In life, there are 3 legitimate arguments to the Jackie Robinson story (and by legitimate, we mean that there were issues regarding what it meant in the historical context to all those who surrounded him), and they are:
1) Branch Rickey was all about making money. Sure, there was altruism, but he knew there was money to be made with blacks in baseball in the same way he knew that minor leagues would bring money (and a winning team). That said, when every owner and player of his day went out of their way to keep things segregated, Rickey fought for integration.
2) Jackie Robinson wasn't the best African American player in his day. Had he not died of alcholism and drug addiction related issues, Josh Gibson could have been first (or Satch or Monte or Judy or Cool Papa or Rube or Buck (Leonard or O' Neil) or Martin or (this list could go on and on)...), but none of these men had Jackie's ability to be cool under pressure and take one for the team (with beautiful wife sitting there with her back to the wall of abuse to make sure that all the things that she could keep from getting to her husband stopped short of his ears).
That being said, if U2's "Pride in the Name of Love" was the anthem for King, then this song by Woodrow Buddy Johnson and Count Basie is the anthem for Jackie.
3) The arrival of Jackie meant unemployment and devastation to African Americans employed in the Negro Leagues. To this, the integration and movement towards civil rights was seen as more important than baseball teams, and perhaps it was - except when it puts money in pockets to put food on the table.
If you look closely, you see there is no mention of Malcolm X's feelings about Jackie not being angry enough. Frankly, Mr. Little can stay toasty in Hell with his divisive feelings that filled his life for years and years while campaigning with the Nation of Islam.
What is important is the meaning and celebration of my hero numero uno - Jackie Roosevelt Robinson.
The anthem and pride for Mr. Robinson is surely not Arts and Entertainment's Biography on Jackie. The anthem could very easily be Ken Burns original 9 innings of Baseball and what is said throughout the course of Branch Rickey's beginnings to Jackie's death. The beauty and the evil are both there. The tears and the cheers are there. On A+E, it's "whited" out. For instance, throwing stones at the racist kids who threw them first is seen as Jackie being a trouble maker. Images and descriptions of racism are watered down with scenes from the movie of Jackie's life where he plays himself. Sadly, the second rate acting and the weak script kill much feeling for all of the great things Jackie did. While there is footage of the man in his day and the things he accomplished (stealing home in the World Series, winning the trophy for Brooklyn), it's too little, too late.
Perhaps the only redeeming part was Howard Cosell getting teared up thinking about Jackie Jr. having died in a car crash after drugs rattled his life until he got clean. There was a mention made to Cosell not wanting to say anything from Jackie and Rachel's conversation at the funeral regarding the need for privacy, but in eluding to the pressure of being a junior... and the pressure of being Jackie Jr... we can only imagine the scars of Vietnam, Civil Rights, and what baseball did to his father that took their toll on the son. To this, I never knew Cosell, but in watching, I wonder just what I would think of the man who campaigned with so many great African American sports stars in an effort to bring them closer to the lives of white America (and I wonder what I would have thought after he made his "monkey run" comment)?
And so we learn many things, but if we watch this video - especially before seeing Mr. Burns' masterpiece, we'll never know the true Jackie.
And for that, A&E would have blood on its hands.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Saturday, March 12, 2011
Mark McGwire
While sitting with my teacher friend Dale, the subject of great baseball players is always bound to come. He’s in his early forties and I’m in my late thirties, so it wouldn’t be wrong to think that we would tend to reflect on the 1970s and 1980s as the glory days of baseball, but for the most part, you would be wrong since the greatest games for us were the ones that we weren’t even alive to see. In no small part, we owe a mega burst of gratitude to Ken Burns for his contributions to the history of baseball because it’s clear to see that Major League Baseball has no respect for the history of its game unless it’s for its fan to buy the latest current slab of what happened this year as a DVD at the end of the season.
If they had any foresight at all, they would instead be focusing on the ability to post lots of historic video of the past online for all generations to see. The fact that any time anything really cool happens, let’s say Jacoby Ellsbury stealing home off of Andy Pettite two years ago, it’s up for a day or so on Youtube and then the backwards thinking bastards that be choose to have it pulled down out of copy right protection concerns. Now, I’m not saying that it has to stay on Youtube, but couldn’t MLB start a pay per view library service so that any time I want to watch something great happen, say watching Albert Pujols jack a Brad Lidge pitch into the wall of Minute Maid Park to keep the Cardinals alive for one more game, I can salivate over the memories of the past?
However, this is impossible, and other than the history of baseball up until 1990, I can’t watch any of the real great players of history focused upon. Thus, to dream about Brooks Robinson throwing deep to first from deep in the corner, I have to go to the third greatest gift that my wife ever gave me, and watch the celluloid footage of that World Series game to see what the heroes of the past were truly like. What will the kids of today have to do in order to watch Dustin Pedroia and Matt Holliday star for the Red Sox and Cardinals? How will these youngsters know why Adrian Gonzalez is or isn’t worth mortgaging the future for in an offseason trade that is supposed to tip the balance of all things?
Simply, they won’t - at least until ESPN or MLBTV say it's so OVER and OVER and OVER again.
And for the same reason that MLB has no concern for its history, we won’t know how “great” the steroids era players were because it’s easy to say that the media was duped into reporting how great they were to make up for the fact that baseball went on strike and killed the World Series in 1994, and their apologies are word enough for the rest of the impressionable youngsters of today to throw away their parents’ baseball card collections, but to still retain hopes in the present - especially that somehow Whiff King Ryan Howard isn’t tainted, and even though Alex Rodriguez is slightly dented, his “apology” and “great play” in the 2009 World Series makes up for everything – unlike Roger Clemens, Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa, and Mark McGwire who will forever wear their scarlet letters for eternity and then some.
However, for those people willing to look back on baseball history, they would see that Major League Baseball did memorialize Race for the Record on VHS, which is still available for $1.99 on E-bay. Nevertheless, I have my copy and have cherished it since the fall of 1998 when it first came out. I don’t make apologies for owning it. Mark McGwire was and still is my favorite player of all time. Steroids or not, the summer of 1998 was a magical moment that made me who I am. For that, it’s as important to a baseball story in 2011 as it was to a baseball story in that magical summer of a dozen years ago.
And while I liked other players from that time period when I was younger and more concerned about this sport than anything around me, I find the moments of that season to be almost (but not quite) as special as the moments of my marriage and courtship, which took place over the last few years. In that, there was a day that I would have went into a winter of depression having seen the Yankees win, but frankly, I didn’t feel more than a slight sting for what had transpired against Philadelphia’s weak pitching staff (sorry Cliff Lee and game 2 Pedro, you tried) and sorry ass strikeout king (sorry Chase Utley, at least you tried unlike your counterpart) because of the perspective that I have for where my life is with my beautiful wife besides me.
And it's great to have Tim Lincecum take down Cliff Lee, but it's not the same as spending vacations and time in general with my wife. Five years ago, that would have been something, but now there is adult and the memories of the great games of youth that still drive me back to the game for a well-placed second place in my life.
So before this gets all soppy, I should get back to baseball, and say that like Dale, I find it hard to find interest in players the same way that I did when I was younger. Maybe it’s being married and redoing a house and contemplating children and the Arizona / Utah border vacation that I want to get back to for some summer week that keeps me from thinking of some of these players in the way that I did when I was younger, but in part, I don’t find them as magical. Their interviews are generic. The plays were done better by other players in the past, and I’m not ready to believe in anyone new, other than Albert Pujols and Ichiro Suzuki in the way that I once believed in Ryne Sandberg, Paul Molitor, Curt Schilling, Pedro Martinez, and David Ortiz. The play of the past few years and the less than believability that is associated with Dominican birth certificates has come to take its toll on me. For that, this blog is an exercise to getting back to the great players of the past and comparing their deeds to those of the current crop of players that seems to be changing incredibly from what it was even five years ago. Will Tim Lincecum and Jon Lester become the next Walter Johnson, Cy Young, Bob Gibson, Sandy Koufax, or Bob Feller? One can only hope.
