Sunday, March 20, 2011
Bob Stanley
Watching Butler kick Pitt's ass... OK... maybe that's a little bit extreme, but watching the defending NCAA men's runner up beat the heavily favored Pitt team (an 8 seed beating on a 1 seed) was beautiful, and roughly 10 times in the last 2 minutes, I realized that basketball isn't football when it comes to winding down the clock.
Sure, there's all of those stupid fouls that put the team that is ahead on the line to EARN their shots (whatever that means), but there's a sense that a team has to do something and can't just play handball until their shot clock ends in the same way that a football team can loaf around for a minute or so when they want to spike a ball on the field and walk off in an uncontested win (provided there are no time outs by the losing team to stop the clock). In this, football may be to some people the greatest sport in America, but to me, it's nothing.
Look at the last seconds of the Pitt / Butler game (and mind you, I'm in no way a basketball fan - I watched NO GAMES this year until watching them all day on Saturday with my in laws).
Shelvin Mack was the hero all game, but he made a foul with 1.4 seconds left. He put Gilbert Brown on the line for 2 shots. Brown made his first, but he blew the second after Mack's post foul display of intimidation got all up in his grill. Still, Pitt had a chance to win in over time, but Brown couldn't collect himself and make it count when he had to, but all the same, he did enough to send the game to over time with the first shot. But in the aftermath of the missed second shot, all hell broke loose, and Nasir Robinson fouled Butler on a rebound and put Matt Howard, Butler's other star, on the line for 2, and he nailed both of them with .8 seconds left in the game. It was all over but the crying.
But the point was that it was a game and it was a nail biter down to the last at play after the game was tied 6 times in the last 14 minutes - this after Butler was up by 8 at the half.
And that's what's great about competitive sports... it's not over until it's over.
Flash back to 1986... Calvin Schiraldi gets 2 fly outs from Backman and Hernandez in the bottom of the 9th. Up steps Gary Carter... single. Up steps Kevin Mitchell... single. Up steps Ray Knight... single. Three hits... The Mets are down by 1 now. In comes Bob Stanley with a wild pitch. The game is tied, and Mookie Wilson hits the ball that goes through Buckner's legs and the Mets win and survive and thrive to go on to game 7 for the series victory and 18 more years of the Curse of Babe Ruth.
That's a game... even if it sends a man to Idaho in shame.
That's what's great about sports that let teams fight it out until the end.
That was Butler and Pitt in a duel to the death.
Oh, hell yeah.
I know I've said it before, and I'm going to say it again.
WOW.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Ford Frick
In Saving Private Ryan, he was the sniper casually shooting Nazis at will until he got rushed and got blown up - taking out more than one could count. In 3, he plays Dale Earnhardt Sr., the badass legend of racing, in all of his glory. He's in a lot of other movies... sometimes in more prominent roles, but mostly as the guy who rounds out the group of guys that he's with... i.e. Will Smith's confidante in Seven Pounds (a rather horrible movie if ever there was one - that guy just needs to redo the Fresh Prince or Independence Day).
But there was a moment of shining glory... an underappreciated gem from Billy Crystal of all people (well, actually not since Crystal is a Yankee drooler and it was right after the time that Mark McGwire was captivating the world and ESPECIALLY ME with his home run race to beat Sammy Sosa to 61 and make it to 70) that changed the possibility of what baseball movies could be.
That movie was 61*, and it's still one of my favorites. Sure, it was sentimental, and sure, it painted Ford Frick as a villain with the ghost of Babe Ruth as some unmovable slug (and in a way, that's about what he is - other than his larger than life big kid persona that hit a lot of home runs, was a great pitcher in his day, and all that yadda yadda yadda pap) in the way of a man's record setting greatness.
