Zisk Online

Zisk # 20

2011-10-01T21:02:00.012-04:00

Catcher of the Future, Groupie of the Past (The Real Real Joel Skinner Story) by Dr. Nancy Golden

My Ballplayers Food All-Stars by Jake Austen

America's Team by Johnny Tsaur

Pale Blue Eyes by Mike Faloon

Disco Demolition Night by Todd Taylor

Mark Hughson Reviews Where Have You Gone, Vince Dimaggio? by Edward Kiersch

Steve Mandich Reviews The Underground Baseball Encyclopedia by Robert Schnakenberg

It's Not Working Anymore by Mike Faloon

Catcher of the Future, Groupie of the Past (The Real Real Joel Skinner Story) by Dr. Nancy Golden

2011-10-01T20:50:00.000-04:00

Sometimes it’s telling to reach back and revisit how things started. Sometimes…not so much.

This one started between classes, beside my locker, 11th grade. We were just a few weeks into the baseball season and the guy with the locker next to me, a Red Sox fan, was systematically going through the Yankee lineup relating to me how each of them sucked. I, in turn, would counter each accusation with an anecdote of their awesomeness. It was trash talking at its purist: a declaration of the sucking of one team or player by Party A, followed by a refutation with supporting evidence by Party B. We sparred like this all the way around the bases until we got to the catcher, Joel Skinner. Joel Skinner? I had never heard of him. Nevertheless, I defended his honor as if he were Don Mattingly or Dave Winfield, or hell, even Mike Pagliarulo.

“His hitting will pick up,” I countered. “And besides, he’s a great defensive catcher.” It was easy to make shit up. Anyone practiced in trash talking can do this.

That night at home, I looked up the stats on Joel Skinner. And not on Google or ESPN.com. Back then we opened the Sports Section of the New York Times and checked the stats box. And the next day we checked the stats box again to see if anything changed. And, wow, this guy really couldn’t hit. I wondered how long the Yankees would let this go on, let a guy hit below .100. Here in New York, in the major leagues. But then these weren’t the Yankees of Joe Torre and Derek Jeter and fistfuls of championship rings. These were the Yankees of my youth, of their long pennant-free draught that was the 80’s. Perhaps this was all they could come up with.

As it turned out, Joel Skinner really was a great defensive catcher. I learned this as I began following him, watching his at-bats, listening to the announcers try to accentuate the positive as they simultaneously spoke of his batting average in terms of Bingo (O-74!) or, in better days, the interstate (I-95!). I really began to pull for this guy. And he wasn’t too harsh on the eyes either. Thus he became not only my guy, but “Joel Skinner—Catcher of the Future,” a way for me to firmly establish my belief in his potential with the team, while fully acknowledging his current lack of hitting skills. The guys at school brought me Joel Skinner baseball cards, all too willing to cast off their extras to the kid with the unexplained obsession. And fearing that I was his only fan, I lugged an old sheet spray-painted with his future superstar status to games in the Bronx, just in case the other fans were unaware. I even took the time to craft elaborate scenarios every time he got sent down to the AAA affiliate in Columbus. None, of course, mentioned his poor batting skills, rather they fingered Rick Cerone, who competed for the Yankees catching position that year, for trying to sabotage Joel’s career. (At its extreme, I authored an episodic soap opera while working the slow shifts at the local movie theater, starring my best friend and me. In the series finale, Joel is killed by a wayward ice cream truck, later revealed to be driven by a disguised Cerone. The story was written in flashback and chronicled the development of a film—Passion: The Real Joel Skinner Story—intended to replace an earlier exploitative made-for-TV biopic starring Tori Spelling and Jennie Garth. It was very meta.)

Eventually Joel Skinner got traded away to the Indians, his playing time lessened, and well, I became an adult and lost track of him. The Yankees of my youth were replaced by teams with winning records and no one ever questioned the selection process that produced future favorites like Paul O’Neill, David Wells, or Robbie Cano. Come game time, the ragged bed sheet with crooked blue letters explaining why you should like these guys was no longer in tow, as there was no longer need to explain. With their widely revered talent and all. In a dark blue t-shirt with my guy’s name and number written in white, from behind, the grown-up me had turned into any fan.

But Joel Skinner’s story didn’t end with my ascent into adulthood—for either of us. Years later during a visit with my brother, we reminisced about my fangirl days and wondered what had become of him. Thinking back to how we received letters from a retired Bud Harrelson on behalf of the local Chevy dealership while growing up, I was sure Joel would be a used car salesman by now. But he wasn’t. Instead of turning to the noble ranks of vehicular barter, Joel continued on with his baseball career without even telling me. After retiring as a player, he managed for six seasons in the Indians minor league system and earned numerous accolades for his five trips to the playoffs, including Minor League Manager of the Year in 2000, when he led the AAA Buffalo Bisons to the best record in the International League. In 2001, Joel returned to the majors and coached most of eight years for the Cleveland Indians at third base, with one year on the bench. During that time, he served as Interim Manager for the second half of the 2002 season, replacing the outgoing Charlie Manual, and compiling a 35-41 record.

And with this discovery, my fandom was reborn. Only not quite as public. The advent of Ebay saved me from having to explain my sudden interest in a retired catcher with a .228 career batting average, as I could work to complete my Joel Skinner baseball card collection from the comfort and anonymity of my home. I’d receive cards purchased for a dollar (including shipping) at my doorstep in unmarked yellow envelopes like others might receive porn. It didn’t take long until I expanded my collection to include Joel’s father Bob Skinner, who covered the Pittsburgh outfield alongside Roberto Clemente and Bill Virdon, and went on to manage the Phillies. Joel’s 76 games helming the Indians would make them only the second father/son managing duo in major league history. My favorite collectible—the Bob and Joel Skinner card from the Topps 1985 father/son collection, signed by each under their respective photos—pays homage to them both. But even more fun than the clandestine amassing of widely available and easily attained artifacts of a middling career is rooting for Joel again. Especially on the days when it means you’re the only one at the ballpark pulling for the third base coach instead of the cleanup hitter. To do what in that particular game, I’m not sure. Maybe wave someone home with particular vigor and finesse.

I’ve thought about trying to meet him, to wait for him after an Indians game or now an Oakland Athletics game, where he’s currently bench coach. Having stalked future Hall of Famers (sorry about that, Jeter), I imagine that I’d barely even have to flex my skills. But what would I say? I prefer the kind of celebrity encounter where no explanation of my presence is necessary—an author at a book signing or that astronaut that posed for pictures after his lecture. With Joel I’d always felt as if I’d need to provide the details of why I passed up, say Grady Sizemore, for a shot to talk to the third base coach. I’d find myself justifying why I killed off his character to provide a European ending to my story but how it was okay because I had kept the baby anyway. Or explaining how I was too cheap to shell out the $20 for his Triple A card in grad school but stuck the picture from Ebay in my album instead. Or how my favorite fake pickup line involves a sultry invitation back to my place to see my Bob and Joel Skinner baseball card collection. No, that wouldn’t do. None of it. This fandom was born of my youth, of the days before the compulsion to justify every action took hold. Maybe when Joel gets his major league team to manage and ushers them to the playoffs, I’ll wait for him outside the players’ entrance and get him to sign that old minor league card. And perhaps post a picture of us on Facebook that will make a couple of old high school friends smile. But for now, I think I’ll stick to quietly keeping tabs and anticipating my next brown paper wrapper delivery. And rooting from the sidelines. Because….because somebody 25 years ago said he was no good? Nah, not really. Just because.

Dr. Nancy Golden roots for the Yankees and the Nationals, yet we at Zisk still like her.

My Ballplayers Food All-Stars by Jake Austen

2011-10-01T20:40:00.002-04:00

Who has time to travel the globe and scour the bodegas to experience every ballplayer-related restaurant, candy bar, encased meat product, sexual–performance supplement, etc.? Not I, but I did have enough time to put together a position-by-position All-Star team of the handful of players whose edible accomplishments I’ve sampled (Warning: White Sox-centric).

RF Sammy Sosa cereal—Though I’ve never been a Cubs fan I completely had Sammy Sosa (former White Sock) fever the year he and Big Mac were having their dinger fest. After that season a New York company called Famous Fixins (which seems to no longer exist) released Slammin Sammy’s, a generic-tasting Frosted Flakes-clone “commemorating 66 home runs.” In addition to a photo of Sammy hitting a super homer from inside a bowl of cereal, the box also features two contests (win an autographed bat or a limited edition baseball card), a description of the Sammy Sosa charitable foundation (that works in the “Baseball has been very, very good to me” joke he was rockin’ that year), and an order form for some non-MLB sanctioned Sammy Sosa caps and t-shirts. I ate a dozen boxes of this stuff.

1B Ron Kittle—A few years ago the White Sox stadium gave all their concession stands historical or clever Sox-related names. You get the Winning Ugly is Sweet dessert stand, Sherm Lollar’s Guard the Plate Grill, Shoeless Joe’s All Star Stand, and no less than two Nellie Fox concessions, Nellie’s Pivot Point Pizza and Fox’s Frozen Zone (because Nellie loved his margaritas!). Stands are named after Carlton Fisk, Luke Appling, Tony LaRussa, Jack McDowell, Al Lopez, Moose Skowron, Robin Ventura and many others. Rarely does the food relate to the player, though the only current Sox honored is Alexei Ramirez, as the Cuban Comet stand sells Cuban sandwiches (sliced ham, shredded pork, cheese, pickles, special sauce, something else, on Cuban bread). Of course, most stands just sell hot dogs or variations thereof, so you get Chico Carrasquel’s Dogs and Polish, Luzinski’s Rooftop Dog’s and Polish, and Dick Allen’s Rooftop Dogs and Polish. Oddly, Dick Allen only hit one ball on the roof of old Comiskey, though he did it prior to homeplate being moved 8-feet closer in ’83 (as did this mag’s namesake, Richie Zisk, who hit his lone roofie in ’77). The Bull hit four of ‘em. Oddly, the man who hit the most of anyone, seven, including the last one in 1990, has his stand called merely Kittle’s Brats and Sausage. But, it is actually much closer to the roof, being on the nosebleed upper deck, near the cheap seats where I always sit, giving me full access, so no complaints. Kittle was my fave player growing up and will always be. I went with my son last year to a miserable game and saw Kitty just walking around looking confused and got an awesome picture of him holding my child. For the rest of the game as my friends lamented the shitty play of our team I just kept pulling out my phone and showing them it was actually an awesome game. An awesome game to eat a Ron Kittle bratwurst!

C Josh Gibson—Can’t remember if it was called a Josh Gibson burger, but I definitely sat underneath a painting of the great catcher when I ate at the short-lived Negro League Café, a D.I.Y. theme restaurant in the Bronzeville section of Chicago’s southside. The restaurant was OK, but not great, and the main thing I remember is not the burger, but hearing the radio in the restaurant play R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet,” the first time I’d heard it. So today when I think of Hall of Famer Gibson I always think of Kelly crouched in a closet clutching a Baretta waiting to shoot his lover’s cuckold.

SS Ozzie Guillen—A few years back Chicago got one of those Brazilian steakhouses, where costumed gauchos roll abundant wagons of meat to your table then cut it to order with giant swords. The poster/billboard/print ad for the place was Ozzie wielding a meat-covered sword, and nothing ever got me into a restaurant faster than that ad. I brought my mom, mother-in-law, kids, wife and my hungry self to that place on Mother’s Day and ate approximately thirteen pounds of delicious meat in honor of Ozzie’s uniform number.