As the Ramones sang about their own existential void, probably not the one that wonders if Joe Mauer will ever be the next Josh Gibson and which anonymous rookie could be the next Roger Maris, Honus Wagner, Satchell Paige, or Ted Williams, but the wonder about another time where it feels as good as the magical moments of the past, “Nothing makes any sense, but I still try my hardest. Take my hand. Please help me man. 'Cause I'm looking for something to believe in.”
And for that, I leave you with the words from Eureka, Nevada, my unfinished first novel:
"I woke up and walked to the newspaper, looking at the Sunday sports headlines that said that Mark Mcgwire had been thrown out for disputing a called third strike the day before. The fans were irate and with good cause. The call was rotten and just like the media who were doing there best to put a damper on Big Mac’s quest for 62, the umpires weren’t cutting him any slack either.
Mcgwire’s angst was justifiable. He had been forced to endure the what he did, what he didn’t do and the will he break the record as he stood out as the sole highlight on a horrible St. Louis team. All the while, Sammy Sosa was hitting his homeruns, deferring the questions to Mcgwire and watching his Cubs fight for the division title.
I was tired of the drive. I was tired of the wait. I wanted to be in St. Louis, and that was where I was heading at the moment. I packed up and was off, though I found out that it was an evening game rather than a day game, so I would be driving in slower than I thought that I would be.
If only I was a little farther down the road, then life now would make more sense. At that moment it was all just a highway that took me to St. Louis, a game that would change my life, a perfect moment filled with more positive emotional content than an entire yearlong relationship would leave me. I was destined to be in St. Louis that evening, but first I was off to Mark Twain Lake and museum, which was somewhere in the empty middle of Missouri’s rolling forest land. I walked around, admired the sights, and thought of baseball. I was killing time.
A few hours later, I was at the game. I parked the car and ran up towards Busch Stadium and a sea of red shirts and signs.
“Go Mark Go.”
“Make it a great 1998.”
Even before I got to the game, there were signs such as the Billboard above Highway 70 that listed Mcgwire’s homerun total at the moment. St. Louis was alive with Mcgwire at the moment. The Braves, despite their perennial power in the East Divison of the National League were in town, but their fans were non-existent. This was St. Louis, home of the Cardinals and a special place that was filled with something that couldn’t be described, but rather could be felt in some special way, through some special sense. We were all a part of it and as I walked inside of the Mecca that was Busch Stadium, I knew I was in the presence of something.
Realizing the game was on ESPN that evening, I called my dad, begged him to tape it, and we talked about the trip, the Cardinals and what I was going to do after the game was over. It was a whirlwind of explanations, but only one mattered – get the game on video. I hung up, read my program and waited to watch the game.
From the stadium, you could see the St. Louis skyline. Several hotels and the great Arch line the Mississippi river, which lies off in the distance from Left Field. I took several photos, watched batting practice, and then the Star Spangled Banner played as 44,000 fans took to their feet in a mix of patriotism and a feeling that everything was right again with the national pastime after a horrible strike took out the 1994 season and World Series.
Today, the Cardinals were taking on Kevin Millwood, a hot young pitcher who was bolstered by a strong Atlanta offense that saw 2 homeruns by Andres Galarraga bring their team out to an early lead. I was dejected and angry, but still I watched, un-swayed by the lead that had arisen, and crossed my fingers and prayed to the Baseball God that everything would be made right in the universe.
On Mcgwire’s first at bat, he walked. The second at bat was a single, keeping his day perfect, and then came a double in the third plate appearance. Big Mac was 2 for 2.
When Mark Mcgwire stepped to the plate in the 7th inning, the sky was dark and the flashbulbs exploded as the crowd got to their feet to signal that now was the time. There were 2 men on and the cards were down 7-5. Millwood had been removed, and Dennis Martinez, one of the most dominant Latino pitchers of the time stepped to the mound knowing that he had never let up a hit to the man. His fate was sealed with that announcement on the Busch scoreboard.
After this, the at bat is a haze. I don’t remember what happened prior to it, but Martinez threw, Mcgwire swung and took the ball deep. I was on my feet as was everyone else and we were willing it to go. I didn’t want to believe it would go because it was hit long, since I wasn’t one of those people who ooh at every single long fly ball to centerfield. I was silent in that all of my energy was in my stomach, bottled down, unable to come up, I was breathless and I was focused on that moment, when the ball cleared the fence and I was still silent as I stopped to gather in the fact that my boy had launched a 501-foot blast off of Dennis Martinez to straight away centerfield. This 3 run shot, number 55 on his quest to 70 for the year, a mark that would shatter Roger Maris’ 37 year old record, left ever single one of the 44,051 fans on their feet.
Everything came out and I was screaming in complete jubilation at the moment. For lack of a better word though my mom would understand, it felt orgasmic. It felt like an eternity that the fans cheered and screamed, jumped up and down, gave high fives to each other and hugged. And there I was, hugging and cheering and high fiving strangers as I stood in the magic of a moment that was meant to last for an eternity, but vanished beneath a cloud of sorrow as even this mighty record was forced to give way to another. Yet at that moment, Barry Bonds didn’t matter, since every time I think of that laser beam, I think of my goose bumps and how I wasn’t sure if it was gone, but it was. It was a culmination of a summer spent rooting for heroes, questing for gold and finding it just as Mark did. The tragedies of Roger Maris and my later years wouldn’t and didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except being there in the middle of section 240 and the post-game fireworks as all of the fans scuttled down to the parking lot and drove out, knowing full well that we would be unable to sleep. This was one of those moments in time, and for me, it was so much more.
It was and is the greatest moment of my life, a culmination of a summer, a trip across America in search of all that was and could be, and it was America to me on that late August night."
If they had any foresight at all, they would instead be focusing on the ability to post lots of historic video of the past online for all generations to see. The fact that any time anything really cool happens, let’s say Jacoby Ellsbury stealing home off of Andy Pettite two years ago, it’s up for a day or so on Youtube and then the backwards thinking bastards that be choose to have it pulled down out of copy right protection concerns. Now, I’m not saying that it has to stay on Youtube, but couldn’t MLB start a pay per view library service so that any time I want to watch something great happen, say watching Albert Pujols jack a Brad Lidge pitch into the wall of Minute Maid Park to keep the Cardinals alive for one more game, I can salivate over the memories of the past?
However, this is impossible, and other than the history of baseball up until 1990, I can’t watch any of the real great players of history focused upon. Thus, to dream about Brooks Robinson throwing deep to first from deep in the corner, I have to go to the third greatest gift that my wife ever gave me, and watch the celluloid footage of that World Series game to see what the heroes of the past were truly like. What will the kids of today have to do in order to watch Dustin Pedroia and Matt Holliday star for the Red Sox and Cardinals? How will these youngsters know why Adrian Gonzalez is or isn’t worth mortgaging the future for in an offseason trade that is supposed to tip the balance of all things?
Simply, they won’t - at least until ESPN or MLBTV say it's so OVER and OVER and OVER again.
And for the same reason that MLB has no concern for its history, we won’t know how “great” the steroids era players were because it’s easy to say that the media was duped into reporting how great they were to make up for the fact that baseball went on strike and killed the World Series in 1994, and their apologies are word enough for the rest of the impressionable youngsters of today to throw away their parents’ baseball card collections, but to still retain hopes in the present - especially that somehow Whiff King Ryan Howard isn’t tainted, and even though Alex Rodriguez is slightly dented, his “apology” and “great play” in the 2009 World Series makes up for everything – unlike Roger Clemens, Barry Bonds, Sammy Sosa, and Mark McGwire who will forever wear their scarlet letters for eternity and then some.
