Notes from the Shadows of Cooperstown
Observations From Outside the Lines |
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NOTES FROM THE SHADOWS OF COOPERSTOWN
Observations from Outside the Lines
By Two Finger Carney (carneya6@borg.com)
#264 AUGUST 2, 2002
ROAD TRIP INTO HISTORY
The title of this issue comes from the long lead item, about my excursion into the darkest part of baseball's past, where statistics count less than clear memories and great stories. Ken Burns called the chapter "Shadow Ball," the days of the Negro Leagues. I had visited that land before, in books and especially two summers ago at a SABR conference in Reading, PA, and this latest trip, to Memphis, reminded me that no matter how much I explore, there is always so much more to be learned. (In some future issue of Notes I'll be reviewing a biography of Ted "Double Duty" Radcliffe, which really would fit in well here, since "Duty" has Memphis ties.)
I also take a glance back in this issue at recent history, the highlights (sort of) of the season still in progress, but threatening to stop making history, maybe later this month.
Then there is a neat story about a foul ball (one of my favorite topics), contributed by Richard Goldman. A reader of Notes had forwarded it to me, and I reprint it here with Mr Goldman's kind permission. If you enjoy it as much as I did, you can find more of his stuff at www.iguanaking.com/goldman/index.html
We all know how things went with Ozzie at Cooperstown last weekend. But did you know that out in Pasadena, that Induction Day ceremony went well, too? Terry Cannon reports that "an overflow crowd" heard speeches that were "probably the best yet." (If this is not making sense to you, then you need to visit Notes #261 in the Archive and get caught up on The Baseball Reliquary and their Shrine of the Eternals.) Pete Golenbeck gave the keynote, and inductee Minnie Minoso's acceptance speech was interrupted twice by "long and thunderous standing ovations." For more on Induction Day West, look up Don Malcolm's report, soon to be posted at www.baseballprimer.com -- photos, too. The TBR site will also soon have something posted on the ceremony.
Shadow Ball, MLB-ball, foul ball, having a ball ... another issue that touches all the bases, connected only by "ball" ... which just happens to be the connecting thread in just about every story in every issue of Notes! Hope you have a cool place to read this, and I recommend a cool beverage, for the greatest enjoyment. As always, feedback welcome!
KEEPERS OF THE FLAME
This midsummer I found myself in the Mid-South. I was not drawn to Memphis, Tennessee, by the Mississippi lore of Mark Twain, or by the strains R & B that spray in all directions from Beale Street, and not, like Paul Simon, by the shrine of Graceland. I'm going to Graceland / for reasons I cannot explain / There's some part of me wants to see Graceland.
Yes, Memphis is where Elvis left the planet, a quarter century ago now, but his followers keep alive a flame. Memphis is where Martin Luther King was killed, thirty-four years ago now, and the National Civil Rights Museum, marking the spot, keeps alive a flame.
No, Memphis drew me back, after a gap of twenty-six years, to two reunions. "Reunions, by definition, are times of nostalgia," as John Mulligan once put it. (I've never heard it attributed to anyone else, so I credit John.) This was surely true of my reunion with a friend of over forty years, Tom. We weathered high school and then college together, were each other's best man when we wed, and have kept in touch. Every baseball fan should have such a good friend who is more into other sports -- they help us maintain balance, and provide great sparring partners. Tom is a fan for all seasons, while I, of course, specialize in the Summer Game. It matters not -- when we re-une, we make each other laugh in ways no one else can.
The other reunion was with the Negro Leagues. Two seasons back, I took the road to Harrisburg, PA, for a conference there sponsored by SABR's Negro League [NL will stand for that in this issue of Notes] Committee and Penn State Harrisburg. You could look it up, in the Notes Archive, #219. That trip was great fun, and while I am by no means an expert on the NL, I look forward to opportunities to fill myself in on what I instinctively regard as one of baseball's most interesting and instructive eras. So when this year's event (now dubbed the Jerry Malloy NL Committee Conference) wound up in Memphis -- Tom's town -- it was irresistible.