And perhaps, I can't say it as well as Bill Veeck in Veeck as in Wreck to talk down on Frick's destruction of the greatest story in baseball in ages (the tale of 2 men for the record with Mantle chasing as well for most of the season), but what this whole story really boils down to isn't an asterisk - it is just that: the fact that only 23,154 people saw the home run live because Frick doesn't understand baseball promotion. Baseball could have embraced the story, remembered its past, as it did with Maris throughout the entire 1998 season (he's still at the top of my all time favorite list of players with McGwire, Pedro, and Gibson). How many books have and will be released on Mr. Maris?
The point is that we don't need our heroes to be one dimensional. Some of them can suffer from having their hair fall out due to stress (I can relate to that - and I can relate to premature white hairs in my chin patch). We can relate to staring down the system that doesn't appreciate us. We can relate to a wife who supports us through thick and thin. We can feel the urge to walk away - but not doing so. We can feel the urge to bunt if it helps us win a game rather than to swing for the fences. Most of us are Maris.
The myth of Babe Ruth is an inflated pile of hooey. Mickey Mantle may have been the boyhood hero of his time, but a certain other center fielder had to leave the game first. There will always be room on the wall for the heroes. They come from a time and place, and they should be revered and respected at something more than old folks / timers days and as a great newspaper story 37 years later (as opposed to being portraryed as an uncooperative jerk to the media at the time).
These are the things that Crystal captured... well, that and the Ball Four side of Mickey Mantle, but that's neither here nor there. Tracey Stallard's price on the banquet circuit went through the roof, and he was a Red Sox pitcher, and yeah... it was a time and place that the rivalry wasn't, and the record wasn't worth watching, and Roger was hitting 2 extra shots that didn't matter since they were after 154 games.
That's the thing about the movie. It makes you want to understand why the media of that day went out of their way to kill the potential idol of the day. It makes you want to go to Fargo and pay respects to the man. It reminds you of why we play the game and live our lives strong. It tells the life of Roger Maris in a way that showcases the season of change for all of us.
Thanks Billy! Great movie
But there was a moment of shining glory... an underappreciated gem from Billy Crystal of all people (well, actually not since Crystal is a Yankee drooler and it was right after the time that Mark McGwire was captivating the world and ESPECIALLY ME with his home run race to beat Sammy Sosa to 61 and make it to 70) that changed the possibility of what baseball movies could be.
That movie was 61*, and it's still one of my favorites. Sure, it was sentimental, and sure, it painted Ford Frick as a villain with the ghost of Babe Ruth as some unmovable slug (and in a way, that's about what he is - other than his larger than life big kid persona that hit a lot of home runs, was a great pitcher in his day, and all that yadda yadda yadda pap) in the way of a man's record setting greatness.
And perhaps, I can't say it as well as Bill Veeck in Veeck as in Wreck to talk down on Frick's destruction of the greatest story in baseball in ages (the tale of 2 men for the record with Mantle chasing as well for most of the season), but what this whole story really boils down to isn't an asterisk - it is just that: the fact that only 23,154 people saw the home run live because Frick doesn't understand baseball promotion. Baseball could have embraced the story, remembered its past, as it did with Maris throughout the entire 1998 season (he's still at the top of my all time favorite list of players with McGwire, Pedro, and Gibson). How many books have and will be released on Mr. Maris?
The point is that we don't need our heroes to be one dimensional. Some of them can suffer from having their hair fall out due to stress (I can relate to that - and I can relate to premature white hairs in my chin patch). We can relate to staring down the system that doesn't appreciate us. We can relate to a wife who supports us through thick and thin. We can feel the urge to walk away - but not doing so. We can feel the urge to bunt if it helps us win a game rather than to swing for the fences. Most of us are Maris.
The myth of Babe Ruth is an inflated pile of hooey. Mickey Mantle may have been the boyhood hero of his time, but a certain other center fielder had to leave the game first. There will always be room on the wall for the heroes. They come from a time and place, and they should be revered and respected at something more than old folks / timers days and as a great newspaper story 37 years later (as opposed to being portraryed as an uncooperative jerk to the media at the time).
