Dodgers.
In
his
rookie
campaign
in
1981,
Fernando
pitched
192.1
innings,
finishing
with
a
13-7
record,
with
11
complete
games
and
8
shutouts.
The
following
season,
1982,
they
pitched
him
285
innings,
including
18
complete
games.
In
1983,
it
was
257.0
innings
and
9
complete
games.
In
1984,
it
was
261
innings
and
12
complete
games.
In
1985,
272
innings
and
14
complete
games.
And
in
1986,
269
innings
and
20
complete
games.
After
Boswell’s
article,
Fernando
continued
to
pitch,
bouncing
around
from
the
Dodgers
to
the
Angels
to
the
Orioles
to
the
Phillies
to
the
Padres
to
the
Cardinals,
notching
a
45-63
won-loss
percentage
over
his
last
eight
years
after
going
118-90
between
1980
and
1988.
I am
including
the
full
text
of
Boswell’s
three-page
article
on
Valenzuela
Syndrome,
which
you
can
access
through
this
link,
if
you
want
to
read
the
entire
work.
He
makes
a
pretty
convincing
case
on
abuse
by
overwork.
BOOK
REVIEW:
THE
MACHINE
(12/14/09)
After
reading
an
excerpt
from
it
in
Sports
Illustrated
earlier
this
year,
I
decided
that
I
had
to
buy
The
Machine,
subtitled
“A
Hot
Team,
a
Legendary
Season,
and
a
Heart-stopping
World
Series:
The
Story
of
the
1975
Cincinnati
Reds,”
authored
by
Joe
Posnanski,
a
sports
columnist
at
the
Kansas
City
Star
since
1996.
By
the
way,
I
don’t
get
why
they
have
to
use
such
long
subtitles
these
days.
Either
too
many
books,
or
not
enough
creativity,
I
guess.
In
any
event,
although
I
don’t
remember
being
particularly
enamored
by
any
of
Mr.
Posnanski’s
sports
columns
in
the
Kansas
City
Star
when
I
have
stayed
in
that
city
in
the
past,
his
book
about
the
1975
Reds
is a
gem.
Perhaps
it
is
because
I
have
such
strong
memories
about
the
Big
Red
Machine
and
the
Fall
Classic
of
1975,
when
I
was
a
freshman
student
at
the
University
of
Nebraska,
but
I
couldn’t
wait
to
read
this
book,
and
once
I
dug
into
it,
I
could
barely
put
it
down.
To
try
to
whet
your
appetite
for
this
book
a
bit,
let
me
share
with
you
this
excerpt
about
Pete
Rose
which
describes
his
actions
in
the
sixth
inning
of
Game
7 of
the
1975
World
Series,
in
Boston,
with
the
great
Big
Red
Machine
down
by
the
score
of
3-0:
“What
the
hell’s
wrong
with
this
team?”
Rose
shouted,
dusting
off
the
dirt
from
his
kamikaze
slide.
“What
the
hell
is
wrong
with
you?”
He
paced
back
and
forth,
choking
in
the
dust
of
the
dugout,
a
lion
in
his
cage.
He
slapped
the
knees
of
players.
He
pumped
his
right
fist.
The
din
outside
grew
louder,
the
howls
of
those
desperate
and
bundled-up
Boston
Red
Sox
fans.
Fenway
Park
seemed
to
be
dressed
in
black
wool.
And
the
noise
sounded
like
a
wave
crashing
over
a
junkyard—all
roar
and
rattle
and
squeak.
“We’re
not
going
to
lose
this
game,”
Rose
shouted.
“No
way.
You
hear
me?
We
are
not
losing
tonight.
You
know
what
people
are
going
to
say
about
us?
We’re
nothing.
They’ll
say
we’re
losers.”
Pete
walked
up
and
down
the
bench
and
looked
hard
at
each
player’s
face.
“We’re
not
f--king
losers,”
he
shouted.
After
Rose’s
tirade,
Tony
Perez
hit
a
two-run
homer
off
Bill
“Spaceman”
Lee
which
sailed
far
over
the
Green
Monster,
closing
the
gap
to
3-2.
In
the
7th
inning,
Ken
Griffey
walked,
stole
second,
and
scored
on
Rose’s
single.
In
the
top
of
the
9th,
with
the
score
tied,
Griffey
walked
again,
and
was
pushed
over
to
2nd
base
on a
bunt.
After
Rose
was
walked
with
two
outs,
Morgan
came
to
the
plate,
and
with
the
count
2-and-2,
he
barely
got
a
bat
on a
nasty
slider
from
Red
Sox
reliever,
Jim
Burton,
dropping
the
ball
in
front
of
Fred
Lynn
for
a
soft
single.
In
the
bottom
of
the
9th,
Will
McEnaney
got
Juan
Beniquez
to
fly
to
right
field,
and
Bob
Montgomery
to
ground
out
to
shortstop,
bringing
up
the
great
Yastrzemski.
McEnaney
threw
his
best
fastball,
and
Yaz
hit
a
lazy
fly
ball
to
Cesar
Geronimo
in
center
field
which
ended
the
game
and
the
Series.
The
best
part
of
the
book,
in
my
opinion,
is
finding
out
about
the
interrelationships
between
the
team
members,
especially
the
stars,
Pete
Rose,
Joe
Morgan,
Johnny
Bench
and
Tony
Perez,
together
with
their
manager
Sparky
Anderson.
There
is a
great
part
about
a
spring
training
speech
that
Sparky
gave
to
the
Reds
in
Tampa
in
February
1975,
in
which
he
told
the
team
members
as a
whole
that
there
were
four
superstars
on
the
team,
the
aforementioned
Rose,
Bench,
Morgan
and
Perez,
who
made
their
own
rules,
who
had
no
curfew,
and
who
had
special
privileges.
As
Sparky
described
it
to
the
team
members,
these
four
were
royalty,
and
the
rest
of
the
players
were
“turds.”
But
on
the
subject
of
Sparky’s
clubhouse
speeches,
Will
McEnaney,
one
of
the
turds,
probably
said
it
best
more
than
thirty
years
later:
“None
of
us
ever
knew
what
the
F
Sparky
was
talking
about.”
One
of
my
favorite
quotes
from
the
book
came
from
Sparky,
commenting
upon
the
great
backstop
Johnny
Bench,
who
won
ten
straight
gold
gloves
for
defensive
excellence:
“Don’t
ever
embarrass
anyone
by
comparing
him
to
Johnny
Bench.”
I
will
include
one
photo
from
the
book,
below,
showing
Johnny
and
his
unique
ability
to
hold
seven
baseballs
in
one
hand.

Having
met
Bench
at a
Boys
Town
fundraiser
a
couple
of
years
ago
(see
picture
below),
and
having
had
the
chance
to
shake
his
hand,
I
can
confirm
that
he
has
an
absolute
set
of
bear
paws
for
hands.


Do
yourself
a
favor,
and
read
The
Machine.
It
will
be
worth
your
while.
BOOK
REPORT:
THE
BRONX
ZOO
By
Sparky
Lyle
with
Peter
Golenbock
Subtitled
“The
Astonishing
Inside
Story
of
the
1978
World
Champion
New
York
Yankees”
(10/28/09)
I
just
finished
reading
The
Bronx
Zoo,
Sparky
Lyle’s
“tell-all”
about
the
1978
New
York
Yankees
season.
While
this
was
probably
a
pretty
good
read
in
its
day
31
years
ago,
Lyle’s
recounting
of
the
1978
season,
while
controversial
in
its
day,
seems
extraordinarily
mild
by
today’s
standards.
In a
nutshell,
it
is a
season-long
diary
of
Lyle’s
heartburn
over
playing
for
George
Steinbrenner
and
not
getting
the
raise
in
pay
that
he
felt
that
he
deserved.

For
my
money,
the
best
part
of
the
book
was
Lyle’s
recounting
of
some
of
the
hijinks
that
were
pulled
by
some
of
his
Yankee
teammates.
Some
of
the
major
pranksters
were
Fritz
Peterson
and
Mike
Kekich,
of
wife-swapping
fame.
According
to
Lyle,
Kekich
once
bought
a
waterbed
in
Milwaukee,
and
went
on
and
on
with
his
teammates
about
what
a
terrific
bed
he
had
bought.
The
next
day,
the
waterbed
was
hanging
from
the
flagpole
in
front
of
the
scoreboard
at
Milwaukee’s
County
Stadium,
about
eighty
feet
in
the
air,
flapping
in
the
breeze.
Fritz
Peterson
signed
up
Mel
Stottlemyre
for
every
encyclopedia
in
print.
One
time,
Stottlemyre
got
home
from
a
road
trip,
and
waiting
for
him
at
his
home
were
boxes
and
boxes
of
books
with
invoices
totaling
thousands
of
dollars.
He
would
send
the
books
back,
but
more
books
would
appear
on
his
doorstep.
MUNSON
MAYHEM
In
1972,
Peterson
pulled
a
fantastic
prank
on
Thurman
Munson.
Thurman,
a
gun
enthusiast,
had
ordered
a
gun
holster
from
a
particular
magazine,
which
he
wanted
to
use
to
hold
his
.357
magnum.
Thurman
filled
out
the
order
blank,
requesting
a
holster
for
a
.357
with
a
four
inch
barrel,
made
to
fit
his
waist
size
of
36,
and
for
a
right-handed
shooter.
However,
Fritz
Peterson
intercepted
the
letter
to
the
company,
erased
what
Thurman
had
written,
and
substituting
an
order
for
a
tiny
.38
snub-nosed
pistol,
for
a
person
with
a 20
inch
waist,
for
someone
who
was
left-handed.
It
took
six
weeks
for
the
package
to
come,
and
Munson
was
all
excited
when
he
received
it,
until
he
ripped
off
the
wrapper,
opened
up
the
box,
and
inside
was
the
holster,
about
3
inches
long,
with
a 20
inch
waist,
for
a
left-hander.
Thurman
was
extraordinarily
pissed
off.
Munson
put
the
holster
back
in
the
box
and
returned
it,
with
orders
to
replace
it
with
a
correctly
sized
and
designed
holster.
Fritz
intercepted
it
once
again,
kept
it
in
his
locker
for
a
couple
of
weeks,
wrapped
it
up
as
if
it
were
coming
back
from
the
company,
and
put
it
back
in
Munson’s
locker.
Once
again,
Thurman
went
nuts.
Three
different
times
Fritz
did
the
same
thing,
and
three
different
times
Thurman
opened
the
box,
and
every
time
got
the
same
tiny
holster,
and
could
not
figure
out
why.
Love
it.
SUDDEN
SAM
Also
I
loved
this
excerpt
about
Sudden
Sam
McDowell,
who
was
a
Yankee
in
1973
and
1974:
Cliff
[Johnson]
may
get
drunk
every
once
in a
while,
but
he
was
nothing
compared
to
Sudden
Sam
McDowell
when
he
played
with
the
Yankees
in
1973
and
1974.
When
Sam
was
with
us,
he
had
a
terrible
drinking
problem.
He
was
big,
about
6
feet
6,
and
he
threw
real
hard.
Five
times
he
led
the
league
in
strikeouts.
He
had
as
much
talent
as
anybody
I’ve
ever
seen,
and
he
was
past
his
prime
when
he
was
with
us.
But
Sam,
for
some
reason,
could
not
control
his
drinking
then,
and
it
cost
him
badly.
I
understand
that
since
Sam
has
gotten
out
of
baseball,
he’s
been
able
to
control
his
problem,
which
makes
me
feel
real
good
because
being
with
Sam
was
one
of
the
highlights
of
my
career.
He
was
one
of
the
most
fascinating
guys
I’ve
ever
known.
We
used
to
call
him
Teen
Angel
because
he
always
slicked
his
hair
back.
Sam
was
notorious
for
getting
in
the
sauce,
getting
real
rowdy,
picking
a
fight,
and
getting
beat
up.
This
one
day
we
were
on a
plane
heading
for
a
road
trip,
and
Sam’s
hair
was
blow-dried,
and
he
had
it
combed
and
styled.
Everyone
was
buzzing,
“Teen
Angel
got
his
hair
done.”
We
were
taking
bets
because
we
knew
something
must
have
happened.
When
Sam
fell
asleep,
Pat
Dobson
went
back
to
where
Sam
was
sleeping,
lifted
back
his
hair,
and
there
were
two
big
knots
on
his
forehead
where
somebody
had
knocked
the
crap
out
of
him.
He
had
his
hair
blown
dry
to
cover
the
knots
because
Bill
Virdon
had
told
him,
“No
more
drinking.
One
more
time
and
you’re
gone.”
I
remember
one
night
Sam
had
had
a
few,
and
he
tripped
while
walking
down
the
sidewalk
and
sprained
his
ankle.
This
was
’73,
when
Ralph
Houk
was
managing.
The
next
day
Sam
was
supposed
to
pitch,
and
his
ankle
was
hurting
him
so
badly
he
could
hardly
walk.
He
went
to
Ralph
and
said,
“You
know
what
happened?
I
went
shopping
yesterday,
and
I
went
up
the
store
escalator,
and
I
hurt
my
ankle.”
And
Sam
made
up
the
name
of
one
of
Minneapolis’s
department
stores
and
made
up
all
this
stuff.
Houk
said,
“Yeah.
Yeah.”
Sam
said,
“Really,
Skip.
It
hurt
real
bad.”
Ralph
didn’t
say
anything,
but
he
had
known
what
had
happened.
But
to
show
you
how
Sam
would
work
things
through,
the
next
day
he
went
back
to
Ralph
and
said,
“I
just
want
to
tell
you
everything’s
OK.
I
was
going
to
sue
those
guys
in
the
store,
but
I
went
and
talked
to
them
today,
and
I
told
them
I
was
all
right
and
not
to
worry
that
I
was
going
to
sue
them
for
that
escalator
hurting
my
ankle.”
That
night
we
went
to
the
airport,
and
there
was
an
escalator.
Ralph
waited
for
Sam
and
made
him
walk
up
the
stairs.
Ralph
told
him,
“I
wouldn’t
want
you
to
hurt
your
ankle
again.”
Sam
used
to
say,
“I
have
complete
control
of
all
of
my
pitches.”
Graig
would
say,
“Yeah,
you
can
walk
any
batter
on
any
pitch.”