Just as the cities of Harrisburg and Memphis are so different from each other that any comparison would be a stretch, so were the two meetings much unlike each other. Yet they shared an essential ingredient -- they provided a forum for those who care about the NL to gather together, share their research, encourage each other to keep the flame alive, and to meet with some of the surviving NL players.
WHO CARES?
The Negro Leaguers are now old now, of course -- the last league games were played out in 1955. But they all seem to really relish the chance to reminisce with younger folks, and to re-une among themselves. Clapping after their talks causes one to wonder whether these cheers will be the lash hurrahs for someone.
Of course, when they all finally pass, those left behind in the country of baseball will be poorer -- just as America was poorer when these men (and women) had to play in their own league. We'll have voices and videos, but they won't be the same.
I guess that I've listened to the stories of about twenty NL vets, at various SABR events over the past decade. Their voices are invariably proud, and to me, they always seem to echo those of Native Americans recalling their own doomed way of life. They remember with much more fondness than regret, these elders recalling the summers of their youth. Yes, yes, it happened, we were somebody, we ARE somebody ... but it was not to be forever. We moved on, taking with us the best of it -- that is, the great memories, the great lasting friendships, and the great stories, which will be told at our funerals -- and beyond!
There is a small, dedicated army scattered about the continent, who are busy tracking down the statistics that these men, along with hundreds of others, generated on black diamonds, during the segregated time before Jackie. But a full accounting of the numbers, the box scores, the league and team and individual records, will in the end be as elusive as terrorists (now there's a new image that I wish did not have to come to mind.) Elusive, because only some of the stats ever had a life on paper. NL ball is a collection of rumors and heresay and tall tales, maybe true, maybe the product of active imaginations. Some of the history can no more be unearthed as ghosts can be bombed. But some of it might yet be found out, if we take the time to learn a new language, and spend some time listening.
MEETING AN OLD FRIEND -- FOR THE FIRST TIME
In the gloomy days of September 1994, with MLB out on Strike, frustrated and angry fans were distracted for a while by Ken Burns' PBS epic Baseball. The film was criticized on many fronts -- it was too NY/Boston-heavy, too social/political, played too fast and loose (for a documentary) with numbers and photos, and the errors went uncorrected after being pointed out. But everyone seemed to be unanimous about one thing -- a guy named Buck O'Neil stole the show.
Burns' lineup of "talking heads" had included most of the usual suspects, and introduced fans to a number of bright historians, articulate academics, and learned commentators. But when Buck O'Neil talked, viewers were spellbound. His face lit up, and we forgot about Bud Selig cancelling the Series, and Don Fehr, and the idiot owners. Buck's voice took us back to the days of "shadow ball" ... we got a sense of what Jackie meant to black ballplayers, and to all America ... got a sense of what it meant to go beyond bitterness and what-might-have-been, to move on in life and enjoy each moment.
So when I spied Buck O'Neil joining us in Memphis, he was as familiar as an uncle. No intros needed. And just as he added the seasoning needed by Burns' film, so did Buck spice up this event.
Even though I did not get a chance to talk with Buck one on one, I did have a lunch at his table, and because the group was small (fewer than twenty, not counting those on the program), I felt like we had had time together. Blackened cajun catfish and Buck O'Neil -- went together fine! (Buck said that he will try to get to the SABR meeting in Cooperstown on Induction Day evening; if he does, I will be glad to introduce him.) I am happy to report here that Buck seemed to be in good health. He spends some of his time these days in the Negro League Museum in Kansas City, where lucky fans might bump into him for a chat. (Visit on the 'net at www.NLBM.COM.) But he can still do road trips, and his autograph arm is loose from practice.
Cooperstown will be a reunion for Buck with some of his old friends. Hank Aaron and Ernie Banks played in the NL, and who knows who might show up? (That's part of the fun of reunions, running into someone totally unexpected.) Buck is not a member of the Hall, but has served on the Vets' Committee, and you can bet that he'll be lobbying hard for the next NL inductees. Buck is an indispensable resource for the process -- because he has a sharp memory, and can fill in the blanks where stats might have been.