These are the things that Crystal captured... well, that and the Ball Four side of Mickey Mantle, but that's neither here nor there. Tracey Stallard's price on the banquet circuit went through the roof, and he was a Red Sox pitcher, and yeah... it was a time and place that the rivalry wasn't, and the record wasn't worth watching, and Roger was hitting 2 extra shots that didn't matter since they were after 154 games.
That's the thing about the movie. It makes you want to understand why the media of that day went out of their way to kill the potential idol of the day. It makes you want to go to Fargo and pay respects to the man. It reminds you of why we play the game and live our lives strong. It tells the life of Roger Maris in a way that showcases the season of change for all of us.
Thanks Billy! Great movie
Friday, March 18, 2011
Victor Conte
Once an obscure 1970s musician, Victor Conte's life didn't amount to much of anything other than being a note on the music scene of the time when he was a part of Tower of Power. He didn't last long with the group, but it was his ability to figure out how to do pharmaceutical work on his own that made him, well... "great."
Starting the Bay Area Laboratory Cooperative and hooking baseball players like Gary Sheffield, Benito Santiago, Jason Giambi, and Barry Bonds to substances like the Clear and the Cream made him a household name. Game of Shadows documented all of it without revealing names and took Mark Fainaru-Wada and Lance Williams to jail for 18 months for not divulging sources. They sat in the same spot as Greg Anderson, Barry Bonds's trainer who wouldn't reveal any names either. Marion Jones was in prison for her use of steroids as well. Tim Montgomery, another track and field champ, suffered for his name's mention and so did Bill Romanowski. All in all, 27 athletes were destroyed for their association with the company.
And like his chemist Patrick Arnold who got 3 months in the pokey, Victor Conte was given 4 months in his own private cell only to come out claiming he never gave Bonds steroids, which seemed to be a 180 degree reversal of where he used to be, but alas... prison does strange things to people.
Now driving a $250,000 car and crusading against doping while selling sleep enhancers, Victor Conte's reform is apparently complete while Bonds (and Roger Clemens in a whole other ball of wax legal hearing) faces perjury charges. Fortunately, for him, he will do so without loud angry phone messages that he left on his ex-girlfriend Kimberly Bell's phone answering machine, which once again teaches all young people in relationships one of the two most important messages - don't allow your angry emotions to be recorded on modern technological devices that could be used against you (the other being, don't let your dirty bits be recorded on video - something that has absolutely nothing to do with Will I Am, by the way).
Thus, a judge who doesn't want to make the jury prejudicial of Barry Bonds (kind of hard to do after Barry went so far out of his way to be hated - Jeff Pearlman wrote all about it in his book Love Me Hate Me Barry Bonds), at least he saved Bonds from being sent up the river for steroids rage in the digital age, but nevertheless, it will be a long weekend for the home run king as his trial is set to start on Monday.
Let the games begin.
Starting the Bay Area Laboratory Cooperative and hooking baseball players like Gary Sheffield, Benito Santiago, Jason Giambi, and Barry Bonds to substances like the Clear and the Cream made him a household name. Game of Shadows documented all of it without revealing names and took Mark Fainaru-Wada and Lance Williams to jail for 18 months for not divulging sources. They sat in the same spot as Greg Anderson, Barry Bonds's trainer who wouldn't reveal any names either. Marion Jones was in prison for her use of steroids as well. Tim Montgomery, another track and field champ, suffered for his name's mention and so did Bill Romanowski. All in all, 27 athletes were destroyed for their association with the company.
And like his chemist Patrick Arnold who got 3 months in the pokey, Victor Conte was given 4 months in his own private cell only to come out claiming he never gave Bonds steroids, which seemed to be a 180 degree reversal of where he used to be, but alas... prison does strange things to people.