Later
we
started
calling
him
Topper.
It
didn’t
matter
what
you
said,
Sam
had
always
done
something
a
little
bit
better.
One
day
someone
said
that
Warren
Spahn
held
the
season
record
for
walks.
Sam
said,
“No
he
doesn’t.
One
year
I
walked
three
hundred
and
fifty
batters.”
It
was
about
20
over
the
first
number.
After
that
we
started
making
up
things
to
see
what
he
would
say,
and
always
he
had
done
whatever
it
was,
only
better.
Always.
If
any
of
you
want
to
borrow
my
copy
of
The
Bronx
Zoo,
let
me
know
and
I
will
be
happy
to
let
you
use
it.
BOOK
REPORT:
GEORGE:
The
Poor
Little
Rich
Boy
Who
Built
the
Yankee
Empire,
by
Peter
Golenbock
(08/11/09)
I
just
finished
reading
GEORGE:
The
Poor
Little
Rich
Boy
Who
Built
the
Yankee
Empire,
published
in
2009
by
John
Wiley
&
Sons,
and
written
by
Peter
Golenbock,
a
knowledgeable
sportswriter
on
the
subject
of
the
New
York
Yankees
who
has
previously
collaborated
with
former
Yankees
Sparky
Lyle
(The
Bronx
Zoo),
Billy
Martin
(No.
1),
Graig
Nettles
(Balls),
and
Johnny
Damon
(Idiot).
The
book,
of
course,
chronicles
the
life
and
times
of
George
Steinbrenner,
the
long
time
General
Partner
of
the
ownership
group
which
has
owned
and
operated
the
New
York Yankees
since
1973,
when
this
little-known
shipbuilder
from
Cleveland
put
together
a
deal
to
buy
the
Yankees
from
CBS
for
the
now-laughable
sum
of
$10
million.
Although
Golenbock’s
writing
style
and
employment
of
the
English
language
falls
well
short
of
some
of
the
more
talented
baseball
wordsmiths
such
as
Roger
Kahn,
Tom
Boswell
and
Roger
Angell,
George
is
nevertheless
a
good
read,
primarily
because
of
the
fascinating
subject
of
the
book,
but
also
because
of
Golenbock’s
deep
fund
of
knowledge
about
him.
Getting
to
read
about
Steinbrenner’s
love-hate
relationships
with
Billy
Martin,
Reggie
Jackson
and
Dave
Winfield,
among
others,
and
about
Steinbrenner’s
constant
meddling
with
all
of
the
many
managers
and
general
managers
that
he
hired
and
fired
during
his
reign
of
terror
is
enough
alone
to
justify
the
purchase
of
this
book.
A
few
of
the
more
interesting
tidbits
about
Steinbrenner
which
are
contained
in
this
book
are
as
follows:
* |
Steinbrenner’s father, Henry, a stern and humorless Great Lakes shipping magnate, graduated first in his class at MIT in 1927, and was a star hurdler, one of the best in the country. Henry sent George to live and be educated at the Culver Military Academy in Ohio, where George was an average student but a star hurdler like his father. After being rejected admission to more prestigious universities, George attended Williams College in Western Massachusetts, where he starred on the track team.
|
* |
Although George made the school football team as a senior (but did not ever play), he reportedly later held himself out to be the captain of the football team, and even represented to some that he had made it all the way to the National Football League.
|
* |
After serving a two-year military obligation, during which time his wealthy and influential father was able to keep him stateside during the Korean conflict, George was a high school and college football coach for several years, including a one-year stint at Purdue University.
|
* |
George was the principal owner of the Cleveland Pipers ABA basketball team, and if he had been able to raise the amount of $200,000 (he only had commitments for half this much), he would have been able to have his team admitted to the NBA. Because he left a number of creditors—including coaches and players—hanging when the Pipers experienced a financial collapse, George had a black eye among Clevelandites in his first venture into sports team ownership.
|
* |
Ravaged by dementia, George had to be driven around in a golf cart for the 2008 All Star Game celebration at Yankee Stadium. By this time, sons Hal and Hank had taken over from their famous father in running the Yankee organization.
|
* |
Hank Steinbrenner, who reportedly talks with a bad stutter, arguably because of years of abuse from his father, is said to be even meaner and more hateworthy than his father. Should make things interesting for years to come in the Yankee organization.
|
* |
When Billy Martin died in his one-vehicle truck crash on Christmas Day 1989, he was in line to manage the Yankees for the sixth time during the 1990 season.
|
* |
After being booed mercilessly by Yankee fans for his treatment of Billy Martin, Reggie Jackson and Dave Winfield, and for his constant meddling in the affairs of his managers, eventually Yankee fans came to love Steinbrenner for bringing them World Series titles in 1977, 1978, 1996, 1998, 1999 and 2000. Everyone loves a winner.
|
* |
The side of George that was not known to me was his charitable side, and the final chapter of the book talks about the munificent George Steinbrenner, who quietly funded school scholarships, raised money for the poor and hungry, and came to the aid of many people who were down on their luck, apparently with every effort made to keep his benevolence under the radar screen. The final chapter of the book gave me a whole new outlook on George Steinbrenner. |
In
the
end,
I
won’t
give
this
book
a
thumbs
up
or a
thumbs
down,
but
a
thumbs
sideways.
Not
a
“must”
read,
but
a
pretty
darned
interesting
read,
particularly
for
all
you
Yankee
fans
out
there.
BOOK
REPORT:
THE
LAST
BEST
LEAGUE
(05/21/09)
 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.
BOOK
REPORT:
A
False
Spring,
by
Pat
Jordan
(03/06/09)
Speaking
of
spring,
I
just
finished
reading
an
excellent
baseball
book,
A
False
Spring,
written
by
former
minor
league
player
Pat
Jordan.
This
book
was
initially
published
in
1973,
and
I
have
heard
it
mentioned
over
the
years,
but
never
saw
it
in a
bookstore
and
never
had
a
reason
to
purchase
it
until
recently,
when
I
saw
that
the
University
of
Nebraska
Press
was
putting
out
a
paperback
edition.
To
my
delight,
it
is a
very
enjoyable
and
easy
read.
Jordan’s
book
was
written
by
him
in
the
early
1970s,
more
than
a
decade
after
he
washed
out
of
the
minor
leagues
after
three
ignominious
seasons
in
the
low
level
minors.
I
didn’t
know
this
when
I
bought
the
book,
but
his
first
season
in
professional
baseball
was
for
the
Class
D
McCook
Braves
of
the
Nebraska
State
League.
This
home
state
flavor
made
it
even
more
interesting
to
read
than
it
otherwise
would
have
been,
but
the
book
would
still
be
worth
reading
even
if
it
was
McCook,
Montana,
or
any
other
small
town.
The
book
begins
with
Jordan’s
recounting
of
having
his
picture
taken
on
June
27,
1959,
at
County
Stadium
in
Milwaukee,
with
the
greatest
left-hander
of
all-time,
Warren
Spahn.
Jordan
was
18
years
old
that
day
and
just
had
signed
his
first
professional
baseball
contract,
which
was
to
pay
him
a
signing
bonus
of
$35,000,
four
years
of
college
education,
and
a
salary
of
$500
per
month,
for
a
total
bonus
of a
little
more
than
$45,000
distributed
over
a
four-year
period.
According
to
Jordan,
it
was
one
of
the
largest
bonuses,
if
not
the
largest,
any
young
ballplayer
had
received
from
the
Braves
in
1959.
Because
of
this,
Jordan
had
the
status
of a
“bonus
baby”
among
his
coaches
and
peers.
As
Jordan
describes
in
the
early
part
of
the
book,
he
was
a
childhood
phenom
pitcher
who
at
age
12
regularly
made
the
headlines
in
the
sports
section
of
the
Bridgeport,
Connecticut
Post-Telegram
newspaper.
Four
consecutive
no-hitters,
a
season
in
which
he
struck
out
110
of
the
116
batters
retired
and
gave
up
only
2
hits,
36
strikeouts
in a
row,
and
so
forth
and
so
on.
After
his
fourth
consecutive
no-hitter,
his
parents
were
called
by a
reporter
working
for
Ripley’s
Believe
it
or
Not.
Such
a
talent
was
Jordan
at
that
early
age
that
he
was
invited
with
his
parents
to
appear
on
Mel
Allen’s
television
show
prior
to a
Yankees-Red
Sox
doubleheader
at
Yankee
Stadium,
where
they
were
treated
like
royalty.
After
signing
with
the
Braves,
the
18-year-old
Jordan
was
flown
to
North
Platte,
Nebraska
(by
himself,
no
escort,
no
helicopter
parents),
and
then
driven
to
McCook
where
his
minor
league
career
began.
There
are
so
many
interesting
tidbits
and
excerpts
from
this
book
that
I
could
share
with
you,
but
I
will
attempt
to
be
circumspect
so
that
you
will
have
a
reason
to
actually
buy
and
read
the
book
yourself.
► |
At his first game as a McCook Brave, almost 800 people came to watch the McCook Braves in their third game of the season, against their nearby rival North Platte Indians. Over the course of that summer, the Braves averaged 700 people per game, about 10% of the town’s population. As pointed out by Jordan, this would be comparable to the New York Yankees drawing over 700,000 to each of their games.
|
► |
The Nebraska State League in 1959 consisted of six teams, the Holdrege White Sox, the Kearney Yankees, the Hastings Giants, the North Platte Indians, the Grand Island Athletics, and the McCook Braves. As a rookie league, the teams played games only in July and August of each year.
|
► |
The manager of the McCook Braves in 1959 was Bill Steinecke, who was a catcher in the minors for years but never made it to the major leagues. As reported by Jordan, Steinecke also played professional basketball with the “House of David” touring team which was supposedly made up of orthodox Jews, but actually was comprised primarily of Gentiles, like Steinecke, who was required to wear a fake rabbinical beard during games. According to Jordan, Steinecke stood five feet five inches tall, weighed over 200 pounds--mostly in his stomach--and resembled Nikita Khrushchev.
|
► |
Jordan recounted an episode in McCook in which Steinecke was sitting on the top step of the dugout, berating the home plate umpire, all the while with a woman fan screaming epithets at him. Jordan reported that “Steinie ignored her for a time. She cast aspersions on his manhood. ‘Can’t cut the mustard anymore, you old fart!’ He shouted back at her, ‘Not with an old piece of meat like you.’ At the end of the inning he returned to the dugout bench, out of the woman’s vision. He was cackling to himself. Julius, Overby, Brubaker and I thought he was mad. ‘That old whore!’ He shook his head as if in admiration. ‘Used to be one helluva lay in her day. Yes sirree. But so did we all, I guess.’”
|
► |
The backup catcher on the McCook Braves in 1959 was Elrod Hendricks, described by Jordan as a “black, very limber native of the Virgin Islands,” who spoke a rhythmic calypso English. After Jordan showed him up one time in front of the manager, he ran into Hendricks on the downtown streets of McCook, at which time Hendricks beat the holy daylights out of him, putting Jordan in bed for the next couple of games.
|
► |
The first baseman for the ’59 Braves was Frank Saia, who at that time was a student at Harvard Law School, just making money during the summertime, with no hopes of eventually making it to the majors.
|
► |
According to Jordan, the tenth-best pitcher on the ’59 McCook Braves was a 20-year-old from Blaine, Ohio, named Phil Niekro, who was the only pitcher on the team that ever had a major league career. At that time, Niekro was ineffective because he could not throw his knuckleball over the plate, and was considered no more than a mop-up pitcher on the team.
|
► |
Some of the other players who played in the Nebraska State League in 1959 are well known to all of us: Jose Santiago, later to pitch for the Red Sox; Jim Bouton, described as the fifth fastest pitcher on the Kearney Yankee team; Bill Hands, a future 20-game winner for the Cubs who was a seldom-used pitcher for the Hastings Giants; Al Weiss, who hit .200 for the Holdrege White Sox in 1959, but later played in the majors for over 10 years; and Duke Simms, who later helped the Detroit Tigers reach the 1972 American League playoffs, who was the North Platte Indians’ second string catcher in 1959.
|
► |
The following season, the summer of 1960, Jordan pitched for the Quad City Braves in Davenport in the Midwest League. As he described it, Davenport Stadium held almost 13,000 people, but no more than 500 ever seemed to attend any one baseball game.
Jordan’s manager at Davenport was Travis Calvin Stonewall Jackson, who was a major league shortstop with the New York Giants for many years, an All Star who retired with a .291 lifetime batting average. He was 58 years old at that time, and there was talk that “Ol’ Travis” had "took sick" while he was out of baseball, a euphemism for heavy drinking. Because of Jordan’s ineffectiveness while pitching at Davenport Stadium, and the tendency of the fans to boo him off the mound, manager Travis rarely started him at home, but instead put him out on the mound when they were visiting places like Dubuque, Decatur, Waterloo, Quincy and Keokuk. At a game in Keokuk, when Travis visited the mound to talk with Jordan, he found him as he always did, boiling, cursing and kicking dirt. “You’re not taking me out of this game, you old bastard!” said Jordon to Travis. As Jordan recalled it, “Travis just smiled his toothless smile and laid his hand on my shoulder. ‘Don’t you worry, son. You can pitch as long as you like. They love you in Keokuk.’”
|
► |
I loved Jordan’s description of the Torre brothers (Frank already in the major leagues with the Braves) “as dark and sinister-looking as a Mexican villain from a Grade B movie”; and Joe (age 19 and in the low minors) “Over 220 pounds, and his unbelievably dark skin and black brows were frightening. He looked like a fierce Bedouin tribesman whose distrust for everything could be read in the shifting whites of his eyes.”
|
After
his
1960
season
in
Davenport,
Jordan
went
on
to
play
in
the
Florida
Instructional
League
that
winter,
followed
by a
brief
tour
in
Eau
Claire,
Wisconsin,
followed
by
his
terminal
assignment
to
Palatka
in
the
Florida
State
League.
I
will
not
spoil
the
ending
for
you
by
recounting
how
Jordan’s
minor
league
career
came
to
an
end.
Anyway,
I’m
quite
sure
that
any
of
you
who
take
the
time
to
read
this
book
will
enjoy
it
immensely.
Happy
reading.