THE MAIN COURSE
Panel presentations at SABR conventions are usually highlights, and that was the case in Memphis. Besides Buck, there was William (Bill) Little, Sherwood Brewer, Jim Cobbin (I might have some names wrong, because some of the players were not on the program -- they joined us from a separate NL Reunion that happened to be in town! Ironic, no? -- fifty-some years later, and we still get the names wrong!), Dennis Biddle, and Reggie Howard (?) Brewer may have been the most prominent, having played in five of the prestigious East-West All Star Games, before managing Ernie Banks.
Buck took some time, when the question of the "conditions" under which the NL played came up, to drive home a point. The NL was not Bingo Long or Soul of the Game, a rag-tag, roving gang of mischievous merrymen who also played some ball. No, at its peak, the Negro Leagues was the third largest black-owned industry in America (behind insurance and beauty products.) "We stayed at the best hotels, ate the best meals while listening to the best music (the best chefs and musicians were black), and were celebrities in our community." Many players made more money in the NL, because they got paid by the game, and they played all year 'round (the MLB minimum salary was $5,000.) "Black baseball was not inferior!"
Another panelist underlined this by recalling that the Kirwin Report (a study on race in America released in the sixties) talked about the country moving toward "two societies, separate and unequal" -- "MLB and the NL were not that way -- there were two major leagues" -- "tell the press!" When the MLB doors opened, white America got to meet players who had already achieved superstar status, Satchel, Larry Doby, Luke Easter. And the NL stars had already proven themselves in competition against MLB players.
I think a favorite question at NL panels is, "Who was the best player?" Buck picked Willie Mays, as far as MLB goes, but rated Oscar Charleston a notch higher overall. Little picked Mays, Piper Davis, Art Wilson, then settled on Verdell "Lefty" Mathis, a Memphis hero of the forties, as pitcher, and Larry Brown, a NL catcher. Brewer liked Ted Williams and Josh Gibson as hitters, but Willie Mays overall. Cobbin took Satchel Paige, while Biddle liked Art "Superman" Pennington. Later, Brewer confessed that he, too, wanted to pick Oscar Charleton.
Buck described Satchel's "hesitation pitch," then told some great stories about Satchel the fisherman and Satchel the ladies' man. If you ever meet Buck, ask him why Satchel called him "Nancy" -- then have a seat and let him spin.
Others spun, too, before plugging their own candidates for Cooperstown -- Biz Mackey, Willard Brown ... Buck has a list, and will be talking with Joe Morgan about a plan to induct what will likely be the last group, all at once.
APPETIZERS, SALAD AND SIDE DISHES
The conference warmed up with the story of the Memphis Redbirds -- we were meeting in their new digs, AutoZone Park. Rita Parks, Redbirds' Foundation Prez, greeted us and then we watched a slick video (Samuel L Jackson narrated; he may have succeeded James Earl Jones as The Voice.) The Redbirds' park, although it cost $80 million, is owned by a non-profit group (the Foundation), and after it is paid off, will pour millions of dollars back into the local charities of Memphis. I like that idea, although $80 mil seems too high for a ballpark (or a player salary.)
The salad was mixed, short talks by a local scorer and a librarian. The side dishes had variety, presentations on the reporting by the black press, pre- and post-Jackie; a couple of academic talks (perhaps wasted on the small audience), and another video, this one on the Claybrook Tigers (credit to David D. Dawson.) The Tigers may be one of the game's toughest research assignments: not only is the team long gone (they peaked in 1935-36), but the city itself has vanished -- that's right, you cannot look it up on any map! Claybrook was in Arkansas.
DESSERT
This was surely AutoZone Park. Our meetings were inside, on the second floor, in the large, thankfully air-conditioned space in back of the rim of luxury boxes. We had one lunch at the 'Zone's elegant Plaza restaurant, and another (hot dogs) outside in one of several picnic-table areas. There were games each night, but I took in just the one commemorating the Negro Leagues. The visiting Tacoma Raniers wore Homestead Grays unis, while the hometown 'Birds dressed as the old Memphis Red Sox.