However, for those people willing to look back on baseball history, they would see that Major League Baseball did memorialize Race for the Record on VHS, which is still available for $1.99 on E-bay. Nevertheless, I have my copy and have cherished it since the fall of 1998 when it first came out. I don’t make apologies for owning it. Mark McGwire was and still is my favorite player of all time. Steroids or not, the summer of 1998 was a magical moment that made me who I am. For that, it’s as important to a baseball story in 2011 as it was to a baseball story in that magical summer of a dozen years ago.
And while I liked other players from that time period when I was younger and more concerned about this sport than anything around me, I find the moments of that season to be almost (but not quite) as special as the moments of my marriage and courtship, which took place over the last few years. In that, there was a day that I would have went into a winter of depression having seen the Yankees win, but frankly, I didn’t feel more than a slight sting for what had transpired against Philadelphia’s weak pitching staff (sorry Cliff Lee and game 2 Pedro, you tried) and sorry ass strikeout king (sorry Chase Utley, at least you tried unlike your counterpart) because of the perspective that I have for where my life is with my beautiful wife besides me.
And it's great to have Tim Lincecum take down Cliff Lee, but it's not the same as spending vacations and time in general with my wife. Five years ago, that would have been something, but now there is adult and the memories of the great games of youth that still drive me back to the game for a well-placed second place in my life.
So before this gets all soppy, I should get back to baseball, and say that like Dale, I find it hard to find interest in players the same way that I did when I was younger. Maybe it’s being married and redoing a house and contemplating children and the Arizona / Utah border vacation that I want to get back to for some summer week that keeps me from thinking of some of these players in the way that I did when I was younger, but in part, I don’t find them as magical. Their interviews are generic. The plays were done better by other players in the past, and I’m not ready to believe in anyone new, other than Albert Pujols and Ichiro Suzuki in the way that I once believed in Ryne Sandberg, Paul Molitor, Curt Schilling, Pedro Martinez, and David Ortiz. The play of the past few years and the less than believability that is associated with Dominican birth certificates has come to take its toll on me. For that, this blog is an exercise to getting back to the great players of the past and comparing their deeds to those of the current crop of players that seems to be changing incredibly from what it was even five years ago. Will Tim Lincecum and Jon Lester become the next Walter Johnson, Cy Young, Bob Gibson, Sandy Koufax, or Bob Feller? One can only hope.
As the Ramones sang about their own existential void, probably not the one that wonders if Joe Mauer will ever be the next Josh Gibson and which anonymous rookie could be the next Roger Maris, Honus Wagner, Satchell Paige, or Ted Williams, but the wonder about another time where it feels as good as the magical moments of the past, “Nothing makes any sense, but I still try my hardest. Take my hand. Please help me man. 'Cause I'm looking for something to believe in.”
And for that, I leave you with the words from Eureka, Nevada, my unfinished first novel:
"I woke up and walked to the newspaper, looking at the Sunday sports headlines that said that Mark Mcgwire had been thrown out for disputing a called third strike the day before. The fans were irate and with good cause. The call was rotten and just like the media who were doing there best to put a damper on Big Mac’s quest for 62, the umpires weren’t cutting him any slack either.
Mcgwire’s angst was justifiable. He had been forced to endure the what he did, what he didn’t do and the will he break the record as he stood out as the sole highlight on a horrible St. Louis team. All the while, Sammy Sosa was hitting his homeruns, deferring the questions to Mcgwire and watching his Cubs fight for the division title.
I was tired of the drive. I was tired of the wait. I wanted to be in St. Louis, and that was where I was heading at the moment. I packed up and was off, though I found out that it was an evening game rather than a day game, so I would be driving in slower than I thought that I would be.
If only I was a little farther down the road, then life now would make more sense. At that moment it was all just a highway that took me to St. Louis, a game that would change my life, a perfect moment filled with more positive emotional content than an entire yearlong relationship would leave me. I was destined to be in St. Louis that evening, but first I was off to Mark Twain Lake and museum, which was somewhere in the empty middle of Missouri’s rolling forest land. I walked around, admired the sights, and thought of baseball. I was killing time.
A few hours later, I was at the game. I parked the car and ran up towards Busch Stadium and a sea of red shirts and signs.
“Go Mark Go.”
“Make it a great 1998.”
Even before I got to the game, there were signs such as the Billboard above Highway 70 that listed Mcgwire’s homerun total at the moment. St. Louis was alive with Mcgwire at the moment. The Braves, despite their perennial power in the East Divison of the National League were in town, but their fans were non-existent. This was St. Louis, home of the Cardinals and a special place that was filled with something that couldn’t be described, but rather could be felt in some special way, through some special sense. We were all a part of it and as I walked inside of the Mecca that was Busch Stadium, I knew I was in the presence of something.
Realizing the game was on ESPN that evening, I called my dad, begged him to tape it, and we talked about the trip, the Cardinals and what I was going to do after the game was over. It was a whirlwind of explanations, but only one mattered – get the game on video. I hung up, read my program and waited to watch the game.
From the stadium, you could see the St. Louis skyline. Several hotels and the great Arch line the Mississippi river, which lies off in the distance from Left Field. I took several photos, watched batting practice, and then the Star Spangled Banner played as 44,000 fans took to their feet in a mix of patriotism and a feeling that everything was right again with the national pastime after a horrible strike took out the 1994 season and World Series.
Today, the Cardinals were taking on Kevin Millwood, a hot young pitcher who was bolstered by a strong Atlanta offense that saw 2 homeruns by Andres Galarraga bring their team out to an early lead. I was dejected and angry, but still I watched, un-swayed by the lead that had arisen, and crossed my fingers and prayed to the Baseball God that everything would be made right in the universe.
On Mcgwire’s first at bat, he walked. The second at bat was a single, keeping his day perfect, and then came a double in the third plate appearance. Big Mac was 2 for 2.
When Mark Mcgwire stepped to the plate in the 7th inning, the sky was dark and the flashbulbs exploded as the crowd got to their feet to signal that now was the time. There were 2 men on and the cards were down 7-5. Millwood had been removed, and Dennis Martinez, one of the most dominant Latino pitchers of the time stepped to the mound knowing that he had never let up a hit to the man. His fate was sealed with that announcement on the Busch scoreboard.
After this, the at bat is a haze. I don’t remember what happened prior to it, but Martinez threw, Mcgwire swung and took the ball deep. I was on my feet as was everyone else and we were willing it to go. I didn’t want to believe it would go because it was hit long, since I wasn’t one of those people who ooh at every single long fly ball to centerfield. I was silent in that all of my energy was in my stomach, bottled down, unable to come up, I was breathless and I was focused on that moment, when the ball cleared the fence and I was still silent as I stopped to gather in the fact that my boy had launched a 501-foot blast off of Dennis Martinez to straight away centerfield. This 3 run shot, number 55 on his quest to 70 for the year, a mark that would shatter Roger Maris’ 37 year old record, left ever single one of the 44,051 fans on their feet.
Everything came out and I was screaming in complete jubilation at the moment. For lack of a better word though my mom would understand, it felt orgasmic. It felt like an eternity that the fans cheered and screamed, jumped up and down, gave high fives to each other and hugged. And there I was, hugging and cheering and high fiving strangers as I stood in the magic of a moment that was meant to last for an eternity, but vanished beneath a cloud of sorrow as even this mighty record was forced to give way to another. Yet at that moment, Barry Bonds didn’t matter, since every time I think of that laser beam, I think of my goose bumps and how I wasn’t sure if it was gone, but it was. It was a culmination of a summer spent rooting for heroes, questing for gold and finding it just as Mark did. The tragedies of Roger Maris and my later years wouldn’t and didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except being there in the middle of section 240 and the post-game fireworks as all of the fans scuttled down to the parking lot and drove out, knowing full well that we would be unable to sleep. This was one of those moments in time, and for me, it was so much more.