Now driving a $250,000 car and crusading against doping while selling sleep enhancers, Victor Conte's reform is apparently complete while Bonds (and Roger Clemens in a whole other ball of wax legal hearing) faces perjury charges. Fortunately, for him, he will do so without loud angry phone messages that he left on his ex-girlfriend Kimberly Bell's phone answering machine, which once again teaches all young people in relationships one of the two most important messages - don't allow your angry emotions to be recorded on modern technological devices that could be used against you (the other being, don't let your dirty bits be recorded on video - something that has absolutely nothing to do with Will I Am, by the way).
Thus, a judge who doesn't want to make the jury prejudicial of Barry Bonds (kind of hard to do after Barry went so far out of his way to be hated - Jeff Pearlman wrote all about it in his book Love Me Hate Me Barry Bonds), at least he saved Bonds from being sent up the river for steroids rage in the digital age, but nevertheless, it will be a long weekend for the home run king as his trial is set to start on Monday.
Let the games begin.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Joe Dimaggio
I once stated accurately that I prefer my baseball players dead. Sure, I love that movement that Tim Lincecum puts on his pitches. To go from a hanging arm to whipping a nasty pitch over the plate in a way that deceives the batter into a state of utter stupidity is a fantastic thing to watch. Now, I'm not a fan of the ponytail, and I'm definiteliy not a fan of his bong, but the man is one of the better players in the modern game.
A prime example of what they don't have any more in baseball is a Joe Dimaggio. We could ask where he's gone, but like Paul Simon (who Dimaggio initially wasn't impressed by due to an incorrect perception that "Mrs. Robinson" was an insult), we have no clue. In 1999, he shuffled off this mortal coil and left many fans sad and lost with only their memories to share. Fortunately, there's HBO's Where Have You Gone, Joe Dimaggio to help us remember the Yankee Clipper / #5 / Mr. Coffee as something more than a couple of pages in a best players ever baseball book.
Nevertheless, I prefer the mystique of the eras that I never truly got to see except on documentaries and the images that I see in my head while I daydream about what it must have been like back in the day. That said, I don't imagine life before baseball gloves and catcher's masks, but yeah... tobacco card era baseball and beyond (up until the players that began their careers in the late 70s / early 80s); those were the days.
A prime example of what they don't have any more in baseball is a Joe Dimaggio. We could ask where he's gone, but like Paul Simon (who Dimaggio initially wasn't impressed by due to an incorrect perception that "Mrs. Robinson" was an insult), we have no clue. In 1999, he shuffled off this mortal coil and left many fans sad and lost with only their memories to share. Fortunately, there's HBO's Where Have You Gone, Joe Dimaggio to help us remember the Yankee Clipper / #5 / Mr. Coffee as something more than a couple of pages in a best players ever baseball book.I don't know if it's safe to say that he's that much better than what an Albert Pujols type player is, but there was something about him... a war era player that lost the best years of his career (43-45, 2 years after the 56-game hitting streak - 1 more would have got him some Heinz 57 money) to World War 2.
He lost Marilyn Monroe to the American people and a drug overdose (not to mention the Kennedys), but he kept a vigil to her for the rest of his life with the red rose he placed by her gravesite.
In 13 seasons, he batted .325 with 369 strikeouts TOTAL! In comparison, that's about 2 years of Mark Reynolds' career (not even). To top it off, he hit 361 home runs for his career.
He was so popular in New York, he could make Mickey Mantle feel like a schlub for daring to replace him.
When it came time to go, he didn't seem to know despite the fact that Casey Stengel was trying to make it easy on him. In the end, Life Magainze, Andy High, and Gene Woodling combined to show just how pedestrian that the "Greatest Living Player" had become. Like Lou Gehrig before him, a superstar being shown as being mortal knew that something was wrong. Where Lou Gehrig's finale came with being congratulated for doing the routine, Dimaggio was taken down to size for not being able to run, field, or hit in the way that he did when he electrified the 1941 spring and early summer.