BOOK
REPORT:
Heart
of the
Order
by
Thomas
Boswell
(02/04/09)
Although
I
finished
it
back
in the
fall
sometime,
I am
just
now
getting
around
to
providing
you
with
this
short
burst
of
praise
for
Boswell’s
timeless
collection,
mainly
because
the
From
the
Bullpen
presses
have
been
shut
down
for
the
winter.
In any
event,
like
all of
his
baseball
books,
Heart
of the
Order
is a
wonderful
collection
of
Boswell’s
best
baseball
pieces
from
the
Washington
Post,
augmented
and
enhanced
through
his
later
reflections.
The
book
was
particularly
enjoyable
to me
because
the
time
period
involved
in
these
writings
is the
1980s,
which
coincides
with
the
blessed
rekindling
of my
passion
for
this
great
game
of
baseball.
To
whet
your
appetites,
I list
here a
few of
the
chapter
headings
from
Heart
of the
Order:
DH:
Carl
Yastrzemski—Captain
Beefheart
Shortstop:
Don
Mattingly—Heart
and
Soul
Right
Field:
Fred
Lynn—Heartbreaker
Right-handed
Pitcher:
Doyle
Alexander—Heartless
Left-handed
Pitcher:
Tommy
John—Heart
Transplant
Coach:
Stump
Merrill—Heart’s
Desire
President:
Lee
MacPhail—Old
Sweetheart
And
from
the
section
called
Five
Octobers:
1985:
The
Hallowed
and
the
Hollow
Men of
Summer
1986:
Ultimate
Red
Sox
1987:
The
Mysterious
Case
of the
Cards,
Jays
and
Twins
1988:
Minds
over
Mastodons
My
favorite
part
of the
book
deals
with
the
1988
World
Series,
in
which
the
mediocre
and
crippled
Dodgers
topped
the
powerful
Oakland
Athletics
and
their
mastodonic
twins,
McGwire
and
Canseco.
Here
are a
few
delectable
tidbits
from
Boswell’s
recounting
of the
1988
Fall
Classic:
► |
When
you’re
hot,
you
guess
right.
As
1
a.m.
approached
in
the
twelfth
inning
of
Game
4,
Lasorda
called
for
Jesse
Orosco—not
his
favorite
reliever—to
face
his
old
Mets
mates
Keith
Hernandez
and
Darryl
Strawberry,
a
lefty
against
lefties.
Orosco
walked
Hernandez,
then
threw
ball
one
to
Strawberry.
Lasorda,
who
usually
goes
to
the
mound
only
to
remove
pitchers,
visited
Orosco—neck
veins
bulging,
jaw
flapping,
eye
to
eye.
You’ll
never
see
a
better
chewout.
Lip
readers
had
a
field
day.
“I
just
gave
him
a
little
encouragement,”
Lasorda
said
the
next
day.
“Just
a
few
words
to
let
him
know
we
were
all
behind
him.”
|
► |
The
round
manager
has
now
taken
the
Dodgers
to
the
playoffs
six
times
in
twelve
years—little
credit
he
usually
gets
for
it.
Some
might
think
that
this
team,
because
it
was
won
with
mirrors
and
because
it
has
reflected
so
well
on
Lasorda,
might
be
his
favorite.
Ask
him
and
you
get
pure
Tommy—a
story
that
is
such
a
perfect
mix
of
schmaltz
and
truth
that
you
want
to
hug
him
with
one
hand
and
cover
your
wallet
with
the
other:
“When
I
was
fourteen
years
old,
somebody
asked
my
father
which
of
his
five
sons
he
loved
the
most.
I
knew
he
was
gonna
say
me.
But,
instead,
he
held
up
his
hand
and
said,
‘Which
finger
do
I
love
the
best?’
The
previous
day,
Lasorda
had
told
the
same
exact
story.
But
that
time,
he
said
it
was
his
mother.
|
► |
Gibson’s
homer
did
not
short-circuit
a
light
tower
and
burn
Chavez
Ravine
to
ash.
It
just
scorched
Dennis
Eckersley,
Tony
LaRussa
and
an
Oakland
team
that
would
like
to
get
its
foot
out
of
its
mouth
and
Gibson’s
boot
off
its
neck.
|
► |
“Excited?
I
was
going
to
run
around
the
bases
with
him,”
said
Mickey
Hatcher,
king
of
the
L.A.
Stuntmen.
“I
figured
they’d
have
to
get
a
wheelchair
out
there
for
him.
My
first
reaction
was
to
go
out
and
kiss
him.
But
the
guy
doesn’t
shave.”
|
► |
“I
didn’t
even
think
the
guy
could
walk,”
said
Brian
Holton.
“I’d
forgotten
all
about
Kirk,”
added
Hatcher.
“I
didn’t
even
see
him
all
night,”
said
Steve
Sax.
But
Gibson
was
still
hoping.
When
broadcaster
Vince
Skully
said
on
TV
that
Gibson
was
gone
for
the
night,
Gibson
growled,
“Bullshit,”
and
broke
out
of
his
ice
wrap
like
the
Thing
coming
to
life.
|
► |
With
Davis,
a
home
run
threat
and
former
Athletic,
at
bat,
Lasorda
deked
Oakland
nicely
by
sending
the
weak
Anderson
out
on
deck.
Eckersley
pitched
too
carefully
and
walked
Davis,
assuming
the
Dodgers
had
no
power
left.
“You
can’t
walk
the
tying
run,”
said
Eckersley;
“.
.
.
that’s
why
I
lost.”
As
Gibson
did
a
jig
of
pain
after
each
lunging
swing,
and
even
tried
a
half-speed
jog
to
first
on
one
foul
dribbler,
the
A’s
continued
to
pour
fastballs
at
the
outside
corner.
“He
didn’t
look
too
good
on
his
swings,”
said
Hassey,
the
catcher,
yet
he
kept
ticking
off
fouls.
But
the
Dodgers
adapted
by
running.
On
the
first
steal
attempt,
Gibson
finally
had
a
decent
swing,
poking
a
foul
to
left.
Oh,
so
that’s
their
game,
thought
the
A’s.
Can’t
allow
a
hit-and-run
double
to
the
opposite
field.
So
they
changed
plans.
On
the
first
slider,
Davis
stole
second
and
the
count
ran
full.
Suddenly,
LaRussa
had
to
face
a
decision
with
historic
overtones.
In
the
1985
playoffs,
in
this
ballpark,
Lasorda
pitched
to
Jack
Clark
in
just
such
a
spot,
top
of
the
ninth,
with
first
base
open.
Next
pitch,
home
run.
Season
over.
.
.
.
With
hindsight,
the
A’s
may
remember
Game
Five
of
the
’84
World
Series,
when
Goose
Gossage
talked
Dick
Williams
into
letting
him
pitch
to
Gibson
with
Detroit
ahead,
5—4,
in
the
eighth.
“Ten
bucks
says
they
pitch
to
me,”
yelled
Gibson
to
Sparky
Anderson.
“Ten
bucks
says
they
don’t,”
yelled
back
the
Tigers’
manager.
They
did.
Gibson
went
into
the
upper
deck
for
three
runs
and
the
icing
on
a
world
title.
Now
it
is
easy
to
say
you
should
let
Eckersley
pitch
to
right-handed
Steve
Sax.
But,
at
the
moment,
Hassey
thought
“we
can
freeze
Gibson”
with
a
backdoor
slider—a
pitch
that
looks
like
a
low
outside
fastball
for
a
semi-intentional
walk,
then
snaps
back
to
nick
the
corner
and
end
the
game,
unhit.
“I
tried
to
make
a
nasty
pitch,”
said
Eckersley.
Instead,
it
proved
to
be
“the
only
pitch
he
could
hit
out.”
Already,
the
home
run,
probably
not
a
400-footer,
is
growing
by
the
hour.
Now
Sax
says
Gibson
“hit
it
with
one
hand.”
There’s
a
palm
tree,
about
500
feet
from
home
plate.
If
it
ever
dies,
folks
here
will
swear
Gibson
killed
it.
That
won’t
be
true.
But
if
the
burly
A’s
somehow
lose
this
Series,
there
won’t
be
much
doubt
who
killed
them.
|
Pure
poetry.
You
definitely
want
to
read
this
book.
In
fact,
I
insist.
BOOK
REVIEW:
THE
BRONX
IS
BURNING:
1977,
Baseball,
Politics,
and
the
Battle
for
the
Soul
of a
City
(11/14/08)
If
you
want
to
read a
truly
fascinating
book,
one
that
superbly
covers
the
Bermuda
Triangle
of
Reggie
Jackson,
Billy
Martin
and
George
Steinbrenner
during
the
tempestuous
baseball
season
of
1977,
structured
around
one of
the
most
fascinating
years
in the
history
of New
York
City,
then
The
Bronx
is
Burning
is for
you.
This
fantastic
read,
written
by
Jonathan
Mahler
of
Brooklyn,
was
the
framework
for
the
miniseries
of the
same
name
which
was on
television
last
year
or the
year
before.
I
bought
this
book
at the
airport
on my
way to
Seattle
the
week
before
last,
and
simply
could
not
put it
down,
finishing
it off
in two
days.
One of
the
reviews
for
this
book,
included
in the
book
jacket,
says
it
all:
Damon
Runyon,
where
are
you
now?
Mahler’s
rollicking
evocation
of New
York
in
1977
–– the
year
of Son
of
Sam,
the
year
of the
Blackout,
the
year
it
refuses
to
Drop
Dead,
the
year, dammit,
the
Yankees
take
the
World
Series
–– is
full
of
Runyonesque
characterization,
energy,
and
biting
wit .
. .
.
The
bases
are
loaded
and
Mahler
smokes
it.
~Harold
Evans,
author
of
The
American
Reader
This
book
includes
the
fascinating
account
of the
1977
New
York
City
mayoral
race
between
the
incumbent
Abe
Beame,
Bella
Abzug,
eventual
winner
Ed
Koch,
and
Mario
Cuomo,
in a
classic
battle
for
Gracie
Mansion.
It
covers
the
city’s
crippling
fiscal
crisis.
It
provides
a
fascinating
account
of the
blackout
of
July
13,
1977,
caused
by a
lightning
strike
and
the
staggering
incompetence
of the
management
team
at Con
Edison.
It
provides
horrifying
details
of the
looting
which
ravaged
the
Bushwick
neighborhood
in
North
Brooklyn,
and
chronicles
many
of the
3,776
arrests
which
were
made
in the
aftermath
of the
blackout.
Mahler
expertly
recounts
the
terror
caused
by
mass
murderer
David
“Son
of
Sam”
Berkowitz,
and
his
eventual
capture
and
arrest.
It
relates
how
Mayor
Beame,
in an
effort
to
boost
his
popularity
during
the
heated
mayoral
race,
erroneously
reached
to
shake
the
hand
of
Berkowitz
during
a
prearranged
press
conference,
mistaking
him
for
the
brave
officer
who
captured
Son of
Sam.
Mahler’s
tour
de
force
covers
the
gentrification
of the
Soho
District,
the
birth
of
Studio
54,
and
the
phenomenon
of
“The
Summer
of Our
Discotheques.”
Probably
my
favorite
story
from
The
Bronx
is
Burning
is the
interviewing
of
Reggie
Jackson
after
Game 5
of the
American
League
Championship
game
against
the
Kansas
City
Royals
in
Kansas
City,
in
which
Reggie
Jackson
was
benched
for
Paul
Blair
because
of his
pathetic
hitting
performance
in the
first
four
games
of the
series,
and
the
prospect
of
facing
lefty
Paul
Splittorff
of the
Royals,
who
was
death
to
Jackson.
Before
the
game,
Billy
Martin
was
afraid
to
even
tell
Reggie
that
he was
benching
him,
and
instead
sent
Reggie’s
roommate
to
deliver
the
news.
Reggie
stewed
on the
bench
throughout
the
game
until
he was
called
to
pinch
hit in
the
top of
the
8th
for
Cliff
Johnson,
the
designated
hitter.
Coming
through
in the
clutch
as he
would
later
do in
the
World
Series
against
the
Dodgers,
Reggie
stroked
a
single
off
Royals
closer
Paul
Byrd,
knocking
in a
run to
close
the
gap to
one
run.
The
Yankees
eventually
took
the
lead
in the
top of
the
9th by
virtue
of
players
other
than
Reggie
Jackson,
and
held
on to
win
the
game.
In the
locker
room
after
the
game,
most
of the
reporters
surrounded
the
heroes
of the
game,
but a
couple
of
scribes
chose
to
talk
with
Reggie.
As
described
by
Mahler:
A few
lockers
away
Reggie
ended
his
short
lived
experiment
with
stoicism.
“Can I
explain
what
it
means?”,
referring
to his
bloop
single
in the
8th
inning
to a
few
writers.
“I
can’t
explain
it. I
can’t
explain
it
because
I
don’t
understand
the
magnitude
of
Reggie
Jackson.”
Now
that,
my
friends,
is an
ego.
That
statement
summed
up
Reggie
as
well
as
anything
could.
Anyway,
if you
haven’t
already
read
it, I
highly
recommend
The
Bronx
is
Burning
to all
of
you.
You
will
love
it.
BIG
RUSS &
ME
(10/01/08)

Last
week
at the
Midway
Airport,
en
route
to
Michigan,
I
picked
up the
book
written
a
couple
of
years
ago by
the
late
Tim
Russert
about
his
upbringing
and
his
relationship
with
his
dad,
entitled
Big
Russ &
Me.
I had
seen
this
book
on the
bookshelves
for
the
past
couple
of
years,
and
had
been
meaning
to buy
it and
read
it
long
before
Russert
passed
away
earlier
this
year.
With
his
very
sad
and
premature
death
this
past
summer,
I knew
that I
had to
buy my
copy
and
read
it.
Russert
was
born
and
raised
in
South
Buffalo,
an
Irish
Catholic
enclave,
the
son of
a
hard-working
Irish
garbageman
who
also
had
the
name
of Tim
Russert.
As
young
Tim
grew
up in
a very
modest,
working-class
household,
he
learned
many
lessons
about
life
from
his
taciturn
but
fair
paternal
parent.