2B Jackie Robinson—Though this isn’t exactly a personal connection, one of my fave things about the great Jackie Robinson is that back in the pre-millionaire ballplayer days when even stars needed offseason work and post-career jobs, Robinson’s gig after his playing days was joining the Chock Full o’ Nuts company in 1957 as Director of Personnel, eventually becoming Vice President. That’s one of the best endorsements ever in my mind, because if I bought coffee, and especially if I bought nut-filled coffee, I would always buy this coffee, because every single time I see a can of it in the store I always think, “That’s Jackie Robinson’s coffee!” Then I sing, “Chock Full o’ Nuts, it’s that heavenly coffee, better coffee a millionaire’s money can’t buy!” Best endorser and best jingle!

LF Carlos Lee—One time when Lee was on the Sox my friend was wearing his Carlos Lee jersey when he was eating at Nuevo Leon, the popular Mexican restaurant in Pilsen (next door to the Thrill Jockey Records office by the way) and Carlos Lee was eating at the next table. That’s an awesome story.

3B Wade Boggs—I suppose I don’t have much personal Boggs experience, besides living in New England for a few years during his reign. Boggs was famed for having to eat chicken before every game, and I seem to recall that when he was caught adulterizing it had something to do with variety—he needed women with varying chicken recipes when he was on the road. I once saw a cheap looking cookbook by Boggs for sale either at or around Fenway called Fowl Tips –My Favorite Chicken Recipes. Did not buy it.

CF Mickey Mantle—I wandered into Mantle’s restaurant one day when, for some forgotten reason, I had to kill time around Central Park West, probably in the early 90s (Mantle was still alive, and I overheard someone say he came in occasionally). I seem to recall it was a pretty bland sports bar/family restaurant hybrid, and I either had a very unmemorable burger or decided to just bail.

P Babe Ruth—I was never a big fan of the Baby Ruth candy bar, even though I probably ate tons of them as a kid. It has all the good stuff but it just seems kinda dry and off-kilter. Like they’re always stale. Another thing off-kilter about it is the claim that the candy was not named after Babe Ruth, but rather after the long-dead child of ex-President Grover Cleveland. The Curtiss Candy Company (of Chicago) named the candy in 1921, when Ruth had become a Yankees superstar, and they probably made up the bogus dead baby story to avoid paying the Sultan of Swat royalties. Or maybe in the 20s dead baby candy was a hot trend, who knows? Though Gummi Lindbergh Babies weren’t popular ‘til the 30s. I have Ruth listed as a pitcher here because of his amazing pitching career in Boston prior to his Yankee-dom. I’ve always felt that even if he wasn’t the all-around ball player that Willie Mays was or the prolific dinger man Aaron proved to be, the fact that he coulda been a Hall of Famer pitcher or batter is a good argument for him as the all-time greatest baseball dude. Another great untrue but awesome candy bar name rumor: The Oh Henry bar was a handshake across the ocean, naming a sweet treat after Japan’s and the U.S.’s home run kings! Of course, Chicago’s Williamson Candy Company created their confection in 1920, twenty years before Sadaharu Oh was born and fourteen years before Henry Aaron was born. But what an unexpected surprise it would be if somehow that crazy story did turn out to be time-defyingly true. If only I could think of an American short story writer who was good at twist endings to write it?

DH Reggie Jackson—So the story goes Reggie Jackson boasted that if he played for the Yankees they’d name a candy bar after him. Apparently in addition to coming to the Bronx, to earn the candy bar he also had to spend a year fist fighting with Billy Martin, get a nickname (Mr. October), and win the World Series with the best single game batting performance ever on October 18, 1977: Reggie swung the bat three times and got 13 total bases (a 4-ball walk, and three first pitch homers! The last off Hawaiian knuckleballer Charlie Hough). Plus he had to survive fans throwing firecrackers at him to honor his greatness. On opening day 1978 (Yanks/White Sox, by the way) they had these bars at Yankee Stadium, and as if these were firecrackers, fans also chocolate rained these down on him. In an orange wrapper with a photo of Reggie swinging on it, these were made by Curtiss (who made Baby Ruth) and were basically round Baby Ruths, minus the nougat. But despite being kinda dry, they were a little more satisfying than BR’s, because something about the shape just worked. I don’t know if these were nationally distributed, maybe it was supposed to just be in New York and we got them in Chicago because they made them here, but I sure dug ‘em. When Reggie left the Yanks they stopped making them rather than produce a confection with a California Angels uniform on them.

B-Ball Bonus All-Stars
F Scottie Pippen—I think the Scottie Bar was something that schools sold as a fundraiser, not an actual buy-it-in-the-store candy. Can’t remember if it was good, but I assume so (it featured caramel and pecans, also known as “A Winning Combination.” Not sure if Scottie was the caramel and Jordan was the nuts, or vise versa…but it woulda make more sense if Jordan was almonds rather than pecans). The back of the candy has a quote from Scottie: “Life is a commitment of hard work and discipline. Set your goals and reach them.” Sales goals no doubt. Made by Morley’s Candy Makers, Villa Park, Illinois.

F Dennis Rodman—Rodman briefly had a bar/restaurant and I got invited for some preview night or opening or something. I remember they had his wedding dress in a glass case and I think they had appetizer-type food, maybe sushi, but I really can’t remember exactly what the food was. The place was not around long.

G Michael Jordan—Michael Jordan’s, a massive restaurant, was around for a few years. It was located near all the novelty restaurants north and west of downtown. The food, American comfort food or some such theme, kinda sucked, but I remember the big selling point was “Juanita’s Macaroni & Cheese.” I guess playing on the idea that Mike’s wife-at-the-time by virtue of her black womanhood must have an amazing, down home, Southern, magical, secret macaroni and cheese recipe they pumped this concept up. It was just regular mac and cheese.

G LeBron James—I definitely chewed a few pieces of LeBron’s Lightning Lemonade Bubblicious gum. Nobody likes LeBron amymore, and I don’t know if anyone ever liked this lemonde flavored gum, but I liked way the cartoon captured his weird face. But despite not being a Cubs guy, I have to say, I’m more of a Wrigley’s man than a Bubblicious boy.

C Shaquille O’Neal—You would think that someone who did the Kazaam movie would have a hard time finding anything in his resume more embarrassing than that genie costume, but sadly the Shaq Bar was not even a legit candy bar – it was a foul tasting “energy bar” sold by the evil Amway pyramid scheme organization to its sucker salesmen. I bought one on a convenience store (where it shouldn’t have been, a clerk must have been in the cult) and it was bad, but I can’t believe I didn’t save the wrapper. Did I think I’d ever buy another one? Shaq also appeared on the wrappers of the Canadian Mr. Big chocolate bars. The internet reveals he also put his name to Nestle’s “Shaq sized” 9.25 pound candy bars.

COACH
Mike Ditka—Where to start! Ditka has his own steakhouses, a line of fine wines, vitamins, a salsa featuring Da Coach in a sombrero on the bottle, a product called “Mike Ditka’s Bear Cheese” and a pill called “Iron Mike Ultimate Virility Enhancer.” Plus he threw his gum at a heckling fan once, which I think qualifies as his own line of one-of-a-kind, custom, designer candy.

ANNOUNCER
Harry Caray—I’ve never eaten at Harry Caray’s restaurant, though I’ve walked in a few times, but I have eaten his two foot-high plate of fried, grease-soaked potato “chips” at the Taste of Chicago outdoor food festival…and that is some seriously Chicago food! That stuff borders on Wisconsonian!

BENCH
Walter Payton (football) Though “Sweetness” would have been a natural for a confection, he went the savory route with his endorsement, appearing in ads for Kentucky Fried Chicken where he sang a soulful jingle about how both KFC and the greatest running back in NFL history (I’d wager that even Emmitt Smith’s mom doesn’t think her son is better than Payton) are “Doin’ it Right.” This was significant because you could get a flexi disc of him singing the song at this chicken joint, which was the late Payton’s only solo record. He, of course, had a million-seller with the “Super Bowl Shuffle,” recorded a single with a Blackhawks/Bears blues band called the Chicago Six, and did a hip hop 12” with the Fridge.

Mr. T (competitive bouncing – as in bouncer at a club, not pogo sticking) Quaker’s Mr. T cereal tasted like Captain Crunch, made a guest appearance on an episode of Pee Wee’s Playhouse, was shaped like the letter “T” and I ate a Ton of it!. I probably ate 2000% more than my daughter ate Kellogg’s Hannah Montana cereal. I almost dated Mr. T’s daughter, ask me about it sometime.

Stan Mikita (hockey) – Despite what Wayne’s World implies, the Blackhawk great does not own a donut shop in Aurora. To my knowledge.

Jake Austen is editor of Roctober magazine and produces the all-ages children's dance show Chic-A-Go-Go. His latest book Flying Saucers Rock N Roll: Coversations With Unjustly Obscure Rock N Roll Eccentrics was just published by Duke University Press.

America's Team by Johnny Tsaur

2011-10-01T20:30:00.000-04:00

Not to digress from baseball for too long, but I recently came across an article that labeled the NFL’s Dallas Cowboys as “America’s Team”—and I agreed for all the wrong reasons. The Dallas Cowboys do represent a side of America, but not precisely one that we should be proud of. No disrespect to the great people of Texas, but the Cowboys are precisely a representation of what America looks like from the outside looking in. Delusional, over-the-top, can’t win a big game to save their life showboats. They’re the home of the world’s largest TV and a 6-10 record.

It’s hard to see what makes the Cowboys so deserving of the title. In fact, not living in Cowboy-land, I find it hard to recollect a conversation about them that even relates to football. The conversation is never about what they do on the field, but is so focused on the grandeur of the sidelines. The Cowboys are the clichés that people see when they look at America. The focus is built on the flashy, talented, but misguided wide receiver in Terrell Owens of 2007, or the strained relationship with his All-American quarterback, Tony Romo. Tony Romo’s girlfriend (whoever it is, when you read this), Jerry Jones, the Texas oil man, satisfying his need for bigger and better things by building the Cowboys Stadium, the largest domed arena in the world, home of the largest HD screen, a screen so large, it directly interferes with the game. They are a team of caricatures and represent a cartoon America.

For a little background, I’m a 24-year-old college student in Southern California, and have been a fan of the hometown Dodgers for the last 15 years. Going into the 2011 season, there are moderate expectations to respond to the Giants’ World Series win last October. If you were to ask me who My America’s team is, it’s without a doubt, the Los Angeles Dodgers.

The history of the Dodgers shows a connection to the multicultural roots of our national melting pot. They broke the color barrier with Jackie Robinson, but it’s more than just that. Dodger blue is a place where Sandy Koufax can find a balance of his religion and his duty. Dodger blue is where a Mexican teenager can become Fernandomania! Dodger blue is where Hideo Nomo’s rookie season bridged the gap between East and West. Dodger blue is where Orel Hershiser’s bulldog, blue-collar work ethic can make an everyman into a World Series MVP. Dodger blue is where, just when you think they can’t, a man with two bad legs from Michigan pulls through in the bottom of the ninth. That is what America is all about; many people coming together underneath one banner, the best of the world putting their effort to build a unified place in history.

This, unfortunately, is not where the metaphor ends. Being a college student, it’s hard to turn in any direction and not receive some bad news. The economy is so bad you won’t be able to get a job, there are wars going on across the globe and we’re spread too thin, there is “terror” around every corner. Being born in 1987, I was one year old when the Dodgers had won their last World Series, and have lived with the mediocrity of the Dodger Blues ever since. The problem has always been too large, and much like America, the small fixes are just band-aids on an open jugular—with the most recent being a retreat to familiarity, like putting a Bush back in the White House, Joe Torre was hired to mixed results. They’ve been just “good enough” for too long, and like America, we need a new identity.

