Notes from the Shadows of Cooperstown
Observations From Outside the Lines |
Carney's newest book,
Burying the Black Sox: How
Baseball's Cover-up of the
1919 World Series Fix Almost Succeeded, will be available soon.
Pre-order your copy today.
Click to subscribe to 1919BlackSox Yahoo Discussion Group
SCATTERED SPRING
NOTES
Welcome to the Opening Day 1999 issue of Notes
from the Shadows of Cooperstown. In the
Shadows is where I live, and writing notes is
what I do. Two Fingers is what I use, and I also
believe baseball breeds nicknames, even for
writers. If this is your first visit to Notes,
welcome aboard! There will be a fresh issue here
on the 1st and 15th of each month. If you print
out Notes to read at work or school,
you'll need about twelve sheets of paper.
If you print out issue #125 from the archives,
use green paper. It's a St Patrick's Day (1996)
issue that explores the Irish roots of baseball.
Not for the politically correct.
This issue is truly scattered. Leading
off, Eddie Klepp, who might have become as famous
as Jackie Robinson -- but didn't. Then Notes
digs deeper than that old question, "Who
invented baseball?" -- to a more basic one:
"Who invented the ball?" If you
are male and find a female sometimes getting
between you and the game you really love, don't
pass this one up.
Batting cleanup this time is a new short
story, Ashes to Ashes, which seems headed
for the Notes sci-fi archive. You might
want to read this one out loud, in your best Rod
Serling imitation.
Suddenly we are back in the real world of
baseball -- or are we? Is that a midget at the
plate? Did you know the rest of the story
about the player for whom 3'7" Eddie Gaedel
pinch-hit?
"I calls 'em as I sees 'em," an
ancient umpire is reputed to have proclaimed.
Well, I'm just a fan, but I sees 'em, too, and we
all have opinions about the strike zone.
Then there is the case of Christian Von der
Ahe, who once was as famous in St Louis as Mark
McGwire, altho nobody came early to see him take
BP. In fact, his rep was that he knew little
about baseball. He didn't have to -- he was an
owner, and one of the top promoters of his day --
the 1880s.
Finally, in honor of Opening Day (see my essay
"Why Time Ends on O-Day" in #185), I'm
serving up a review of Time Stops, by Rick
Lopez (photos by Art Becker). I believe ordering
info is on the web site address you'll find
toward the end of the review. Spring is sprung,
step right outside of time: play ball!
TROTTING OUT EDDIE
KLEPP
My rookie season in college included the
hurdle of a Logic class, taught -- no, ruled
-- by an idiosyncratic professor who boasted that
he'd flunk his own mother if she came to class
without her book or was otherwise unprepared. It
was classic, Aristotelian logic, and that
classroom was the last place I know where syllogisms
still lived. Remember? All men are mortal.
James is a man. Therefore, James is mortal.
The teacher was relentless in his methods,
determined that we would emerge from our lessons
as logical as Mr Spock.
"Did you say ALL men have two
eyes? Just trot out one example, of someone
with one eye, and your premise is wrong. You
should say most men have two eyes."
Over and over, our ALLs were punctured by the one
little examples that he trotted out. We soon
learned to reserve the word ALL for special
occasions.
"All ballplayers in the Negro Leagues
were black or Hispanic." Did you say all?
And here, I trot out one little example.
Eddie Klepp. His name came up in discussion on
the SABR internet Digest recently, and I had to
look him up.
Sure enough, Eddie Klepp pitched for the
Cleveland Buckeyes in 1946. There may have been
others, but Eddie Klepp is the only white player
I've found so far, who played in the Negro
Leagues.
James A. Riley notes in his Biographical
Encyclopedia of the Negro Leagues, that Eddie
was signed by the Buckeyes after Jackie Robinson
signed with the Dodgers. Who knows, maybe there
were those who believed the signing of Jackie
would mean integrating both the majors and the
Negro Leagues.
In any case, Riley comments that Klepp's
"ability was overprojected and he lacked the
basic playing skills to capitalize on the
opportunity afforded." Klepp never played in
the majors -- I don't know about the minors.