From
parochial
elementary
school
to
Canisius
High
School
to
college
and
law
school
in
Cleveland
to
working
as the
campaign
manager
for
Patrick
Daniel
Moynihan
to
attaining
his
position
as
moderator
on
Meet
the
Press
(a
post
long
occupied
by the
late
great
Lawrence
Spivak),
Russert
did an
excellent
job of
chronicling
the
impact
of his
father’s
example
and
advice
on his
own
maturation
from
child
to
adolescent
to
young
man to
full
manhood,
as
well
as how
he put
his
own
father’s
advice
to use
in
living
the
role
of
father
to his
own
son.
Big
Russ &
Me
is a
very
fast
(two
flights
and an
hour
at
Midway)
and
easy
read,
and
should
be
required
reading
for
all of
us
males
who
are
winning
the
bread
for
our
families
and
trying
to
learn
or
master
the
worthy
and
noble
job of
serving
as
fathers
to our
children.
Be
forewarned,
however:
Big
Russ &
Me
may
leave
you
misty-eyed
as you
deal
with
the
melancholy
of
reconsidering
your
own
upbringing
and
your
relationship
with
your
own
father.
If
you’re
too
much
of a
manly-man
to
cry,
remember
to
read
it in
private.
Anyway,
to all
of you
I
commend
Big
Russ &
Me
highly.
I
don’t
think
you
could
find a
better
way to
spend
three
hours.
BOOK REPORT: THREE NIGHTS IN AUGUST
(6/18/08)
I
just
recently
finished
reading
an
excellent
baseball
book,
entitled Three Nights in August,
written by Buzz Bissinger (author of Friday Night Lights), and chronicling
the managerial career of Tony LaRussa by focusing on a three-game series
between the Cardinals and the Cubs in August of 2003. I cannot say that I
am more or less of a LaRussa
fan
after
reading
this
book,
but
I do
have
much
more
of
an
appreciation
of
what
a
manager
goes
through
on a
nightly
basis.
There
is
one
particularly
fascinating
description
of
the
myriad
options
that
are
available
to a
manager
in
trying
to
decide
whether
to
play
the
infield
back
or
the
infield
in
with
runners
on
the
bases
and
fewer
than
two
outs,
which
in
summary,
explains
that
a
manager
has
about
10
different
options
or
variations
on
the
theme
that
he
must
consider
and
decide
upon
in
the
span
of
about
10
seconds.
It
is
indeed
a
cerebral
game
that
we
love
so
much.
Bissinger
is
an
eloquent
baseball
scribe,
with
a
remarkable
ability
to
turn
a
phrase.
A
couple
of
examples
follow:
► |
He tried to cover for Canseco
by claiming that he had an injury; and Canseco did in fact
have an injury, the crippling baseball disease of disinterest that
comes with too much security and too much money and too much
attention. Of all the players LaRussa ever managed, no one ever had a
more virulent case of it. |
► |
When you have spent so much
of your life in baseball that it becomes your life—when you have
managed thousands of games and thousands of players—you see the
timeline and transformation of the game from a unique point of
privilege. . . . You see the rise of the
sinker as the preferred pitch and the neglect of the forkball like an
old widow. |
► |
(On Cal Eldred, a LaRussa reclamation project)
He went through Tommy John surgery. He suffered a small fracture in
his right elbow and then a stress fracture below his right elbow,
requiring the insertion of the five inch screw to somehow patch it
back together. It isn’t unusual for a pitcher to miss an entire season
because of arm troubles and then come back. Arm troubles are to
pitchers what girl troubles are to country singers. |
ANOTHER DAMNED BOOK REPORT: The Echoing Green
(04/25/08)
In addition to my savory
experience with How Life Imitates the World Series during our recent
holiday to Cabo, I also finished up a baseball book that I started way
back last fall but then got bogged down on and set aside for a spell. The
book, titled The Echoing Green, authored by Joshua Prager and
published by Pantheon in 2006, is arguably the definitive work on The
Shot Heard Round the World, Bobby Thomson’s epic home run off Ralph
Branca in the 1-game playoff between the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York
Giants for the National League pennant on October 3, 1951. The premise of
the book is that Bobby Thomson received a stolen sign from a bullpen
catcher named Sal Yvars that Branca was about to deliver an 0-1 fastball,
and that Thomson was able to jump all over the pitch and send it on a
linear path over the left field fence and into the second row of seats for
the game-winning home run. According to the book, Yvars received the
stolen sign via telegraph wire from Giants assistant coach Herman Franks,
who was sitting in the clubhouse located just past the centerfield wall at
the Polo Grounds, home of the Giants, after Franks was able to steal the
sign from the Dodgers’ catcher through the use of a telescope.
Echoing Green
is
a meticulously researched and superbly crafted book which makes a pretty
compelling case for the "theory" that Thomson knew that a fastball was
coming his way that fateful afternoon in October 1951. However, the author
was never able to obtain an interview from one of the key alleged
perpetrators, Herman Franks, and the author’s conversation with Yvars on
the subject produced less than a full admission of guilt. As for Prager’s
conversations with Thomson—the alleged benefactor of the purloined sign—he
never quite owns up to taking a stolen sign and using it to his advantage
during the crucial at-bat. From my own perspective, the quantum of proof
established through this fine work of investigative journalism may rise to
a preponderance of the evidence, but clearly does not reach the level of
"beyond a reasonable doubt."
Echoing Green
began as a Wall Street Journal article back in 2003, and after much
favorable reaction and a suggestion from a friend, author Joshua Prager
completed
his
exhaustive
research
and
interviewing
of
the
subjects
and
many
other
witnesses
to
allow
him
to
expand
his
article
into
a
hefty
book.
Although
a
fascinating
subject,
I’m
not
sure
that
it
warranted
quite
the
treatment
accorded
it
by
the
author.
At
times
the
book
seems
a
bit
redundant,
long-winded,
and
rambling.
A
couple
of
times,
I
found
myself
checking
how
many
pages
I
had
left
to
get
through
the
book,
which
is
usually
not
a
good
sign,
but
in
the
end
the
author’s
eloquence,
coupled
with
a
fascinating
subject
matter,
make
this read worth the while.
BOOK
REPORT:
HOW LIFE IMITATES THE
WORLD SERIES
(04/17/08)
I just finished reading
another Tom Boswell classic, entitled How Life Imitates the World
Series. I was a huge Boswell fan before (having previously twice read
Why Time Begins on Opening Day, and numerous and sundry other
Boswell articles on baseball), but after having finished this book, I am
convinced that Bos is the best contemporary baseball writer, better even
than Roger Kahn, whose best work is clearly behind him, and Roger Angell,
who has not been heard from much on the subject of baseball, lately.
If you haven’t read this
classic collection of Boswell’s best, do yourself a huge favor and buy it.
I so enjoyed reading it on our trip to Cabo, it felt like the book, or
Boswell, or both, had become a good friend. That may sound a bit strange,
but it’s true.
Since he writes for the
Baltimore Sun, Boswell has written a lot about his beloved Orioles and
their cantankerous former manager, the Earl of Baltimore, shown below with
two of his lifelong friends.

Allow me to share with you a
few of my favorite excerpts about Weaver from this book:
It is
perhaps Weaver’s dominant managerial characteristic that his players
seldom think of him in terms of love or hate. Weaver is so candid,
yet somehow stays so naturally aloof, that his players regard him
not with affection or loathing, but with a strong professional
respect and a tepid, unemotional loyalty. "We’re all on speaking
terms," says Weaver. Other managers would shudder at such tenuous
relationships.
With
Weaver, the deep lines, the lines of character that run to the core,
are all rooted in his 20-year purgatory in the bush leagues. "You
learn the lesson the first day in class D . . . you’re always going
to be a rotten bastard, or in my case, a rotten little bastard, as
long as you manage," he says. "That’s the rule. To keep your job,
you fire others or bench them or trade them. You have to do the
thinking for 25 guys, and you can’t be too close to any of them."
Weaver’s confidence in his own decisions is his trademark. He once
watched Mike Cuellar get knocked out early in 13 consecutive starts,
before finally removing him from the rotation. Sadly, Weaver said,
"I gave Mike Cuellar more chances than my first wife." |
There’s a great chapter in
How Life Imitates the World Series about Thurman Munson called
Captain Bad Body, which is laugh-out-loud good reading. I share with you
parts of it:
Thurman
Munson, who died at 32 in a crash while piloting his private
airplane, cultivated a misunderstanding with the world at large,
just as he nurtured a powerful camaraderie with those he loved—his
teammates and his family.
Small
talk, which might only bore others, infuriated Munson. Good manners
he disdained as weakness or fraud. Intransigence—take me or leave
me—he had raised to a standard of personal integrity. Introduced to
a stranger, he might begin, "Where’d you get that ugly shirt?" It
was his method for finding his social bearing quickly. "The same
place you got that ugly face," was always a proper answer.
. . . .
"I seem
to attract dirt," Munson once said with pride. "The game was only
ten pitches old tonight and I was filthier than anyone else all
night." To those who appreciated him, Munson was a sweathog, who,
beneath the tools of ignorance, was the essence of pride and rude
wit.
. . . .
At the
plate, where he was a .300 hitter five times, batted .339 in three
playoffs and .373 in three Series, Munson took his sweet time,
digging in his back foot defiantly, adjusting his batting glove
interminably, twisting the last kink out of his fidgety neck, then
pawing, yanking and nodding until he was absolutely ready. His
message to the pitcher was evident to the entire stadium: "When I
get all of this finished, you’re in trouble."
. . . .
On the
bases, Munson revealed the all-sport athlete who was concealed under
shinguards and chest protectors as he dashed first-to-third as
though his britches were on fire, ending his digging, stumbling
dashes with a variety of wildly improvisational slides that left him
deliciously filthy.
. . . .
"Munson
always said, ‘How’s it going, kid?’ to rookies, and ‘How’s the
family?’ to the veterans when he came to the plate," Mark Belanger
said. "One day, I got furious and said, ‘Thurman, we all know what
you’re doing. You’re trying to distract me and I’m hitting .190.
Just leave me the hell alone. Just shut up when I’m up here or I’ll
hit you with my bat.’
"He got
this terrible hurt expression and said, ‘Jeez, Blade, I didn’t know
you felt that strongly. I swear I’ll never say another word to
you.’"
On his
next at-bat, Belanger was all ready to swing when the high-pitched
penetrating voice behind him said, "How’s the family, Blade?"
. . . .
Ballplayers do not leave epitaphs, only memories and friends.
Munson, the man who may have been baseball’s ideal teammate, was
rich in both. |
Beautiful stuff. If any of
you want to borrow my copy of this book, let me know and I will be happy
to share it with you.
BOOK REPORT: THE TENDER BAR
(1/3/08)
I want to
do all of you the same favor that my good friend Joe Grant did for me a
couple of weeks ago, which is, to recommend a book entitled The Tender
Bar. Authored by J.R. Moehringer and published in 2005 -- and
available at fine bookstores everywhere –– The Tender Bar is a
remarkably entertaining “memoir” about the author’s upbringing in a
fatherless and utterly unconventional home in a small town in Long Island,
New York, known as Manhasset. In essence, it is a story about a young man
in search of male guidance who received it from the company and advice of
a host of colorful characters who frequented a nearby tavern called,
first, Dickens and later, Publicans. As I learned near the end of the
book, Moehringer’s closest friend growing up was his cousin McGraw, who
grew up in the same crazy household, and who later in the book was
revealed to be McGraw Milhaven, a former college pitcher for the
Cornhusker baseball team and radio personality in Omaha, now on the
airwaves in St. Louis.
One of my
favorite lines in the book has to do with some advice that Moehringer
received after agreeing to go with a first date who was a hottie to see a
“clay” exhibit at a Manhattan museum, which turned out to be a nonstarter.
After relating the story to one of the barflies at Publicans, the man
known there as “Cager” “swiveled on his barstool to face me and he pushed
his visor back so I could see his face.” Cager then dispensed his
sagacious advice: “Next time some broad tells you to take her to a museum,
take her to f---ing Cooperstown.” Loved it.
Since I
usually only read baseball and political biographies, taking on The
Tender Bar was a short leap of faith for me, but well worth the hop. I
found myself wanting to read it in the morning before taking off for work,
a most unusual reading time for me. Do yourself a favor and buy it and
read it. I think you’ll be glad you did.
BOOK REVIEW: THE OLD BALL GAME
(09/13/07)
I’ve been meaning for some time to recommend to all of you a fantastic baseball book that I read a while back, actually in 2006, entitled: The Old Ball Game, written by noted Sports Illustrated contributor Frank Deford. I actually saw this on a bookshelf in Seattle last year, in the baseball section at the Barnes & Noble bookstore, and was surprised to see that Mr. Deford had written a book solely about baseball, since I don’t necessarily think of him as a baseball author. In any event, after glancing at just a couple of pages, I could immediately tell that it was going to be a very good read, so I purchased it and began reading it while on that trip. It turned out to be one of those books that you don’t want to put down, but you also don’t want to finish it because you just want to savor the experience. It may sound odd, I know, but when I find a great read like The Old Ball Game, the book becomes like a reliable old friend, something I can pick up each night at bedtime and know that I’m going to enjoy the experience.
I made a whole bunch of crib notes about some of my favorite excerpts from The Old Ball Game that I was planning on sharing with my baseball brothers, but it seems that some irresponsible, unnamed individual at the Ernst house discarded them (grrrr), so I will have to give you just a couple of them from memory. First of all, I found it fascinating that one of the greatest managers of all time, John McGraw, and his wife would share a residence in Manhattan with Christy Mathewson and his wife, at the time Mattie was playing for McGraw. Sure, times were different then, but I would have thought that there was a line of separation between manager and player which would have prevented this. Another winning feature of the book is Frank Deford’s masterful recounting of the 1905 World Series, in which the Big 6 (Mattie’s nickname) won three games and absolutely dominated the opposing Philadelphia Athletics, hurling three complete game shutouts and striking out 18 batters while walking only one. Wow.
In summary, The Old Ball Game is a short, easy, and pleasurable read. I highly recommend it.
BOOK REPORT:
The Era: 1947-1957 When the Yankees, the Giants and the Dodges
Ruled the World
(12/21/07)
I commend to you all another Roger Kahn baseball book that I just recently finished reading, The Era, subtitled 1947-1957 When the Yankees, the Giants, and the Dodgers Ruled the World. Kahn grew up in New York City and began his baseball writing career during this magical baseball time for the Big Apple, during which 9 of the 11 World Series titles were won by a New York-based team (seven times by the Yankees, once each by the Dodgers and the Giants), and during which time center field was occupied for these teams by Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, Duke Snider and Willie Mays.