The NL vets in town were on the field before the game, and Buck O'Neil was the last to deliver a ceremonial "first pitch" -- he warmed up, then, instead of tossing the ball, snuck in about a third of the way from the mound toward home. Then he did it again. And then, as the crowd roared, he did it again, handing it finally to the awaiting catcher. I'd like to see a president do that. Well, it beats bouncing his throw in.
The game was a beauty. On a sweltering night, both teams were playing briskly, as if they had to catch a bus to get to the next town for another game later on. The "Crawfords" never got a hit till the fifth, but their pitcher, a kid with just six innings notched on his size AAA belt, took his no-hitter into the eighth. The visitors threatened just once, in the seventh, when they loaded the bases with two outs. Their #9 hitter (always a threat to be a hero) then rammed a long hit to right, which the "Red Sox" fielder, Nunally, pulled down with a leap before bouncing off the wall and holding on.
That first hometown hit in the eighth led the inning off. After a nifty sac bunt (executed as deftly as any NLer could) and a fly to right moved the runner to third, the second hit brought him in. Two hits, one run was all it took for the 1-0 win. The game took just about two and a half hours. Head for the A-C, it was still sweltering!
Tom and I had dinner at AutoZone. Hey, if you can't get a good meal in an $80 million park, something is wrong. AutoZone (I hate those commercial names, but I'm sure it was well paid for) is a nice park: clean, nice lines, nice view. TVs galore, which are helpful when you are wandering around or in line for something (anything!) cold. The meeting areas we used for the conference were plush. Behind the outfield fence in left is a grassy lawn, where fans can sprawl and watch the game -- I like that feature a lot, and haven't seen it since the old Durham Athletic Park. The mood was festive, with lots of giveaways and games and entertainment between innings. The Redbirds (a St Louis Cardinal farm) are doing it right, and I wish them well.
THE ROADS NOT TAKEN
I enjoyed this conference very much, but I may have missed more than I have reported on here. If I had arrived Thursday, I could have had a formal tour of AutoZone. Then I could have been taken by bus to see what is left of two old Memphis parks, long departed ancestors of AutoZone, Martin Stadium and Russwood Park (just historical markers today.) Then, a tour of that National Civil Rights Museum.
On Saturday, I passed up an afternoon walk up Beale Street, to the Withers Gallery (of photography), and then to W.C. Handy Park. I truly regret not catching the late afternoon update by Larry Lester and Dick Clark, two of SABR's leading lights on all things NL, on how their research project (funded by a grant from MLB) is going. I'm hoping that someone who was able to attend will read this, and fill me in later.
AFTERMATH
I came back to the Shadows of Cooperstown anxious to write, and to follow up on a number of notes I made for myself. I need to thank and credit here David Chase for organizing much of the conference and then keeping it on track with his introductions, scoreboard updates, his enthusiastic tone throughout, and then his own presentation (with Lloyd Johnson) on a project that is tentatively named The National Pastime. I'm not sure what the final shape of TNP will be, but I believe the general goal is to create a super-database that will make it possible to look up any professional ballplayer -- not just those who made it to the top level, but anyone who signed a pro contract.
I like the idea, and I like that the project is proceeding in cooperation with Cooperstown's National BB Library. It seems like all libraries ought to be dreaming of the day -- and working their ways toward it -- when sharing information is so easy, because the data stored in libraries, County Historical Societies, team and player museums, and private collections, is all connected. A researcher's Utopia.
SPEAKING OF MEMPHIS...
OK, I wasn't drawn to Memphis by Graceland, but I did take a peek, from the highway. Saw a couple of Elvis' old jets and cars and the mansion house. Graceland appeared to be doing a brisk business. The King may be dead, but his memory sells well. Which reminds me of an old poem of mine, a sketch of Mike "King" Kelly, who was a celebrity is his day. He never recorded a song, but there was a song about him that made the charts, "Slide, Kelly, Slide!" He was colorful, dressed in style, and died young. He apparently drank, gambled and womanized with the same gusto that he ran the bases. Here is how I linked the two fellows who just happened to share a nickname.