For even with a bat stolen, he didn't complain. Sure, he wanted to bang heads to get it back, but he went right on hitting until it came back.
He tried his hand at TV, but he quit when he wasn't successful. As Ric Flair said, "to be the best, you have to beat the best," and to Joltin' Joe, if he couldn't be the best, he didn't want to play, so he did what he was good at - running restaurants, making appearances, signing bats, and adding his name to a children's hospital.
Sadly, the band who became a Les Brown record will never be seen at a Dinky Donuts again, but he will always be an example of what's right with baseball and the world.
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
Curt Flood
Everything I need to know about labor and management, I learned from baseball. In my younger days of college, I read Krakauer and Marx and Thoreau and Zinn and a wide variety of books that talked about what a person should be living and working for, and it didn't matter if it was Into the Wild or Wage and Capital, the answer was always so much clearer by reading about how bad baseball screwed the pooch when it came to the strike that killed the World Series in 1994 (far worse than Shoeless Joe Jackson and crew taking money to blow the series). The NHL and the NBA also screwed their pooches in trying to lockout players for extended periods of time.
Inevitably, it's always about more money, and I begrudge nobody the opportunity to get more money, but I will say that if you're asking, you need good persuasive leverage. Albert Pujols has more chance to get $300 million if he doesn't care where he works because not every company (team) can afford to mortgage the future for him (that's why Washington will pony up big and pay him to bring his perfect citizenship score to the nation's capital and that's why teams in the Texas Rangers' league won't be doing another A-Rod signing).
But the history of baseball and the reserve clause and free agency came a long way since the beginning. It came a long way since Curt Flood told Howard Cosell that he was a "well paid slave" while making $90,000 a year. And perhaps he truly felt that he was owned and marginalized by the Cardinals, but in reality, even in the tumultuous late sixties, America didn't want to hear slavery. We were 100 years removed from Appomatox, and frankly, nobody alive was still putting people to work in the fields. Sure, there was the civil rights movement that had just taken place and we as a country had realized that we weren't quite so kind to African Americans with Jim Crow, but many opinions (though not all then or ever) were changing and we were learning our lessons and growing. We didn't want to be reminded of those days, and for good reasons - it wasn't like we were the slave owners or the framers who let the Constitution be written with slavery as a system that was accepted by the institution that was to be America.
And even if Curt Flood never succeeded and basically destroyed himself in alienation, prostitutes, and alcohol, at home and abroad, he was trying to do what was right and to eliminate the reserve clause with a little help from his friends (Marvin Miller). He led the way to others who had more clout. In that, there was Catfish Hunter and Andy Messersmith and Dave McNally who made it all happen, and now there are 9 players who have or will have made $20million in a year (if they play this season). There are 8 players who have signed contracts for more than $150million for their duration (one twice - A-Rod). And perhaps, that's what it means to be a talented sports star risking health to perform for the crowds.
But that doesn't mean that it resonates with the masses.
So when the NFL decides to lock out its players in the wake of labor issues, we have to take note. When the NFL Player's Association tells young players who are about to be drafted to stay home and give up the night of fame at the start of their show, we raise our ears to hear what is about to be said.
And what do we hear:
It's modern-day slavery, you know? People kind of laugh at that, but there are people working at regular jobs who get treated the same way, too. With all the money … the owners are trying to get a different percentage, and bring in more money. I understand that; these are business-minded people. Of course this is what they are going to want to do. I understand that; it's how they got to where they are now. But as players, we have to stand our ground and say, 'Hey -- without us, there's no football.' There are so many different perspectives from different players, and obviously we're not all on the same page -- I don't know. I don't really see this going to where we'll be without football for a long time; there's too much money lost for the owners. Eventually, I feel that we'll get something done.
And once again... nobody wants to hear the S word. Nobody wants to hear a sports star bitch and moan - no matter what point he makes.