With the McCourt’s ugly divorce being headline news in the sports section, there is an obvious lack of direction of the team. There is political strife in America, much like there is in the Dodger front office. However, with a new spring training and a new season ahead, there is hope. The hope rests on the shoulders of a new generation: Andre Ethier, Matt Kemp, James Loney, Chad Billingsley, Jonathan Broxton, and Clayton Kershaw. The youthful core is there to build around to win a championship. Talented, hungry, and done waiting their turn, there is hope that they are to be the heroes for those born in 2011.

Enter Andre Ethier. An NL All-Star this last season, the bi-racial heartthrob was leading the National League in home runs, RBI and batting average in 2010 before his pinky injury. Then comes Matt Kemp, the powerful 26-year-old CF. He ended the 2010 season with five home runs in five games, showing off the youthful swagger by topping off the season with the streak. First baseman James Loney returns to the lineup after a down season, however he has given the Dodger fan base plenty of chances to remember why Baseball America labeled him the best pure hitter of his draft year. Then there is the pitching core: Chad Billingsley, an Ohio born RHP, All-Star in 2009, he appears to be the incumbent ace in the rotation. Clayton Kershaw, a Texas born LHP, a former USA Today high school player of the year, and a YouTube sensation for throwing one of the nastiest curveballs I’ve ever seen. These pitchers represent Middle America, what they lack in flamboyant personality, they make up with a combined 1,248 strikeouts in their young careers. Last but not least comes Jonathan Broxton, a 26-year-old closer for the Dodgers. A paragon of “throw the ball as hard as possible” style pitching, he broke a 103 MPH fireball against the Padres in 2009. Although coming off a bad season in 2010, Broxton is reminiscent of Eric “Game Over” Gagne, a dominating figure who was unfortunately linked to the steroids scandal of baseball. They have personality but more importantly, they have upside.

It is time to leave the Andruw Jones’ and the Manny Ramirez-es behind and to build the new identity. It is time for the youth to turn promise into production, to step up and become the new legends of Chavez Ravine. When one comes to see a game at Dodger Stadium, the first thing they notice are the vintage giant posters that cover the outsides of Dodger Stadium, immortalizing the past heroes that donned the Dodger Blue. They are sun-faded and vintage photographs, at first reminding the fans of their original personalities, but also reminders of their talent. They are images of a unique era in Dodger baseball; however, one must remember that they are only reminders. Koufax will not step out of the poster and pitch tomorrow. Much like America, it is time for the new generation of leaders to rise and make the Dodgers no longer a place where great things used to happen, but a place in which they still do.

Pale Blue Eyes by Mike Faloon

2011-10-01T20:20:00.002-04:00

I’ve screwed up. I’m driving through eastern New York, halfway to Cooperstown. I’m on my way to the Baseball Hall of Fame to spend the weekend with my dad and my brothers. We’re celebrating our dad’s birthday.

I’m not lost. That’s usually how I mess up on roadtrips, especially when I’m on a route I’ve never traveled before like this one. The drive is really nice. Two lane roads that gently twist and wind with very little traffic in either direction. I haven’t seen a chain store and fast food restaurant all day. There’s just one mom and pop place after another. Sometimes I forget we can still travel considerable distances free of Targets and TGI Fridays.

There aren’t many gas stations along the way either, which is a bit unsettling but nothing compared to the yard sale I pass where some dude is selling shotguns. I know this reeks of creative license but here’s what I saw: At the end of his driveway this guy had three guns laid out on a folding table. A second guy stood on the other side of the table—the one closest to the road—and looked through the scope of a shotgun, not aiming it, inspecting it. It seemed very much like a pending transaction. This is not how friends check out each other’s weapons. That takes place in the garage or the backyard or the basement. Those are also the locations in which I assume home-based guns sales take place. Were there sun flares today? What did I miss?

So the relief that comes from thinking small town America is still alive is offset by illegal small arms sales. (What’s a dose of Norman Rockwell without some Deliverance mixed in?) But that’s not my mistake. I was right to choose backroads over the interstate.

My mistake is the playlist on my mp3 player. In the words of Neil from The Young One the music is making me “all heavy and uncool.” I thought quiet, sparse songs would put me at ease, wash away the workweek, and put me in a place where I could fully appreciate the weekend. That plan has backfired.

The playlist starts with Townes Van Zandt’s “If I Needed You” and Sam Phillips’ “Reflecting Light.” Then there’s a bunch of Kelly Hogan songs, Willie Nelson’s “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,” and the song the closes the mix, the song that put me over the edge: Kelly Hogan and Alejandro Escovedo’s cover of “Pale Blue Eyes.” Their version is even more delicate than the original. It’s an equal mix of their voices and his guitar. It feels like they’ve already crumbled apart and they’re just waiting for the wind to carry them away.

There is one line in particular that really gets to me. I’ve heard it dozens of times over the years—first R.E.M.’s cover, then the Velvet Underground original, later Mo Tucker’s version. It’s passed by unnoticed for over 20 years but now it’s burrowed straight to my heart. “I’ve thought of you as my mountain top/I’ve thought of you as my peek/I’ve thought of you as everything I’ve had but couldn’t keep/I’ve had but couldn’t keep.”

Normally it’s a song about lost love but today, after listening to the rest of the playlist it’s become a song about mortality. Not mine, my kids’. How could someone, someone like my kids so pure and full of beauty not live forever?

This is not what anyone wants to think about, especially when they’re driving to Cooperstown to spend a weekend at the Baseball Hall of Fame with their dad and brothers. Apparently the Norman Rockwell/Deliverance hybrid isn’t enough. I’ve let some Beaches seep in, too.

I slowly drive down Main Street and the sadness evaporates. It’s gone by the time I meet up with dad and Casey at the entrance to the Hall of Fame. They’ve already been inside and have come out to meet me. My dad is wearing a “Happy Birthday” button. He’s tickled. The setting, the company, the fact that he got into the Hall of Fame for free because it’s his birthday (or maybe because he’s a veteran—that’s not clear). Dad gives me the details of their drive from Syracuse. Casey makes fun of me. I’m in the right place.

It’s been 30 years since my last trip to the Hall of Fame. My mom tells me we made a day trip when I was a kid. No one else in the family remembers that trip. I do recall coming to Cooperstown for a Boy Scout trip in sixth grade. My painfully lame troopmates could barely wait to leave the HOF. They were far more interested in the Farmer’s Museum down the road.1
As I pay to enter the hall my dad strikes up a conversation with the attendant.

“I got in for free because it’s my birthday,” he says, “either that or it’s because of this.” He points to his Vietnam Veteran hat. Dad served a tour of duty in ’66-’67 leading a transportation unit.

Attendant: “Do you have your 20-year service id?”

Dad: “No.”

Attendant: “Tiffany must have been feeling nice.”

So not only does the Hall of Fame allow you to reenter the place as many times as you’d like once you’ve paid, sometimes they let people in for free because they’re in a good mood.

And that’s just the start. A few strides in we see a display of John Fogerty’s bat guitar, which apparently spent five days under flood waters before being donated. Then we enter the art room. One of the first rooms is devoted to paintings. Along with the Norman Rockwell, there’s also fascinating outsider art (Ray Materson, Charles Fazzino) and a portrait of Turkey Stearns by Kadir Nelson.2

Next we’re off to see the plaques. I’m ready to cruise past the 19th century inductees but Casey lingers. “Harry Chadwick. He wrote the first rulebook and invented the box score. He’s the all mighty father!”

A few minutes into the tour my brother Pat surprises us. We weren’t expecting him for a couple of hours. With the quartet now complete it’s not long before we get into our first argument of the weekend. We love to argue, but we have a different way of arguing. In our family there is a general aversion to conflict, but with that there is also an intense need to voice and cling to opinions. So if you overheard us arguing you’d hear two, or more, different claims being asserted. You wouldn’t hear meaningful exchanges or follow ups or critiques. You’d just hear the same opinions repeated and/or rephrased—ideas cruising along side each other on parallel tracks, shaking their fists at each other. It usually irritates me but not today. Most of the time we hold onto these silly notions until the bitter end. Our claims are seldom mutually exclusive but as siblings it’s our duty to pretend that they are and that something significant is at stake. This weekend the disagreements dissipate rather quickly. This only makes them funnier.

We open this weekend’s round of squabbling with the following: why are baseball gloves bigger now? I make the technological argument: we’ve learned to make better gloves. Pat makes the evolutionary argument: we’ve grown larger. We bow out after two or three exchanges, each convinced that he’s right.

Typically museums are quiet, but the four of us never stop talking. When we get separated for a bit in the broadcasters’ exhibit my dad calls out to Pat, “We’re over here!” To which Pat responds, “I know. I could hear you guys in the next room.”

The general pattern of the weekend is that we argue now and again but mostly we geek out on baseball. After seeing a photo of former Phillie, and 1950 NL MVP, Jim Konstanty we start keeping track of players who wore glasses. We find nine by the end of the day:

Jim Konstanty
Darrell Porter
Andre Thorton
Ken Phelps
Ron Kittle
Greg Luzinski
Reggie Jackson
Julian Javier
Dom DiMaggio

We also see Pete Rose photos and references all over the place. Not having a plaque seems to have little impact. Charlie Hustle is all over the Hall of Fame.

Our second argument: the role of Robert Moses in the development of New York City, specifically his impact on the Brooklyn Dodgers decision to relocate to Los Angeles. Or maybe we’re arguing about the demolition of the Polo Grounds. I can’t say that we listen all that well and I quickly lose track of who’s arguing what. I don’t think we listen to each other. I listen when I’m at home. I listen when I’m at work. But when dudes gather, talk prevails.

My next note simply says “1976, Hal McRae.” He finished second in the batting race that year but I don’t think that’s why I wrote the note. I think it’s because he had cool facial hair on his ’76 card. The sentimental has its place at the Hall of Fame, but so does the silly.

The best exhibit is called “One for the Books.” It features artifacts from historic games. A game ball from Jack Chesbro’s last start of the 1904 season, when he was going for his 42nd win. The bat from Rennie Stennett’s 7-hit game. The spikes Sachio Kinugasa wore when he tied Lou Gehrig’s consecutive games played streak in 1987.3 The more esoteric and removed from my firsthand knowledge of the game, the better. There is one exception, though. Eric Bruntlett’s jersey from a 2009 Mets/Phillies game. I was in attendance that day. I remember being relieved when I saw that Bruntlett—then hitting .128—was starting at second base in place of notorious Met killer Chase Utley. Of course, Bruntlett went 3-for-5. He also recorded the first game-ending unassisted triple play in National League history. Ironically, the two runners were on base as a result of Bruntlett’s miscues at second. Two ground balls were hit to him and both times he failed to get an out. He came so close to handing the game to the Mets. They were down 9-7 with two on and no outs. Then Jeff Francouer smashed a line drive up the middle. I was stunned by how little time it took for my hopes to rocket and then for Eric Bruntlett to record three outs.

The rest of our time in the hall is a blur. I’m too swept up in things to break out my notebook. But not our arguments. I’ll always make time for those. Topic number three: Leaf blowers.

“I’m sorry leaf blowers are not in my lexicon!”

“If you knew how many leafs we have in our yard.”

Like its predecessor this disagreement passes and we’re soon relaxing in a pub. I’m surprised by the extent to which the locals size us up as we walk in. I figured they’d be tired of checking out the tourists given how many of us pass through their town each year. But those seated at the bar make it clear that we enter only with their consent. And that’s fine, it bonds us. The place has a good selection on tap—including a variety from the local Ommegang Brewery—but they also have soccer on both of the televisions.

