The Great American Pastime
By David W. Clark
The Great American Pastime
By David W. Clark
Copyright© 2011 by Tom Bales
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part,
without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer
who may quote brief passages in a review; nor may any part of this book
be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form
or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or other,
without written permission from the publisher.
ISBN # 978-1-4658-0134-0
Published by Tom Bales & DWC, Assoc., Inc at Smashwords
Telephone (775) 342-7998
Davidwclark10@yahoo.com
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold
or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,
please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did
not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to
Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work
of this author.
Table of Contents
Introduction
1.It All Starts at Home
2.My Other Home is a Ballpark
3.The Sports Bar
4.It’s How the Game is Supposed to be Played
5.Travel Day
6.The Unwritten “Rulebook”
7Retaliation
8.Unconscionable
9.Lessons Learned
10.Street Ball
11.Prejudice Rears it’s Ugly Head
12.Getting Fooled Again...and Again
13.Here’s to You, Mr. Robinson!
14.The Difference is Passion
15.The Best Centerfielders of All Time?
16.The Catch
17.A Little Help from Your Friends
18.Making New Friends
19.The Unbreakable Records
20.Just When You Think You’ve Seen it All
21.Missed it by That Much
22.A Different Kind of Prejudice
23.We’ll Get ‘em Tomorrow
24.Back to the Future
25.Feels Like the First Time I Fell in Love
26.So, You Want to be a Manager, Do You?
27.More Lessons Learned
28.Frank’s Little Secret
29.Something isn’t Quite Right
30.Only in Hollywood
31.A Tribute to Vin Scully—Simply the Best
32.The End of a Very Long Season
In Closing...Baseball vs. Football...Thanks, George!
A Few More Thoughts
Appendix
Introduction
It’s considered one of the funniest comedy routines on baseball....Abbott and Costello’s bit “Who’s on First”. In its day, it became almost as popular as the Babe himself. But by this the 21st century, it has lost much of its popularity, along with the game it so lovingly laughed at.
It’s hard to imagine that in my lifetime, just 60 ever so short years, baseball has had to reluctantly cede it’s label as “America’s Game” and even it’s most devoted fan will admit that the NFL has taken that title. In the decade of the 1950’s, the top three sports in the US were baseball, boxing, and horseracing. What changed? How is it that the average sports fan in America might very well have to ask “Who’s on First” and “What exactly do you see in that boring, slow sport?”
For those of us that still love the game, even we might ask, why? What is it exactly that got us hooked and keeps us coming back to a game that, in many ways, barely represents what we watched as kids. If you say “I don’t know” (3rd base!!) then I hope this story is for you.
I’ve tried to capture that “something” that keeps us coming back, despite the steroids, free agency, presumed saturation of talent, multi-million dollar salaries, skyrocketing ticket prices and concessions to help pay for the overpaid, prima donna, arrogant players that…. Well I am regressing.
I’ll start with a quote from a favorite sportswriter I grew up reading in the Los Angeles Times, Jim Murray. He once wrote:
“The charm of baseball is that, dull as it may seem on the field, it is endlessly fascinating as a rehash.”
Thus begins a rehash of some of my favorite fascinating baseball stories, woven into my story are what I think are the very things that keep my love for the game alive. Like most baseball rehashes, each account is loosely based on truth. Of course, I have taken the liberty to share these tales with the use of fictional characters ( the names have been changed to protect the innocent ) however, for the most part, if many of the scenes have a slight ring of familiarity to them, perhaps it’s because they are based on something that actually did happen.
Among the many charms to the game’s pace, is it allows for not only a rehash of the stories, both from on and off the field, but it’s history is well summed up in the hundreds, if not thousands, of quotes from either the players themselves, their managers, the reporters and announcers that observe the game on a daily basis, and of course, the loyal fan base. Due to my love of quotes, I have found a series of them that I felt were most appropriate in serving my purpose in presenting each section. Therefore, each section is started by citing a quote, some famous, some not so famous, hopefully giving credit to the author or alleged originator of the quote, and then developing the section in such a way as to fulfill the “meaning” of that quote.
I’ll begin with the script to “Who’s on First” that I referenced above. The words alone hardly do it justice, but it actually still comes off pretty decently, attesting to its genius.
The general setting behind the exchange has Costello, a peanut vendor named Sebastian Dinwiddle, talking to Abbott who is Dexter Broadhurt, the manager of the mythical St. Louis Wolves. However, before Costello can begin his job, Abbott wants to make sure he knows everyone's name on the team...
Abbott: Well Costello, I'm going to New York with you. You know Bucky Harris, the Yankee's manager, gave me a job as coach for as long as you're on the team.
Costello: Look Abbott, if you're the coach, you must know all the players.
Abbott: I certainly do.
Costello: Well you know I've never met the guys. So you'll have to tell me their names, and then I'll know who's playing on the team.
Abbott: Oh, I'll tell you their names, but you know it seems to me they give these ball players now-a-days very peculiar names.
Costello: You mean funny names?
Abbott: Strange names, pet names...like Dizzy Dean...
Costello: His brother Daffy.
Abbott: Yes, Daffy Dean. Well, let's see, we have on the bags, Who's on first, What's on second, I Don't Know is on third...
Costello: That's what I want to find out.
Abbott: I say Who's on first, What's on second, I Don't Know's on third.
Costello: Are you the manager?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: You gonna be the coach too?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: And you don't know the fellows' names?
Abbott: Well I should.
Costello: Well then who's on first?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: I mean the fellow's name.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy on first.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The first baseman.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy playing...
Abbott: Who is on first!
Costello: I'm asking YOU who's on first.
Abbott: That's the man's name.
Costello: That's who's name?
Abbott: Yes.
Costello: Well go ahead and tell me.
Abbott: That's it.
Costello: That's who?
Abbott: Yes.
PAUSE
Costello: Look, you gotta first baseman?
Abbott: Certainly.