This is not Kahn’s best work, and probably doesn’t make it into his top three, but it is still vintage Kahn, with his impressive but not snobbish use of vocabulary and his very personal recounting of his marvelous memories of this splendid time in baseball. One of my favorite stories that is woven by Kahn in The Era is of the alcohol-induced implosion of Yankee GM Larry McPhail (called the “Roarin’ Redhead” by Kahn, a terrific sobriquet) after the Bombers captured the 1947 Series. Listen to this:
|
A full complement of reporters attended the Yankee victory party in 1947, held in the Grand Ballroom of the Biltmore Hotel on the night of October 6. Neither McPhail nor the old gentlemanly press code really survived the evening.
As the Yankees moved toward their final victory, McPhail began serious drinking. He left his box during the seventh inning and began to mix Scotch and beer, with speed and gusto. . . . Writers came running down the corridors far below the three-tiered stands at Yankee stadium. McPhail pushed his way through them, tears rushing down his face, and threw an arm around dour, chipmunk-cheeked George Weiss, his farm director.
“Here, you guys,” McPhail shouted at the reporters. “I want you to say this in your stories. I’m the guy that built up the losers, the Brooklyn club. Here’s the man who really built the Yankees.” He raised George Weiss’ right arm.
"Now I gotta talk to my players . . . .”
He started crying again. Then he went looking for Branch Rickey and found him amid another swarm of reporters. “You’ve got a fine team,” McPhail said. “I want to congratulate you.”
Rickey leaned in very close. His whisper was ice. “I’ll shake your hand because I have to with these people watching. But I don’t like you, sir. Don’t care for you at all.” McPhail wheeled away. He needed another drink.
Toward eight p.m. he came staggering into the press room at the Biltmore Hotel. “I got some things to tell you writers,” he said. “Stay away from me or get punched. . . .”
Sid Keener, the sports editor of the St. Louis Stars-Times, had known McPhail for thirty years. “Larry,” he said mildly, “everybody gets criticized in your business even when they win. Branch Rickey won in St. Louis and . . . .”
“Rickey?” McPhail shouted. “Bible-quoting, hypocritical, tight-wad son of a bitch. He’s worse than Chandler (the commissioner), worse than that goddamned hayseed we have as a commissioner.”
McPhail was shouting all of this at reporters from every major newspaper in the country. . . .
He (McPhail) spotted Dan Topping, big, Anaconda copper-rich Dan Topping, who owned one-third of the Yankees.
“Hey, Topping,” McPhail said. “You know what you are? A guy born with a silver spoon in his mouth who never made a dollar in his life.”
Topping seized McPhail’s left arm. “Listen, you,” Topping said. “We’ve taken everything from you we’re going to take.” Topping wrestled McPhail into the hotel kitchen. He was bigger than McPhail, younger by twenty years, physically stronger, and considerably more sober. He shook McPhail roughly in the kitchen, punched him with a few body blows, and ordered McPhail to behave. “If you act up again, Larry,” Topping said, “I’m going to knock your head off. Now go into the washroom and clean yourself up and for Christ sakes, comb your hair.”
About a half hour later--ten p.m.--a subdued McPhail returned, properly groomed. But the whiskey and the mindless rage still burned within him.
He walked up to Joe Page, who was sitting with his wife. “What were you, Joe, before I picked you up? A bum. You and this broad here, you were nothing. I bought a home for you. You’re wearing nice clothes now. You’re drinking champagne. But without me, the two of you would be starving.”
Topping was approaching with a murderous look. Mrs. Page burst into tears.
McPhail weaved away from the couple. Then this wondrous, bizarre, driven character staggered out of the room and out of the victory party and out of baseball.
|
|
Wow. And all of this after McPhail’s Yankees won the World Series.
THE YANKEE CLIPPER FOR THE KID?
Kahn also tells a story in the book about a get-together between McPhail and fellow owner Tom Yawkey at Toots Shor’s nightclub, in which a very interesting trade was discussed, if not agreed upon:
|
McPhail’s next attempt to discard his somber centerfielder showed the man at his roarin’ redheaded best. He invited Tom Yawkey, the multimillionaire bon vivant who owned the Red Sox, to join him for a night of talk and drink at Toots Shor’s. Yawkey kept his distance from the press, in the manner of many moneyed men, but Shor’s was a safe saloon for public drinking. By unwritten rule, what went on at Shor’s was off the record, unless a specific exception was made.
. . . .
McPhail threw out no booze at Shor’s. He knocked back drinks, and Yawkey joined him. McPhail got to his idea. “I have this big dago in center field. He hits the hell out of the ball, but to left center. We got a spot out there that’s 475 feet from home. He hits these tremendous drives, home runs anywhere else, and in my ballpark they’re just damn long outs.”
“That’s the way this game is,” Yawkey said. “I got this skinny kid, pulls everything left-handed, hits these long balls to right and right center. In my ballpark, right center reaches 420 feet from home.”
The men drank some more. Yawkey wanted to know what McPhail thought about Rickey’s plan to bring “nigras” into baseball. Shor later recalled the conversation for me.
“Gonna kill our business,” McPhail said.
Yawkey nodded. (Yawkey’s Red Sox did not employ a black ballplayer until 1959, fully twelve years after Robinson’s major league debut.) They were both drinking hard and they were getting along very well. After a while, at 2 in the morning, McPhail proposed his trade.
The big dago for the skinny kid.
No cash, no other ballplayers.
Even up, Joe DiMaggio for Ted Williams.
“Helluvan idea,” Yawkey said.
“Put the dago up there with your close-in left field wall,” McPhail said, “and he’ll hit 60 homers.”
“Right,” Yawkey said. “Put the kid in the stadium, with the right field stands so close, and he’ll hit 70!”
“We got a deal?”
“We got a deal!”
“Shake.”
“Skoal.”
“Let’s have another.”
According to Kahn, the following morning Yawkey called McPhail and said, “I can’t do it, Larry.” After McPhail responded that he thought they had a deal, Yawkey reportedly said, “We did. I’m not denying that. But I can’t do it. They let Babe Ruth out of Boston. If I let Williams go, the fans will crucify me.”
|
|
Whether you believe the story or not, it’s a heckuva yarn, and one only wonders how their careers might have differed if The Kid had been in pinstripes and Joltin’ Joe in a Red Sox uniform.
One of the great quotes from the book is from the great right-handed pitcher Early Wynn: “Every job has drawbacks. The drawback of my job is that I gotta pitch to Joe Dimaggio.”
There are plenty of other good stories and lines in The Era, including the description of DiMaggio’s first wife, Dorothy Arnold (a blonde knockout and aspiring actress from Minnesota), as DiMaggio’s “spring training for Marilyn Monroe.” I love it. Do yourself a favor and buy The Era as a stocking stuffer for yourself.
BOOK REPORT: The Head Game
(01/06/06)
Although I haven’t seen it in print yet, somebody told
me that Leo Mazzone has been lured away from his job as the Braves’
pitching coach. I was stunned to learn of this, as I thought that he and
Bobby Cox was a package deal who would both coach together until one of
them keeled over dead. This is a huge loss for Atlanta, and I predict that
their string of Eastern Division titles may be nearing an end.
There’s a wonderful chapter (13: The Pope of Pitching) on Mazzone in
the Roger Kahn baseball book that I am just now finishing up, The Head
Game, which is extremely complimentary of Mazzone and makes one
appreciate just what a talented pitching coach he is. Even so, Mazzone
didn’t have a clue as to what happened to Mark Wohlers, whose career
turned on a dime after three outstanding seasons in a row netted 97 saves
for the Braves, and during which Wohlers used his 100 mph fastball to
whiff 282 batters in 211 innings. During Wohlers’ rehab stint in the
minors, there was a time when he gave up 38 walks and 28 runs in 12
innings. After Mazzone was asked one too many times if he knew what went
wrong with Wohlers, he responded testily that, "If I knew what the fuck
went wrong, I would have fixed it." Good point, Leo.
Although not necessarily as riveting as some of Kahn’s other baseball
books, I still recommend The Head Game as good baseball reading for
these dreary winter months.
BOOK REPORT (Preliminary): Ball
Four
(07/18/06)
I digress here, but did you know that Rich Rawlins was one of the members
of the one-year Seattle Pilots, made famous by Jim Bouton in his classic Ball Four? I know this only because I am re-reading this madcap diary of the baseball world as it was unveiled in 1970.
I further digress, but let me share with you here a telling excerpt from Ball Four that presaged some of our very disturbing recent distractions to our national pastime.
I guess it wasn’t too good for my elbow. When I got through pitching, it felt like somebody had set fire to it. I’ll treat it with aspirin, a couple every four hours or so.
I’ve tried a lot of other things through the years –– like Butazolidin, which is what they give to horses. And D.M.S.O. –– dimethyl sulfoxide. Whitey Ford used that for a while. You rub it on with a plastic glove and then as soon as it gets on your arm, you can taste it in your mouth. It’s not available anymore, though. Word is it can blind you. I’ve also taken shots –– Novocaine, cortisone and Xylocaine. Baseball players will take anything. If you had a pill that would guarantee a pitcher twenty wins but it might take five years off his life, he’d take it. |
From pp. 48-49. More later from Ball Four after I have finished re-reading it.
BOOK REPORT: THE SUMMER
GAME
(07/18/06)
I wish now to commend to all of you one of the best, most intelligent baseball books you will ever read, Roger Angell’s The Summer Game, which I recently finished. This wonderful book, published by the University of Nebraska Press, is a collection of Angell’s best writings on baseball between 1962 and 1971, most of which appeared initially in The New Yorker magazine. I can say with a high degree of confidence that you won’t find better baseball prose anywhere.
This is a book to be savored, read over the course of weeks or months, not days. Most of the time that I was reading Angell’s writings, I felt myself sporting a silly grin on my face, often accompanied by goose pimples on my arms whenever Angell struck a particularly harmonious chord in my baseball soul.
As with many first-rate literary works, one has to invest some time and effort to complete this seminal piece, as many of the words that Angell employs are not within the average baseball fan’s common parlance. By way of example, but not by way of dissuasion from reading this book, you will find the following words in this book that many of your high school English teachers may not have pounded into your thick skulls, even though several of you had repeated opportunities for such learning:
cognominal
juvenescence
senectuous
sans-culottes
baldachin
escarpment
obduracy
panjandrum
vivified
Funny thing is, even though I had to consult Noah Webster on several of these, Mr. Angell uses these words with such flair and adeptness that I had a sense of their meaning even before consulting my dictionary.
One of my favorite features of the book is Angell’s poetic naming of the sections and chapters of the book. Have a look:
Rustle of Spring
The Old Folks behind Home
Farewell
A Tale of Three Cities
Taverns in the Town
West of the Bronx
A Terrific Strain
The Flowering and Subsequent Deflowering of New England
A Little Noise at Twilight
Days and Nights with the Unbored
The Baltimore Vermeers
Part of a Season: Bay and Back Bay
Some Pirates and Lesser Men
The Interior Stadium
If the Pulitzer people ever awarded a prize for chapter and section naming, Angell would be a shoo-in for the crown.
There are at least a score of passages from this book that I would love to share with you here, but being fully aware of the attention spans that I am dealing with, allow me to include just a few:
October 1969
(after the Miracle Mets topped the Baltimore Orioles
in the deciding Game 5 of the World Series by a score of 5-3)
Later, in his quiet office, Earl Weaver was asked by a reporter if he hadn’t thought that the Orioles would hold on to their late lead in the last game and thus bring the Series back to Baltimore and maybe win it there. Weaver took a sip of beer and smiled and said, “No, that’s what you can never do in baseball. You can’t sit on a lead and run a few plays into the line and just kill the clock. You’ve got to throw the ball over the goddam plate and give the other man a chance. That’s why baseball is the greatest game of them all.” (p. 233.)
October 1966
(Orioles/Dodgers World Series)
[B]ut this knowledge should not keep anyone from remembering how close the Series still looked early on that final afternoon. If Drysdale could win, if the Dodgers could stop drowning in two feet of water, Koufax would pitch the next game, and only members of the Flat Earth Society are prepared to bet that Koufax can lose two Series games in a row. Then the Series would move back to Los Angeles, surely at no worse than even odds. This quick, close, yet one-sided Series was so mystifying that in the early innings on Sunday the representatives of the magazine Sport, which awards a sports car each year to the outstanding player in the Series, were helplessly asking for nominees in the press rows. The most sensible suggestion, assuming a Baltimore victory that day, was to permit each of the Orioles to drive it for a week and to donate the safety belt to Willie Davis. (p. 153-154.)
The Interior Stadium
This inner game -- baseball in the mind -- has no season, but it is best played in the winter, without the distraction of other baseball news. . . . With luck, we may even penetrate some of its mysteries. One of those mysteries is its vividness -- the absolutely distinct inner vision we retain of that hitter, that eager base-runner, of however long ago. . . . And, back across the river again, Carl Hubbell. My own great pitcher, a southpaw, tall and elegant. Hub pitching: the loose motion; two slow, formal bows from the waist, glove and hands held almost in front of his face as he pivots, the long right leg (in long, peculiar pants) striding; and the ball, angling oddly, shooting past the batter. Hubbell walks gravely back to the bench, his pitching arm, as always, turned the wrong way around, with the palm out. Screwballer. (p. 292-294.)
The bottom line on this review is that if you haven’t yet treated yourself to the pleasure of turning the pages of The Summer Game, it’s high time that you favor your baseball soul with this masterpiece from the Rembrandt of baseball literature.
BOOK REPORT: 1776
(09/13/06)
Although it has nothing to do with baseball, lads, I would be remiss if I did not put in a plug for the excellent book that I just finished, 1776 by historian David McCullough. For the literate minority among you, do yourself a huge favor and pick up a copy of this fascinating recounting of the watershed events of the Revolutionary War. For the rest of you, I would even recommend buying this book on tape and listening to this marvelous tale of the events that shaped our country. If nothing else, give up an episode or two of The Simpsons and at least read the thrilling account of Colonel Henry Knox’s transporting of the guns of Ticonderoga from Lake Champlain in upstate New York across the snow-covered plains of western Massachusetts, and up Dorchester Heights in the middle of the night as the rebels forced the Brits out of their Boston stronghold; or just say no to tonight’s episode of the reality show du jour and read about Washington’s Christmas night foray across the Delaware River before routing the Redcoats and the Hessians in Trenton.