Casey sees a flyer for the pub’s weekly trivia competition. “We could do really well.” He points to Pat, a research scientist by profession, “Science.” He points to himself, “Movies.” This makes sense. Casey can recall dialogue from a movie he’s seen only once. He points to me and shrugs. He points to our dad. “Old shit.”

Nearing the end of our pints we approach a decision. What should we do next? This could take forever. It usually does. My family does not make decisions quickly or easily. We can take twenty minutes to part ways. We’ll say goodbye half a dozen times then renew the conversation. Our low threshold for conflict renders us less effective than The Three Stooges when it comes to collective decision making.

Take last summer, for example. Dad, Pat, my family and my Uncle Steve’s family had gathered in Gloucester, Massachusetts for the weekend. After considerably maneuvering we made it to a beach but the group was split as to whether or not we should stay. The question before us: stay or return to the beach from the day before.

“With our half price parking voucher it’s only $10.”

No reaction from the group.

“We only have to pay $5 for parking because of the parking vouchers.”

“I need to be in the shade or get some sunscreen.”

“If we’re going to just do a beach for the day, why make this our beach?”

“The seaweed’s not that bad and because we’re protected by the cove we won’t feel the wind. When we went to the other beach it was kind of breezy.”

“There are stones but they’re small and you won’t even feel them when you get a little ways out.”

That’s us. That’s my family, slowly reaching a decision. It’s kind of like a game of football where everyone decides not to use their hands or their feet. Notions are nudged forward but no one will pick up the damn ball and run with it. But this weekend is different. We’re in Cooperstown and we have a clear directive: make dad happy. It’s his birthday. Let him decide what to do. He wants to check out Doubleday Field.

From beyond the stadium we can’t tell whether or not there’s a game. We walk up the runway and see a batter hit a pop up behind the plate. It takes a bounce and winds up in the hands of a thrilled 6-year-old. I stand behind the fence along the first base line. It’s quiet and low key. There are only two people in the third base section of the grandstand. The on-deck hitter picks up a foul tip as the sun ducks behind the trees.

We don’t know who’s playing. The girls in front of us are rooting for players by name. We figure they’ll know and they kind of do. “The Colts are from Massachusetts and the other team is the Sea Dogs, I think.” It’s a ballgame. Why sweat details?

When it comes to dinner there are two frontrunners. One is an Italian restaurant. The other is a pub. At first, no one steps up to advocate for one over the other. No one is surprised by this. We defer to dad who senses that the votes are split. Pat makes his move. As we look at the pub’s menu he points to the photo and reminds us that we would not be eating in the upstairs dining room that is visible through the plate glass window, classy but closed. We would be eating downstairs, in the pub show in the photo. Whoever took the photo used far too much flash. The most brightly lit object is the back of a faux leather high back chair. I have to admit that the picture does suggest Wonder bread and those cheap plastic menus that stick to your arms. Italian it is.

And it’s the right call. There’s no wait for a table and when our drinks come Dad raises his glass for a toast. “I’m going to make this quick.” He almost tears up. “You’re the best sons a dad could ask for.” After what happened this morning I think I understand the look in his eyes a little better.

Back at the motel I put on the playlist. The rest of the songs are pretty and soothing but I skip the Kelly Hogan and Alejandro Escovedo duet just in case.

Mike Faloon is the co-editor of Zisk. His first book, The Hanging Gardens of Split Rock, is available through Gorsky Press. He’s currently working on a one-shot music zine called Learning to Surf.

1 A bunch of 11 and 12-year-old kids from the suburbs choosing agriculture over sports—like the roadside gun sale this too sounds like I’m making it up. But it’s been my steady recollection ever since sixth grade.

2 Next time you’re in a bookstore—you still go to bookstores, right?—check out Kadir Nelson’s We Are the Ship: The Story of Negro League Baseball. It’s in the kids’ section and the artwork is beautiful.

3 Which I never knew about before seeing this exhibit. Kinugasa eventually ran up a streak of 2215 games from 1970-1987. How did I miss this during the Ripken mania of 1995?

Disco Demolition Night by Todd Taylor

2011-10-01T20:00:00.000-04:00

CIVIL RIGHTS… AND EXPLOSIONS
Bill Veeck, Jr. was owner of the Chicago White Sox in 1979. Veeck had been a journeyman baseball club owner and a staunch supporter of civil rights.

In 1947, Veeck hired the American League’s first black player, Larry Doby. A year later, he signed forty-two-year-old Negro League pitching legend Satchel Paige to a contract, making Paige the oldest rookie ever to play professional baseball. Although Veeck had an artificial leg, he participated in a day-long civil rights march in Selma, Alabama in March 1965, without the use of crutches. Fellow baseball club owners often derisively likened Veeck to circus huckster PT Barnum: a sucker for a good promotion.

Veeck’s accomplishments forever changed the face and tenor of baseball. He was the first owner to introduce fireworks displays after games. At Comiskey Park, he developed and deployed the “Monster,” which was an enormous, garish, Willy-Wonka-inspired scoreboard. It came with sirens, sound effects, flashing lights, and multicolored pinwheels. It also shot fireworks whenever the White Sox hit a home run. As a fan of the fans, another Veeck innovation was the picnic area in the ballpark. He created this by replacing portions of the left field walls with wire screens and setting up picnic tables under the seating areas. (1)

On May 2, the Detroit Tigers vs. Chicago White Sox game at Comiskey was rained out. American League rules called for the game to be made up at the teams’ next meeting in Chicago.
The 1979 Chicago White Sox were “second-rate,” to put it nicely. More bluntly, they sucked pretty hard. At 40-46, they were twenty-two games out before the All-Star break. Average attendance was slightly more than 10,000 fans.

On July 12, the White Sox were scheduled for a twilight doubleheader against the equally struggling Detroit Tigers to make up for the previously rained-out game. The preceding night’s game had drawn only 15,520 fans.

Veeck put his son Mike—and White Sox marketing director—in charge of getting asses in seats. Bill didn’t balk or blush when his son brought up the idea of a promotion, an event hyperbolically billed to “bring an end to the disco era.” Bill lived in hyperbole when it came to promotion. It didn’t sound like that big of deal.

Mike Veeck had been listening to a twenty-four-year-old DJ, Steve Dahl, on the radio. Dahl was planning to blow up disco records in a shopping mall.

“I called him at 10:05 AM, as soon as he got off the air,” Mike said, “and offered him the chance to do that at Comiskey Park. He was going to do it in front of three thousand kids. It didn’t take long to convince him he could do it in front of forty thousand kids.” The planned promotion was a joint effort between the White Sox and Chicago radio station WLUP-FM, The Loop, and also involved station Promotion Director Dave Logan and Sales Manager Jeff Schwartz.

The promotion promised the presence of Steve Dahl and the official “Rock Girl” of the station, Lorelei (2), who was featured in all of the radio station’s advertisements. Disco had become a personal battle for Dahl, not just an abstract potshot or a woefully easy musical target. Previously, Dahl gained popularity in Chicago at FM rock station WDAI. In 1978, WDAI abandoned its AOR rock format. It embraced disco and changed its name to “Disco DAI.” This prompted an abrupt and unexpected end to Dahl’s show and employment at the station. He and the station parted ways on Christmas Eve in 1978. Happy holidays, Steve.

Disco’s ubiquity couldn’t be denied. Saturday Night Fever, the Bee Gees, and Donna Summer swarmed the airwaves. Kermit the Frog sang “Disco Frog” on Sesame Street in 1979. That same year, a band called Chic (3) entered 1979 riding the very top of disco’s rollercoaster. Their debut single, “Le Freak,” sold a million copies within a month. It hit number one in America, where it remained for six weeks. According to Billboard, it was the third most popular song of 1979. (One of Chic’s founders, Nile Rogers denies that Chic was disco. Rogers stated that, “People couldn’t tell the difference between us and Lipps Inc.” Fair enough. I still can’t tell the difference. I’m no discomusicologist.)

After parting ways with WDAI, Dahl landed on his feet at WLUP. The Loop’s format had recently changed from light to hard rock. Dahl’s fans followed him and echoed his pro-rock, anti-disco sentiments. Dahl smashed disco records over his head. Dahl mugged for the cameras taking bites out of disco records.

Dahl also cited philosophical, dermatological, and classic Marxist reasons for his disdain for this particular genre of music: “Disco is a disease. It’s a thing you have to be near-perfect to get into. You have to have perfect hair and a three-piece suit, and musically it’s just the same song with different words… I’m allergic to gold jewelry, hate the taste of piña coladas, and I’m a cheapskate.”

Dahl had formed an on-air anti-disco, card-carrying army called the “Insane Coho Lips.” The strange name was an amalgamation of The Insane Unknowns (4), a well-known South Side street gang, and the Coho salmon fishing fleet in Burnham Harbor that Dahl passed every morning on his way to work. The Cohos lofted Dahl’s “disco sucks” banner and zealously attacked a form of music they considered exclusive, expensive, and empty. They got their class war on by attacking the soundtrack to the hedonism of the elite. They also just liked having fun and laughing along with Dahl.

Disco-makers viewed Dahl and his listener-army differently. “It was the rockers versus the discoers,” said Harry Wayne Casey, frontman of Florida band KC And The Sunshine Band (5). “We were like Elvis in the fifties and the Beatles in the sixties. Of course there was a backlash. We changed music… I had two hits on the charts, ‘Please Don’t Go’ and ‘Yes I’m Ready.’… I just figured the guy [Dahl] was an idiot.”

The meeting between the White Sox and The Loops’ management went well. A name for the promotion was agreed upon: Disco Demolition Night. It was a simple promotion distilled to a short sentence: Let’s blow up some disco records.

AN OUNCE OF PRECAUTION?

The plan called for admission at the double header to be 98 cents for any fan who brought a disco record. The ticket price matched The Loop’s frequency. FM 98. The hope was that 20,000 disco records would be collected by the ticket takers, placed in a big box in the outfield, and the box would be detonated between the two games by Dahl, signifying the hopeful and abrupt end to the disco era.

Disco Demolition Night overlapped the ballpark’s Teen Night. The consensus was they needed more than Cub Scout and Boy Scout troops to fill the stands. It was predicted and hoped of the promotion would draw 25,000—10,000 of which would be new patrons to the old ballpark. Sox Park had a seating capacity of 52,000.

“I was really just trying to get through the evening without being humiliated,” Dahl said. “I mean, how many people could you draw? A few thousand? The park would still look empty.”

“Rock Girl” Lorelei threw out the first ball.

Once the gates opened at the beginning of the first game, it quickly became apparent that Disco Demolition Night would exceed all attendance expectations.

“I remember forking over a Bee Gees disc for 98 cents and, as I recall, they actually gave back two cents in change when turning in the voucher with your dollar at the ticket box,” said fan Glenn McCullom.

“We brought the Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack, a double record, which was good for two of us to get in,” said K.M. Lisowski, another fan.

Attendees also brought along and strung up homemade banners, primarily made from bed sheets. On TV, the “Disco Sucks” battle cry could be clearly read from throughout the ball park. Not televised were the “What do Linda Lovelace and disco have in common?” banner and the more political, fuck-you-Australia “Welcome Home Skylab” banner (6).

Fans made giant paper airplanes with the Lorelei posters and threw them onto the field. Other fans came ready for a battle against disco with bottle rockets and long cardboard tubes. The empty center of wrapping paper rolls served nicely as suburban bazookas. For reasons still unexplained, the second base umpire was particularly targeted for bottle rocket attacks.