Costello: Who's playing first?
Abbott: That's right.
Costello: When you pay off the first baseman every month, who gets the money?
Abbott: Every dollar of it.
Costello: All I'm trying to find out is the fellow's name on first base.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy that gets...
Abbott: That's it.
Costello: Who gets the money...?
Abbott: He does, every dollar. Sometimes his wife comes down and collects it.
Costello: Whose wife?
Abbott: Yes.
PAUSE
Abbott: What's wrong with that?
Costello: Look, all I wanna know is when you sign up the first baseman, how does he sign his name?
Abbott: Who.
Costello: The guy.
Abbott: Who.
Costello: How does he sign...?
Abbott: That's how he signs it.
Costello: Who?
Abbott: Yes.
PAUSE
Costello: All I'm trying to find out is what's the guy's name on first base.
Abbott: No. What is on second base.
Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second.
Abbott: Who's on first.
Costello: One base at a time!
Abbott: Well, don't change the players around.
Costello: I'm not changing nobody!
Abbott: Take it easy, buddy.
Costello: I'm only asking you, who's the guy on first base?
Abbott: That's right.
Costello: Ok.
Abbott: All right.
PAUSE
Costello: What's the guy's name on first base?
Abbott: No. What is on second.
Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second.
Abbott: Who's on first.
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott: He's on third, we're not talking about him.
Costello: Now how did I get on third base?
Abbott: Why you mentioned his name.
Costello: If I mentioned the third baseman's name, who did I say is playing third?
Abbott: No. Who's playing first.
Costello: What's on first?
Abbott: What's on second.
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott: He's on third.
Costello: There I go, back on third again!
PAUSE
Costello: Would you just stay on third base and don't go off it.
Abbott: All right, what do you want to know?
Costello: Now who's playing third base?
Abbott: Why do you insist on putting Who on third base?
Costello: What am I putting on third.
Abbott: No. What is on second.
Costello: You don't want who on second?
Abbott: Who is on first.
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott & Costello Together:Third base!
PAUSE
Costello: Look, you gotta outfield?
Abbott: Sure.
Costello: The left fielder's name?
Abbott: Why.
Costello: I just thought I'd ask you.
Abbott: Well, I just thought I'd tell ya.
Costello: Then tell me who's playing left field.
Abbott: Who's playing first.
Costello: I'm not... stay out of the infield! I want to know what's the guy's name in left field?
Abbott: No, What is on second.
Costello: I'm not asking you who's on second.
Abbott: Who's on first!
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott & Costello Together: Third base!
PAUSE
Costello: The left fielder's name?
Abbott: Why.
Costello: Because!
Abbott: Oh, he's centerfield.
PAUSE
Costello: Look, You gotta pitcher on this team?
Abbott: Sure.
Costello: The pitcher's name?
Abbott: Tomorrow.
Costello: You don't want to tell me today?
Abbott: I'm telling you now.
Costello: Then go ahead.
Abbott: Tomorrow!
Costello: What time?
Abbott: What time what?
Costello: What time tomorrow are you gonna tell me who's pitching?
Abbott: Now listen. Who is not pitching.
Costello: I'll break your arm, you say who's on first! I want to know what's the pitcher's name?
Abbott: What's on second.
Costello: I don't know.
Abbott & Costello Together: Third base!
PAUSE
Costello: Gotta a catcher?
Abbott: Certainly.
Costello: The catcher's name?
Abbott: Today.
Costello: Today, and tomorrow's pitching.
Abbott: Now you've got it.
Costello: All we got is a couple of days on the team.
PAUSE
Costello: You know I'm a catcher too.
Abbott: So they tell me.
Costello: I get behind the plate to do some fancy catching, Tomorrow's pitching on my team and a heavy hitter gets up. Now the heavy hitter bunts the ball. When he bunts the ball, me, being a good catcher, I'm gonna throw the guy out at first base. So I pick up the ball and throw it to who?
Abbott: Now that's the first thing you've said right.
Costello: I don't even know what I'm talking about!
PAUSE
Abbott: That's all you have to do.
Costello: Is to throw the ball to first base.
Abbott: Yes!
Costello: Now who's got it?
Abbott: Naturally.
PAUSE
Costello: Look, if I throw the ball to first base, somebody's gotta get it. Now who has it?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Who?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Naturally?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: So I pick up the ball and I throw it to Naturally.
Abbott: No you don't, you throw the ball to Who.
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That's different.
Costello: That's what I said.
Abbott: You're not saying it...
Costello: I throw the ball to Naturally.
Abbott: You throw it to Who.
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That's it.
Costello: That's what I said!
Abbott: You ask me.
Costello: I throw the ball to who?
Abbott: Naturally.
Costello: Now you ask me.
Abbott: You throw the ball to Who?
Costello: Naturally.
Abbott: That's it.
Costello: Same as you! Same as YOU! I throw the ball to who. Whoever it is drops the ball and the guy runs to second. Who picks up the ball and throws it to What. What throws it to I Don't Know. I Don't Know throws it back to Tomorrow, Triple play. Another guy gets up and hits a long fly ball to Because. Why? I don't know! He's on third and I don't give a damn!
Abbott: What?
Costello: I said I don't give a damn!
Abbott: Oh, that's our shortstop……………………………………
Chapter 1
It all Starts at Home
“Who’s on first?” Abbott and Costello
Laughing almost hysterically is a beautiful young blond. Oh, not the epitome of the “dumb blonde” jokes, that would be too easy. Not that he hadn’t dated any of them, but he did like a girl with a little more than average action going on between her ears, planted on top of the all important gorgeous body of course.
After all, he was Frank “Hot Dog” Henderson, star centerfielder of the Chicago Cubs.