The Buckeyes struggled in 1946, and so did
Eddie Klepp -- when we was allowed on the mound,
that is. "During spring practice, in most
localities he was forced to be segregated from
his teammates and was not allowed to play on the
same field or even sit in the same dugout wearing
a Buckeyes uniform." Eddie viewed a lot of
Buckeye games from the bleachers. "Although
it was hoped that he would be a 'reverse Jackie
Robinson,'" Riley concludes, "he met
with little success and his playing career was
brief and undistinguished."
I imagine Eddie spent some of that time in the
bleachers reading about Jackie Robinson's debut
season with Montreal. It is interesting to think
of Eddie Klepp, opening doors of opportunity for
white players, that in time might have turned the
Negro League into a third major league. But
things were stacked against Eddie Klepp. At least
Jackie was given a fair shot.
GREAT INVENTIONS
DEPT.
Back in Notes 184, I reviewed Baseball's
Radical for All Seasons, David Stevens' fine
biography of John Montgomery Ward. I recently
picked up a book written by Monte Ward,
back in 1888, when he was still playing the game.
SABR reprinted Ward's Baseball Book, Baseball:
How to Become a Player, 105 years after it
first hit the bookstores, calling it an early
classic.
Ward introduces his work with "an inquiry
into the origins of base-ball" -- a hot
topic of debate at the time. While he does not
credit Abner Doubleday, he believed baseball to
be "a fruit of the inventive genius of the
American boy." Like our government, baseball
was "affected by foreign associations,"
but evolved into something "distinctly our
own."
But before tackling the origins of the sport,
Ward asked a much more basic question -- one we
don't hear asked much anymore. Namely, who
invented the ball? He notes that "Herodotus
attributes it to the Lydians, but several other
writers unite in conceding to a certain beautiful
lady of Corcyra, Anagalia by name, the credit of
first having made a ball for the purpose of
pastime." Anagalia was good enough for
Homer, Ward went on, and so it was good enough
for Monte Ward. "To the glory of women, we,
too, shall adopt this theory."
Homer does not record Anagalia calling out
"Play ball!" to her friends, but he
does give us a color commentary of what Ward
calls "the first ball game on record":
"O'er the green mead the sporting
virgins play,
Their shining veils unbound; along the
skies,
Tost and retost, the ball incessant
flies."
I suggest that for men, Anagalia's name (and
Homer's poem) are worth memorizing. For one
thing, they would come in handy when confronted
by females impatient with the hours spent summers
at the ballpark, or otherwise tuned in to pennant
races. "Hey, don't blame us, we never would
have thought of playing ball if some woman hadn't
invented the thing."
Surely the story of Eve delivering something
round to Adam in the Garden was symbolic of the
later event. In any case, from Homer's poem we
can see that the women knew it was
addictive -- "the ball incessant
flies." Quite possibly, that was why
they passed the ball on. Hey, Achilles, catch!
Now, throw it back!
Homer's short poem also seems to suggest that
domes are not the best places to play ball. You
can bet that was no artificial green mead.
Yes, it was the Phaeacian maidens that started
the ball rolling. It's about time they got
credit. Now, which gatherer carved the first bat
for her hunter hubby...?
ASHES TO ASHES
When Harry Young signed up for the Peace
Corps, he took a detour from a promising career
path in the Baltimore Orioles farm system.
Drafted high, he did well in both A-ball and
Double-A, and seemed just a long fungo fly away
from a shot at the majors. But Harry wanted
something more, and decided that he could pick up
where he left off after a two-year hitch
overseas.
He had never heard of the cluster of South Sea
islands where he was assigned. Nor was he
prepared for what he found there. The natives
could use his help building bridges and
constructing highways, all right. But what they
really wanted was a power-hitting shortstop.
Nineteenth century missionaries had brought
the Bible and baseball to this neck of the
Pacific, and while the former never really caught
on, the latter became an obsession. Each island
had at least one team, the larger islands, two or
three. The natives had adopted baseball as a
civilized substitute for the civil warring which
had plagued them for centuries. They were finally
able to compete with each other without
bloodshed, and the year-round games were the
focus of the islands' activity.
Harry was thrust into his home island's lineup
shortly after arrival. Somewhat taller and
stronger than the average islander, Harry was an
instant hit. His heroics on the diamonds gave his
advice an air of extra importance, and the
projects that he proposed and planned were
accepted without resistance.