It was and is the greatest moment of my life, a culmination of a summer, a trip across America in search of all that was and could be, and it was America to me on that late August night."
Friday, March 11, 2011
Manny Ramirez
If the whole Lady Gaga thing wasn't already on overload and annoying as hell (because let's be honest, short of one song - "Speechless" - that she actually plays on, she's a much less talented rip off of Madonna)... we now get Baby Gaga, which is actually breast milk ice cream.Lady Gaga has threatened to sue the British manufacturers over the flavor of ice cream.
Whether she will be successful or not, the Brits seized the ice cream and tested it to make sure that it was OK for human consumption and found that it is.
In addition, the store owner Matt O' Connor has fired back: "She claims we have 'ridden the coattails' of her reputation. As someone who has plagiarised and recycled on an industrial scale, the entire back catalogue of pop-culture to create her look, music and videos, she might want to re-consider this allegation."
We can only hope that something sane comes of this, but until then, we'll let anyone who wants to pay $22 for this "delicacy" to keep on keeping on. We'll go back to our own lives and contemplate weirdness on terms that we can relate to...
Manny Ramirez being Manny Ramirez.
In this, Manny has already been definitively studied (Bill Simmons did that), but let us say that since he has a new home - Tampa Bay - we have to wish him the best.
Since his days of getting ostracized by my wife for not paying his child support (back at the Jake in Cleveland when he was a member of the Indians), he went on to massive success unparalleled in Boston. He was a grand slam machine (tied with A-Rod for 2nd to Lou Gehrig all time). He was instrumental in winning the World Series in 2004 and 2007. He was David "Big Sluggi" Ortiz's lovable and idiotic sidekick with those really bad dreadlocks. He would blow easy plays in the outfield while making difficult plays. He would urinate inside the Fenway Park scoreboard during a game. He would demand trades, and then, he finally got traded to the Dodgers, who he managed to convince that he could be great... until he got injured and got nailed for steroids and then he basically quit on them, too, after getting $40million for 2 years (and they were basically bidding against themselves for his services), so off he went to the White Sox where he really and truly sucked, but he was still Manny being Manny without the offense - just being offensive.
So now, he's back with the other idiot - Johnny Damon - in Tampa Bay as they both look to resuscitate their careers that pretty much dried up after the glory days of the first decade of the 21st century.
And while there is hope... it's really going to be a case of too little too late unless he breaks the grand slam record or hits .350, and at this point in his career... without sexual enhancers or whatever it it was that he used when and Big Sluggi both seemed to get fingered on the Mitchell Report, there is not going to be a career resuscitation and while Tampa Bay can hope for the best in the year that Carl Crawford walked and they had to bring up rookies and a few older names at league minimum value to keep the few fans that they do have attending, but the reality is...
The weirdness just isn't lovable without production.
I can't wait until the world wakes up to that realization about Lady Gaga as well.
Thursday, March 10, 2011
Choo Choo Coleman
The Mets really sucked when they first started out.This isn't being mean. This is a fact.
If Marvelous Marv Throneberry was the symbol of futility, then Choo Choo Coleman was the symbol or purely terrible.
In 1963, he batted 178 in 277 at bats. He did hit 3 home runs, but he did little else. This was pretty much his track record with the Phillies before the the Mets picked him up, and then despite a spike in limited at bats in 1962, he went back to "nicht so gut," and well, that was it.
Throneberry wasn't much better. He hit .244 in his first Mets season and in the space of 2 hits and 1 RBI in 14 at bats, the Mets and the major leagues had seen enough of Marv, and he went on his way.
Ken Burns summed up Marv by saying that nothing he did was marvelous.
That said, we can't all be Pete Rose and Ted Williams at the plate, but we should be able to touch first and second when we actually hit a triple.
In the beginning, there was Casey Stengel to lead the team, and while that might have been for familiarity for New Yorkers who loved him as a Yankee, he really was "too old" and it just didn't play out well.
Nevertheless, there was the Miracle Mets with Seaver and Ryan and Koosman. There was the 86 Mets that benefited more from Roger Clemens, cocaine, and Dan Shaughnessey, and there was a few other good teams along the way, but the Mets of today... "nicht so gut."
It's not the fact that they're also rans since the days of 2006 and Endy Chavez saving the day only to pull defeat out in a game that they seemed fated to win. And that was it.
High priced free agents named Carlos (Beltran and Delgado) who don't do anything well (including staying healthy).
David Wright can't save the day with all those strikeouts.
Pitchers who can't stay healthy.
Jose Reyes who is REALLY over-rated.
Yeah... that's the Mets.
Lastings Milledge who didn't know his place.
And then there's this year...
Charlie Samuels being watched like a hawk eyes a mouse because he just might have profited too much on memorabilia sales.
Francisco Rodriguez and his desire and actions to smack the tar out of his main squeeze's dad.
Oliver Perez no longer a consideration for the starting rotation.
CITI Field not bringing cash in that was hoped for (guess, they should have stayed at Shea).
Bernie Madoff's victims and their lawsuit to get their $1BILLION worth of money back (can't fault them for that).
Fans that don't want to see games even with cut ticket prices (down 20% from $500 in some cases).
A $25 MILLION loan from MLB to keep the team up and running (time to cut out some unprofitable teams, eh?!!).
And perhaps New York needs 2 teams.
Perhaps there is hope in Manhattan yet.
Maybe we can return to the glory days when men on the moon coincided with great teams with dominant pitching.
Just not this year.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Aaron Boone
You think we'd learn. You think Aaron Boone would have taught us all what it means to get into a pick up basketball game and get injured and lose his contract because he was playing for the Yankees and he wasn't making much, and frankly, with that, he was quite expendable. And let's not even think about the idea of doing something so wreckless and stupid that it just jeopardizes EVERYTHING that he and the team could be without an instant of showing that he had ACTUALLY THOUGHT ABOUT WHAT HE WAS DOING. I'm sure just reminiscing about the incident would make Derek Jeter and guys like him who waited their whole life to wear pinstripes and go to the playoffs cringe in horror. Fortunately,
But alas...
You think we'd learn. You think Ben Roethlisberger would have taught us that we can't ride our motorcycles helmetless if our team is counting on us, but alas, he never learned either.
And so it shouldn't be a shock that the Great White Nope of Milwaukee (registered trademark, but because we just don't believe) has gone and shot himself and an entire state full of Cheeseheaded beer drinkers who still remember the good ol' days of Harvey's Wallbangers and Laverne and Shirley in the foot or should I say feet because he's making $13.5million per season for the next 2 seasons and his success will keep Prince Fielder in town (hopefully) or the lack thereof will drive him to Anaheim or some other city in need of a big bopping designated hitter or first basemen (at Prince's weight, he'll be a DH like his daddy before too long).
But with a broken rib from his dalliance at trying to be like Lebron James, he'll be on the DH at the start of the season. Will he come back healthy and ready? Will his social anxiety disorder and depression be affected?
Let's just say that if I was Mark Attanasio today and I was thinking about how much money and faith and hope I just installed into my ace and how he paid me back, I'd be thinking of getting 70cents on the dollar and shipping him to some other team in the hope that I could build up for the future because even if I had to keep him, I surely wouldn't keep him around to extend the contract ad infinitum.
And the injuries and the hopes and dreams keep right on rolling in the land of cactuses and the world of grapefruits as we get closer and closer to day 1.
But alas...
You think we'd learn. You think Ben Roethlisberger would have taught us that we can't ride our motorcycles helmetless if our team is counting on us, but alas, he never learned either.