I loved re-reading Thomas Paine’s goosebump-inducing famous words:
These are the times that try men’s souls. The summer soldier and the sunshine patriot will, in this crisis, shrink from the service of their country; but he that stands by it now, deserves the love and thanks of man and woman. Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered; yet we have this consolation with us, that the harder the conflict, the more glorious the triumph.
These are the times that try men’s souls. Wow. Eight simple words that sum it all up.
These were some rugged hombres, these ragged rebels, who went to hell and back to gain our independence from Britain. If not for these guys, we might all be talking like Benny Hill and have teeth like Austin Powers. Of course, for some of you this would be an improvement, but I’m not naming names. Anyway, I’m not sure that there are many dudes around today who would be able to survive all of the hardships that our patriot forefathers weathered for the sake of our freedom. Maybe it’s just me, but I have a hard time picturing Itchie in a tricornered hat and wearing newspapers for shoes, trudging across the frozen turf toward battle; or imagining Shamu subsisting on a soldier’s rations instead of his frequent visitations to the Grand Italian buffet at Valentino’s. But I could be wrong.
And not to pick on Johnny and Sir Charles too much, but at about the same ages that Washington and Lee were leading the shabbily dressed, poorly financed and inadequately trained rebel forces into battle against seemingly insurmountable numbers and odds, Itchie was getting a snootful at Sweep Left on a nightly basis, and locking himself into the back seat of his car to avoid getting pummeled by some bar tough that he pissed off with his wisecracking patter; while Shamu was getting a bellyful and then a snootful before trying to pillage every conscious (or not) coed at the Kearney bars. I’m not saying that our two chums don’t have the mettle of heroes, but J.T. has been known to call in sick when the automatic seat heater in his Lexus is on the fritz, and I’m not sure if General George would have been sympathetic to Shamu’s claims of hypoglycemia every four hours between full feedings, or his practice of scooping up buffet “extras” into his gunpowder satchel for a midnight feeding.
Of course, when you think about it, you know there had to be a Shamu look-alike in Washington’s Delaware crossing party. If we see them in every ballpark, you know that they were also on every battlefield as well. On the other hand, if Shamu had been born 200 years earlier, I’m not sure if he would have been a rebel or a Redcoat -- it probably would have depended on who was winning at the time. If Sir Charles was a Redcoat, I picture him in full British dress as a cross between famed English actor Charles Laughton and the lovable Sergeant Schultz from Hogan’s Heroes.
I apologize for my wild digressions. Feel free to get back to what really matters -- the next episode of The Simpsons starts in about ten minutes.
BOOK REVIEWS: Foul Ball and Summer
Game
(02/13/06)
One of the best parts about any beach vacation is the chance to catch up on reading. Among the library of books I packed for this trip were two baseball books, Foul Ball: My Life and Hard Times Trying to Save an Old Ballpark, by Jim Bouton; and the classic Summer Game by Roger Angell of The New Yorker.
Angell’s book is a must-read for any true baseball fan with romance in his soul. The prose is both eloquent and image-provoking, but it pays to have a dictionary nearby when you read it.
Foul Ball is also well worth reading, but it will never be a classic baseball tome. Rather, it is a well-written and entertaining tale of Jim Bouton’s attempt to buy and refurbish one of the country’s oldest and most historic minor league fields, Wahconah Park in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. The book begins in 2001, when Bouton and his two partners are attempting to offer an alternative plan to razing Wahconah Park and building a brand-new $18.5 million ballpark to house a Class A minor league baseball team, a plan put together by the politicians, the lawyers, and the financial movers and shakers of Pittsfield, but voted down by the general public. It should probably be required reading for Poly Sci 101, since it is a primer on how politics, power and money can prevail over imminent good sense. Foul Ball is currently available in softcover at your local bookstore, but if you’re too cheap or too lazy to buy and read the book, you can probably get the gist of the story by going to
www.foulball.com.
After reading Bouton’s book, I definitely want to take a trip to Pittsfield, Mass., and the nearby Berkshire Mountains, listening to James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James all along the way. Sounds like a beautiful area, and if they haven’t torn it down in the next few years, I definitely want to take a walk inside Wahconah Park. I also want to see the recently-discovered “Broken Window Bylaw,” in which the inhabitants of the town of Pittsfield voted in 1791 to ban the playing of baseball within eighty yards of a new Town Hall to protect against the breaking of windows. Some baseball historians believe that this bylaw gives Pittsfield bragging rights as the earliest-known place where baseball was played, beating Cooperstown’s bogus 1839 claim by almost half a century.
I also learned from Bouton’s book that there is an alternative Baseball Hall of Fame of sorts located in the public library in Pasadena, California, known as The Baseball Reliquary: The Shrine of the Eternals. Its enshrinees include Jim Bouton (presumably because of Ball Four), Moe Berg, Dock Ellis, Bill Lee, Curt Flood, Pam Postema, and Bill Veeck, among others. Quirky, but something we all need to see.
The last kernel I will leave you from Bouton’s book is a saying of Bouton’s old Yankee pitching coach, Johnny Sain (of Spahn and Sain and two days of rain fame), describing how a starting pitcher feels after winning a tough ballgame:
“The cool of the evening.”
In Sain’s view, the mound victor can sit back and relax, knowing he has accomplished something and doesn’t have to go back out there on the mound again for a few more days. To Sain, this felt like “the cool of the evening.” Perfect.
BOOK REPORT: GAME OF SHADOWS
(04/13/06)
I just finished reading the excellent book on Balco and Barry Bonds, Game of Shadows. If anyone is looking for a reason to cheer against Barry Bonds -- and who isn’t -- dig into this book for some startling revelations. After reading this book, it would be surprising to learn that Barry Bonds has a single friend in this world. He is not a nice person.
BOOK REPORT: Luckiest Man
(05/10/05)
I have almost finished reading
the excellent book on Lou Gehrig, Luckiest Man, by Jonathan Eig,
that was graciously gifted to me by Possum on Draft Day. I highly
recommend it to all of you. Among other things, I learned from this book
that:
** Sweet Lou was the stud
player for the most highly-touted high school team in the country,
Commerce High of New York City, and took a trip to Chicago during his
senior year to play in a highly-publicized game at Wrigley Field. In his
last at-bat in this all-star game, Lou lived up to his press clippings by
blasting a home run way out of Wrigley and onto Waveland Avenue. As a
senior in high school, for criminy sakes.
** Lou was a star football player for Columbia U. and a projected
superstar for the Columbia baseball team. However, because he was busted
for playing pro ball under an assumed name during college, he had to sit
out a year at Columbia. The lure of a professional contract with the
Yankees proved to be too much to withstand, and so Lou’s college baseball
glory days were over before they ever really got started.
** While in the minor leagues playing for nearby Hartford, Lou was not
only a top hitter on the team, he also was a feared southpaw hurler.
Remind you of anyone else in that organization?
** According to Eig, the Wally Pipp headache story was apocryphal, and the
reason that Gehrig replaced Pipp at first base was that Pipp was stinking
up the joint with his hitting and the Yankees were losing. Turns out, the
same day that Gehrig replaced Pipp, two other Yankee regulars were
replaced in the starting line-up as well. So much for that baseball myth.
** As great a player as he was, Gehrig’s career was often overshadowed by
virtue of playing alongside the supersized personality of Babe Ruth in the
early part of his career, and then with media darling Joe DiMaggio in the
sunset years of his career. To give you an idea of how underappreciated he
was in his prime, in 1934, Gehrig won the triple crown but finished fifth
in the voting for AL MVP. Go figure.
** During much of his career, Lou was thought of as a “mama’s boy,” as his
strong-willed mother dominated his personal life. While other players were
taking wives (and probably girlfriends) to spring training with them to
Florida, during one such trip Lou took his mother along with him. It was a
different time, wasn’t it?
** Gehrig was a late-season all-up by the Yankees when they won their
first World Championship in 1923, finally beating McGraw’s New York Giants
after losing the two previous Fall Classics to the Giants. It’s not
surprising that Ruth hit three home runs in the 1923 World Series, but I
was surprised to learn that Casey Stengel, the Old Perfesser, hit two home
runs for the Giants in that series.
** The book admirably recounts the 1927 season of the New York Yankees,
the famous “Murderer’s Row,” which many people consider to be the best
baseball team of all time. This was the year that Ruth and Gehrig had a
dramatic, season-long home run derby race, until Ruth pulled ahead late in
the season to finish with 60, while Gehrig languished in August and
September and finished with 47.
** According to Eig, the 1927 Yankees were so good that in 1928, there
were cries of “break up the Yankees!” The rumor mill had the Yankees
trading Gehrig in response to pressure from around the league. The Yankee
payroll in ’27 was a whopping $350,000, tops in the majors by a ton. Some
things never change.
Do yourself a favor and read
this outstanding book. You won’t be sorry. Thanks again, Possum.
BOOK REPORT: BASEBALL IN OMAHA
(07/26/05)
Baseball in Omaha, Arcadia Publishing, Copyright 2004, by Devon
Niebling and Thomas Hyde.
The
other day while browsing at a bookstore, I came across the above-entitled
book, and without giving it much thought, plunked down my $19.99 to
purchase this 127-page book. While there is some interesting history and
a few nice baseball pictures I haven’t seen before, on balance it’s a
lightweight literary work and not one which I can heartily recommend to
you for purchase. You will at least want to wait until it goes on the
sale rack at Borders. In fact, you needn’t spend a penny. I will share
with you all the highlights worth knowing here:
** |
Rosenblatt Stadium opened up for business in 1949 as Municipal
Stadium, the new home of the Omaha Cardinals of the Western League, a
Class A affiliate of the St. Louis Cardinals. However, the first game
played at the new ballpark at 13th and Deere Streets in South Omaha
was an exhibition game on October 17, 1948, between a team composed of
professional players and a local semi-pro team, the Johnny Monahan
Storz’ team. The professional team included Nebraska natives Richie
Ashburn of Tilden (Phillies, outfield); Mel “Chief” Harder of Beemer,
Nebraska (Indians, pitcher); Johnny Hopp of Hastings, Nebraska
(Pirates, first base); and Omaha’s own Rex Barney (Brooklyn Dodgers,
pitcher). Mayor Glenn Cunningham tossed the ceremonial first pitch
for the game which was ultimately won by the professional players,
11-3.
|
** |
When our law firm took a trip to Baltimore in 1996 or 1997 or so, we took in an Orioles game at Camden Yard. The visiting dignitaries from Omaha got a chance during batting practice to meet the Orioles’ long-time and legendary announcer, Rex Barney. I will never forget what a gentleman Mr. Barney was to all of us, holding court and telling us baseball
stories right up until the very second he had to go on the air for
some pregame announcements. In his humble, matter-of-fact style, Mr.
Barney informed us that he pitched the first-ever game at
now-Rosenblatt Stadium, and though he didn’t mention it at the time, I
now know that it was as the starting pitcher for the team of
professionals in the aforementioned exhibition game.
|
** |
Please
allow me a brief digression to mention a couple of other things about
the late Mr. Barney. He had a relatively short major league career,
but experienced the thrill of throwing a no-hitter over the over the
New York Giants in 1948. His inability to throw strikes consistently
did him in, however, and his career totals of 410 walks and 336 career
strikeouts probably were the reason that one baseball pundit observed
at the time that, “Rex Barney would be an all-star if home plate was
high and outside.”
|
** |
Prior to
the construction of Municipal Park (later, Rosenblatt Stadium), the
Omaha Cardinals were playing their games in Council Bluffs. Omaha
since has been host to a professional baseball team since 1936.
|
** |
Professional baseball was played in Omaha in the 1900s, but the teams
and the leagues they played in were generally financially unstable and
subject to change on almost an annual basis. It wasn’t until the turn
of the century that Omaha consistently put a professional baseball
team out on the field for its fans to cheer. In the early 1900s,
Omaha’s minor league teams played mostly at Nonpareil Park, later
named League Park, located at 13th and Vinton. This early Omaha
baseball edifice seated 3600 fans, more than enough to host today’s
Omaha Royals games, which is a sad commentary.
|
** |
In 1904,
playing in the Western League, the Omaha Rourkes (named after team
owner William “Papa” Rourke) won its first league pennant, overtaking
Denver by winning 17 of the last 18 games. The Rourkes were paced by
pitcher Mordecai “Three-Fingers” Brown, later to become famous with
the Chicago Cubs, and eventually inducted into the Hall of Fame.
|
** |
In 1911
the ballpark (then known as the Vinton Street Park) was renovated.
That year, Ty Cobb’s Tigers came to town for an exhibition game, but
did not play owing to inclement weather.
|
** |
In 1921,
the team was sold to Barney Finch Burch, and a team known as the Omaha
Buffaloes, later the Prophets. The team changed hands again in 1934
when Burch was in bankruptcy, first to a Branconier of St. Louis, and
then again in 1936 to Larry Harlan, a Lincoln insurance man. On
August 13 of that season, after Satchell Paige’s All-Stars played the
famous House of David team, League Park caught fire and burned to the
ground. The team was moved to Council Bluffs for the rest of the
season, and Omaha did not see professional baseball within its city
limits again until 1949.
|
** |
In 1955
the St. Louis Cardinals’ AAA affiliate moved from Columbus, Ohio, to
Omaha, becoming the new tenants of Rosenblatt Stadium. It was a
relatively short marriage, lasting only until 1959. Some of the major
league Cardinal players of note who played in Omaha during this
1955-59 era were Bob Gibson, Curt Flood, Gib Frey, Nick Schofield, and
Don Blasingame. Gibby pitched parts of three seasons with Omaha,
1957, 1958 and 1959, before making his major league debut with the
parent club in 1959.
|
** |
After the
Omaha Cardinals left for Rochester following the 1959 season, Omaha
suffered the 1960 season without professional baseball. In 1961 and
1962, Omaha was home to the Dodgers’ AAA farm club. Manager Danny
“The Wizard of Oze” Ozarks managed the Omaha Dodgers to a last-place
finish in the American Association in 1961. Joe Altobelli played
first base for the club in 1962.