Harry gradually concluded that baseball was
the religion of his native teammates, if they had
any at all. Games were preceded not just by the
singing of an anthem, but by a long litany
recited by players and fans, in a dialect Harry
could not understand. "Just prayers,"
he was told. "For good weather, good
sportsmanship, escape from injuries -- the
usual." Harry had no reason to doubt this
explanation.
Harry also noticed that some games were
followed by a ceremony, a ritual burning of a
bat. This seemed strange indeed, as it must have
been expensive to import the sticks of Northern
white ash halfway around the world. Harry's
manager, Jimmi, explained the reason for this
fiery conclusion to the day at the ballpark.
"We believe bats that perform great deeds
deserve to be returned to Nature. Someone hit for
the cycle with same bat, that bat gets burned.
Bat that breaks up no-hitter in last inning. Bat
that hits 500th home run. You get the idea.
Umpires take bat, light it on mound, fans stay
till bat is gone. We have always done it this
way."
Harry's rookie season in the Corps was a
tremendous success. He was hitting over .400 and
could hardly believe his good fortune. He had
guessed that it would be years before he played
ball again, and instead baseball was part of his
daily regimen.
"Today's the day, Harry," Jimmi
greeted Harry. "Today you can break the
longest hitting streak in islands' history,
forty-five."
"Huh?" Harry replied. No one had
informed him of any streak.
"Yes, and after the game, your bat will
be burned. There will be whole villages here to
see it. You won't disappoint."
And Harry did not disappoint. Two doubles and
a single later, Harry watched proudly as the
white-clad umpires gingerly placed his bat in a
metal rack, and set it ablaze.
"Congratulations, Harry," Jimmi
shouted, barely audible over the chanting crowd
circling the mound. "Now you must keep it
up, you know. Now pressure really on."
"Pressure on? Jimmi, sir, I just
broke the record. Why should I feel any pressure
to keep hitting?"
"No one tell you?" Jimmi's face grew
ashen, and he looked away. "I thought you
knew all along."
"Knew what?" Harry started to feel
worried.
"Knew our custom of celebrating such
heroics as long hitting streak, perfect game,
four homers in one game -- big stuff. I guess we
haven't had any such things happen since you come
here."
Harry's mind was racing ahead now. He had
suspected somehow that his landing in this
paradise was not pure chance. That he had been
scouted, been requested more for his batting
skills than his engineering degree.
"Harry, it's what we have always done.
When your streak is over, you will be a hero that
we will never forget. And we shall honor you by
returning you to Nature, where you can reunite
with the bat that's out there on the mound right
now. We shall remember you always, as you were at
the end, at the peak of your success. You shall
never be less in our eyes and our hearts."
Harry closed his eyes. There was no way out.
Sooner or later, he would go hitless -- it was
inevitable. Harry could see his line drive being
snared by a diving third baseman, his long fly
falling short on the warning track, his grounder
in the hole being scooped up and turned into a
force out. He could see himself being mobbed by
his joyous teammates after his o-fer, being
carried around the park while the fans shouted
themselves hoarse. Then the umpire, shaking his
hand, and offering him a pill. He would feel
nothing, as he went out in a blaze of glory.
The tales of the last weeks of Harry Young
became legends in the islands. No one ever
recalled seeing anyone play with more intensity.
Harry's final average, .471, was etched on his
urn. Jimmi failed to mention this when he wrote
to the Peace Corps, requesting a replacement.
"Dentist, preferably a southpaw with
control."
BURLESQUE CASUALTY
One of baseball's best stories is that of
Eddie Gaedel, the midget that Bill Veeck signed
to a St Louis Browns' contract in August 1951.
Gaedel emerged from a seven-foot birthday cake
(the American League had turned 50, along with
Browns' sponsor Falstaff beer) between games of a
doubleheader with the Tigers. Big laugh. But
little (3'7") Eddie hung around, and was
sent up to pinch hit in the bottom of the first.
You all know the rest of the story.