And both sides lose because they aren't close to playing ball with one another to play ball. We don't want the labor arguments - not when we're giving up cash for every government initiative down the pike. Not when we're losing salary due to budget cuts. Not when Japanese people are scared to death that the radiation will give them cancer or kill them outright.
So really, shut the hell up Adrian.
Come take my writing class, and I'll teach you how to truly persuade people.
Inevitably, it's always about more money, and I begrudge nobody the opportunity to get more money, but I will say that if you're asking, you need good persuasive leverage. Albert Pujols has more chance to get $300 million if he doesn't care where he works because not every company (team) can afford to mortgage the future for him (that's why Washington will pony up big and pay him to bring his perfect citizenship score to the nation's capital and that's why teams in the Texas Rangers' league won't be doing another A-Rod signing).
But the history of baseball and the reserve clause and free agency came a long way since the beginning. It came a long way since Curt Flood told Howard Cosell that he was a "well paid slave" while making $90,000 a year. And perhaps he truly felt that he was owned and marginalized by the Cardinals, but in reality, even in the tumultuous late sixties, America didn't want to hear slavery. We were 100 years removed from Appomatox, and frankly, nobody alive was still putting people to work in the fields. Sure, there was the civil rights movement that had just taken place and we as a country had realized that we weren't quite so kind to African Americans with Jim Crow, but many opinions (though not all then or ever) were changing and we were learning our lessons and growing. We didn't want to be reminded of those days, and for good reasons - it wasn't like we were the slave owners or the framers who let the Constitution be written with slavery as a system that was accepted by the institution that was to be America.
And even if Curt Flood never succeeded and basically destroyed himself in alienation, prostitutes, and alcohol, at home and abroad, he was trying to do what was right and to eliminate the reserve clause with a little help from his friends (Marvin Miller). He led the way to others who had more clout. In that, there was Catfish Hunter and Andy Messersmith and Dave McNally who made it all happen, and now there are 9 players who have or will have made $20million in a year (if they play this season). There are 8 players who have signed contracts for more than $150million for their duration (one twice - A-Rod). And perhaps, that's what it means to be a talented sports star risking health to perform for the crowds.
But that doesn't mean that it resonates with the masses.
So when the NFL decides to lock out its players in the wake of labor issues, we have to take note. When the NFL Player's Association tells young players who are about to be drafted to stay home and give up the night of fame at the start of their show, we raise our ears to hear what is about to be said.
And what do we hear:
It's modern-day slavery, you know? People kind of laugh at that, but there are people working at regular jobs who get treated the same way, too. With all the money … the owners are trying to get a different percentage, and bring in more money. I understand that; these are business-minded people. Of course this is what they are going to want to do. I understand that; it's how they got to where they are now. But as players, we have to stand our ground and say, 'Hey -- without us, there's no football.' There are so many different perspectives from different players, and obviously we're not all on the same page -- I don't know. I don't really see this going to where we'll be without football for a long time; there's too much money lost for the owners. Eventually, I feel that we'll get something done.
And once again... nobody wants to hear the S word. Nobody wants to hear a sports star bitch and moan - no matter what point he makes.
And both sides lose because they aren't close to playing ball with one another to play ball. We don't want the labor arguments - not when we're giving up cash for every government initiative down the pike. Not when we're losing salary due to budget cuts. Not when Japanese people are scared to death that the radiation will give them cancer or kill them outright.
So really, shut the hell up Adrian.
Come take my writing class, and I'll teach you how to truly persuade people.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
John Roseboro
Baseball learned from its violence and stupidity. Sure, we still have guys who want to start fights - class acts like Jose Offerman who have since been banned for life for attacking opponents with a bat, but yeah... we've learned.
We don't play our game to kick the tar out of our opponents. Sure, we have to be more like Bob Gibson and own those 17 inches of plate, but besides being afraid to pitch inside to brush back a batter that is crowding the plate (whether or not he has Barry Bonds' armor on or not), but that doesn't mean that we need to go beyond retaliatory pitching if our players get hit by a frustrated jerk of a pitcher.