KING
Wore the diamond's crown
When the kingdom was brand new,
Its subjects relatively few
But fervent.
A generation before the Babe,
Michael Joseph Kelly was
Baseball's matinee idol --
Immortalized in song,
King Kelly did a Chicago
Hook slide
Into America's hearts --
Daring young man
On the flying spikes,
Boldly diving head-first
For bases and adulation.
Traded for a record
Five-digit figure
(Where will it all end?),
Kelly's fans boycotted in protest
Except when his new team was in town.
King Kelly had a flair
For the game and fine clothes:
Leader in color no matter what league,
Irishman batted and fielded his teams
To an octet of pennants.
The King was dead
Soon after leaving the Game
But sightings persist:
Who scored six runs?
Who stole six bases?
Who stole the camera by wearing
His insides outside
For even the umpires to see?
Who's the flamboyant fellow
Cutting corners,
Thinking around the rules,
Revving up the crowd,
Filling up the stadium?
Sight the King
Every time you see a line form
For autographs,
Every time a player is paid
Entertainer's wages
By the high bidder.
The King is dead -- or is he?
Long live the King!
"LOOKING FOR GOOD NEWS ...
... after sad first half," went the headline in Baseball America (7/22-8/4/02), and it reminded me that Notes has been fairly detached from the season in progress, this time around. Part of it is, no doubt, the dark cloud of the Second Selig Strike that hangs over the summer. (Even if there is no strike, we have been enduring the gloomy prospect, and that has made a difference.)
The team I follow, the Pirates, started off great, then took a dive and has remained a struggling five to ten games below the .500 mark. They could catch fire and get back into the race, the Reds and Cardinals have had their troubles. Unlikely, though. So I will be pleased if they rebound to .500 and stay there. Not a really exciting goal, but it beats finishing last in all of MLB.
Anyway, I will use the Baseball America piece as a platform to record my own reactions to what has gone on in MLB so far this season.
Double loss in St Louis. I grew up listening to Jack Buck on KMOX, and will miss his voice and his wit. Darryl Kile will stay in my memory as an ace who was, for a time, unhittable.
Who's on the juice? I meant to comment here on Caminiti's SI admissions, which seemed more credible in the wake of Jose Canseco's pot shot. Nothing surprises me anymore when the words "athletes" and "drugs" or "steroids" show up in the same sentence. I'd like to see the teams and players voluntarily opt for testing, with the emphasis on getting treatment for those who need it. I'd like to see them agree on anything.
Nine strikes, you're out? The same issue of BA contained two lengthy interviews with Don Fehr and the owner's guy. I read them both, carefully, looking for some grounds to be optimistic. Not much found. Seems like we are back in 1994, pre-August 12. The only hope is that MLB learned something eight years ago, that will prevail, or at least drive them to an arbitrator.
Stronger than contraction. Of course I'm rooting for the Twins and Expos to make it to the post-season -- aren't we all? I suspect that the size of the leagues in the near future will be decided in court. Not the way we'd like to see the business of baseball run, but MLB has been in court a few times before.
Joe DiMaggi-who? Of course I was rooting for Luis Castillo to hit in sixty straight. The last week would have been terrific for baseball, and the sight of heightened security to protect Luis against Italian assassins was expected. 35 ain't bad, and the fact that it was an endangered-species Marlin pulling it off, just made it that much more fun to follow.
Four times two. Mike Cameron was, as everybody must remember, a Utica Blue Socker before he got our attention this spring by smacking four HRs in a game. When Shawn Green turned superman three weeks later (May 21), we had to wonder what was happening: the bats, the balls, the players, the pills? Too bad that last item comes up -- but it does, and will continue to dog our hot stove talk until we know the swingers are not enhanced.
Brighter days ahead. I am not a Dodger fan, and am pulling for the Giants in the NL West. Of course I want the Red Sox to finish first in the AL East.