Or do you? Jim Delsing, who pinch-ran for
Eddie Gaedel (thus immortalizing himself in tough
trivia), tells a story about that famous event
that is rarely heard. Frank Saucier was the
batter taken out when Gaedel pinch-hit, and
Delsing says "Saucier was so mad that he
never played again! He quit. Baseball was a game
for him. It wasn't a joke." (quoted in For
the Love of the Game, by Cindy Wilbur)
I recently confirmed Saucier's reaction with
several SABR members, including one who
interviewed Frank himself. Pat Doyle added this:
"[Saucier] was quite a minor league hitter,
batting .357 with Belleville in the Illinois
State League in 1948, .446 with Wichita
Falls of the Big State League in 1949, and .343
with San Antonio of the Texas League in
1950."
Imagine a rookie with those stats. Saucier had
battled his way to the major leagues -- well, OK,
to the St Louis Browns. He was off to a slow
start in the bigs, 1-for-14. But don't you think
he deserved to be tipped off to the Gaedel stunt?
"Frank, don't take this personally, but
we're going to give Eddie an official ML at bat
in the second game. You'll be in the lineup, but
we're sending Eddie up in the first inning,
OK?" Well, Frank likely would have replied,
"Not OK, Bill," and someone else
would be in the history books, and the tough
trivia books.
According to Pat Doyle, Bill Veeck wrote in
one of his books that what happened to Frank
Saucier was one of the few regrets that he took
with him from baseball. Losing a prospect like
Saucier -- you bet he regretted it. The Browns
needed all the help they could get!
From his single line in Big Mac and Total
Baseball, we learn that Saucier had played
the (out)field in just two other games, in his
month at the top. He muffed two of seven chances.
Frank had pinch hit seven times, coming up with a
double, one RBI and three walks. Must have
pinch-run five or six times, scored four runs. He
was just 25 in August 1951.
Veeck's Midget. Most memorable stunt. The AL
Prez Will Harridge was livid and tried his best
to get Gaedel out of the record books. He failed,
and so Gaedel also has a single line in Big
Mac and TB. And we shall never know
how many lines this event cost Frank Saucier.
Lines with potential for great stories.
AS I SEES 'EM
When I wrote my poem on Bill Klem, The Old
Arbitrator, I included this question:
"To be known as 'fair' -- is there a greater
compliment to seek -- in any profession?"
Well, there may well be one. Behind my question
was a memory -- at my father's wake, the union
reps from Allis-Chalmers presented his family
with "the Union Bible," even though he
was in management. Actually, he was right between
union and management, whenever the company
negotiated contracts. We were told it was the
first time the Union Bible ever "crossed the
line," and they decided this was proper
because my father, in their eyes, was fair.
In the twenty-some years since, in several
different jobs, I have concluded that being fair
is often very difficult. Giving credit where
credit is due, for example, is not an easy chore
for many people. Recognition is one of life's
hardest things -- when it ought to be one of the
easiest. How hard is it, really, to say
"Good job" or simply
"Thanks"?
My poem on The Umpire (right across
from Klem's in Romancing the Horsehide),
has a few lines on the subject. When there is a
close play, say a collision at third base, fans
will inevitably ooh and aah over a great throw or
tag or slide. But a great call is never
cheered. It may never even be noticed.
Although umpires are frequently jeered
("Kill the ump!" is a cliche that
surely goes back to the first era of the sport),
they are never cheered. A pitch on the
corner for strike three is the pitcher's doing,
or we credit a batter with a "Good
eye!" if he takes a ball. Give anyone a
steady diet of booing, while at the same time
denying them a shred of praise, and it sooner or
later gets to them.
So what do we make of the latest in the
ongoing duel between the major league umps and
the baseball establishment? Can anyone remember a
day when the umpires were happy with things? I
can't. Their grievances took a back seat in
Selig's Strike of '94-95. Fans who were outraged
over replacement players had no trouble living
with replacement umps, which must have been tough
to take.
The Alomar-Hirschbeck incident revealed a
serious problem. So did those awfully-umped
post-season games in 1997. I seem to remember
Selig promising a summit meeting when the umpires
last struck, or threatened a walkout. Did I miss
it?
I'm not clear on the Cuba games grievance, but
wouldn't it have made sense to have the umps
involved in the plans from day one, so no
grievance would be needed? Same with the strike
zone thing -- how hard is it to sit down with the
umps and hash out a compromise everyone can live
with?