The NHL on the other hand hasn't even learned from the NFL about what it takes to stop cheap hits. In the wake of their quest to be tough manly men that are pretty much only broadcast on hunting / fishing networks, they have decided to not eliminate head shots, which are all too often cheap shots to take out an opponent. They have said that out of 55,000 hits, only a small percentage result in concussions, so it doesn't matter what league leader and mega star is out with one now (Sidney Crosby). It doesn't matter than the Canadians want to go after the guy who took out Max Pacioretty (Zdeno Chara). But alas... be it legal because it's part of the game (like the WWE) or because it keeps things fast paced and physical, we never learn.
We don't let our players go all Pete Rose on Ray Fosse in the All Star games, but we want fast paced action - even with millions invested in play and development of stars. We want our cake and we want to be able to eat it too. We want to call it the integrity of the game, and we want to make sure that the nanny state doesn't take over, but sometimes, we just don't think.
Cheap attacks aren't cool. Even in the WWE, we're supposed to hate the heels that purport them on the babyfaces.
And if we look back to baseball's darkest moments and remember Juan Marichal at the plate getting so angry that he picked up his bat and used John Roseboro's head for a target after he threw too closely to Marichal's head on a couple of return pitches, we see dark and ugly. But such is a baseball feud between 2 teams (Los Angeles and San Francisco OR Boston and New York). Sure, there are other teams that hate one another, but for the most part, it's agression and the game. Coming up behind a player a slamming him into the boards and glass to the point where he is laying on the ice unable to contemplate what century he is in is a completely different story and for that, we don't need to pretend and call things manlier than they are.
Sometimes, we just need to step up and do what's right.
We don't play our game to kick the tar out of our opponents. Sure, we have to be more like Bob Gibson and own those 17 inches of plate, but besides being afraid to pitch inside to brush back a batter that is crowding the plate (whether or not he has Barry Bonds' armor on or not), but that doesn't mean that we need to go beyond retaliatory pitching if our players get hit by a frustrated jerk of a pitcher.
The NHL on the other hand hasn't even learned from the NFL about what it takes to stop cheap hits. In the wake of their quest to be tough manly men that are pretty much only broadcast on hunting / fishing networks, they have decided to not eliminate head shots, which are all too often cheap shots to take out an opponent. They have said that out of 55,000 hits, only a small percentage result in concussions, so it doesn't matter what league leader and mega star is out with one now (Sidney Crosby). It doesn't matter than the Canadians want to go after the guy who took out Max Pacioretty (Zdeno Chara). But alas... be it legal because it's part of the game (like the WWE) or because it keeps things fast paced and physical, we never learn.
We don't let our players go all Pete Rose on Ray Fosse in the All Star games, but we want fast paced action - even with millions invested in play and development of stars. We want our cake and we want to be able to eat it too. We want to call it the integrity of the game, and we want to make sure that the nanny state doesn't take over, but sometimes, we just don't think.
Cheap attacks aren't cool. Even in the WWE, we're supposed to hate the heels that purport them on the babyfaces.
And if we look back to baseball's darkest moments and remember Juan Marichal at the plate getting so angry that he picked up his bat and used John Roseboro's head for a target after he threw too closely to Marichal's head on a couple of return pitches, we see dark and ugly. But such is a baseball feud between 2 teams (Los Angeles and San Francisco OR Boston and New York). Sure, there are other teams that hate one another, but for the most part, it's agression and the game. Coming up behind a player a slamming him into the boards and glass to the point where he is laying on the ice unable to contemplate what century he is in is a completely different story and for that, we don't need to pretend and call things manlier than they are.
Sometimes, we just need to step up and do what's right.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Hideki Matsui
In a meaningless spring training game on Saturday, Chipper Jones, a sort of star, hit his first home run of what will probably be his last year.