After the
artful Dodgers flew the coop following the 1962 season, Omaha had no
team to call its own from 1963-68. It was not until the Kansas City
Royals team came in 1969 that Omaha again had minor league baseball.
That season, a cigar-chomping maverick known as “Trader Jack” McKeon
came to Omaha and managed the team for the Omaha Royals.
|
BOOK REPORT: OCTOBER MEN
(12/16/04)
I finally finished reading
October Men, a terrific baseball book. After weeks, probably
months, of reading only one or two paragraphs a night in bed before dozing
off –– only to have the book fall out of my hands and off my bed to brain
Bear, our black Lab (now I know why they call it “dog-earred”) –– I
finally found time on an airplane ride to finish up this terrific book by
Roger Kahn, better known for his seminal work The Boys of Summer.
Although it’s a bit of a rambling work, the subject matter (Billy Martin
and the 1978 Yankees) is fascinating, and Kahn’s prose is as enjoyable to
read as any baseball author I have encountered. Let me just share with
you a few of my favorites from the book:
u “I don’t care for the way the Red Sox played baseball,” Robert Frost told
me, one clear September afternoon in 1960. “They play too much in the
manner of Boston gentlemen.” We were standing outside Frost’s cabin on
the shoulder of a steep Vermont hill.
“How do you like your baseball
played?” I said.
Frost was eighty-five. He said,
“Spike ’em as you go around the bases.” His green eyes twinkled.
u
Of Yankee manager Casey Stengle, during his playing days, Damon Runyon
wrote:
This is the way old “Casey”
Stengle ran yesterday afternoon running his home run.
This is the way old “Casey” Stengle ran running his home run in a giant victory by a score of 5-4 in
the first game of the World’s Series of 1923.
This is the way old “Casey” ran,
running his home run home, when two were out in the ninth inning and the
score was tied and the ball was still bounding inside the Yankee yard.
This is the way ––
His mouth wide open.
His warped old legs bending
beneath him at every stride.
His arms flying back and forth
like those of a man swimming with a crawl stroke.
His flanks heaving, his head far
back . . . .
u By every reasonable standard, the 1978 Yankees should have been terminally
exhausted. Their opening day manager, Alfred Manuel “Billy” Martin, had
been drinking so heavily that his personality, none too tranquil when he
was sober, had erupted with repeated explosions of anger, hatred, and
paranoia, until he had finally gotten himself “resigned” back in July.
While his great predecessor, Casey Stengle, mellowed with drink, booze
turned Martin into a human Gatling gun. “You always wanted to be
around Billy for the first drink,” suggests Gene Michael, then the
Yankees first base coach. “You never wanted to be around him for the
last one.”
u Steinbrenner on owning the Yankees: “I’ve had lots of offers to sell. No
way. Owning the Yankees is like owning the Mona Lisa.”
u Sutton saw, or thought he saw, a swagger in (Reggie) Jackson’s manner.
This annoyed the Dodger ace, such that before his catcher could put down a
sign, Sutton looked at Jackson and made a small, thrusting motion with his
right hand and wrist, the universal signal for fastball. Pitchers use
that sign when warming up, to tell the catcher what kind of pitch is
coming. But here in a brash and naked dare, Sutton was telling Jackson
that he was going to throw his fastball. I’ll tip what I’m going to
throw, you swaggering SOB, and you still won’t be able to hit it.
That is not precisely what happened. Sutton threw his fastball, and
Jackson hit a huge high drive that cracked into the top of the right-field
foul pole. “Through all the twenty-five years I caught,” Johnny Oates,
then with the Dodgers, told me, “that was the single hardest-hit ball I
ever saw.”
u The next day the Orioles knocked out Catfish Hunter and Gossage knocked
down the Baltimore catcher, Rick Dempsey. Short, feisty Earl Weaver, the
Lord of Baltimore, complained to Joe Brinkman, the home-plate umpire, who
heard him out. After Weaver returned to the dugout, Brinkman summoned
Martin to home plate and told him that he wanted the high, tight pitching
stopped right now. Martin nodded, but he never liked being lecture to,
particularly in public. he clenched his fists, and instead of walking
toward Gossage or his own dugout, he strode toward Weaver. “You’re making
trouble, you little son of a bitch,” he shouted.
Weaver himself was hardly
tongue-tied. “I’m paid to make trouble for you,” he said.
“Brinkman and another umpire
grabbed Martin and turned him 180 degrees. No formal statistic exists on
major-league managers punching other managers during a ball game, but
without Joe Brinkman, Billy Martin could have been the first. The
Daily News continued its merry honking:
O’s Blast Cat 6-1;
Billy, Earl Feud
There were many other great quotes from
this book, some of which I may dig out and share with you later. I highly
suggest that each of you put October Men on your Christmas list.
THE NEW BILL JAMES
HISTORICAL BASEBALL ABSTRACT
I got the New Bill
James Historical Baseball Abstract for my birthday, and, as I have
mentioned to a few of you, this is absolutely a must-have book for
baseball fans. It’s about a thousand pages of great statistical analysis,
player rankings, commentary, and great inside stories that you’ll never
get tired of reading. You can pick it up for five minutes or an hour, and
there is always something great to read, including a reprint of the
wonderful description of Lonnie Smith’s ability to recover from defensive
misplays.
A few excerpts:
w “Lonnie can calculate with the
instinctive astrophysics of a tennis player where a ball will land when
it skips off the heel of his glove, what the angle of glide will be when
he tips it off the webbing, what the spin will be when the ball skids
off the thumb of the mitt. Many players can kick a ball behind them
without ever knowing it; Lonnie can judge by the pitch of the thud and
the subtle pressure on his shoe in which direction and how far he has
projected the sphere. He knows exactly what to do when a ball spins out
of his hand and flies crazily into a void on the field, when it is
appropriate for him to scramble after the ball and when he needs to back
up the man who will have to recover it. He has experience it these
matters; when he retires he will be hired to come to spring training and
coach defensive recovery and cost containment. This is his specialty,
and he is good at it.”
w “Hughie Jennings got a letter from a
small town in Michigan, a letter from a pitcher who claimed he could
strike out Ty Cobb anytime on three pitches. The guy said it would only
cost $1.80 – his train fare to Detroit – for Jennings to find out.
Hughie figured, well, you never know, and sent the dollar-eighty. The
pitcher showed up – great, big, gangly kid, 6-foot-4 and all joints.
They let him warm up and called out Cobb.
Cobb hit his first pitch
against the right field wall. His second pitch went over the right
field wall. The third pitch went over the center field wall. Cobb was
thinking they ought to keep this guy around to help him get in a groove.
“Well,” said
Jennings. “What have you got to say?”
The pitcher stared hard at the batter in the batter’s box. “You know,”
he said, “I don’t believe that’s Ty Cobb in there.”
w King Kelly was the first matinee idol
of the National League. A handsome man with red hair and a long
mustache, Kelly was regarded as a great defensive outfielder, and as the
greatest baserunner of his time. He was the first baseball player
followed on the streets. The fans loved him so much they presented him
with a glistening white horse and a beautiful carriage so he could ride
to the park in style. Kelly was the highest-paid star in baseball for
much of his career, but spent every dime on wine, women, song and fancy
clothes. When he died of pneumonia in 1894, aged 36, he was reportedly
destitute. . . . To tell the true story of Mike Kelly is impossible, and
even to summarize all of the legends would require at least three books.
w It is almost impossible to explain just
how weird are Kelly’s defensive statistics. Among all major league
outfielders playing 1000 games at the position, the highest rate of
baserunner kills (assists) per game is by Hall of Fame outfielder Tommy
McCarthy, who had 268 kills in 1,189 games, which is 36.5 kills per 162
games; all of the highest rates are by 19th century players. The
highest rate by a 20th-century player is 26.9, by Tris Speaker. Paul
Radford, who didn’t quite play 1,000 games, has a ratio a little higher
than McCarthy, 39.0 kills per 162 games.
w And then there is King Kelly, whose
kill rate is: 61.6. He must be . . . I don’t know, ten standard
deviations above the norm or something. OK, I checked . . . taking all
outfielders in history playing 500 or more games, he is 7.5 standard
deviations above the norm. He has more than 50% more baserunner kills
than the second-best guy. It’s unbelievable. How can you do that?
w But wait a minute; I didn’t say he was
a great outfielder; I said he was a weird outfielder. All of his
numbers are that odd. His error rate is every bit as bad as his
baserunner kill rate is good. His career fielding percentage, in the
outfield, was .820 – one error every 5.5 chances. Every other
outfielder in history, playing 500 or more games, had a career fielding
percentage of at least .844. Kelly’s error rate (.180) is 24 points
higher than any other outfielder’s.
w How is this possible? He was
playing the position differently than anyone else, I think. Kelly, at
times when he was listed as an outfielder, may actually have abandoned
the outfield to play as a fifth infielder. It is documented that at
times, when he was expecting a bunt, he would come in and play within a
few feet of the batter. He may have done this even when he was listed
as an outfielder; I don’t know.
w Kelly’s numbers as an outfielder
are not a lot stranger than his numbers as a catcher. As a catcher, he
was charged with 368 errors and 417 passed balls, in 583 games. His
rate of passed balls is astronomical, his error rate easily the worst of
all time, for a catcher appearing in 500 or more games. Kelly fielded
.892 as a catcher; everybody else, even his contemporaries, is over
.900. If statistics can be larger than life, King Kelly’s numbers are
larger than life.”
There are many, many
more anecdotes that are simply great, and I particularly like the ones
about the early days of baseball.
BOOK REPORTS (02/19/04)
Lords of the Realm
Speaking of Steinbrenner and his ilk, I just picked up the other
day and started to read a terrific book on major league baseball and its
management-labor history, titled Lord of the Realm. It was written
in 1994, and I either bought it or somebody gave it to me a number of
years ago, but I just now am digging into it. U-Bob would love it,
because it’s basically a paean to his union crusading hero, Marvin
Miller. I always thought that Miller was a labor lawyer who probably
started as an underling in the chain of baseball lawyers, but he actually
cut his teeth as a numbers-cruncher for the United Steelworkers of
America. He only became involved as a representative of the MLB Players
Association because the first choice of the players, some judge whose name
has been long forgotten, didn’t want to move to where the players wanted
him to be based. Since the judge was cozy with the owners – unbeknownst
to the players – it was a twist of fate for the players to have ended up
with their second choice, Marvin Miller. The rest is history.
The Manassa Mauler
I just finished a great book by baseball author Roger Kahn about
the great Jack Dempsey, the heavyweight champion of the world during the
Roaring Twenties. The book is entitled A Flame of
Pure Fire, and
is a fascinating recounting of life during the first couple of decades of
the last century.
I always thought Jack Dempsey retired as the heavyweight
champion of the world, but in fact he retired after losing his second bout
to Gene Tunney. The first loss to Tunney was the infamous “long count”
fight, in which Tunney spent eighteen seconds with his face on the canvas,
but was never counted out by the referee, whom many historians, including
Kahn, believe was on the take. I also learned from reading this book that
Dempsey was tried by the federal government for being a “slacker” during
World War I. “Slacker” was the parlance of the time for a draft dodger.
In part because of lies spread by his bitter prostitute ex-wife, the
government sought to prove that Dempsey had lied about supporting his wife
and family to avoid having to serve in the Armed Forces. After his
crackerjack trial lawyer reduced the harlot to ribbons through his
cross-examination, it took the jury but a few minutes to exonerate the
great Dempsey of all charges, even after his confident trial lawyer waived
his right to give a summation at the close of the case.
The Game
Lastly, my final offering to you is a wonderful excerpt from the
book The Game by Robert Benson, in which he concludes his book by
sharing his feelings about what he hopes his own children will have gotten
out of their many trips to the ballpark together:
I do not know if my children will remember any of these things when
they are grown-ups and taking their kids to the ballpark. I do not even
know for sure that they will take their kids to the ballpark, though
Heaven knows that I have tried to be a good parent. If they learn to be
responsible adults, pay their taxes, stay out of jail, hold a good job and
do good work, be kind to their neighbors and clean their rooms and vote in
local and national elections, but do not take their kids to the ballpark,
I will have failed them somehow.
I do not know if they will remember the tarp being pulled up
during the rain delays, or the clubhouse guy who came out that night in
the rain and slid in the puddles, making us all laugh and cheer even
though we were cold and wet and shivering. I do not know if they will
keep the baseballs or remember sitting on the left-field fence or in the
dugouts.
There is no way to tell if they will remember the day that we
went to the game and looked at our ticket stubs and discovered that their
faces were on the tickets, because the team photographer had taken their
picture the summer before and then used it when they printed tickets for
the next season. I do not know how long my son will remember the picnic
on the stone wall or how long my daughter will remember hitting in the
cage where the big guys hit.
One cannot know if my kids will remember meeting Lasorda or
Durham or any of the others. Or watching Nunez as he would fly down the
base paths or Wehner diving behind second base to rob somebody of a hit or
Laker hitting one over the wall as though it was so easy that anyone could
do it. Or even if it will matter much to them if they do.
Will they remember checking on Nunez’s stats that summer at
the beach? Will they remember keeping score next to me in the stands?
Will they take their kids to hit baseballs in the spring? I do not know
the answers to those questions either.
“What I do know,” wrote Roger Angell once when he was trying
to sum up his feelings about the game and the people who love it, “is that
this belonging and caring is what our games are all about; this is what we
come for.” True enough, I think.
I do not know if my kids will remember any of these things,
or if they do that they will hold them to be as dear as I do. But from
time to time I have a sneaking suspicion, a suspicion that is the
beginning of a hope, that they will remember.
More than anything, what I hope they will remember are the
things that the game can teach them.
I hope that they will remember that baseball is game about
going home. And in that way at least, it is a game that mirrors
everything, because everything in life is about going home again. It is
about leaving home, and going out to a place where home is far away, and
then doing the things that you must to get home again, some of them simple
and routine, some of them occasionally heroic and glorious.
I hope that they will remember that the only thing worth
doing is the thing that you love to do and have been given the gifts to do
and have found a place in which to do it, whether it be playing a game on
a green field in the sun, or teaching a child to read in a classroom in a
school, or writing a sentence in a room where no one visits. And that
they will recall from time to time that the game that has called them, be
it baseball or biology or bus driving, requires that they learn the steps
in its dance and practice them well. That only then can they hope to do
it with the joy and the grace that it deserves.