He might even add “most eligible bachelor” as well. Who wouldn’t consider him a great catch? He was, of course, athletic, handsome, wealthy…just look at the house he had built for himself. It was every man’s dream home, more accurately, a mansion. He was living the American dream, just ask any sports fan. On top of all that, he could have almost any girl of his choosing. Why, he had it almost as good as his old hero, Hugh Hefner!
Why was it then that he was so miserable today?
Well, first of all, cute as she may be, the giggling blonde in the other room was beginning to wear on his nerves. Funny how she seemed so hot the night before but by morning the relationship was already wearing a little thin. Maybe not such an intelligent choice after all. He probably needed to examine what was going on between his own ears.
Bored senseless, Frank went to his computer and began his usual trek down the path of cyberspace. You know the one, log on, check emails, delete much of the nonsense, look for something interesting, maybe a reply from an earlier “love interest”, (at least in their minds), just a clever sentence or two from one of them would be nice….nothing. Check the Twitter account, follow up with those nosey fans and their shallow observations…..God, it can all be so irritating! He wishes that at least occasionally something interesting would turn up…..On to Facebook…no surprise there, either.
Ok, on to the bank account, that should cheer him up.
Cool, another automatic payroll deposit was made. Just another $1.3 million for the month to add to the balance. Not enough he thought, especially when you add all this social network nonsense to the “workload”, (oh, if people only knew what he had to go through everyday) With his numbers he’s been putting up this year, he should be making twice that much, maybe three times that if he can keep it up. Since his contract runs out in November, he’s got to consider looking into free agency and start earning more what he’s “worth” next year, maybe that will make things better….”man I wish she would quit all that stinking giggling over there, it is getting so annoying”, he thought.
Well, back to “work”, he logs to a MLB site to check his status out against the rest of the league. A quick glance shows him in the top 10 of all the three important categories. Third in the league in batting avg., second in RBI’s, and fourth in home runs. He’ll need to run up that homer total if he’ll have any shot at a triple crown which would make his off season negotiating off the charts for his agent, maybe even score a record contract, wouldn’t that be sweet.
All the while, Frank seems to miss the irony going on right before him. While he’s focusing on his own statistics, he’s also comparing his with the others on the list, obviously the rest of the leaders in the league this year. Yet, like most fans today, couldn’t begin to tell you who most of them are. That irritating “who’s on first” bit in the background is mostly proving true. Few could tell you who is on first, what the name of the player on second is, I don’t know the third baseman for even ten of the thirty or so teams are. Even looking over the actual names of the league leaders, many are unfamiliar to even avid fans of the game, especially Frank. He just didn’t remember it being like that as a kid.
It’s the beginning of the problem created by free agency the past forty years or so. It used to be any casual fan could name at least the starters on most of the teams in the league. In fact, at the least, if you name a player, most could tell you what team he’s on.
Today, you need a super memory to name the last three he played for. Even the superstars have the wonderfully controversial problem of deciding which team hat will be on his Hall of Fame plaque since only a couple of late played for only one team (Cal Ripken and Tony Guinn, in case you wondered) Two in forty years??? How do you root for a team anymore?
Additionally, it wasn’t until the mid 20’s that they began to put numbers on the player’s jerseys. Now you almost pray they put their name on their back so one can figure out who’s who anymore. It might even get you a little ticked off when they don’t. (Yankee uniforms, for instance. Apparently we are all supposed to know them, anyhow!)
While it is true that the name on the front of the jersey is more important than the one on the back, there is something to be said for knowing who is inside the jersey, so it is ever so helpful to receive some assistance in that department.
One of the more charming pastimes of being a baseball fan is associating a player’s number to that player. As time goes by, and the revolving door of players comes through, you still associate a number with an old favorite player from your home team. Oh sure, that won’t work when they retire the jersey of the great ones. No player gets #42 anymore on any team, in honor of Jackie Robinson, for instance, and there is a growing movement to include #21 as well, in honor of the late, great Roberto Clemente.
Most of us have a “love affair” with the more fringe or common players, ones that had only a few good seasons with our favorite team, got a little extra attention from a few clutch hits or great catches or something. Then, off they go to some other club or two, or fade off to some early retirement. Then, someone else comes along and gets issued the same number and we’re drawn to them, just because of that favorite number, and compare that poor guy to everything the other guy did, even supposing how weird it seems to see that number playing at a whole other position…..or not!?, maybe it’s just me that does that.
By the way, as long as I’m on this subject, have you ever considered what baseball uniforms might be like in, say, 200 years or so. One can tell the successful teams because all the lower numbers have been retired by then and their players all need three digit numbers while the lesser teams are all in much lower numbers? Makes you wonder how Derek Jeter got to get a “2” on his back, considering all the huge success of the Yankees….just a thought.