And so it shouldn't be a shock that the Great White Nope of Milwaukee (registered trademark, but because we just don't believe) has gone and shot himself and an entire state full of Cheeseheaded beer drinkers who still remember the good ol' days of Harvey's Wallbangers and Laverne and Shirley in the foot or should I say feet because he's making $13.5million per season for the next 2 seasons and his success will keep Prince Fielder in town (hopefully) or the lack thereof will drive him to Anaheim or some other city in need of a big bopping designated hitter or first basemen (at Prince's weight, he'll be a DH like his daddy before too long).
But with a broken rib from his dalliance at trying to be like Lebron James, he'll be on the DH at the start of the season. Will he come back healthy and ready? Will his social anxiety disorder and depression be affected?
Let's just say that if I was Mark Attanasio today and I was thinking about how much money and faith and hope I just installed into my ace and how he paid me back, I'd be thinking of getting 70cents on the dollar and shipping him to some other team in the hope that I could build up for the future because even if I had to keep him, I surely wouldn't keep him around to extend the contract ad infinitum.
And the injuries and the hopes and dreams keep right on rolling in the land of cactuses and the world of grapefruits as we get closer and closer to day 1.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Domonic Brown
When your team has a pitching staff that is considered by some to be the best ever - at least on paper and if you think really, really hard about Cole Hamels upside - you definitely want your offense to be able to produce.
The Phillies don't have much and those people who can swing definitely aren't the most solid and reliable types in the world. Jayson Werth left, so that means that Jimmy Rollins has to step up and produce. Since his MVP in 2007, he's definitely gone downhill. Last year, he ended up injured and didn't even step to the plate 400 times. His batting average has fallen from .296 to .277 to .250 to .244. In 2005, when he had 36 of his 38 games in a row that he hit in during that momentous hit streak (we'll add the first 2 from 2006 for good measure, but not to this), his batting average went up from a rather pedestrian .262 to .290, which is nice, but it's not a mark of consistency. Rather, it's a late season surge. If we think about 20 triples and 30 home runs in 2007, these are potentials for a player to emulate, but the reality is that it's more of a career year masked in the midst of an above average player that was and is counted on WAY TOO MUCH.
Chase Utley is also a solid player - if he's healthy, but let's look at his numbers. This is a guy who the Phillies can't count on for 700 plate appearances. Last year, he only had 511 and since 2007's break out .332 batting average, he's spent the last 2 years at sub .300, which isn't exactly a place for optimism seeing as the Phillies are counting on him to produce. And while he's capable of 30 home runs (just over), he's going to whiff 100 times if he gets this mark. In that, he's not Ryan Howard, but alas... who would want to be when we talk about aging players and overhype and lack of production?
So who's left? Raul Ibanez had 1 last year in 2009, and now we can stick a fork in him. There's hope for Shane Victorino who is still young enough to make us believe, but Placido Polanco isn't a bopper, and while Carlos Ruiz is loved, he's not getting 400 at bats a year either.
So when Dominic Brown goes out for 4-6 weeks of spring training with a wrist injury, the prognosis just isn't good for the Phillies.
That said, we're Red Sox fans, so it doesn't matter who we beat in the World Series - just that we win!
The Phillies don't have much and those people who can swing definitely aren't the most solid and reliable types in the world. Jayson Werth left, so that means that Jimmy Rollins has to step up and produce. Since his MVP in 2007, he's definitely gone downhill. Last year, he ended up injured and didn't even step to the plate 400 times. His batting average has fallen from .296 to .277 to .250 to .244. In 2005, when he had 36 of his 38 games in a row that he hit in during that momentous hit streak (we'll add the first 2 from 2006 for good measure, but not to this), his batting average went up from a rather pedestrian .262 to .290, which is nice, but it's not a mark of consistency. Rather, it's a late season surge. If we think about 20 triples and 30 home runs in 2007, these are potentials for a player to emulate, but the reality is that it's more of a career year masked in the midst of an above average player that was and is counted on WAY TOO MUCH.
Chase Utley is also a solid player - if he's healthy, but let's look at his numbers. This is a guy who the Phillies can't count on for 700 plate appearances. Last year, he only had 511 and since 2007's break out .332 batting average, he's spent the last 2 years at sub .300, which isn't exactly a place for optimism seeing as the Phillies are counting on him to produce. And while he's capable of 30 home runs (just over), he's going to whiff 100 times if he gets this mark. In that, he's not Ryan Howard, but alas... who would want to be when we talk about aging players and overhype and lack of production?
So who's left? Raul Ibanez had 1 last year in 2009, and now we can stick a fork in him. There's hope for Shane Victorino who is still young enough to make us believe, but Placido Polanco isn't a bopper, and while Carlos Ruiz is loved, he's not getting 400 at bats a year either.
So when Dominic Brown goes out for 4-6 weeks of spring training with a wrist injury, the prognosis just isn't good for the Phillies.
That said, we're Red Sox fans, so it doesn't matter who we beat in the World Series - just that we win!
Monday, March 7, 2011
Tim Lincecum
To quote Wilco's "I'm Always in Love:"
Why I wonder is my heart full of holes.
And the feeling goes and my hair keeps growing
I guess I must be turning into Tim Lincecum because my hair feels positively - well, thick and there. I won't say I need a rubber band for my pony tail. I just have a thick mane of hair, but if I did have long hair - well, if I could handle it growing long - who am I kidding?
It's been a long time since I wanted longer hair, and at 39...
But, oh! to be young and cool again. Oh, to have a whole city falling in love with my youthful pitching that in 3 full seasons has dominiated hitters like they were WWF jobbers fighting against the name wrestlers on 1980s Saturday morning TV.
There are the 2 Cy Young awards. He's got 3 straight seasons of 15 or more wins for a team that doesn't really win that much (despite the World Series championship last year). He has 3 straight seasons of 200 strikeouts. Despite going downhill last year from July 19th on, he was still better than average for the whole year and super dominant prior to that.
And while it could be a lot of things that see the Freak coming back down to earth (age, a salary argument with his team that saw him make $9million instead of the inflated amount that his agent thought he was worth, the drug bust after the season, his opponents figuring him out, a hitch in his delivery), there is still the feeling of coming out strong and dominant for another season. He took down Cliff Lee in the game that mattered last year. He wasn't great in the first game of the World Series, but he was there and he kept his team in the game until they could kick Lee off the field and into the showers.
The Rangers were never the same, and frankly, that's what it's about when you're the team's number one pitcher. Seeing as there is another big game pitcher on the team (Matt Cain) and an up and coming pitcher (Madison Bumgarner) and another pitcher that has potential if he gets his emotions together (Jonathan Sanchez), there's a need to step up.
And that's important if you're the $100million+ number 5 pitcher who needs to get his act together so that he can finish up his overpaid contract in the city by the bay.
But Lincecum... there is so much potential and so much upside. What will 2011 hold? Will it be 2008 or 2010 when it comes to stats or are we looking at another year of the pitcher with a certain skinny guy making his name in the no runners on first base category?
Why I wonder is my heart full of holes.
And the feeling goes and my hair keeps growing
I guess I must be turning into Tim Lincecum because my hair feels positively - well, thick and there. I won't say I need a rubber band for my pony tail. I just have a thick mane of hair, but if I did have long hair - well, if I could handle it growing long - who am I kidding?
It's been a long time since I wanted longer hair, and at 39...
But, oh! to be young and cool again. Oh, to have a whole city falling in love with my youthful pitching that in 3 full seasons has dominiated hitters like they were WWF jobbers fighting against the name wrestlers on 1980s Saturday morning TV.
There are the 2 Cy Young awards. He's got 3 straight seasons of 15 or more wins for a team that doesn't really win that much (despite the World Series championship last year). He has 3 straight seasons of 200 strikeouts. Despite going downhill last year from July 19th on, he was still better than average for the whole year and super dominant prior to that.