It seems ludicrous for Richie Phillips to
claim that the owners are forcing the umpires to
call a strike zone which is at odds with the rule
book, when that has become the norm. As if the
strike zone was ever universally enforced.
Some commentators were surprised that the
players sided with the owners on the latter issue
("All the players need to know is: 'What is
the strike zone?'" said Gene Orza in an AP
story.) But remember, the players failed to
support the umpires in the past. These are two
very different unions here. And only one has
clout.
I would like to take the umpires' side against
the owners and the Commish, but they are hardly a
profession without serious problems. It may be
that we've always had lots of terrible calls, but
we just see them more now, thanks to TV and
replays -- like some crimes, they aren't rising,
they only getting reported more. But it is hard
to escape the feeling, the perception, that this
is not the case. Mediocrity seems to be growing.
For credibility to be restored, we need to see
the umpires restore some kind of meritocracy.
Send down the umps that need more seasoning,
bring up the best from the minors. When the
post-season rolls around, select the best umps
for those games, instead of rotating the duties,
guaranteeing a few inept umps will be in crucial
spots in October. Maybe this would swing the
players to their side.
Players learn from Little League days on up,
that umpires are fallible human beings, and
everyone blows calls sometimes. They also learn
that strike zones are very idiosyncratic. They
learn umpires, while they learn pitchers. As long
as umpires are consistent -- calling the same
zone for both teams, calling the same zone from
inning to inning, game to game -- they will be
respected. Favoritism and inconsistency drive
everyone (players and fans) crazy. I've given my
opinion on this topic here before a few times --
I think football is in worse shape than baseball,
and at least in baseball we have not yet heard
such a loud outcry for instant replay. But we are
moving in that direction.
I wouldn't mind instant replay in baseball, by
the way. It is just a tool. We let umps wear
glasses, so there's a precedent for visual aids.
I had no problem with the election of Nestor
Chylak to Cooperstown this winter. The fact that
his name is familiar to me, a NL fan, says
something. (Nestor was the ump who was wounded by
Cleveland fans on Beer Night in 1974. He did not
retaliate immediately by calling a forfeit. He
called it later, when fighting broke out again.)
But wasn't Doug Harvey by-passed? This strikes
me as, well, unfair. Chylak was fine, but
Doug Harvey seemed as obvious a pick as, say
George Brett. Politics of Glory, indeed.
Frank Selee a deserving choice, but isn't Dick
Williams a shoo-in HOF manager? In both cases, I
knew better the one not selected. What is
baseball saying in all this, that life is not
fair? If that is true, all the more reason to
appreciate the person who is fair.
DER BOSS
Owners. Love 'em or hate 'em, fans need them
to organize the leagues and pay the players. The
games aside, owners have, from the beginning,
been fun for fans to watch. We cannot always
easily second-guess the CEOs of our own
companies, or of the Fortune 500, but we can spot
a blunder by a baseball boss from a mile away.
I've suggested here before that part of the fun
of the game, for the fan in the bleachers, is
matching wits with the millionaires in the luxury
suites. Sadly, it took the Selig Strike of '94-95
to underline how much stupidity has risen to the
top.
Having recently gotten to know Charlie O.
Finley much better (see the review of Baseball's
Last Dynasty in NFSC #186), soon after
finishing a biography of John Montgomery Ward (Baseball's
Radical for All Seasons in #184) --
and then revisiting Bill Veeck earlier in
this issue -- I was primed to enjoy the article
on Chris Von der Ahe, by Richard Egenriether, in
the Spring '99 issue of NINE.
Von der Ahe was a pioneer owner, whose thick
German accent found its way into many stories and
anecdotes about him and his endless promotions. I
first heard of "Vondy" at the national
SABR convention in Pittsburgh in June 1995, when
J. Thomas Hetrick presented a session with the
fascinating title, "The Kidnapping of Chris
Von der Ahe." If you guessed that this was a
crime perpetrated by underpaid players -- a good
guess -- you would be wrong. In fact, Der Boss
was captured and transported from St Louis to a
Pittsburgh jail cell, for a debt owed to another
baseball exec. According to Egenriether, the
National League paid his debt, in return for his
departure from baseball. Perhaps the modern owner
that comes to mind here is Marge Schott, who has
been such an embarrassment.