Itchy trigger fingers. The firing and hiring of four managers before May 1 (a first) and a fifth later on seemed surprising. I like Garner, Lopes and Bell, do not know the others that well. I do not see managers as a big factor these days in team performance; I think most any manager could bring the Yankees into October, and none could get the Brewers there. Changing managers is usually, I think, for PR.
Happy birthday to me. Interesting that it took a post-9/11 crackdown by the INS to get the correct ages for more than a hundred Latin American ballplayers, mostly prospects, and many from the Dominican. Blame the Fountain of Youth there? Again, MLB dropped the ball -- they could have had a grand birthday party on some night when all the teams played, letting guys like Rafael Furcal and Ramon Ortiz light the candles and serve cake.
Then came the All Star Game. As I wrote here before, I did not get too angry or excited about the tie, because I was asleep at the time, and didn't care enough to set up my VCR, or to watch more than a few batters that evening. I want to see expanded rosters, but the teams will balk at that, because they do not want to pay more bonuses to players who have that clause in their contracts. Why not let pitchers go two innings each? Maybe just one for the bona fide closers on the rosters, but All Star arms ought to be able to squeeze out six outs.
It was a nice touch that the game was in Milwaukee, and Selig was on the spot, and took the heat. I was upset when Hillary Clinton ran for (and won) a Senatorship in New York, mostly because it reflected on how weak the Democratic party must have been, that an outsider could move right in and take that nomination. I feel the same way about Selig -- is he really the best baseball can do for a Commish? I tolerated Bud as the Temp, but lost respect for him when he caved in and stood with the owners in summer 1994, when he might have cooled things off and avoided the cancellation of the World Series.
You would think that blemish on his resume would have prevented him from getting the Commish job long term, but the owners needed to agree on someone, and Bud was handy, and he really wanted the thankless, toothless position. It would be nice if we had a Commish who at least did not draw booes around the country. Of course, firing him would be a PR move. But in this case, that is just what baseball needs, some good PR.
SECTION 136 - Row E - Seat 4 (By Richard Goldman)
On a balmy midsummer evening at Dodger Stadium, the Dodgers eked out a two to one victory over the Diamondbacks on the strength of a stellar pitching performance by Japanese import Kaz Ishii. I know this because I was there. I'll remember it forever because I dropped a foul ball.
If you were one of the 40,000 on hand or among the 17 or so others watching ESPN's Sunday Night Baseball, you might remember that I was the guy who apparently misplayed Miguel Batista's pop foul in the top of the fifth. What's both poignant and pathetic about this is that a significant part of my life had been spent preparing for the very moment that a big league baseball would be directed toward the seat I was occupying.
When I was kid my neighbor and I used to throw hardballs as high as we could to each other, attempting to perfect the soft-handed foul ball catch. (If your hands are too stiff the ball treats them like concrete.) It was painful and we should've started off using tennis balls, but we knew that there were times at a ballpark where you could be caught barehanded. For instance when you were eating ice cream. In fact, we even ran Malt cup drills. Seeing how quickly we could jam the flat wooden spoon-shaped object back into the cup, ditch the cup safely under the seat and slip on our gloves. It had to be done in under two seconds and ice cream safety was important. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred the ball would wind up six rows away, so if you were careless you ended up with no ball and a lap full of chocolate malt.
As a child I was obviously prepared for almost every possible foul ball scenario. Even now as an adult I still bring my glove to the park. Optimism in the face of high odds is what Baseball is all about. Yet, for some unknown reason, I chose on this occasion to leave the leather at home.
I was attending the game with my two boys, ages ten and four, and of course had insisted that they bring their gloves. It's a tradition that should be observed religiously and passed down. A boy without a glove at the ballpark is like a Rabbi without a Yarmulke. A Martini without an olive.
We had two tickets for the three of us, but the Dodger ticket takers had been kind about letting my four-year old in for free. Although he was one year over the limit, no questions were asked at the gate. I figured we would share a seat. Another ominous omen, had I been paying attention.