And while it could be a lot of things that see the Freak coming back down to earth (age, a salary argument with his team that saw him make $9million instead of the inflated amount that his agent thought he was worth, the drug bust after the season, his opponents figuring him out, a hitch in his delivery), there is still the feeling of coming out strong and dominant for another season. He took down Cliff Lee in the game that mattered last year. He wasn't great in the first game of the World Series, but he was there and he kept his team in the game until they could kick Lee off the field and into the showers.
The Rangers were never the same, and frankly, that's what it's about when you're the team's number one pitcher. Seeing as there is another big game pitcher on the team (Matt Cain) and an up and coming pitcher (Madison Bumgarner) and another pitcher that has potential if he gets his emotions together (Jonathan Sanchez), there's a need to step up.
And that's important if you're the $100million+ number 5 pitcher who needs to get his act together so that he can finish up his overpaid contract in the city by the bay.
But Lincecum... there is so much potential and so much upside. What will 2011 hold? Will it be 2008 or 2010 when it comes to stats or are we looking at another year of the pitcher with a certain skinny guy making his name in the no runners on first base category?
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Justine Siegal
If most people know anything about women in baseball, they've either watched a movie where there is no crying in baseball, which features Madonna and Rosie O' Donnell (2 reasons that I've never watched the movie), OR they're convinced that you mean softball, and with that, you obviously have no idea what you are talking about.
Nevertheless, Phillip K. Wrigley imagined the unimaginable in 1942 when men were drafted for war and the country still needed baseball players. And the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League lasted until 1954, which showed that it had some degree of power, but the reality was that most of that drawing power was gone when the men came back to play again in 1946.
And if we were talking about softball, we'd have stars like Jenny Finch who can fireball underhanded with the best of them and challenge major leaguers with the 43 feet of distance that a softball moves at 71MPH to challenge a hitter - a hitter mind you that is not as buffed up as her male counterparts in professional baseball.
But baseball has never let a woman play in its game. We now have a female coach, Justine Siegal, but the reality is that the majors just haven't found a way for a woman to make it to the pros.
In Japan, they have. Eri Yoshida and her knuckleball are now signed and moving through the Japanese minor leagues. Whether she could be Tim Wakefield remains to be seen, but alas... there is always the dream of being Hoyt Willhelm and ending up in Cooperstown.
And for all of the dreams of whatever little girl that is out there hoping that she can be the first, there is more and more female interest in baseball, which is great because baseball represents in the words of Ken Burns all that is good about our country, and I would completely agree.
I just wish that something didn't include pink versions of team jerseys and hats.
Nevertheless, Phillip K. Wrigley imagined the unimaginable in 1942 when men were drafted for war and the country still needed baseball players. And the All-American Girls Professional Baseball League lasted until 1954, which showed that it had some degree of power, but the reality was that most of that drawing power was gone when the men came back to play again in 1946.
And if we were talking about softball, we'd have stars like Jenny Finch who can fireball underhanded with the best of them and challenge major leaguers with the 43 feet of distance that a softball moves at 71MPH to challenge a hitter - a hitter mind you that is not as buffed up as her male counterparts in professional baseball.
But baseball has never let a woman play in its game. We now have a female coach, Justine Siegal, but the reality is that the majors just haven't found a way for a woman to make it to the pros.
In Japan, they have. Eri Yoshida and her knuckleball are now signed and moving through the Japanese minor leagues. Whether she could be Tim Wakefield remains to be seen, but alas... there is always the dream of being Hoyt Willhelm and ending up in Cooperstown.
And for all of the dreams of whatever little girl that is out there hoping that she can be the first, there is more and more female interest in baseball, which is great because baseball represents in the words of Ken Burns all that is good about our country, and I would completely agree.
I just wish that something didn't include pink versions of team jerseys and hats.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Jim Bouton
See the thing about spring training is that it's spring training. The games might be played, but they don't count. The only thing that counts is the injuries and the players that feel jilted into writing a tell all confessional about all of his fellow players (and a sequel to it) that begins with a demotion from spring training.
We can have a game where Albert Pujols can jack a fly ball over the fence in Florida. The teams can win all the split squad games that they play. The rookies can excel. The veterans can get their swing together. The fans can collect autograph after autograph. Everyone can go to the beach or Disney when the day is done. We can drink in the sun and the fun and the alcohol of an extended spring break as the national pastime comes back and life is good, but none of it means anything except the fun of the moment because it sure as hell doesn't count in the standings.
And for that, I just can't sit and watch a game. It's like Domincian winter league games. I can't watch them either - even if it's you pitch the ball, you hit the ball, you catch the ball, and you throw the ball. It's all the same. It's like college baseball. You hear the crack of a fastball on aluminum, and there's just something that isn't the same about it.
It's not quite minor league baseball, which is just a carnival that is disguised as a game, but when the circus is done well, then that's a thing of beauty and at least it trains your kids to watch the game for 9 innings. That's a good thing.
In the end, very little comes out of spring training. Sure, there are first games that are for the record book (Jason Heyward). Then again, there are extended slumps into May (David Ortiz). There are story lines to sell and memories to think about over and over, and as long as we're still in early March, everyone still has a chance. It's like Lou Boudreau said (all future and no past). We can go to the store and start our card collections and think about who we're happy to have and who we'd like to trade... who we should and shouldn't have signed (Jayson Werth)... the players that will be sitting this campaign out (Stephen Strasburg). We can look through our shelves for anyone of a million historical books to read and pine for a past that we never lived through (Curt Flood).
All in all, it adds up to everything that baseball will be on day 1.
Nevertheless, I may be happy it's here today, but I won't be watching it.
We can have a game where Albert Pujols can jack a fly ball over the fence in Florida. The teams can win all the split squad games that they play. The rookies can excel. The veterans can get their swing together. The fans can collect autograph after autograph. Everyone can go to the beach or Disney when the day is done. We can drink in the sun and the fun and the alcohol of an extended spring break as the national pastime comes back and life is good, but none of it means anything except the fun of the moment because it sure as hell doesn't count in the standings.
And for that, I just can't sit and watch a game. It's like Domincian winter league games. I can't watch them either - even if it's you pitch the ball, you hit the ball, you catch the ball, and you throw the ball. It's all the same. It's like college baseball. You hear the crack of a fastball on aluminum, and there's just something that isn't the same about it.
It's not quite minor league baseball, which is just a carnival that is disguised as a game, but when the circus is done well, then that's a thing of beauty and at least it trains your kids to watch the game for 9 innings. That's a good thing.
In the end, very little comes out of spring training. Sure, there are first games that are for the record book (Jason Heyward). Then again, there are extended slumps into May (David Ortiz). There are story lines to sell and memories to think about over and over, and as long as we're still in early March, everyone still has a chance. It's like Lou Boudreau said (all future and no past). We can go to the store and start our card collections and think about who we're happy to have and who we'd like to trade... who we should and shouldn't have signed (Jayson Werth)... the players that will be sitting this campaign out (Stephen Strasburg). We can look through our shelves for anyone of a million historical books to read and pine for a past that we never lived through (Curt Flood).
All in all, it adds up to everything that baseball will be on day 1.
Nevertheless, I may be happy it's here today, but I won't be watching it.
Friday, March 4, 2011
Kurt Bevacqua
Every once in a while, I get a hankering to buy baseball cards again. I'll look for them on e-Bay in hopes that there will be something cool and cheap. The two don't often go together. I do have a Pedro Martinez and Bob Gibson jersey card that I got for under $10 with shipping. I don't care about the real value. I just like that two of my favorite pitchers of all time are memorialized on one card with their jerseys fashioned into the card itself.Cards like this are what makes collecting nowadays special. I never pulled a card like that from a real pack, but I did get some cards that were above and beyond the sets themselves. That said, other than ones of Mark McGwire's numbered home runs (especially #55), I really don't think much of any of them.
Baseball card companies today had to go back to the concept of something special to set them apart. For example, there's a 2007 Topps Derek Jeter card that also features George W. Bush and Mickey Mantle. That's a cool card. Really.