While we’re on the subject of names, perhaps as a bit of a memory jogger or probably just another charming part of the game, baseball, more than any of the other major sports, loves nicknames for its favorite players. This used to be more widespread, especially in the early years, but many modern players still are attached to them
Here is ESPN’s top ten favorites, according to a fan survey a few years ago:
1. "The Splendid Splinter" (Ted Williams)
2. "The Sultan of Swat" (George Herman "Babe" Ruth)
3. Willie "Hit 'em Where They Ain't" Keeler
4. "Hammerin' " Hank Aaron
5. "The Big Unit" (Randy Johnson)
6. "The Georgia Peach" (Ty Cobb)
7. Mordecai "Three Fingers" Brown
8. "The Yankee Clipper" ("Joltin' Joe" DiMaggio)
9. Fred "Bonehead" Merkle
10. Walter "Big Train" Johnson
Beyond that, here are some of mine:
“Babe” Ruth
“Baby Bull” Orlando Cepeda
“The Barber” Sal Maglie”
“Big Cat” Andres Galarraga
“The Big Hurt” Frank Thomas
“Big Mac” Willie McCovey and Mark McGwire
“The Bird” Mark Fidrych
“Blue Moon” John Odom
“Bucketfoot Al” Al Simmons
“The Bull” Greg Luzinski
“Bulldog” Orel Hershiser
“Catfish” Jim Hunter
“Charlie Hustle” Pete Rose
“Cobra” Dave Parker
“Connie Mack” Cornelius McGilliecuddy
“Country” Enos Slaughter
“Crime Dog” Fred McGriff
“Cy” Denton Young
“Dizzy” Jay Dean
“Doc” Dwight Gooden also “Dr. K”
“Duke” Edwin Snider
“The Flying Dutchman” Honus Wagner
“The Flyin’ Hawaiian” Shane Victorino
“The Freak” Tim Lincecum
“The Gambler” Kenny Rogers
“Godzilla” Hideki Matsui
“Goose” Rich Gossage
“The Hat” Harry Walker
“The Hawk” Andre Dawson
“The Human Rain Delay” Mike Hargrove
“Joltin’ Joe” Joe DiMaggio
“Kung Fu Panda” Pablo Sandoval
“The Lip” Leo Durocher
“Louisiana Lightning” Ron Guidry
“Mad Dog” Greg Maddux
“The Mad Hungarian” Al Hrabosky
“The Mick” Mickey Mantle
“Mr. Cub” Ernie Banks
“Mr. October” Reggie Jackson
“Mudcat” Jim Grant
“Oil Can” Dennis Boyd
“Peanuts” Harry Lowry
“Pee Wee” Harold Reese
“Penguin” Ron Cey
“Pepper” Johnny Martin
“Pops” Willie Stargell
“Popeye” Don Zimmer
“Preacher” Elwin Roe
“Pudge” Carlton Fisk and Ivan Rodriguez
“Rapid Robert” Bob Feller
“Red” Albert Schoendienst
“The Rocket” Roger Clemens
“Rusty” Daniel Staub
“Ryan Express” Nolan Ryan
“Satchel” LeRoy Paige
“The Say Hey Kid” Willie Mays
“Schoolboy” Lynwood Rowe
“Scrap Iron” Phil Garner
“Shoeless” Joe Jackson
“Smoke” Dave Stewart
“The Spaceman” Bill Lee
“Sparky” George Anderson
“The Splendid Splinter” Ted Williams
“Stan the Man” Stan Musial
“Stretch” Willie McCovey
“Sweet Music” Frank Viola
“The Thrill” Will Clark
“Tom Terrific” Tom Seaver
“El Toro” Fernando Valensuela
“Whitey” Edward Ford and Dorrel Herzog
“The Wizard of Oz” Ozzie Smith
“The Yankee Clipper” Joe Dimaggio
“Yaz” Carl Yastrzemski
“Yogi” Lawrence Berra
By no means is that a complete list, just some of my favorites. Considering the thousands of men who ever played the game, at least these found a way to be almost immortalized since many were never great enough to make the Hall of Fame, they at least made a Wall of Names. And now I take the liberty to add one more, though obviously fictitious, the show off himself, Frank “Hot Dog” Henderson.
So, this modern merry-go-round of player movement due to free agency continues, with no more loyalty to their teams than most seem to have with their women. Even the upright ones seem to love to tell the tales of the girls in every port. Ah, but again I regress…..back to our friend “Hot Dog “Henderson
Chapter 2
My Other Home is a Ballpark
“It’s unbelievable how much you don’t know about the game you’ve been playing all your life”
Mickey Mantle
It’s time to head to the ballpark. Frank arranges for a cab to take care of “Blondie” for him, at least for now.
Frank heads to ballpark on his own. Upon arriving at the players parking spots, Frank is waved to by the same parking attendant that has been there everyday since Frank was call up to the Cubs 5 years ago. As he points to an empty spot, Frank is thinking, “Yea, yea, yea, I get the drill…thanks Einstein; I’ll bet you got a degree in physics just so you could get a job in a parking lot…brilliant. You probably haven’t missed a day of work in 15 years now, and are starting to compare yourself to Cal Ripkin’s record of consecutive games played…wonderful”.
As Frank exits the car, he mumbles a little, “Hey, how ya doin’? “ to the attendant, barely hearing the guys response, then laughing silently to himself as he heads to the clubhouse, his mind focusing more on what sort of lunch awaited him rather than anything happening to some parking lot attendant….
Upon entering the clubhouse, the unmistakable aroma of Wrigley sausages cooking hit him and brought a slight smile to his face. Besides being a favorite of his, it was one of the few smells that could somehow overcome that horribly standard smell of every locker room he’d ever been inside of since junior high school that we have all come to learn and despise. The Cubs locker room had housed that stench for over 100 years now, yet somehow it was no match for those wonderful franks—that’s some powerful sausage!
He fixed a plate and made his way over to his locker to start changing into his uniform. He still got a bit emotional every time he put that uniform on. Maybe emotional was a little strong word for it, yet, he always seemed to have a small flashback to his days as a boy when he put on a “real” uniform for the first time in Little League. He could almost hear his mom’s warning to be careful and not spill anything on it; it must be clean for the start of the game. Today, that was particularly important, since if he got some mustard on himself, he would never hear the end of it, not with the nickname “hot dog” anyhow.
As he makes his way to the field, Frank is approached by one of the reporters, obviously looking for something for a story for the next day. Again, Frank heaves a mostly inpercievable sigh of frustration at the prospect of having to satisfy this guys curiosity, not a lot unlike all that social networking stuff, really. At least this guy knew a little bit about the game. Still, Frank reminded himself to be ever so careful at what he said, anything says can and will be used against you in the court of public opinion. If he was “Hot Dog” Henderson, reporters should be all nicknamed “Egg Shells” he amused himself with. Through it all, he wished he were as good with his words off the field as he was a player on it
The reporter was from one of the bay area papers, following the Giants around, so Frank didn’t really know him, though he’d spoken with the guy before. They talked mostly about the last couple of games and a little about the developing pennant race. Throughout the process, Frank couldn’t help but note that he struggled to remember not just the reporter’s name, but most of the Giants names and several of his own teammates, as well. He didn’t quite fit it back to “Who’s on First”, but he became ever more grateful that he was able to see “what” the name of the player was on their back.