Beer vendor sales were brisk. Brian Pegg reported that, “On Disco Demolition night, I sold forty-nine cases of beer. Ordinarily, twenty cases were considered an outstanding total for a single night game. Thirty to thirty-five would be pretty good for a double header.” Math showed that’s just shy of two-and-a-half times the usual volume of beer sales at a typical game. Raging against disco proved a thirsty business.

After 20,000 disco records were collected for demolition, ticket takers let fans keep their records—proof of how unprepared they were by the boosted attendance. “So that was a bad start,” Dahl admitted. “And then things just kind of got worse from there.”

In short order, fans glided records like Frisbees all through the park. The game was stopped constantly as disco records were thrown out on the field. Vinyl’s sharp. It shatters, leaves ragged edges.

“They would slice around you and stick in the ground,” Rusty Staub, player representative for the Detroit Tigers said. “It wasn’t just one, it was many. Oh, god almighty, I’ve never seen anything so dangerous in my life. I begged the guys to put on their batting helmets.” Defensive players. Guys in the outfield. Not just guys batting. Ron LeFlore, a former convict and center fielder for Detroit, was visibly afraid. In the later innings of the first game, fans remember the Tigers running back to the dugout, then removing their helmets.

The Tigers were not the sole targets of the record fling-a-thon. Chicago pitcher Ed Farmer picked up a record that had sailed by closely to his face. He was confused. It was a Beach Boys record. It wasn’t even disco.

Other fans suffered from the flight of records.

“Later that night,” Sox fan K.M. Lisowski said, “my friend’s husband got hit in the head with a ‘Frisbeed’ record, and I remember getting cut with the edge of a broken 45 that had been flung our way.”

David Schaffer, director of operations for the Sox, said that security had been beefed up from thirty to forty-five men in anticipation of a large crowd.

Another miscalculation: This wasn’t the typical baseball crowd. It was a rock concert-type crowd.

The White Sox lost to the Tigers 4-1 in the first game.

A SUCCESSFUL DISASTER

The umpires ordered the grounds crew to clear debris from the warning track between innings of the first game.

By the end of the first game, the ballpark was filled well beyond its maximum capacity. On the books, paid fan attendance for the evening was 47,795. Over 12,000 extra fans crammed in. The majority snuck in though the Sox’s porous security. The official tally didn’t include the fans who brought ladders, formed human ladders, or shimmied up drain pipes into the park.

It was at this time that Mike Veeck, along with The Loop and the Sox organization, realized they had woefully underestimated the draw of disco’s suckage. “It turned out there were 60,000 inside the park and another 30,000 to 40,000 on the streets around the park,” Veeck said “Traffic was backed up all the way out to O’Hare Airport. Who had any idea that many kids would come out? WLUP was a 5,000-watt station, it wasn’t a giant.”

The Chicago police department closed exits on the Dan Ryan Expressway at 31st and 35th streets to discourage late-arriving fans. Traffic gridlock stretched for miles around Chicago’s South Side.

Dahl was dressed like a character in M*A*S*H. He wore an Army jacket bedazzled with fishing lures over a Hawaiian shirt. An Army helmet was strapped loosely to his head. He was ushered to the outfield in a Jeep with his second-in-command Garry Meier, Lorelei, and body guards. Dahl admits he hadn’t prepared a speech.

“Steve started to get the crowd excited as only Steve could do, chanting “disco sucks” over and over,” Lorelei said. “I think that mantra was probably the kicker—the swarming sound was getting louder and louder. It was deafening.” The crowd was going bananas in their seats.

The big box filled with the fans’ 20,000 disco records had been brought out to center field. A short burst of fireworks were touched off in a row in front of the box. That lead up to an impressive percussive charge, which detonated a fireworks “bomb.” Vinyl disco records were blown to bits. Some continued to burn after they landed in fragments on the field.

“That blowed up real good!” Dahl exclaimed.

NOW WOULD BE A GREAT TIME FOR A PLAN... RUN!

Dahl didn’t really have a plan after the explosion, except to get off the field, maybe go home, maybe watch the second game. There was no advisement from anyone with a microphone to the fans to stay in their seats, to remain calm. Folks were riled up.

Here’s a recap: big explosion; adrenaline-high levels of “disco sucks!” excitement in the air; a large, mostly empty, beautifully-lit, largely-untouchable field beckoning fans; crazy-low security; and a silence so pregnant that its water was about to break.

This is when the trouble began.

What started at 8:40 PM was a confluence of several key factors.

Outside the park, some of the temporary ticket booths—staffed with older people—were being rocked by disgruntled fans who couldn’t get inside the park. Some of the yellow-jacketed security guards were moved off the field to take care of that issue.

“What happened next was the worst thing that could possibly happen,” said Mike Veeck. “The crowd began thinking as one and they realized there were only thirty-five to forty police [security] on the field. When a crowd begins thinking as one, there is no such thing as ‘crowd control.’”

Conservatively, on the field, it was one security guard per 1,333 fans. Not good odds for reestablishing order.

“It was like popcorn. Boom! Everyone jumped on the field.” One fan stated. The fans’ feeling of rushing the field was, “sort of like the pennant celebration we would never get.”

The players who had returned to the field for pre-game warm-ups for the second game quickly retreated.

“Before I knew it, I had a bodyguard on either side of me,” Lorelei remembered, “Each grabbed one of my upper arms and literally lifted me off the ground, running with me towards the Jeep, throwing me in the back. Steve jumped in the Jeep and we started rolling. I looked behind me and understood why I was whisked off—crowds of people were streaming onto the field.”

The Jeep drove out of the stadium and onto the street. It looped around and its occupants snuck back inside as 10,000 people ran onto the field.

Among the revelers was actor Michael Clarke Duncan (the big dude in The Green Mile), a Chicago South Side native. He was among the first fans to run onto the field and slide into third base. Other fans took the roles of umpires, calling both “safe!” and “out!” Fans took bases. (An usher salvaged first base.) Fans dug out home plate. The pitching rubber was stolen from the infield. Duncan admitted to stealing a bat from the dugout.

Bill Veeck’s “Monster” flashed, “Please Return to Your Seats.”

Harry Caray stared down in disbelief at the field from his broadcast booth as the batting cage was wheeled out to the outfield then trounced, disassembled, and set on fire along with the remains of the disco records and the big box. A shirtless fan climbed to the top of one of the foul poles. Another fire burned in centerfield. The head groundskeeper shook his head in disbelief as the benches from the special picnic area were dragged out into the middle of the field and set ablaze. Revelers jumped through that fire.

Harry Caray tried to restore order by yelling “Holy cow!” over the public address system. He then asked the crowd, “What say we all regain our seats so we can play baseball again?” When none of the excitable fans took their seats, a tremor of horror resonated in Harry Caray’s voice. “People, people, please get off the field!” Jimmy Piersall, Caray’s broadcasting partner, was openly disgusted and repeated over and over that, “These are not baseball fans here. These kids are obviously on something more than beer.”

Unruly? Absolutely.

Chicago Sun-Times columnist Bill Gleason called the event “an unmitigated horror… They were vulgarians who came to Comiskey Park to be ruffians.” But people weren’t physically violent to one another. This was no replay of the 1968 Democratic National Convention bloodbath eleven years prior in the same city. Fans were really worked up; they got all hyper. Much of the crowd, once on the field, simply milled around aimlessly. Some sat in the infield.

Fans from the upper decks couldn’t get down to the field. More than half of the fans on the lower deck didn’t go on the field and began chanting, “Na na na na, na na na na, hey assholes, sit down.”

Bill Veeck looked at a quickly dissipating silver lining. “The great thing was all the kids were stoned,” he said. “Had we had drunks to deal with, then we would have had some trouble. The kids were really docile.”

At 9:08 PM the Chicago police department’s tactical force entered Sox Park and efficiently took care of business clearing the field. Within five minutes, they had the situation under control. The cops had no trouble dispersing the crowd. The police and players showed an incredible amount of restraint in their dealings with the unruly revelers. This was not a true riot. True riots offer resistance to law enforcement and provide cops ample opportunity to work on their batting averages. This event was a gang load of partiers not given enough supervision. It was a bunch of nutty kids.

After the police sweep, Bill Veeck returned to the playing field and grabbed a microphone. “Please keep your rain checks,” he told the crowd. “We’ll tell you what to do with them once we figure it out ourselves.” Behind the scenes, Veeck was busy rescheduling the game as part of a Sunday doubleheader against the Tigers.

Surveying a field strewn with bottles, exploded cherry bombs, smoldering patches in the midfield, and broken disco records, The Tigers countered that the Sox forfeit on the grounds that the delay was not a result of “an act of God.” Tigers manager Sparky Anderson was vehement that his players would not take the field in any case due to safety concerns.

Umpire crew chief Dave Phillips agreed with Sparky and stated, “The field is not in playable condition.” Home plate had been uprooted from the ground and hadn’t been measured. The grounds crew was showing no effort to put it properly back in.

The White Sox were ordered by American League president Lee MacPhail to forfeit the second game of the twi-night doubleheader. It was only the fourth forfeit in American League history (7).

At the end of the evening, six people reported mild injuries. One vendor broke a hip. Thirty-nine people were arrested for disorderly conduct.

The Sox lost both games.

GET YOUR BIG FOAM POINTY FINGER OUT

The local Chicago press wasn’t kind to Dahl, the Veecks, or Disco Demolition Night. Predictably, the media asked, “What went wrong? How did this disturbance by youthful crowds happen?”

Channel 7’s Rosemarie Gulley’s insight was as good as any for this cocktail of hyperactivity: “The explosion, the heat, and a lot of drugs.”

Other talking head snippets called the promotion “a gimmick that’s gone too far,” and “They created a climate… (word not omitted, just a pause) “an error in planning.” (End of statement, back to footage.)

Deputy Chief Charles Pepp invented one word and one new meaning in his short explanation of the promotion. “It was a good methology to get a crowd, but it overworked.” (Italics mine.) Bill Veeck echoed the chief’s sentiment. “Sometimes a promotion can work too well.”

Later, a report caught up with Dahl and his thoughts on the Demolition.

Reporter: “You don’t feel culpable?”

Dahl: “I’m not a security guard.”

Reporter: “Would you do it again?”

Dahl: “Yes… with more security guards.”

Later, Dahl—in a less pragmatic mood—expressed some regret. “I’ve always felt bad. I’m a baseball fan. I’ve always felt bad that the second game was canceled.”

Two days later, Sox Park hosted a large concert called The Loop’s “Day in the Park,” featuring Eddie Money, Molly Hatchet, Thin Lizzy, Santana, and Journey, further ripping up the outfield for the rest of the season.

IT’LL BE SO FAMOUS, IT’LL BE INFAMOUS

Predictably, Disco Demolition Night (8) was criticized throughout the disco community.

Unpredictably, Sox promoter Mike Veeck was blacklisted from Major League Baseball. “After that, I didn’t work for ten years,” Veeck said. “The second that first guy shimmied down the outfield wall, I knew my life was over... It backfired, and I took the heat. And it cost me personally. I went down the sewer. I didn’t work in baseball until 1989.”

Twenty-two years after Disco Demolition Night—in Miami, Florida on Thursday, July 13, 2001—Mike Veeck, then a marketing consultant for the Florida Marlins, asked Harry Wayne Casey of KC And The Sunshine Band, to accept his apology on behalf of the entire disco world. Casey accepted. “I feel redeemed,” Casey said. “It gives closure to the whole thing… It wasn’t a very nice thing to do. There was no reason or call for it. It was a direct hit on myself and other artists who did that for a living. I didn’t bash his baseball team.”