However, it's not the 1976 card that features Kurt Bevacqua of the Milwaukee Brewers blowing a huge ass bubble to win the Joe Garagiola / Bazooka Bubble Gum Blowing Championship. Things like that don't happen nowadays.
That said, it took a whole different era to respect Garagiola since he was the guy who spiked Jackie Robinson back in the day. A large part of his life was spent explaining away how he wasn't a racist until he eventually turned into a voice of the good things in baseball.
But that's not why this card is so cool. Kurt played from 1971-1985 for 7 teams. He finished with a .236 average and 27 homeruns. He stayed around as a bench player for that time. He did have a 3 hit game in the 82 World Series that saw him hit a homerun, but he wasn't anything great.
That said, he was a bubblegum blowing champion, and frankly, that goes a long way towards something great.
But that's not why this card is so cool. Kurt played from 1971-1985 for 7 teams. He finished with a .236 average and 27 homeruns. He stayed around as a bench player for that time. He did have a 3 hit game in the 82 World Series that saw him hit a homerun, but he wasn't anything great.
That said, he was a bubblegum blowing champion, and frankly, that goes a long way towards something great.
Baseball cards today are still nice. My wife bought me a pack of 2011 Topps, which didn't really feature anyone special, but the anticipation that I'll get someone life altering in that 5 cards for $1 pack is still like playing the lottery and seeing if I can get more than 2 numbers.
However, going to shows is more about seeing the names and the faces than being able to plunk down big bucks for the Golden Era of collecting (1950s and 1960s). There's the Platinum Era, too, but I can't afford tobacco cards. Nevertheless, I'm always amazed by what cards go for - even in 1 and sub 1 condition.
All the same, it's still fun to wander around the Convention Center in Valley Forge and think about what I could get.
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Terence Mann
It's a recognized fact that Kevin Costner became a baseball star at some point in his movie career. There was the great Bull Durham. There was the ok For Love of the Game. And there was Field of Dreams. People tend to gravitate more to Bull Durham or Field of Dreams depending on who they are. For me, I'm more about the love story of Bull Durham than I am about the science fiction of Field of Dreams, but I still like it. It's just not the greatest movie of all time in the way that Bull Durham is, but that said, it does have its moments.
For instance, there is no annoying wife in Bull Durham. Sure, there's Millie, and she needs to be fed to the sharks, but she can catch Nuke and let the religious guy do whatever he wants to her, but other than her daddy donating the scoreboard, she's probably replaceable. But getting back to the annoying wife and her incredibly annoying take on no censorship, perhaps Amy Madigan is the one character that really keeps me from truly enjoying Field of Dreams. She wasn't good for John Candy's Uncle Buck, and frankly, she's no poetic muse adjunct English teacher at a junior college for Kevin Costner's Ray Kinsella either. For in comparison to all of Madigan's annoyingness, Annie was still lovable (despite her sleeping with a different ball player every season)... even if she did end up hooking up with Tim Robbins' Nuke Laloosh for half of the season (and over 15 years of real seasons).
But it's more than just the leading woman, for there is also no James Earl Jones and his Darth Vadar voice in Bull Durham. There's no trip across country to follow the directions of the voice that is coming from afar to rescue him from a life of being angry at the world. There is no inner and outer journey for Costner's Ray Kinsella to go and ease their (the Black Sox) pain. There is no need to eventually create a field for Archibald Moonlight Graham to play out his only at bat (before he messes with Marcellus Wallace's suitcase and gets himself killed). There is no hokey injury to the daughter that can only be saved by Graham.
And moving back to James Earl Jones, in Bull Durham, there is no angry 60s radical that needs to find meaning in baseball again (in that, there is no speech: Ray, people will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. Of course, we won't mind if you look around, you'll say. It's only $20 per person. They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it: for it is money they have and peace they lack. And they'll walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come.
And I get that the speech is the key to the movie. My one friend is very nostalgic to the memories of his father and wanting to have the game of catch again. I understand what that means... but to me, the real speech is at the end of Bull Durham: I got a lotta time to hear your theories and I wanta hear every damn one of 'em...but right now I'm tired and I don't wanta think about baseball and I don't wanta think about Quantum Physics... I don't wanta think about nothing... Right now, I just wanta be.
And Annie can do that, too, and that's the answer because there are all the things that we believe in and the greatness of the game and there are the beautiful moments in life. Perhaps catch is a beautiful moment... if that's your memory, but sitting on the porch after the rain and just smelling the summer air and looking forward to the good life that will come when you're with the one that you love...
That's a good thing.
And for the way it makes me feel... to think about being with my wife in the Siesta Zone and enjoying life as it comes... it's all good.
For instance, there is no annoying wife in Bull Durham. Sure, there's Millie, and she needs to be fed to the sharks, but she can catch Nuke and let the religious guy do whatever he wants to her, but other than her daddy donating the scoreboard, she's probably replaceable. But getting back to the annoying wife and her incredibly annoying take on no censorship, perhaps Amy Madigan is the one character that really keeps me from truly enjoying Field of Dreams. She wasn't good for John Candy's Uncle Buck, and frankly, she's no poetic muse adjunct English teacher at a junior college for Kevin Costner's Ray Kinsella either. For in comparison to all of Madigan's annoyingness, Annie was still lovable (despite her sleeping with a different ball player every season)... even if she did end up hooking up with Tim Robbins' Nuke Laloosh for half of the season (and over 15 years of real seasons).
But it's more than just the leading woman, for there is also no James Earl Jones and his Darth Vadar voice in Bull Durham. There's no trip across country to follow the directions of the voice that is coming from afar to rescue him from a life of being angry at the world. There is no inner and outer journey for Costner's Ray Kinsella to go and ease their (the Black Sox) pain. There is no need to eventually create a field for Archibald Moonlight Graham to play out his only at bat (before he messes with Marcellus Wallace's suitcase and gets himself killed). There is no hokey injury to the daughter that can only be saved by Graham.
And moving back to James Earl Jones, in Bull Durham, there is no angry 60s radical that needs to find meaning in baseball again (in that, there is no speech: Ray, people will come Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn up your driveway not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door as innocent as children, longing for the past. Of course, we won't mind if you look around, you'll say. It's only $20 per person. They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it: for it is money they have and peace they lack. And they'll walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come.
And I get that the speech is the key to the movie. My one friend is very nostalgic to the memories of his father and wanting to have the game of catch again. I understand what that means... but to me, the real speech is at the end of Bull Durham: I got a lotta time to hear your theories and I wanta hear every damn one of 'em...but right now I'm tired and I don't wanta think about baseball and I don't wanta think about Quantum Physics... I don't wanta think about nothing... Right now, I just wanta be.
And Annie can do that, too, and that's the answer because there are all the things that we believe in and the greatness of the game and there are the beautiful moments in life. Perhaps catch is a beautiful moment... if that's your memory, but sitting on the porch after the rain and just smelling the summer air and looking forward to the good life that will come when you're with the one that you love...
That's a good thing.
And for the way it makes me feel... to think about being with my wife in the Siesta Zone and enjoying life as it comes... it's all good.
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
Babe Ruth
At the risk of being the weirdest baseball fan of all time, let it be known that I NEVER liked Babe Ruth. Not that I'm much faster than Jeremy Giambi in the 40 yard dash, but let's just say, I would have slid - however clumsily - rather than be faced with the dubious distinction of having an out of position Derek Jeter throwing me out at home. Never, never, never.
And the A's would have gone on to the World Series INSTEAD OF PULLING DEFEAT FROM THE JAWS OF VICTORY AGAIN. Why couldn't they have just listened to Jason Giambi when he screamed at Miguel Tejada for being a slacker bum? The future was theirs, but the ghosts... the ghosts do it every time.
And the ghosts are Babe Ruth.
If you're a Red Sox fan, you know.