We had wonderful seats in a fairly high-percentage foul ball area. Five rows up from the rail in the Loge section along the right field line about even with first base. A haven for foul balls off a right hander's bat. Ishii is a left hander and the Diamondbacks had stocked their lineup with righties.
When Batista came up to bat in the top of the fifth inning, my four-year old was in fact seated in my lap, happily eating from a small cup of rapidly melting chocolate ice cream that I was holding in my right hand. This was a mental error I will have to live with for the rest of my life. I'm a lefty. I catch with my right hand. On the second pitch, Batista flailed at a fastball and lofted it in our general direction.
From the moment the ball was in the air, time seemed to slow down. I was later told by the guy seated next to us that I had alerted the entire section with shouts of "Lookout!" "This is ours!" and "Incoming!" I remember the ball seemingly stopping in mid-flight and singling me out. Having sensed all my lapses in preparation, the Foul Ball Gods had chosen this moment as my ultimate test. It was as if the sea of fans surrounding me had suddenly parted.
Indeed, the man seated directly in front of us had panicked and bailed out, leaving the ball a clear shot at my blissfully unaware four-year old's head. In that wrinkle in time I chose not to attempt the old soft-handed catch, and opted instead to protect my child. In Shaq-like fashion, I swatted the ball down directly into the seat in front of us where it was quickly snatched up by the chicken-hearted weasel who'd bailed. A moment later he held the ball up proudly as if he actually had something to do with
obtaining it.
When our section settled back down, the guy next to us looked over at me with a consoling smile and a "Nice try" look on his face. I was shocked that he was that close to me and thought I'd actually tried to catch it. I could only imagine what everyone else thought. Sadly, the question will always linger, did I butcher a pop up, or was I in some way heroic?
Throughout the rest of the game the weasel in front of us never once looked back in our direction for fear that he might actually have to acknowledge his benefactor, or worse, look in the eyes of the kids who should have been holding that ball.
In truth I don't feel so bad about not having that ball, nor do I regret demonizing the weasel to my oldest son. It made me want to demonize all the weasels who don't recognize when it's not their ball. It always belongs to the jerk who dropped it.
As for me, I'm slowly recognizing that it was a priority check, and maybe at this point in my life other things do mean more to me than a big league baseball. Maybe I've matured in some small way. Maybe next time I'll hold the ice cream in my left hand and bring my glove.
* * * * *
[I will close here with one of the poems from ROMANCING THE HORSEHIDE ... it was written nearly ten seasons ago, and is based on an incident that occured over forty-three seasons ago. My father had taken me to Forbes Field for my birthday, and we had box seats along third -- ridiculously close to the action. I did not have my glove along. But I should have. In the game, one of the Pirates hit a towering foul pop up that appeared to be zeroing in on our box -- until it was snagged by the Phils' third baseman, Willie "Puddin' Head" Jones. Had Willie been a bit less adept, my head would have been puddin'. I do not have total recall of the event -- but I do have an old newspaper clipping that appeared the next day in the Pittsburgh Press. But my poem is not about that at all.
GOT IT
My dad and I
Had front-row field box seats
For a Sunday game against Philly
At old Forbes Field
And arrived early to watch BP
Up close
A super-scuffed practice ball
Rolled our way and stopped
An empty box away
Too easy
But I had my souvenir
Signed by the NL President
Hassle-free
The next day
It would look line a line drive
In the story I'd tell my friends
Before we put the ball
Back into play
[OK, you are good listeners. Here's an encore.]
FOUL BALL
It happens
Every game:
Count on a dozen or more fans
Going home telling stories
That eclipse everything that they saw
On the diamond.
Was walking to the rest room,
Heard the crack
And the swell of sound
All around the section
Where it hit --
Bounced off nine hands
And into mine....
Was in a box along third
Three rows back,
Had the high chopper
All the way,
Got an ovation
When I showed it to the crowd....
The homer soared into the bleachers,
Rattling like a pinball
In the empty seats
Before I won the race....
The stuff of show-and-tell
In the office or school
The neighborhood and home
Tomorrow and tomorrow
And tomorrow