Von der Ahe. Love him or hate him, he knew
what the fans wanted. Baseball, beer, fun. He
could make money by giving them what they wanted
-- and he took his money to the bank in a
wheelbarrow flanked by security, after the games.
We would like to see this practice revived. Ted?
George?
I have confessed before a strong prejudice for
creative owners like the Veecks, who make you
want to be taken out to the ball game, no matter
who's playing, because you might miss something
if you stay home -- something everyone will be
talking about tomorrow. Always the threat of
winning livestock, for example, or some
outrageous sideshow. Well, Chris Von der Ahe took
promotions a bit further, until baseball
became the sideshow. Bill Veeck was a fan, and
never let that total eclipse of the game occur.
Well, OK, maybe a few times. Disco what?
Von der Ahe, born in Germany in 1851, spent
most of his life in St Louis -- the wild west of
the country of baseball. He was in it for the
money -- he learned enough about the game to talk
about it in his saloon, but was a disaster when
he acted like a GM or took the managerial reins
himself.
He opened Sportsman's Park in 1882, when the
American Association that he helped to found,
started up. Three years later, under Charlie
Comiskey, his teams reeled off four straight
first-place finishes (1885-88) and three seconds
(1889-91, before the AA collapsed, a casualty of
the Player Wars. The lack of on-field success
after those seven fat years may have driven Vondy
to neglect the game in favor of promotions.
In that era, AA stood for the opposite of
abstinence -- it was "the Beer and Whiskey
League," a rough version of ML ball that
drew rowdy fans. Von der Ahe championed the
working man, and charged twenty-five cents a
game, half of the going NL rate. His league also
played on Sundays, and no doubt would have
started night baseball well before the
establishment caught on. Vondy was a maverick, in
a maverick league, who cared little for
pretending that baseball was a gentleman's game,
for the wealthier fans.
However, on his way down, Von der Ahe did come
up with what might be called the first luxury
suites. His "stadium club," built under
the grandstand but protected by a screen from the
diamond, offered the upper crust shade, food and
drink, in relative comfort.
Charlie Finley, Veeck, Steinbrenner, Schott,
even Ted Turner -- Von der Ahe was seen as the
best and worst thing to stumble into baseball,
depending on one's perspective. Non-conformist,
he rattled fellow owners, even while showing them
how to sell the game. Generous or misery, there
are examples galore of each. He made money, then
spent it, to the delight and chagrin of those
around him.
Chris Von der Ahe surely left his mark on the
game, even if he didn't introduce the hot dog to
the concession stand. His horse-racing, Wild West
shows and "Coney Island" atmosphere
also left their marks on his ballfields, making
for some tough bounces. When baseball was trying
its best to combat gambling, Von der Ahe not only
associated with bettors, his park became a
racetrack in the evenings (the ponies played the
night games.)
Like the five modern owners mentioned above,
Von der Ahe achieved fame in his day. Whether he
was driving St Louis fans crazy with his
huckstering, driving his managers crazy (after
Comiskey, Vondy went through fourteen of them in
five seasons), or dueling for Toast of the Town
with Alfred H. Spink (who brought Vondy to
baseball, later to skewer him in his The
Sporting News) -- Chris Von der Ahe was
colorful, controversial, and truly a conversation
piece. The last, no small deal.
Should he be honored by a Cooperstown plaque?
Before you answer, go to a ball game. Check out
the prices, starting with the ticket. Was the
park, the atmosphere, the whole event
entertaining? OK, now cast your vote.
PLEASE REMAIN
SEATED
From NOTES
#158, April 1998: A review of the book TIME STOPS
Every day there are events that occur where
everyone has got to stand up because the
thing that just happened out there on the field
is so crazy, or unlikely, or extraordinary, that
no matter how many games you've seen in this life
of yours, you've never seen anything quite like
this."
The objective book review is as elusive as a
triple play, and this one's not even close.
First, I've corresponded with Rick Lopez, off
& on, since June 1994. His Baseball and
the 10,000 Things remains one of the more
unique contributions to baseball literature.