The interview got a little tricky when the reporter started poking around the subject of the “friendly confines of Wrigley Field” and how Frank felt about playing there while the Giants had a much newer place that was considered one of the best ever built, and even the White Sox, across town from there, had a nice new place, as well. Yet here was Frank, playing in the oldest park in the league, playing for a team that hadn’t even had a sniff at the World Series in Frank’s lifetime, while both of the aforementioned teams had won a Series in recent years.
If the guy was looking for a sore spot, Frank wasn’t going to let him find one. Inside though, thoughts of free agency were stirring up again, but he just couldn’t let those out. If for no other reason, it might hurt his negotiating position, and he couldn’t let that happen. He just had to reply with something really lame like, “Well, you just never know what the future holds. Stranger things have happened” and let that somehow cover all the subjects in some sort of clever way, at least as clever as he could make it.
Finally, Frank gets away to get in his swings at the batting cage. For some reason, he wasn’t particularly satisfied with the outcome today, but that was all right with him. Somehow, he had always observed that some of is best games came after below average bp’s, at least that’s how he chose to remember it.
Several of the players, coaches, the manager and several from the media seemed to daily hang around the batting cage like it was some oversized water cooler in an office building. The talk wasn’t always centered on baseball, though the coaches always tried to at least keep an eye on their players cuts and make any necessary adjustments when they could—at least they were trying to be productive. The others, Frank felt, were just being nosy.
So on the days Frank was a little off in the cage, he just kept to himself until his next turn. On his better days, he elicited a bit more attention so he would milk it for all it was worth. After all, he had a name to live up to.
He jogged to the outfield to shag some flies, check out the wind for that day, along with any of the girls in the bleachers. He even took a little time to sign a few autographs, one of which went on a kid’s baseball card of Frank. While crafting a mostly illegible signature on the card, one that only loosely resembled his real way of signing things, Frank pondered for a moment how much things had changed just in his lifetime. He could only begin to imagine the dollar amount of his baseball card collection that ended up all over the spokes of his bicycle to make it sound motorized. Never an autographed one, though. Never had one of those. At least this kid isn’t asking to sign more than one, can’t be giving away anything that could be of value, you know.
As game-time nears, the locker room becomes a hive of activity. Coaches, using computer read-outs, present stat sheets and pre-game strategy/scouting reports for the game. The third base coach and manager go over the signs for the game with everyone, along with some of the players reviewing some of the highlights of those reports that applied to them.
The batting coach showed Frank a couple of stats from the past several times he had faced today’s opposing pitcher. Basically, Frank had always hit this guy pretty good, so he didn’t want to change too much in his approach, but it was nice getting the reminders of what the guy tries to do, especially since he only faces him a couple times a season.
Several players were gathered around a TV screen to watch a little video of this pitcher from his last couple of starts. Seems he has developed a couple of pitches that none of the Cubs had really seen come from this guy, so they were a little better prepared for what he might be trying.
Through it all, Frank reminded himself of his interview a little earlier, and even though this locker room was a little cramped and old, they still had all the equipment they needed, just like everywhere else, so it was fine….but bigger and nicer would be better.
Frank makes his way back to his locker and begins final preparation for the game, mainly switching to his game jersey and taking what precious little time he had to sit quietly and focus on a little visualization exercise that he deemed necessary before each start.
He barely got his practice jersey off when he was interrupted by a player at the locker next to him.
“Excuse me, Mr. Henderson, may I introduce myself. My name is Ryan Roberts. This is my first day here, and I have admired you since I was a little kid. Of course, that’s not to say you’re that old, I’m just really young, and, well, gosh I’m sorry if I’m a bit nervous, it’s just that you’ve always been one of my favorite players and I’m just so honored to meet you finally, much less be on the same team with you and, and….I just”
“Hey, that’s all right kid. It’s an honor to meet you, too” Frank responded, “and congrats on your making it to the Bigs. So where do you hail from?” (he thought about calling him “Gabby” in a sort of sarcastic way, but declined. Geez this kid can talk. A little nervous energy, he guessed)
“A little town just south of here, actually. Played my Little League and High School ball there, of course. Actually, I admired you so much, I always wanted your same uniform number, you know, 24, but the ones they would issue us only went to 16
so I had to settle for 12 which of course his half of yours so that’s why I picked it…..Man, this is really an honor for me”, Ryan repeated.
“All right, enough of the honor stuff, if you don’t mind”, said Frank. “By the way, you aren’t trying to take over centerfield anytime soon, are you?”
“Oh no, sir, not at all. First base, actually. I couldn’t imagine ever taking your spot, just couldn’t imagine it! Well, guess that’s not totally true. I did imagine it quite a few times, but only when I was growing up. That must sound a little corny to you to be hearing that.”
“Well, now that you mention it,” Frank replied. Deep inside he was getting a little bugged by all this. He didn’t really feel comfortable in this role model position, hated it in fact. It couldn’t have come to this. Besides, how much longer was this chattering going to go on? This was his private time. Thankfully, he was interrupted by the equipment manager, giving Ryan his new jersey.
“Wow, here it is!” Ryan exclaimed, “I’ve waited years for this moment. Thankfully my mother isn’t allowed in here, she’d be wanting a picture session of all this. Gee, number 45. Don’t remember too many players ever wearing that one, at least not in baseball. Sounds more like a fullback’s number.”
“At least it’s not seventy something,” Frank told him, “that’s a sure sign they don’t expect you to be around long, unless, of course, it’s Spring Training. You see a lot of those high numbers there. Hey, I need to have a little down time before the game. Not to get rid of you or nothing (really, it was) but once you see that your shirt fits, maybe you oughtta go spend some time with your third base coach and make sure you know all the signs, you might need them today. Nice meeting you, kid, er Roger is it?”