Here was a man who won 94 games and had a 2.28 ERA. He didn't have a lot of strikeouts, but he did pitch exceptionally from 1914 to 1919. Four other years, he pitched at least once, and he wasn't bad. He wasn't great, but hell, he did what he had to do.
Other than the 20 home runs that he hit before 1919 and the 6 in his last season, he went on to hit 688 home runs over 16 seasons. This includes 1925's dismal campaign that saw the mighty Babe for the self serving hedonistic slug that he had become. However, he came back bigger and better than ever. His next years' totals were 47, 60, 54, 46, 49, and 46. That's positively sick and does a lot to make up for the fact that the last 3 home runs that he ever hit for the Boston Braves in 1935 made him look like a Molina brother on way too much Burger King food.
But the Boston Braves are not the Boston Red Sox, and when Boston gave up their great pitcher / slugger to bankroll No, No, Nanette, by Harry Frazee (originally known as My Lady Friends). Dan Shaughnessey of The Boston Globe then took this to put the nail in the coffin of the city's baseball team since apparently, something had to be stopping the team from winning a pennant since 1918 (other than lack of quality pitching).
But that's not why I don't like Babe Ruth.
If you wanted the truth, the asterisk given to Roger Maris for daring to overcome Babe Ruth's treasured record of home runs in a single season has more to do with it than anything, but there is something in being the Michael Jordan of his field before Michael even was a candy bar in his dad's back pocket that sums it up. It's not hating greatness. It's just wondering what all the hype and hooplah means to the grand scale of the player.
Sure, Ruth was great, but that doesn't mean I'm wearing his jersey.
Lou Gehrig lived in his shadow for years and years of being true class and workmanship excellence, and he was the luckiest man to ever live. I agree with that if you take me out of the question since being married to my wife leaves me really lucky as well.
But Babe Ruth and his crown and his curses. It's all to much like Metroman for me.
Call me Will Ferrell in Megamind, but perhaps the existential reality of not being able to measure up to all of that greatness (what greatness is that? Brad Pitt?!!) has left me in a quandry. In that, Megamind is the story of all Red Sox fans who ever lived (without getting to hook up with a cartoon Tina Fey in ultra tight top at the end).
For years, we waited for a home run in extra innings or a pitcher left in too long by a manager who just doesn't get the city's need for victory. We watch home runs just stay fair, and we still lose. We get crushed by dominant pitchers hitting home runs in games that matter. We lose our young players to injuries or defecting to the Yankees after asking out of the clutch game early. We watch an old hobbled player left in the game so that a ground out can be a game winning hit that dashes the next night's hopes, too.
We win it all, coming back from the biggest deficit ever. We beat our nemesises in 7 and sweep the World Series. But still we wait for the sky to fall. We're not supposed to win. This was a fluke. But then, we come back 3 years later, and we win again, and it's like Will Ferrell and Tina Fey talking to the statue of Brad Pitt, wondering all the while, what do we do now. You're gone. What is our place in this world. Without the curse, we're nothing... well, we're all too many hats and shirts and fair weather fans. Hell, we're not even real hats. We're pink hats and hip colors.
That's not baseball.
What is the meaning of life if we're not the lovable losers? And if we're not the lovable losers, then who is? The Chicago Cubs? Sadly, with the team they're playing with, they'd simply be the Jonah Hill character (Tighten): an over-exaggerated burst of nothing much played into believing that it's better than it should be.
But that said, are the Red Sox with the cast of free agents who are playing for them now anything more than the Evil Empire North that they railed so harshly against when bloody socks, idiots, and "Cowboy Up-ing" was the answer to life?
What is the existential meaning of all of this?
Why is the word existential in a baseball column - much less a kid's movie?
I blame Babe Ruth - or at least Dan Shaughnessey.
And the A's would have gone on to the World Series INSTEAD OF PULLING DEFEAT FROM THE JAWS OF VICTORY AGAIN. Why couldn't they have just listened to Jason Giambi when he screamed at Miguel Tejada for being a slacker bum? The future was theirs, but the ghosts... the ghosts do it every time.
And the ghosts are Babe Ruth.
If you're a Red Sox fan, you know.
Here was a man who won 94 games and had a 2.28 ERA. He didn't have a lot of strikeouts, but he did pitch exceptionally from 1914 to 1919. Four other years, he pitched at least once, and he wasn't bad. He wasn't great, but hell, he did what he had to do.
Other than the 20 home runs that he hit before 1919 and the 6 in his last season, he went on to hit 688 home runs over 16 seasons. This includes 1925's dismal campaign that saw the mighty Babe for the self serving hedonistic slug that he had become. However, he came back bigger and better than ever. His next years' totals were 47, 60, 54, 46, 49, and 46. That's positively sick and does a lot to make up for the fact that the last 3 home runs that he ever hit for the Boston Braves in 1935 made him look like a Molina brother on way too much Burger King food.
But the Boston Braves are not the Boston Red Sox, and when Boston gave up their great pitcher / slugger to bankroll No, No, Nanette, by Harry Frazee (originally known as My Lady Friends). Dan Shaughnessey of The Boston Globe then took this to put the nail in the coffin of the city's baseball team since apparently, something had to be stopping the team from winning a pennant since 1918 (other than lack of quality pitching).
But that's not why I don't like Babe Ruth.
If you wanted the truth, the asterisk given to Roger Maris for daring to overcome Babe Ruth's treasured record of home runs in a single season has more to do with it than anything, but there is something in being the Michael Jordan of his field before Michael even was a candy bar in his dad's back pocket that sums it up. It's not hating greatness. It's just wondering what all the hype and hooplah means to the grand scale of the player.
Sure, Ruth was great, but that doesn't mean I'm wearing his jersey.
Lou Gehrig lived in his shadow for years and years of being true class and workmanship excellence, and he was the luckiest man to ever live. I agree with that if you take me out of the question since being married to my wife leaves me really lucky as well.
But Babe Ruth and his crown and his curses. It's all to much like Metroman for me.
Call me Will Ferrell in Megamind, but perhaps the existential reality of not being able to measure up to all of that greatness (what greatness is that? Brad Pitt?!!) has left me in a quandry. In that, Megamind is the story of all Red Sox fans who ever lived (without getting to hook up with a cartoon Tina Fey in ultra tight top at the end).
For years, we waited for a home run in extra innings or a pitcher left in too long by a manager who just doesn't get the city's need for victory. We watch home runs just stay fair, and we still lose. We get crushed by dominant pitchers hitting home runs in games that matter. We lose our young players to injuries or defecting to the Yankees after asking out of the clutch game early. We watch an old hobbled player left in the game so that a ground out can be a game winning hit that dashes the next night's hopes, too.
We win it all, coming back from the biggest deficit ever. We beat our nemesises in 7 and sweep the World Series. But still we wait for the sky to fall. We're not supposed to win. This was a fluke. But then, we come back 3 years later, and we win again, and it's like Will Ferrell and Tina Fey talking to the statue of Brad Pitt, wondering all the while, what do we do now. You're gone. What is our place in this world. Without the curse, we're nothing... well, we're all too many hats and shirts and fair weather fans. Hell, we're not even real hats. We're pink hats and hip colors.
That's not baseball.
What is the meaning of life if we're not the lovable losers? And if we're not the lovable losers, then who is? The Chicago Cubs? Sadly, with the team they're playing with, they'd simply be the Jonah Hill character (Tighten): an over-exaggerated burst of nothing much played into believing that it's better than it should be.
But that said, are the Red Sox with the cast of free agents who are playing for them now anything more than the Evil Empire North that they railed so harshly against when bloody socks, idiots, and "Cowboy Up-ing" was the answer to life?
What is the existential meaning of all of this?
Why is the word existential in a baseball column - much less a kid's movie?
I blame Babe Ruth - or at least Dan Shaughnessey.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