Second, I met Rick a couple summers back at Jerry
Uht Park, in Erie, where the 28 or so color
photos that grace Time Stops were
shot. Third, I have been, off and on since 1977,
a NY-Penn League fan, and it is in this
short-season A-ball setting that -- Time Stops.
When I was a senior in high school, I read a
photo-essay in Saturday Review, on college
life. Thirty-five years later, I can still recall
some of the lines and pictures (mostly the
lines.) Time Stops has that feel --
it's about baseball, of course -- and I wouldn't
be surprised if its readers recalled its poetry,
punch, and photos, long after they put it down.
I've met Chuck Tanner, too, and Chuck has
provided this for the jacket: "Art Becker's
photographs are beautiful, and gifted writer Rick
Lopez is able to perfectly sum up my life's work
with a single sentence on scouting." You
decide which sentence Chuck meant:
"Of course the scouts came when the
scouts came, never having considered that they
might call ahead to make sure the time was right.
Swarms of them would cluster in the stands,
humming restlessly behind homeplate.
"Stopwatches; eagle eyes; clipboards;
radar guns; pens and pencils; notecards; salves
and laurels; slings and arrows...
"A list of tools with which to build or
tear apart a life."
Most of Time Stops is baseball,
examined from 10,000 angles. And readers who
follow only the major league brand, will not be
disappointed. The faces are younger, that's all
the difference.
'Net surfers can even check out sample pages
at http://www.velocity.net/~bb10k/TimeStops.html.
It's a thin (54 page) paperback that will fit
perfectly into your scorebook -- in case of a
rain delay, pitching change, or whatever.
My favorite photo? The Erie Seawolves line up
for the anthem, like West Point cadets, straining
to look serious, imagining they are bracing for a
World Series, when one fellow turns and whispers
something, and his teammate suddenly loses it.
We've all been there, in a classroom, in a staff
meeting.
LAST UPS
The only two kinds of baseball you will not
find here in Notes, I believe, are
collectibles and rotisserie ball. About the only
baseball objects I collect are books. And while I
know something about roto-ball, I've never
inhaled -- because I fear my rooting would be
seriously warped.
However, I do indulge, from time to time, in
simulation baseball, which is its own
fantasyland. I have reported here in Notes
on my seasons in progress, as I played two full
154-game schedules with the APBA Original
Franchise All Stars. That is, the best players ever
from the original (OK, 1901-60) sixteen ML
franchises, "performing" in their
peak-season best.
The first season, the Cardinals overtook the
Phils to win the NL pennant (no playoffs), while
the Yankees won their final ten games to edge the
A's for the AL flag. The Yankees swept the
Series.
Next time around I had farm teams (the
next-best 25 players per franchise), plus sixteen
players drafted from the expansion team
All-Timers. The Senators, despite a Joe
Hardy-like boost from Ken Griffey Jr ('94
vintage), still finished last. This time the
Phils and Reds tied after 154, and the Phils made
it to the Series by taking two of three playoff
games. In the AL, the Tigers took control and
rolled home nine and a half games in front of the
Bronx Bombers, then took the Series, too.
The third season lurks on deck. I will be
adding a Mark McGwire 70-HR card to the Cards'
lineup, and a Sosa 66 to the Cubs. I really need
a Tommy Holmes' 1945 for the Braves. If anyone
out there has one -- pleeeeease?
For those unfamiliar with APBA Baseball, it's
a "dice and board" game that has been
around nearly half a century now. I prefer the
natural dice, to the artificial turf of the
computer version. I play the basic game (not the
Master Version), with my own adaptations (wind
factor, unusual plays, and more injuries than
normal, because my benches and minors are so
deep.) I play mostly solitaire, but prefer
"managing" against real people.
In the two simulated seasons I've completed,
hitters do better than pitchers, altho facing a
steady diet of good pitching lowers batting
averages about 60-75 points. ERAs go up about
1.50. Every team is terrific on paper, but two of
them are doomed to finish eighth!
If baseball is its own world, outside of time
-- and simulations (like APBA or Strat-O-Matic or
the many computer versions) are a step outside
real baseball (but not into time) -- then where
do these games take us? Exactly.
TUNE IN FOR MORE NOTES ON OR
ABOUT APRIL 15th!