“Ryan, Mr. Henderson, Ryan Roberts”
“Oh, sorry, never very good with names,” Frank said for the umpteenth time in his life, “and you can call me Frank, Mr. Henderson is a little much, thanks.”
“Sure thing, Frank,” chirped Ryan, “and have a great game, AGAIN, I know you will!”
# # #
As the Cubs starters broke from the dugout to take the field, Frank made his way out to his spot in centerfield. Like most players, he took a casual approach, slowly jogging his way there, meanwhile, taking in all the sounds of the cheering crowd, and sort of re-acclimating himself to his spot in this “cathedral” of a thing called a major league ballpark. Except for Opening Day, which always seems to provide the biggest thrill, this always felt like the highlight of the day to him.
He stopped closer to left-center than dead center, waved to a few of the regulars in the bleachers, acknowledging their cheers, then turned to play a little catch with whoever was in left field that day, before the ump could barely be heard yelling “Play Ball!” and they were ready to go.
Suddenly, things got a bit peaceful for Frank. He reminded himself of something Michael Jordan once noted. He loved the time he could spend playing the game itself. After all the distractions, media, fans attention, and well, life itself, there was a certain serenity that came once you got into the game. Now he could have a little more control of his life, if only for a couple of hours, and he loved that time. Though Frank was no Michael Jordan, he somehow knew what he meant by that belief.
Even his setting had to be better than any basketball arena. He was outdoors, playing on grass, not hardwood floor. Far removed from any other people, even his teammates. Looking around, it was a beautiful evening, as well. He looked up into the night, checking the location of the field lights, reminding himself of them so he wouldn’t lose a fly ball to their glare. All the while wondering why the Cubs organization ever took so long to have lights installed for night games. It was a fantastic setting, and over 35,000 people around him all seemed to agree.
The Giants went down in order in the top of the first. As the Cubs took their turns at bat, Frank needed to go through his process of preparing for his turn at bat. He batted cleanup that day, meaning fourth up, meaning if the Cubs went down 1-2-3 he would go through this process for naught, at least in the first inning, and would have to start all over come the second inning, only with less time. When I say process, I mean it…..
First of all, was the batting helmet and of course the all important, and necessary, bat selection. Though there was only one helmet for him, there were several bats to select from, perhaps a certain one for that particular pitcher, but always a favorite one was there, the one with all the hits in it still.
Then, on go the batting gloves, especially the left one with the one inch pad on it to protect from a broken hand if he were hit there.
Similar reason was the padded elbow protector, just in case he were hit there, it may as well be padded to save himself from a crippling elbow injury.
Then there was the little protective chin/ankle guard he wore to protect against a foul ball smashing against his leg, since the uniform provides little padding.
As he then made his way to the on deck circle, there were various products to prepare one’s bat to consider. Most use an ample supply of pine tar to help maintain a good grip, but not too much, the league had limits on the amount and location of this stuff, as George Brett infamously learned about the hard way back in the seventies.
Only after all that does he begin to take a few practice swings, either with his own bat, after putting a weight of some sort on the big end of it, or else using a weighted, metal simulated bat to swing a few times.
Of course the theory of the weighted bat is to make your regular bat feel a lot lighter, therefore easier to swing much quicker in order to “catch up” to major league pitchers, especially those capable of throwing at speeds in the upper 90 mph range, occasionally exceeding 100 mph. This is all fine and well until some clever pitcher throws a ball that for all intents and purposes appears to be coming at top speed, until you begin your swing and realize all too late that the ball is coming much slower (if a pitch in the mid 70’s can be referred to as slower) and it’s at that time you wish you could be using that weighted bat to slow your swing down a bit. Either way, you will be made to look rather foolish on that particular pitch if caught unexpectedly.
With all this preparation in place, the on deck batter can begin to observe the approach the opposing pitcher is taking, perhaps even attempting to get a feel for just how fast he’s throwing or however good his “stuff” is that day, realizing all along that it’s going to appear entirely differently at the plate than anything you can see from the on deck circle.
And, as most major leaguers will attest to, sometimes, some days, some pitchers, especially some major league pitchers, are so good; nothing can really prepare you for them.
It’s about this time, the on deck batter begins to look around a little, perhaps noticing a few celebrities or otherwise famous people in the crowd, and, once again, hopefully a cute girl or two to wink at. Nothing like showing off a little for the ladies to make a performance a little better for the man. All the while, maintaining rapt attention to the goings on of the game, since a foul ball or piece of a broken bat have been known to fly your way, even in the “safe zone” of the on deck circle.
After all this, Frank hears his name announced, “Batting fourth, number 24, the center fielder, Frrrrank Hennnnnderson!!!” That’s his cue, so he makes his way to the plate.
As usual, in his first at bat of a game anyhow, Frank greets the umpire, hopefully by name, and also a quick hello to the catcher, maybe even tapping the player on his shin guard with his bat as he greets him, though many catchers prefer he avoids that gesture.
Today though, he follows procedure, digs himself a little hole for his right foot, all the while thinking to himself, “what a stupid name to name your kid, Buster, “ and also wondering who is perhaps wearing more protective gear, him or the catcher?
The at bat itself has a lot going on that bears mentioning. The batter has plenty to think about, if he so chooses. Most pitchers have two or three pitches as options.
Obviously, the fast ball, a relative term at best, but for most major league pitchers, their range is from about 85 mph to over 100 mph in rare cases. It is said though that most major league hitters can hit the fastball or they would never get to the big leagues, so eventually, if all you had was a good fastball, you won’t last long at the top level.
The second pitch is usually a good to great curve ball. It is said that the ability to hit a quality curve ball, or not, is the first difference in whether a player can make it in the majors or not. After personally facing a major league curve ball only once in my life, I will attest to the accuracy of that observation.