So, did Dahl kill disco? Maybe yes. Maybe no. Maybe both. Most likely not. Well, no.

“You know, I think that it was a fad,” Dahl said. “And it was probably on its way out. But I think it hastened its demise. I don’t want to take credit for killing it.” Later, however, the Bee Gees personally told Dahl that he did, in fact, destroy disco.

It feels good to blame someone else and to know the exact moment things started heading downhill for good. It’s much easier than looking inside.

The disco juggernaut was still able to prance around in sparkly platforms and satin bodysuits behind bubble machines and into the national consciousness post-Disco Demolition Night. On Wednesday, October 17, 1979, The Pittsburgh Pirates won the World Series in the best of seven games against the Baltimore Orioles. The Pirates proudly blasted Sister Sledge’s hit disco anthem “We Are Family” as their adopted theme song throughout the final game of the 1979 season.

Todd Taylor is co-editor and co-publisher of Razorcake fanzine. When he was eight years old, sitting on a Pic’n’Save floor, looking up at the blasting speaker overhead, he wanted to become a millionaire and then spend every last cent of it making it illegal to play whatever was playing over the loudspeaker. (It just happened to be disco.) Separately, he also vowed to never again wear bell bottoms, starting the day when he could buy his own big boy pants. He also thanks Mary Clare Stevens and Kari Hamanaka for their assistance with this piece.

FOOTNOTES:

1 Bill Veeck, in 1960, added player’s surnames on the back of their uniforms. Veeck also installed a shower behind the speaker horns in the center field bleachers for fans to cool off on hot summer days.

2 Lorelei Shark: “I even did a spot with Pete Rose and another with a baby orangutan.”
“Yes, I am those famous biting lips in The Rocky Horror Picture Show poster.”

3 Chic’s Nile Rogers had been an active Black Panther at the age of sixteen. Duran Duran’s bassist John Taylor had envisioned the band he was in as a combination of Chic and the Sex Pistols.

4 The Insane Unknowns itself was an amalgamation. Two gangs, the Division Skulls and the Unknown Souls, merged in 1967 and called themselves the Insane Unknowns.

5 K.C and the Sunshine Band took their name from lead vocalist Harry Wayne Casey’s last name (“KC”) and the “Sunshine Band” from KC’s home state of Florida, “The Sunshine State.” KC originally called the band KC & The Sunshine Junkanoo Band.

6 Skylab was engineered to fail within five years. The day before, on July 11th, 1979, NASA’s version of duct taping a pair of Chucks to get every last step out of them—called Skylab—broke up in the atmosphere and scattered its remains across the Australian outback.

7 Other forfeits in baseball history: June 4, 1974’s ten-cent beer night fiasco and forfeiture in Cleveland preceded this event. On August 10, 1995 30,000 Dodger fans throwing baseballs onto the field followed this event.

8 Steve Dahl has copyrighted the term “Disco Demolition.”

Mark Hughson Reviews Where Have You Gone, Vince Dimaggio? by Edward Kiersch

2011-10-01T19:50:00.002-04:00

I went to an estate sale last summer. My wife and I own a house now so I feel like going to one of these is some kind of “circle of life” thing. Amongst the usual furniture, tools, and clutter was a huge bin of sports books, many of which I’ve already read (and reviewed for Zisk). I had to get one. There’s just something about a paperback baseball book from the 80s that brings a warm feeling to my innards. Where Have You Gone, Vince Dimaggio? by Edward Kiersh was my selection, and it proved to be much more of an adventure than I anticipated. Over 300 pages, and in some sense only about half of it is about baseball. The book’s tagline summarizes the content well enough: “From baseball’s biggest sluggers to it’s all-time bobblers—Where did they go when the cheering stopped?” Seemed like a good premise, and as I poured through all 55 (short) chapters, stories ranging from exciting to mundane, joyful to terrifying, and funny to sad hit me like a ton of bean balls.

The “past and present” element was the main focus of each story (kudos to the author, wherever he may be, for the research and dedication to this project), but throughout the book two other themes struck me. Ball players circa 1950s-1970s, especially the benchwarmers, weren’t paid the ridiculous salaries of today. Nowadays a guy can bat .230 in the majors for a few seasons and practically be set for life. Back then you’d bust your ass just as much and earn about 15 to 30 grand a year. This of course leads to an interesting little game of “Where Are They Now?” (see next page). The other running theme is that baseball, especially for the super stars, does a number on your noggin.

Ernie Banks, Mr. Cub himself, was a star player and then an organization man over the span of 25 years. “I had to see a psychologist. I didn’t know how to deal with my environment, the real world. It’s fabulous being a baseball star. But too many people direct your life. You’re always doing what you’re told. This hurts you. Functioning later on is so difficult. I got tired of people recognizing my face, my voice, my walk. I just wanted to be alone to find some answers.”

Gene Conley, one of the early two-sport athletes (91-96 lifetime with Boston Braves, Milwaukee, and the Phillies, as well as a player on the Boston Celtics in the late 50s, averaging 10 PPG), adds another sad element to the mental struggles after hanging up your cleats: The longing for your hey-day. “I only know that I’m still adjusting to being out of sports. When my playing days were over I couldn’t go to a ball game. I still can’t. Maybe inside there’s a feeling that I can do it better than the guys out there. I don’t know what the pain is. I just miss those games. Now I’m on the other side of the fence, they’ve locked me out, and it’s cold.” Cold, indeed.

Some athletes took it better than others. Mickey Lolich (217 Wins, 2,832 Ks, three spectacular wins in the ’68 World Series) went on to run a bakery. “You just have to accept that you’re living another life, that you’re an average workingman. I still have my home, I can maintain it, sure. I just can’t blow $100 a night on dinner, or buy a new car every year. If you’re a ballplayer, you never think about these things. You just go out and buy what you want. Now that’s impossible for me.”

The list of accounts goes on and on—I’ve got every other page marked with interesting quotes of regrets, dreams, and humbled nostalgia. The stories themselves are entertaining, as some of the players had some exciting (albeit brief) careers despite not putting up great stats. Remember this was over five decades ago, when a B-list ballplayer could disappear for two days on a bender and it wasn’t the biggest scandal of the weekend. There’s also some odd photography included. Some typical posed “baseball card” shots, some action shots, and then there’s a picture of Gene Woodling (hit .318 and scored 21 runs in five World Series with the Yankees in the early 50s) vacuuming his living room. Huh? Overall the book succeeds at the double-duty. It reviews the careers of some superstars (Roger Maris, Harmon Killebrew, and Boog Powell all have chapters) as well as some forgotten oddballs, and it also gives the reader a glimpse into the psychology of post-baseball life. If you comes across this one in a garage sale by all means snag it. If I had a stamp that said “charming and weird” I’d be pressing it on the cover as we speak.

Mark Hughson lives in Syracuse, NY and roots for the Oakland A's. His prediction/curse (the Yankees will never win a WS while Jason Giambi wears pinstripes) from Zisk # 16 was validated in 2009, as the Yanks won the title after cutting Giambi the previous season. Not that he holds a grudge or anything. If you want to read about very current music instead of very old baseball paperbacks, visit www.beattheindiedrum.com.

Steve Mandich reviews The Underground Baseball Encyclopedia by Robert Schnakenberg

2011-10-01T19:30:00.000-04:00

Baseball constantly rewards us with historic, unforgettable moments— new milestones, no-hitters, World Series victories and so forth. But for every Lou Gehrig farewell speech, there’s a Disco Demolition Night, as baseball also delivers an ever-increasing amount of arcane, oddball lore. There are enough drunken antics, wild ‘70s hair hairstyles, and George Brett hemorrhoids to fill an encyclopedia. Now, thanks to Brooklyn-based author Robert Schnakenberg, they finally do.

The Underground Baseball Encyclopedia (Triumph Books, 2010) is a tidy, cross-referenced compendium of the game’s underbelly: the sordid and the silly, the scandalous and the stupid. Other than tasteful coverage of a few truly ugly episodes, Schnakenberg usually goes for the laughs. And why not?

Here’s an A-to-Z sampler: Astroturf, The Bad News Bears, Cocaine Seven, Double Knit Uniforms, Eephus Pitch, Fuck Face Card, Greenies, House of David, The Isotopes, Juiced, Harry Kalas, Lake Erie Midge, Morganna, “No Pepper,” Saduharu Oh, Joe Pepitone, Dan Quisenberry, Road Beef, Schottzie, Tomahawk Chop, Bob Uecker, Bill Veeck, Winfield Seagull Incident, Xenophobia (“See Rocker, John”), Youppi, and Don Zimmer.

Baseball is a game full of eccentrics, and the UBE has loads of ‘em—players (Dock Ellis), fans (Steve Bartman), broadcasters (Harry Caray), and various other characters (wacky ballpark vendors, secret mistresses, “disgraceful” National Anthem singers). There’s Chief Wahoo and Chief Noc-a-Homa, Billy Bean and Billy Beane, The Baseball Bunch and The Brady Bunch (specifically, the episode guest-starring Don Drysdale). And, of course, mascots. Nearly 60 are listed, and while most of the book’s entries are limited to a few sentences, the Phillie Phanatic has by far the longest UBE write-up, spread across four pages.

Schnakenberg admits up front that his survey is “far from comprehensive,” but a few oversights remain: the (Mario) Mendoza Line, 1975 bubblegum-blowing champ Kurt Bevacqua, Kenny Powers… Granted, defining what constitutes “underground” is pretty much impossible, yet some inconsistencies are apparent: Dodger Dogs are included, Fenway Franks are not; Johnny Bench Batter Up is in, the Rod Carew Batting Trainer is out; there’s Larry Doby’s Cock, but no Merkle’s Boner.

Still, the UBE is a fun read for both casual and hardcore fans, at least those of us whose appreciation of the game isn’t limited to the Ken Burns-y, Field of Dreams-type stuff, but who dig the offbeat sidelights just as much. Maybe even more.

Steve Mandich runs the blog Super Ichiro Crazy! at http://superichirocrazy.wordpress.com.

It's Not Working Anymore by Mike Faloon

2011-10-01T19:15:00.000-04:00

Here’s the way I heard it. A bunch of players were getting together at this barbeque restaurant. Closing time was supposed to be one o’clock. This was Bradenton, ’79, spring training. It was early on. They hadn’t made cuts yet, so everyone was feeling pretty good and a bunch of the veterans arranged to keep the place open after hours. It was walking distance from the hotel but the rookies had an early curfew—lights out at midnight and the owner was strict. He had a guy posted at the hotel entrance. He was checking on the rookies and Donny came up with this idea. He had a breakout year in ’78 so his spot on the roster was secure, not that he wouldn’t have acted any differently. Anyway, he told the rookies to go back to their rooms, tie together some bedsheets, scale down the wall, and come back to the bar. They were on the second floor. No big deal. So they went back to their rooms and tied together a bunch bedsheets and snuck out, and they got away with it. They stayed out all night and made it back into their rooms without getting caught.

The next day the team was taking the bus to the ballpark and the owner decided to take the bus, too. They passed the hotel and the bedsheets were still hanging out the window. The owner spotted them, put two and two together and started freaking out. He was yelling at everyone. Then he made eye contact with one of the rookies. Of course it happened to be his room but the owner didn’t know that. It was just dumb luck but the kid was blushing and he was about to confess when Donny spoke up. He said it was his room. A year before he might have been cut or fined but like I said, Donny’s spot was locked up, the team needed him in the bullpen, so the owner just said don’t let it happen again.