I wish for them that they will remember that there will be
days when the best that can be done is to move the runner, and to offer
themselves up for someone else; that what happens to them is not as
important as what they can do for someone else. I wish, too, for them to
remember that even the best of us, and not just the worst of us, strike
out a fair amount, and come home at the end of the day with not much to
show for our efforts. That life is like that somehow, a series of routine
plays and sacrifices and near misses that are part and parcel of life
itself.
If I could decide, then I would have them remember, too, that
there will be days in their life when they will be the star, the center of
some universe, large or small. Days when they will be the one who hit the
ball out of the park somehow and those around them will cheer loud and
long. I hope that they remember that such times are precious and fleeting
and glorious, and not to be missed because one is not paying attention.
And I hope that they will remember that there are other days
as well, days when their hearts will be broken, when the home team will
come up empty, and that there will be little cause for joy in Mudville or
anywhere else. And that on those days they can stand up and sing as well,
perhaps even more than once, for it is often the only thing left for any
of us to do.
In the end, I hope that they will remember some of these
stories and add to them their own. I want them to remember the days when
we sat in the sunshine, when we were young and strong, and the call to
play ball was the best sound on earth.
My sneaking suspicion that they will remember began when my
daughter left our seats at the ballpark the night that we saw Leon, saying
that she would be right back. She and her brother were whispering between
them for a minute or two, and then she went off up the stairs. She was
gone for a while, and though I was not worried about whether or not she
would be okay, I was anxious for her to get back for the start of the
game. She has started keeping score along with me now, and it makes her a
little crazy to miss anything.
In a few minutes she slipped in beside me just as the
national anthem was over and the crowd shouted, “Play ball.” She tapped
me on the arm and held out a baseball. It had Leon’s signature on it.
“It’s for you, Dad. For bringing us to the ballpark.”
Wow. Baseball really is life.
BOOK REPORT: LORDS OF THE REALM
(03/23/04)
During my recent vacation trip to Mexico, I finished reading
Lords of the Realm, the excellent book by John Helyar (who also
authored Barbarians at the Gate) which chronicles the labor
struggles in major league baseball during the past thirty years, and
particularly the rise to power of Marvin Miller. It is an absolutely
fantastic book, and should be required reading for all Hot Stove Leaguers
who have not yet had the chance to read it. Not only does the book go
into depth on the history of labor and management struggles between the
owners and the players, it provides an excellent history of the game from
about 1970 to 1994, and excellent insights into the personalities of such
baseball notables as Marvin Miller, Bowie Kuhn, Ted Turner, Bart Giamatti,
Fay Vincent, Augie Busch, Bud Selig, Charlie Finley and many others. Let
me share with you just a couple of the excerpts or stories from the book
that I found interesting:
Charlie Finley personally attended to the signing of
several of his star players, including Catfish Hunter and Johnny Lee
Odom. Finley traveled to Macon, Georgia, to try to sign Odom, a
high school buzz-saw who had gone 42-and-2 with eight no-hitters.
However, as Odom’s high school graduation approached, the Red Sox
had the inside track, and a Boston scout was literally camped out at
the Odoms’ house, paying the family $15 a night for lodging, which
was a lot of money for this dirt-poor family. Along came Finley,
and took a room in the Odom house for $30 a night. After moving in,
Finley then went to a produce store and bought mounds of groceries,
including watermelons, peanuts, chicken, and every vegetable under
the sun. It took a half-ton pickup to deliver all of the food to
the Odom house, according to the book. Finley then rustled up a
feast for the Odom family, drawing upon his Southern roots and his
“prodigious cooking skills,” and put together a dinner of fried
chicken, corn on the cob, black-eyed peas, collard greens, and the
works.
Finley stayed at the Odom house for just one night. But
by the time he checked out, he had signed Odom for $75,000, and had
installed him with his new nickname, “Blue Moon” Odom. He later
signed Jim Hunter for the same $75,000 amount, and gave him his new
nickname, “Catfish.”
***
All of you have heard about the Big Red Machine of the
1970s, the Cincinnati Reds team that won the 1975 and 1976 World
Series. However, many of you may not know that the No. 2 man in the
Reds organization during those years was none other than
Underbelly’s uncle, Dick Wagner. According to this book, Wagner was
the chief enforcer of general manager Bob Howsam’s love of order and
discipline, and earned the nickname (behind his back) of “The
Fuhrer.” Wagner reportedly kept Riverfront Stadium absolutely
immaculate, cleaning up the stadium throughout the course of the
game so that it was as spotless in the 9th inning as in the 1st
inning. Reds players had to be clean-shaven and wear polished black
spikes. During spring training, they had to eat all of their meals
at the club’s complex in Tampa, signing in at the cafeteria “like
schoolchildren.”
***
John McMullen was at one time the owner of the Houston
Astros, infamous for signing Nolan Ryan –– then with a very mediocre
pitching record –– for $4.5 million. Prior to joining the Astros,
McMullen was one of the limited partners of George Steinbrenner in
the ownership of the Yankees. McMullen had a wonderful quote about
this experience: “There’s nothing quite so limited as being a
limited partner of George Steinbrenner.”
***
Prior to the time that Fay Vincent announced that he was
resigning as the Commissioner of baseball, he wrote a defiant letter
to the owners on August 20, 1992, in which he promised: “I will
not resign –– ever. Even if there is a meeting and a vote to remove
me from office, or an attempt to limit my powers . . . I will not
leave. I will continue to carry out my responsibilities until such
time as the highest court of this land tells me otherwise.”
Then, after he was informed that three-fourths of the owners had
voted to try to remove him from the Commissioner’s office, Vincent
put his tail between his legs and resigned. So much for his
credibility
***
After chronicling the incredible gains made by the players
association in the ’70s and ’80s, Helyar provided this wonderful
analogy: “It all greatly resembled the final scene in George
Orwell’s ‘Animal Farm.’ The pigs, who’d once led a barnyard
rebellion against the oppressive farmers, now shared many of their
traits and, at the end, were sharing a sumptuous meal with them.
Wrote Orwell, ‘The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and
from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was
impossible to say which was which.’” Love it.
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The book is full of such wonderful baseball vignettes. I
commend it highly to you all.
BOOK REPORT: STILL ANGRY AFTER ALL THESE
YEARS
(12/03/02)
After
sitting motionless on my bookshelf for quite some period of time, I
finally picked up and started reading Bob Gibson’s 1994 “autobiography”
titled
Stranger to the Game.
So far, I am about half-way through it, and it is a very interesting read,
in large part because of Gibson’s recounting of his childhood in Omaha.
However, while some of his invective in telling his life’s tale might have
been designed to sensationalize matters to sell copy, the clear
undercurrent of the book is that Gibson felt and still feels that he has
been continually wronged because he is black, and an outspoken black man
at that. If you read the book, which I commend to you, you will have to
make your own judgment on this, but from the outside looking in, it is
hard to see how the progression of his major league baseball career was
really hampered because of his color. Certainly he was subjected to things
in the Jim Crow south in the ’50s and early ’60s which should never be
tolerated in a civilized society, but it seems as if he was always treated
pretty darn fairly by the St. Louis Cardinals organization.
In any
case, a couple of the more interesting tidbits of information from this
book are as follows:
s
Gibson’s father died when he was a very tender age, and he was more or
less raised by his older brother, Josh, who was a Creighton University
graduate and a leading coach and father figure to many young black
athletes in North Omaha.
s
In
addition to Gibson, Gale Sayers, Roger Sayers, Bob Boozer, Ron Boone,
Marlin Briscoe, and Johnnycakes Rogers are all alumni of Josh Gibson’s
North Omaha sports programs.
s
Gibson
lived many years in the Logan Fontenelle housing project in North Omaha,
back when it was almost new and a pretty nice place to live. The
projects at that time were integrated, and he played youth sports with
white boys, Indians and other children of his own race.
s
Gibson
played on a touring black baseball team known as the Omaha Monarchs in
his youth, which traveled all around Nebraska and Iowa playing local,
small-town teams.
s
Gibson
was known more for his basketball playing in high school and college, as
he started for Omaha Technical High for three years on the basketball
team but was not allowed to play baseball, according to him, because it
was reserved for the white boys. When he was a senior in high school,
his Omaha Tech team got beat by Fremont 40-39 in the semifinal game of
the state high school playoffs in Lincoln, a loss which he blamed on
biased officiating against a team with an all-black starting five.
Gibson went to Creighton University primarily to play basketball,
although he also played baseball and high-jumped for the track team. He
was a three-year starter on the basketball team, and when he finished
his college career in 1957, he was the all-time leading scorer for
Creighton University. He also was the first member of the CU Sports Hall
of Fame.
s
When
the Harlem Globetrotters came to Omaha after Gibson had completed his
college career, he was invited to play for the opposing team, as was
customary in those days. (In those days, the opposing team really tried
to beat the Globetrotters.) Gibson’s fourthquarter performance was so
spectacular that he was invited to play on the real Globetrotters’ team,
and spent several months touring with the ’Trotters and playing with
Meadowlark Lemon. However, after one season with the ’Trotters, the St.
Louis Cardinals organization decided that it was too big of an
off-season distraction for him, and offered to pay him the same $4,000
that the Globetrotters paid him if only he would not play for Abe
Saperstein’s touring team.
s
After
signing with the St. Louis Cardinals, Gibson spent parts of a couple of
years playing for the Omaha AAA affiliate of the Cardinals, but a
greater share of his AAA seasoning was with the Cardinals’ AAA club in
Rochester, which was considered a higher level than the Omaha club.
Gibson was definitely an “old-school” player, one who did not fraternize
with players on other teams or even give his own teammates much of a
glimpse into his mental pitching book. He was also fiercely independent
and stubborn, as illustrated by this story from Joe Torre about the 1965
All-Star game.
In the 1965 game in Minnesota, I was catching and he came in to pitch
the last inning. We had a 6-5 lead, and the first man up was Tony
Oliva. It goes strike one, strike two, and I know what I want him to
do next. Oliva’s a great low fastball hitter, so I want him to come up
with the ball. I think, should I just signal that, or should I go out
and tell him so I won’t second-guess myself? I went out and said,
“Bob, a good fastball up and in. Not down and in, up and in.” He just
looked at me as if I wasn’t there. I turned around and went behind the
plate and called fastball. He threw it down and in. Double to left
center. I said, Well, fuck it, I did what I had to do. He then
proceeded to strike out the next three guys. One of them was Killebrew,
who killed fastballs and had already homered against Maloney, who
threw as hard as anybody in baseball. Gibson threw him nothing but
fastballs. The last out was Joe Pepitone, and I’ll never forget it. He
threw Pepitone two fastballs, and Gibson’s fastball sailed so much
that after the second one, Pepitone turned to me and said, “Throw me
that high slider again.” I said, “Okay.” Gibson throws another
fastball and strikes him out on three pitches. After the game, he and
I are the last two in the shower. I turn to him and say, “Great
pitching.” He’s just soaping himself down like I’m not even in the
damn shower. Wouldn’t say a word. That’s just the way he was. When I
was traded to the Cardinals four years later, he was the first one to
welcome me.
BOOK REPORT: George Washington: A
Life
(11/14/01)
Not that it has anything to do with baseball, but I just finished a
great book titled
George Washington: A Life, by Willard Sterne
Randall. It only took me four months to read it at my usual one-page a
night clip. But it was well worth the wait.
How many of you knew that:
(a) George Washington was 6-foot-4 and 210 pounds, a giant of a man
in an era when the average height was about 5-foot-7.
(b) George Washington was a wilderness trailblazer for years in the
frontier of America (Western Virginia, Ohio, Pennsylvania) before becoming
a soldier and then politician
(c) George never once set foot in England his entire life, but he
spent several months in Barbados with his ailing uncle, where he caught
and survived small pox.
(d) As a military leader, he got whipped in about the first five or
six armed conflicts that he led, making it a wonder that he became the
Supreme Commander of the Americans in the Revolutionary War.
(e) He lost far many more Revolutionary War
battles than he won, and really only outlasted the British instead of
making them cry uncle, and would almost certainly have lost the war
outright if the French Navy had not entered the fray on behalf of the
Stars and Stripes.
(f) The reason you never see George smiling in any portraits is that
he had possibly the worst teeth of all time, and was embarrassed by them.
He was continually trying to wear different kinds of dentures in the later
years of his life, including one set made out of pigs teeth. Nice.
I highly recommend that you read it in your spare time.
BOOK REVIEW:
When
Pride
Still Mattered
(05/15/01)
If any of you are looking for a
really, really, really excellent book, read When Pride
Still Mattered,
the former bestseller book about Vince Lombardi by David Maraniss,
copyright 1999, Simon and Schuster. Believe me, I am not a fan of pro
football, but having grown up when the Packers were in their glory years,
I thought that it looked like an interesting read. It is.
Until reading this book, I did
not know that Lombardi was one of the fabled Seven Blocks of Granite, the
powerful front line of the Fordham football team of 1936. Of this famous
line, Grantland Rice wrote his famous poem:
Great,
mighty Minnesota fell, upon a fateful day,
Both
Yale and Army felt the axe, and tossed their crowns away,
Big Holy
Cross, an early boss, hears no more winning hands,
Yes,
strange things happened everywhere, but the Fordham Wall still stands.
Who took
the thrust of SMU and rolled its charges back?
Who
stood the Gaels upon their heels and broke up each attack?
Who held
young Goldberg at the line, with willing hearts and hands?
The
answer rings from Coast to Coast: The Fordham Wall still stands.
I also did not realize, until
reading the book, that Lombardi coached at Army under Red Blaik
from
1949,
right
after
their
glorious
national
championship
years,
until
1954,
when
he
left
(three
years
after
the
infamous
West
Point
cadet
scandal
of
1951)
and
became
the
offensive
coordinator
for
the
New
York
Giants
of
the
NFL.
Tom
Landry,
by
the
way,
was
the
defensive
coordinator
for
the
same
New
York
Giants
team.
Not
a
bad
staff.
Anyway,
read
When
Pride
Still
Mattered.
You’ll
be
glad
that
you
did.
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