Next is a variety of choices various pitchers will select from, all with a seeming endless variety of movement attached to them, some perhaps credited to the addition of various substances, originally from the mouth, but generally originating from some clever and secret spot on the pitchers uniform though never admitted to since they are all part of a secret club that protects their ways better than most magicians.
Added to all that is a pitchers ability to mix up not only speed but location (up, down, inside, outside, right at you than suddenly way down, outside or over the plate, etc)
And on their better days, at least for some pitchers, they have the ability to “hit the black” referring to the border edge of a major league home plate which is black as opposed to dominantly white main part of the plate, yet all a part of the strike zone.
So, a wonderful game within a game is going on here, with every at bat. This inside game is between the pitcher and catcher (on one team) who usually communicate by means of agreed upon “signs” the catcher “flashes” to the pitcher, usually with his fingers, agreeing to which of the pitches and location will work against this batter.
The batter, meanwhile, usually is trying to outthink, or out guess what the other two are up to. He has to work this out on his own though, even though if his locker room time was well spent, he can have a pretty good idea what to expect.
Additionally, just in case the batter is concentrating well enough to at least believe he is beginning to assess the situation correctly, many catchers begin a mostly one-sided conversation directed to the batter to hopefully get him thinking on other things completely unrelated to all current concerns.
The only help a batter might receive can perhaps come in the form of a teammate that has worked his way to second base and can see for himself just what the catcher is trying to communicate to the pitcher and then, this runner can try to be clever enough to somehow signal the batter as to which pitch might be coming and it’s probable location.
In order to prevent this from happening, the first line of defense that the pitcher and catcher will use is to “scramble” the signs in such a way to confuse the runner. Occasionally though, it confuses the pitcher as well, prompting a visit from his catcher in an attempt to clear up this little misunderstanding along with sometimes considering ways that they can eliminate this little nuisance by running a well designed “pick off” play which if executed successfully, not only removes the problem but counts as an out and is a much preferred solution to the alternative of letting him move on to third base, since most runners are reluctant to gladly go back to first even if politely asked, even if they are offered money for accepting.
All of this is also sometimes avoided if the batter has communicated with his team mate on second, obviously long before the team mate ever gets to second, like sometime while on the bench or perhaps as far back as Spring Training, that the batter would prefer not to know what pitch is coming, he can figure things out for himself. The runner just has to keep things sorted in his mind just who he had that conversation with.
Some batters will try and act on their own by trying to “sneak a peak” at where the catcher is setting up a target for the pitcher, however, in either instance, if the batter is “caught” acquiring any of this useful information, it usually means an unwritten invitation for the pitcher to change everything and throw the ball to one of the many unprotected areas on the batters body, usually the ribs or backside, as a subtle reminder to cease and desist in that activity ever again. (And that goes for your friend on second, as well)
Just to add to the puzzle, occasionally, and more often in some cases, the pitcher goes through a series of “shaking off” the catcher’s suggestions, usually by simply shaking his head back and forth in the universally accepted signal for “no”, doing this enough times that the batter begins to wonder just how many choices this guy has to pick from, and if done well enough, will cause even the most patient catcher to eventually give up with the fingers and trot out to meet with his pitcher and talk things over, even the catcher is concerned. Curiously, after this little meeting, the pitcher still experiences short memory loss and might shake off the first suggestion the catcher offers back. Other than that, we’re ready to go, except for one more little factor.
The last “player” to this little game within a game is the guy standing behind the catcher, the man everyone, and I do mean everyone loves to hate, Mr. Umpire, the man in blue (or is it black, hmm?)
It’s his job to decide if the pitcher, generally, has done his job right and calls the balls and strikes for each at bat. Though this all seems fundamental to the game, it is probably the point of the most disagreement in the game, particularly between the four previously mentioned individuals, and often including the managers from both benches, and surprisingly from several individuals in the third deck of the stadium, about 20 rows up and after consuming four or five beers and feel their eyesight is more acute than the man in blue standing three feet from the spot of the incident.
One doesn’t have to assume what these particular fans believe they’ve seen, they are generally very willing to vocalize their observations in a manner that they seem convinced will reach the umpires ears, causing him to perhaps rethink his decision and reverse his call after a brief apology to all involved.
However, after much observation of this phenomenon personally and very little research on my part, I have yet to see or hear of a reversal ever occurring in all the history of the game. This includes the input of several TV announcers, even with the assistance of slow motion, instant replay equipment, combined with “magical” imaginary boxes inserted on the screen to simulate the strike zone. The man in blue still has the last word on the matter and seems pretty set in his ways.
One last observation on all this, usually by the second inning or so, the umpire has established “his” strike zone, as he sees it according to his interpretation of the rule book. Most players will agree that, over time, they begin to learn about how each umpire calls a game and soon all agree to this slight, human interpretation of the rules, one that will probably never be victim to instant replay, (and rightfully so) and the game goes on happily ever after, unless, of course, a pitcher stares down the umpire a little too long or a batter opens up a discussion with the umpire expressing his viewpoint a little too much (one word or more) so the umpire resorts to one of the more fundamental “unwritten rules” of the game, “never argue balls and strikes with an umpire”, and, after much practice in front of a mirror and over two days of rehearsal in umpire school, dramatically tosses the offending player, or manager, or coach, from the game. Unfortunately, this rule does not apply to the guys in the upper deck.
The reason I spent so much time on this subject, depending on how fast of a reader you are is what depends on how much actual time was spent on this subject, is because I believe this game within a game is a large part of what makes baseball so interesting. Except for exceptionally good announcers, usually ex players that can explain what is perhaps going on in the players minds, this exchange is hard for the average fan to be in on. It often amazes me how accurate and predictable an ex player can share this and yet players themselves can’t figure it out. It is what Yogi Berra once said, the game is 50% physical and 90% mental.