Donny would probably still be alive if he’d done more things like that. Though maybe the Illiterate Assassin would still have come after him. It’s a wonder Donny lived as long as he did.

I’d been on Donny duty for a week when he called me. It was late on a Saturday morning. He was scheduled to appear at the Greater Central New York Boat Show, “a personal watercraft extravaganza.” He called early and asked me to drive him. He was antsy. “Get your ass over here toot sweet,” was the phrase he used.
I was still rolling to a stop when he approached my car. Sunglasses, flip flops, tattered Ocean Pacific shorts that might have been cool five years earlier. More beach bum than former all-star.

“Slide over, hoss. And screen my calls.”

He tossed me a cell phone. This was the summer of ’93, so the thing was the size of shoebox.

“Call the dentist.”

“Dentist?”

“I’ve got a twelve o’clock appointment. Tell ‘im I’m running late.”

I looked at my watch to verify that this wasn’t true.

“Don’t answer if a guy named Lou calls.”

He handed me a list of phone numbers and money for expenses. “There’s more if I get to ballpark on time.”

The “if” made me nervous. The game wasn’t for hours and the stadium was only five minutes away.

Donny Blackstone was a legend, even if a fading one. He’d first come through Syracuse in the mid ‘70s, making his way up through the Yankee system. He went to Pittsburgh in the Goose Gossage trade. He was a mainstay of the Pirates’ bullpen during their Papa Stargell/“We Are Family” era. He spent the early eighties with the Cardinals setting up Bruce Sutter. Four trips to the Series. Two rings. The guy had been around a lot of success.

Donny was back in Syracuse to work on a new pitch. His pitching coach in Toronto didn’t think Donny could rely on his fastball anymore. He wanted Donny to work on a change up. The Jays’ GM agreed. The plan was to have Donny make a few successful appearances before returning to the Blue Jays for the stretch drive. His first games didn’t go well, so his stay was extended. Hitters knew what was coming and where it would be. The illusion was gone. They were on to Donny but he didn’t seem to appreciate the gravity of his situation. He was showing up late to team meetings. Dozing off in the bullpen. Refusing to work on a change up. The rap on Donny had always been that his million-dollar arm was attached to a ten-cent brain, and neither of them was getting any younger.

My job was to make myself available to Donny before and after games. Run errands, give him a ride from the Hotel Syracuse. If nothing else prevent any escapades that would make the papers.

That Saturday was the first time he’d called. I’d left messages with Donny, but he never returned them. Everyone in the front office hoped, however naively, that he’d finally started to pace himself, think about his future. Even if he didn’t make it back to the big leagues that season he still had potential as off-season trade bait.

There was a lot of talk about Donny. Baseball types like to present themselves as gruff, stoic types, men of few words but behind closed doors we cackle like hens. That goes for management and players. The latest was that Donny had worn out his welcome at the players’ bars and was in danger of losing his driver’s license. Rumor had it that even the cab companies were hanging up on him, so now he was holed up at the hotel, palling around with the cast of California Suite from Syracuse Stage. The guy who played Marvin Michaels—Walter Matthau’s role if you’ve seen the movie—later testified that Donny liked to buy drinks for everyone.

Donny wanted to eat before the boat show. We went to Twin Trees, which surprised me. A lot of ballplayers went there and he’d been avoiding player hangouts. Twin Trees was a cozy place, a tiny split level restaurant with tables upstairs and booths and a bar downstairs. Autographed pictures of Yankees past and present lined the wood paneled walls. Lou Pinella. Thurman Munson. Reggie. Rick Cerone. The owner was a friend of Steinbrenner’s.

We were sitting at a booth downstairs. Donny’s pepper and onion pie had just come out when I noticed him staring over my shoulder. I turned to see a couple walking down the stairs. He was vintage early ‘90s Syracuse, sleeveless t-shirt, goatee, mullet. She looked like an old Tanya Tucker album cover.

Sleeveless saw Donny first.

“Are you Donny Blackstone? ‘We Are Family?’ Sheila, it’s Donny Blackstone.”

Her face changed when she recognized Donny. She looked at him with daggers.

Donny and Sheila hadn’t seen each other since shortly after the cancer fundraiser. They met back in ’75. She was waiting tables at the Westwood Diner. Donny was in his second season with the Chiefs. He went all out trying to woo her. He contacted her family and got the recipes for her favorite childhood foods. Her mom’s ramen noodle casserole, her grandmother’s clam chowder, her aunt’s Moon Pies. He poured on the charm. He genuinely liked her. She may have felt the same way. They were both anxious to move on to the lives they were hearing about. Then Sheila was diagnosed with melanoma. She and Donny decided to have a fundraiser.

They rented out the backroom of the Westwood. Hundreds of fans came out. They raised over ten grand. Exactly how much and who spent it depends on who you asked. Two weeks later he was called up to New York and she left for Florida. They stayed out of each other’s lives until Donny’s book came out in the mid-‘80s. He claimed that she lied about having cancer. She said it was a bad diagnosis.

“You sack of dirt.”

“Good to see you, Sheila.”

“I burn every copy of your book that I see.”

“Come out to the game tonight. I’ll put you on the list.”

“I have better things to do. I’ll always have better things to do.”

Sleeveless had this puppy dog look in his eyes, like he knew not to cross Sheila but was dying to ask Donny what it was like to pitch in Game 7 of a World Series.
“Come on, Jerry, let’s go.”

Sheila didn’t look at any of us when she turned and left. Just expected that we all knew our roles. Donny did. I did. Keep quiet, that was my part the whole day. But Sleeveless lingered for a moment. I thought about offering him tickets for the game but he snapped to before I could take down their names.

To the casual fan Donny still had it. He could still ring up strikeouts and hit the mid-nineties with his fastball. But his ERA was climbing and he was losing his movement, running more full counts. Right-handed hitters were laying off his fastball, drawing more walks. Most guys in that situation would have doubled down with the pitching coach. Donny wasn’t worried about getting back to the big leagues but he should have been.

After lunch Donny guided me to strip mall in North Syracuse Mall, a non-descript string of stores that lined Taft Road. On one side of the dentist’s office there was a hardware store, pet supplies on the other. When we arrived Donny asked me to call the first number on the list and leave a message for someone named Lou.

“Let him know I’ll make the boat show.”

I wondered why this needed confirmation when the actual event was so close. There was no answer so I left a message.

“The boat show is supposed to be the only thing on today’s ‘to do’ list, no?”

“Let’s just enjoy ourselves and make it to the park on time.”

I was beginning to catch on. “And don’t answer if Lou calls?”

“Slicker than hair on a trout, son.”

The receptionist lit up when Donny walked into the waiting room. Sauntered, more like it. She came out from behind the desk. They hugged, groped a little. The dentist, Dr. Roland, entered and patted Donny on the back, showered him with accolades. Ass grabbing and ass kissing. The room was saturated with ass-related activity.

They had just escorted Donny to the exam room when I heard a phone ringing. It took me a moment to place the sound. It was Donny’s cell phone. I answered.

“Where the hell are you?”

“Donny’s not here. May I take a message?”

“What do you mean? It’s his phone. Of course, he’s there. Put him on.” The voice grew more intense. “This is Lou Zantini. You called me, remember? Tell Donny he’s late.”

“Mr. Blackstone has a dentist appointment.”

“I knew this was a mistake.”

Lou hung up. I looked at my watch. Lou was right about Donny being late.

All I could do was wait. I flipped through a couple of issues of People, even tried the “What doesn’t belong?” page in a well-worn copy of Highlights but I couldn’t focus. Donny wasn’t a hero of mine, not by any stretch. I’d heard too much of the lore. But still, his face was always among the cards I collected and counted and sorted as a kid, and this day had been really unsettling.

For the next hour no one else entered or left the office. Then I heard Dr. Roland’s voice.
“Then we’ll use the hot tub.” Donny roared at what must have been a punch line.

Dr. Roland turned to me and said that Donny needed rest. He spoke as if Donny were no longer in the room. He handed me a prescription for Tylenol with codeine. “Just in case.”

Donny was already heading for the door. “Boat show. Quick stop on the way.”

It was my second season with the Chiefs, the Triple A affiliate for the Toronto Blue Jays. My business card read “Assistant Director of Merchandising,” which sounded better than my actual job duties. I sold tickets. I stocked the concession stands. I could reach the back rows with the t-shirt cannon. I also turned on the sprinkler system during a sold-out, 4th of July game, stalling a rally with two-out in the bottom of the ninth. It was an accident. The general manager said he believed me but he had his doubts. I could see it in his eyes. I was young but I could tell. I’m pretty sure Donny duty was my reward for that mishap.

Rumpy’s was Donny’s next stop. It was an old man bar from Syracuse’s factory era. Rumpy’s opened early and closed in the middle of the afternoon. Or at least that’s when the last bartender clocked out. The owners lived upstairs and most days they didn’t come down to lock up until after the six o’clock news. In the meantime, regulars poured their own drinks and left money in a jar beneath the counter. From an outsider’s point of view the place was abandoned. The windows were cloudy and cracked. The concrete steps were crumbling and the Utica Club sign that hung out front was obscured by rust. It had been years since one could make out the images of Schultz and Dooley, the cartoon beer steins. The sign read “Utica Club” but it said “Stay away.”

I parked in front. Donny told me to stay put.

I waited for half an hour before going in. I locked both doors but figured even in this part of town an ’84 Ford Escort was safe. As I stepped inside Rumpy’s I questioned my decision to major in sports marketing. It wouldn’t be the last time that day.

Donny was hunched over a set of dominoes. Beside him were two empty pint glasses and a bowl of popcorn. Across from him was what I can only assume to be a typical Rumpy’s patron. The whiteness of his hair was striking but secondary to the uniformity of its curliness. It looked like it had been snapped into place. I think it was a wig.

The look of concern on my face must have been more evident than I realized.

“Don’t worry, kid. We’ll make the show. But don-imoes can get tense. Gotta take the edge off.” Donny laughed and clinked White Wig’s glass. I went to the bar and ordered a seltzer when Donny started outlining plans for an off-season fishing trip to Hudson Bay.

Four years at BYU. Graduated with honors. Worked my way up to Triple A in three years. Now I was babysitting.

“The funny part was the look on his face.”

It was Donny.

“He looked so damned confused.”

He was talking about White Wig, pointing at him and laughing too, but he was looking at two older guys at the next table.

“Womp! Pulled the door right into his face. Must have hurt like hell.”

White Wig shook his head ever so slightly and got up from the table. Donny’s badgering trailed him.

“Womp! Pulled the door into his face! Who does that?”

A couple of minutes later a figure passed behind me. I assumed it was White Wig but the footsteps sounded different. They were heavier, slower, more purposeful.

Donny’s laughter ceased. The song on the jukebox suddenly seemed too loud.

“You heard me. Forty grand. Pay up. It’s simple.” The voice was loud and angry. “Are you listening to me?” If Donny responded, I didn’t hear him.

By the time I turned around Donny’s table was upended and he was pinned to the wall, held a foot off the ground by a mountain range of a man. The papers would later dub him the Illiterate Assassin.

Donny was confused. He insisted that he had no idea what the Illiterate Assassin was talking about. He was telling the truth. What none of us realized at the time was that the Illiterate Assassin was supposed to be in Cleveland, chasing down another portly relief pitcher, Chet Rollins. He was the one who owed forty grand. The Illiterate Assassin, true to his name, couldn’t read and he’d confused the Chiefs’ logo with the Indians’ logo, wound up in Syracuse rather than Cleveland.

“Your word? No, shithead, I have your throat. I have your life in my hands. This is what your word gets you.”
He lowered Donny to the ground.