This morning, a second quake rocked Japan. This one wasn't as strong as the 8.9 magnitude first one that struck on Friday and sent tsunami waves to the West Coast of America, literally ruining one entire California harbor. In the turmoil of the 4th worst earthquake in the last 150 years, a second Hydrogen explosion at a nuclear reactor leaves the world north of Tokyo in a state that could be hellaciously dangerous in a very short time - if that time isn't now.
At times like this, sports don't matter. What matters is what people do to rise up for their fellow men and women.
In this, former Japanese baseball great Hideki Matsui, who now plays for the Oakland A's (after a stint with the Angels and a stint with the Yankees) is stepping up with his team as they offer to do a fund raiser for the victims of the earthquake when they face the Seattle Mariners who feature the greatest Japanese player in history this side of Sadahura Oh. Yes, Ichiro vs. Godzilla will be a game that means something for the world instead of American League West also rans, and isn't that what baseball is supposed to be about?
We are bringing good things to people and entertaining society to make us forget about our woes in times of trouble. Whether that's Albert cracking home runs for Down's syndrome or pink bats for breast cancer or George Bush taking Derek Jeter's advice to throw a strike as the players all wear FDNY and NYPD hats after 911. We've always been there when society calls to us, and that's the way it should be.
So we'll get the perfection of singles and speed with Ichiro, a player that had it drilled into him from a very young age that to be the best, one had to give all. We see this with rescue workers who use chainsaws and pick axes to reach bodies of survivors and the dead.
We'll get a class act who apologized to his boss for getting injured after playing in 1,000 games straight. And the life philosophy of Matsui is what the Japanese will do as they rebuild their country all over again. Just like in the devastation of World War 2, their world will come back together and will be stronger and a force for the world as a whole.
And through it all, we will come together and we'll get back to baseball being the good things in life - not the bad things in life bringing us together to look after our fellow man, which when you think about it really is the best thing in life.
This morning, a second quake rocked Japan. This one wasn't as strong as the 8.9 magnitude first one that struck on Friday and sent tsunami waves to the West Coast of America, literally ruining one entire California harbor. In the turmoil of the 4th worst earthquake in the last 150 years, a second Hydrogen explosion at a nuclear reactor leaves the world north of Tokyo in a state that could be hellaciously dangerous in a very short time - if that time isn't now.
At times like this, sports don't matter. What matters is what people do to rise up for their fellow men and women.
In this, former Japanese baseball great Hideki Matsui, who now plays for the Oakland A's (after a stint with the Angels and a stint with the Yankees) is stepping up with his team as they offer to do a fund raiser for the victims of the earthquake when they face the Seattle Mariners who feature the greatest Japanese player in history this side of Sadahura Oh. Yes, Ichiro vs. Godzilla will be a game that means something for the world instead of American League West also rans, and isn't that what baseball is supposed to be about?
We are bringing good things to people and entertaining society to make us forget about our woes in times of trouble. Whether that's Albert cracking home runs for Down's syndrome or pink bats for breast cancer or George Bush taking Derek Jeter's advice to throw a strike as the players all wear FDNY and NYPD hats after 911. We've always been there when society calls to us, and that's the way it should be.
So we'll get the perfection of singles and speed with Ichiro, a player that had it drilled into him from a very young age that to be the best, one had to give all. We see this with rescue workers who use chainsaws and pick axes to reach bodies of survivors and the dead.
We'll get a class act who apologized to his boss for getting injured after playing in 1,000 games straight. And the life philosophy of Matsui is what the Japanese will do as they rebuild their country all over again. Just like in the devastation of World War 2, their world will come back together and will be stronger and a force for the world as a whole.
And through it all, we will come together and we'll get back to baseball being the good things in life - not the bad things in life bringing us together to look after our fellow man, which when you think about it really is the best thing in life.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Howard Cosell
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.
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.
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.
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