Additionally, I am reminded of a much more obscure quote that more or less demonstrates the other side of what Yogi was saying:
“The pitcher has got only a ball. I’ve got a bat, so the percentage of weapons is in my favor and I let the fellow with the ball do all the fretting.” Hank Aaron
Now, back to our game as an important development is occurring:
Late in the game now, Frank gets a sign from the third base coach to bunt the runner over from 1st base.
Frank couldn’t believe his eyes. Sure, it was the correct strategy. The Cubs were down just one run, nobody out, get the runner to scoring position and play for the tie at home.
But he’s Frank “Hot Dog” Henderson and he plans to play to the crowd today…..so….
The first pitch, he squares around as if to bunt, but in his mind, having no intention of even stabbing at it. Fortunately for Frank, the pitcher sensed the possibility of a bunt attempt and threw one too far outside to even offer at.
The next pitch, thinking Frank was sure to try and bunt again, was thrown high in the strike zone, tough spot to bunt at and get on the ground.
Well, that was just what Frank was counting on. Instead of bunting, he rips at it and of course got every bit of it, not needing any wind assistance from Wrigley at all, just muscled well over the left field bleachers, all to the delight of the raucous home crowd.
Upon arriving back at the dugout, he gets a good chewing out from his manager, interrupted only by a “curtain call” from the crowd who don’t understand what has happened.
His attitude/personality is establishing as such that it’s all about him and not the team or following directions or respect of authority. The nickname “Hot Dog” seems appropriate, even adding some spicy mustard, though that entire name wouldn’t fit the back of his uniform and they don’t make a hat big enough for his ego.
“So, trade me!” Frank barks back at his manager, knowing full well he would never do it.
“You’d never get away with that in my day” his manager shouts back.
“Well, it’s not you’re day, is it? It’s MINE” Frank comes back with, remembering his thoughts after a poor batting practice. All the while, the crowd roars in support of Frank, still unaware, and few ever caring, all about everything that went on behind the scenes. All they heard was, “Cubs win!”
Chapter 3
The Sports Bar
“Sex without love is an empty experience, but as empty experiences go
it’s one of the best!”
Woody Allen
Post game “routine” as some players go to a favorite “sports bar” (The Cub’s Den? Or possibly named “Cub’s Pub) or watering hole near Wrigley. This establishment has been around a long time. The pictures on the walls and other memorabilia in the facility gave it the feel that this place could have been more of a mini Cub’s Hall of Fame that served food and drink, rather than the other way around..
Of particular interest, especially to Frank, is a framed cover of Sports Illustrated with, guess who, being the feature story—an accomplishment he is particularly fond of.
All this attention to history that surrounds the place trigger more of his “quit living in the past” type of attitude in him than much appreciation for others accomplishments and stories. If any second thoughts were given by him in that direction at all, it didn’t include whether he felt he could have successfully competed against them, just how much bigger numbers he could have rung up on them and how much higher he could have soared if he lived and played then.
Frank’s self-serving attitude regarding his homer that night is only reinforced by all the fan support in the bar. As proud of himself as he was, some of these nuts acted like they’d hit the damn thing themselves. Perhaps in some of their minds, they had. It’s like they were living out their fantasies through him or something. None of it made any sense, except maybe the true definition of fan being a shortened version of fanatic….and Frank was going to use every inch of it to his advantage.
That was especially true with any of the girls he was meeting that night. Most guys would give their eye teeth to be in his position, but it wasn’t as easy as it looked. Of course, it seemed he could have any girl he wanted, unless she was already with a guy, but even that didn’t seem to matter. Some of the guys acted so gaga at meeting him, most would appear to be honored if Frank took the guys date right from under him. It just couldn’t be that easy, and it really wasn’t.
In high school, Frank couldn’t seem to buy a date—always trying to think of some clever line, struggling with keeping a conversation going. Who would think that all he had to do was hit a couple of baseballs a long way and it was everyone else trying all the one liners on him, and then never shutting up long enough for him to get a word in edgewise. Weird, he thought, maybe it was nerves; they can make you do funny things sometimes.
In some ways, it all began to feel like a mini version of a ballgame. In either case, he felt surrounded by almost imperceivable noise and chatter, people shouting to be heard over the others, yet nobody seeming to be saying anything worthwhile. At the same time, there was Frank, lost in his own thoughts and trying to act really interested.
His dilemma was finally, mercifully, interrupted by an all too familiar hand placed almost strategically on his back and met by a voice in his ear that was as warm as the breath that it was carried on, “ Hey there, big guy, what ya having tonight?” she asked.
It was April, the classy owner of the sports bar. She was more than just someone managing a bar. In fact, she had gradually become one of Frank’s better friends, perhaps one of his only friends outside of the few teammates he ever spent time with, and she was easily the best reason he had for being a regular here.
“Just the usual, I suppose”, was all Frank could come up with. Man, was he really that bored tonight, that’s the cleverest line he could come up with?
“Just the usual?” April echoed, as she very visibly passed her eyes around the immediate circle of women surrounding the table. Frank caught her not so subtle reference…”or were you maybe looking for a little White Russian tonight?” (followed by a slight rise in her right eyebrow…
“Didn’t realize you served those up around here” he shot back, a little more charm in his voice this time as he enjoyed playing along with her little mind game. “Actually, I was looking for something a little stronger tonight.” As he said that, Frank ever so subtly put a slight squeeze of April’s rather shapely upper arm, then followed up with, “have any better suggestions, Baby?”
“I’m sure I can come up with something,” she said, somewhat seductively Frank hoped.
Then, looking ever so “secretly” around the table again, “It looks like you should be having a Tequila Sunrise and maybe buy a round of Shirley Temple’s for your friends. Would you like one or two umbrellas to go with that?”
Whoa, that sure wasn’t what he expected, at all. Talk about coming out of left field. This was starting to feel like a tough at bat against a veteran pitcher who just threw the unexpected change up. He’d have to come up with something good, and quick….Hmmm….time for a backhanded compliment?