“You’ve got two days.”

He declined Donny’s offer to have a drink.

Donny dusted himself off and approached the bar.

Having his life threatened hastened Donny’s stay at Rumpy’s and we finally made it to the boat show. Donny was beaming even before he saw the line of autograph seekers. He spotted the banner the moment we entered the State Fair pavilion: “Appearing today, 2-time Rolaids Fireman of the Year: Donny Blackstone.”

The place was packed with people and boats, new, used and demo’d. It was that kind of crowd. They moved aside for Donny, smiles and slaps on the back, as we made our way across the Astroturf covered floor.

At the front of the line stood a set of twins decked out in matching Chiefs hats, t-shirts, and wristbands. Their father stood behind them, an arm around each boy.

Donny sat down, opened an iced tea, and turned on the charm. He signed 8 x 10 glossies, baseball cards, and the occasional Sister Sledge album. He joked about his weight. He talked trash about the rest of the American League East.

I spotted a man walking toward us. “In a huff” would be an apt description. I was about to meet Lou Zantini.

I tried to defuse the situation. “Donny is glad to be here. He was just discussing an upcoming bass trip to Long Island Sound. Maybe that could lead to a sponsorship deal with the Sea Craft people.” I don’t think Lou heard me.

Donny sipped his iced tea. “Very refreshing. Have one, Lou.”

Neither iced tea nor fishing boats were on the forefront of Lou’s mind.
“The great Donny Blackstone has finally decided to grace us with his royal presence. How considerate. And I see you’ve taken the time to don the royal tank top and the royal flip flops. Let’s bow. Let’s grovel. Let’s beg for handshakes or a splotch of marker on an eight by ten or a baseball card or a goddamned program. You’re late, lard ass, over two hours late. Sign until your heart’s content. Sign away. Then ask to get paid. Please, Donny, please ask me to pay you.”

The unspoken collective decision was to stare at Lou. Me. The kids. Their dad. The dozens of people in line behind them. It seemed like an inordinate amount of anger to direct toward a tardy ballplayer. I’d worked dozens of these events. Players never showed up on time. But there was more to the situation. As I was quickly learning there always was with Donny.

At the trial I found out that Donny and Lou had been business partners. They’d met during Donny’s first time through Syracuse. Donny had the idea. Lou had the money. Ultra bowling. Ultra bowling didn’t exist but Donny convinced Lou that it was the sport of the future. He’d read an article in Sports Illustrated about the Western States Endurance, a 100-mile footrace that started in California in the ‘70s. Ultramarathons started popping up everywhere. Donny was amazed by the fact that people were willing to do so much of a thing that nobody really liked in the first place. People only went running because their doctor or their coach or their guilty conscience told them to go running. Bowling was different. People liked to bowl. Donny figured why not take something people enjoyed and do more of it. Hence, ultrabowling. If a few nutjobs were willing to run for days at a time, then a whole lot of people would love the chance to bowl around the clock.

“Go ahead, Blackstone, ask me to give you more of my. I’m still booking boat shows because of you. It’s been over 15 years and I’m still doing boat shows because of you. The least you could do is show up on time. That’s the least you could do. ‘They’ll bowl for days, Lou, they really will. Some of ‘em will bowl for days! Keep it open 24 hours and they’ll bowl for days.’”

I tried to intervene on Donny’s behalf. Lou told me to call his lawyer. At least that’s my translation. His choice of words was considerably more colorful.
Donny went to the clubhouse when we got to the park. The skies had clouded over and the temperature must have dropped ten or fifteen degrees since the early afternoon. I chose to sit in the upper deck. I needed some distance, which was easy to find. With the chill and the threat of rain there were only 400 people in the stands. But what the stadium lacked in people it would soon make up for in sheer panic and mayhem. I found a seat between home and third. I couldn’t see Donny for most of the game. My view of the bullpen was obscured by the bullpen car.

The Chiefs went up early but Rochester matched them run for run. After seven innings both bullpens were depleted and the game was tied at nine. A sac fly in the bottom of the eighth put Syracuse up 11-9. The Chiefs only had two pitchers left, Donny and Toby Corbett, a 19-year-old just up from Double A.

Corbett got the nod and he walked the bases loaded. Twelve straight pitches. He wasn’t even close. They brought in Donny. When Lombardi, the catcher, started jogging out to the mound Donny sent him back behind the plate. Donny looked in for the signs. He waved off Lombardi several times. He stepped off the mound and picked up the rosin bag before coming set and throwing his final pitch.

It seems odd but I think I noticed the infield dirt spraying up before I heard the gunshots. Most fans ducked down. Some ran. Players either dropped to the ground or froze, except Donny. He twisted hard to the left, then back to the right. Then he slumped to the ground.

It wasn’t hard to figure out who killed Donny Blackstone. It wasn’t hard to apprehend any of them either. Sheila and Sleeveless were caught at the Canadian border. The border guard probably would have let them go but they were arguing about whether they were going to Ottawa or Toronto. The Illiterate Assassin was at the bus station asking someone to read the schedule to him. Lou was having a beer at the stadium club. At the trial everyone wanted to take credit for killing Donny but forensics could not determine which bullet was fatal. The thing that gets me is that I’m pretty sure Donny’s last pitch was a change up.

We Break Our Silence for Breaking News...

2011-06-14T10:40:00.002-04:00

Mr. and Mrs. Met got married...FOR REAL. Check it out at Uni Watch.

Issue #19 is up...and Santana is out

2010-09-10T17:15:00.003-04:00

If you look to your right you'll see the link to get issue # 19.

And if you look to your left you'll see me laughing at the state of the Mets. A shoulder surgery for Johan Santana? When will the fun stop with this team?

No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

2010-09-08T17:33:00.003-04:00

The Mets team visit to Walter Reed Hospital Tuesday obviously had a large impact on the players (and the broadcasters, if the reaction by Gary, Keith, Ron and Kevin last night was any barometer).

Wait, let me change that to the players that went. Starting pitcher Dillon Gee was told not to go. The toxic contract twins, Oliver Perez and Luis Castillo, and Carlos Beltran did not. If there was ever a sign that not just the front office needs some housecleaning, the controversy stirred up by their absence made it clear to anyone that has watched the team.

Adam Rubin at ESPNNewYork has a great article on it. My favorite paragraph is this:

"Beltran responded after Wednesday's 3-2 rubber-game win against the Nationals that he had a conflict with planning for a high school in Puerto Rico he has pushed to build. Castillo suggested he was too squeamish. Perez declined to discuss the matter at all.

"You see people with no legs and with no arms, being in a hospital like that, I don't like to see that," Castillo said.

Said Perez: "I don't answer anything about outside the stadium.""

Amazing.

Oh, Hi There.

2010-09-04T17:40:00.003-04:00

Yeah, I totally slacked off on the blog. For like the entire season. Sorry about that.

I found it hard to muster up enthusiasm for baseball because 1) my fantasy team was about as mediocre as it could be and 2) the Mets, well, jeebus, what do you say. I retweeted something Twitter about this Mets team being the closest to .500 for the longest time of any Mets team and my friend Brian responded with, "Of course here in Pittsburgh... we dream to someday have an average baseball team." And he's right, I should be happy the Mets are not the Pirates. But I think I would take a team playing .400 for an entire season with a thought that there was a plan for a future as opposed to knowing the organization wasn't run by a total bunch of fucking morons from the top on down. The only good thing I can say is that Gary, Keith and Ron are still entertaining. (And listening to the radio call has gotten tougher because Wayne Hagin has become insufferable. Fire Wayne Hagin, indeed.)

So let me say now, in the blogosphere, that if there isn't some serious change in the way the organization is run (as in, clean house in the front office and the coaching staff and actually admit mistakes and not to put a positive spin on everything) AND Oliver Perez and Luis Castillo aren't gone from the 2011 opening day roster, I won't be rooting for the Mets next year. I'll just get the MLB extra innings package and watch the Red Sox instead of listening to the occasional game through my iPhone. No games at Citifield either. They won't be getting my money until they stop acting like jackasses.

Oh, hey, Zisk #19 is done, and it's got a whole lot on Ichiro. You should have your print copy soon. The online version will go up at some point this month.

Finally, a couple of random thoughts:

--This Keith Hernandez site is, well, odd.

--Even though the story was later shot down, heckling Omar Minaya on a plane is awesome. I would have done it for sure.

--Frank Deford just missed our deadline.

--This piece by Joe Sheehan makes me enjoy statheads even more.

--Lastly, SNY is doing a great service with their new online show, Kiner's Korner Revisited. Ralph Kiner has sounded great this year, which is amazing.

Zisk # 19

2010-08-28T15:30:00.009-04:00

Save You, Save Me: Our Relievers Doubleheader by Steve Reynolds

It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like...Strasmas? by Dr. Nancy Golden

Adrian Beltre's Right Nut by Todd Taylor

The Night Boog Bodyslammed Hondo by Tim Hinely

The Hidden Superstar: A Zisk Special on Ichiro
--Is Ichiro the New J.D. Salinger? by Arne Christensen
--There's More to the Game Than Singles by John Shiffert (Print Only)
--Rice Balls, Ass Tattoos and Elvis: Ichiro a Go-Go by Steve Mandich
--Ichiro & Pujols: The HOF Debate by Jeff Herz (Print Only)
--Keep Your Head Up Ichiro by Scott McCaughey

Save You, Save Me: Our Relievers Doubleheader by Steve Reynolds

2010-08-28T15:20:00.001-04:00

As the role of the reliever has become more specialized (I remember when LOOGY stood for something I hacked up after a night of being in smoky bars until 7a.m.), their place in the game has become more scrutinized and discussed. Of course, this had to lead to books about the position. I had the opportunity to talk to two former relievers about their book projects this year. Former Philadelphia Phillies pitcher Mitch “Wild Thing” Williams wrote a book about his career and his thoughts on how the game has evolved in Straight Talk From Wild Thing (Triumph). Former all-time saves leader Lee Smith wrote the forward to (and was a primary source for) Fireman: The Evolution of the Closer in Baseball by Fran Zimniuch. In speaking with them both, I couldn’t help but think how their personalities came across in the media during their career were almost exactly how they seemed over the phone. Williams came off as a no-nonsense, get right to the point kind of guy, while Smith was more reserved and a bit more thoughtful about the game.

Nicknames Can Hurt: The Mitch Williams Interview

(I spoke with Williams the day after opening day, which he had covered as an analyst for the MLB Network.—SR)

Zisk: Do you still get excited on opening day, even though you’re a part of the media now?

Williams: Absolutely. I get just as wound up every year on opening day now as I did when I was a player. It’s just something— when you played the game, you don’t ever lose that. I was absolutely excited yesterday when it all kicked off.

Zisk: Does the adrenaline kick in when you know it’s here, even though you won’t be taking the field? Do you wake up earlier on that day?

Williams: Well I get up early pretty much every day, so it’s not like when you were a player you don’t get the adrenaline rush. But you get that excited feeling obviously because it’s a sport we love.

Zisk: In the book you talk how you got your nickname “Wild Thing.” Do you think that having a nickname based upon what someone thought of your pitching style hurt you when you tried to get major league coaching jobs after you retired? I know you did work as a coach for an independent league team for a while. Did the image that nickname portrayed become a negative in the eyes of major league organizations?

Williams: Absolutely. You have the nickname “Wild Thing” they’re not going to be beating your door down to teach their young pitchers the mechanics of the position. And the one thing I know—and I know for sure—is the mechanics of the position. I know how to throw a baseball. I know how to throw a baseball correctly. I know how to teach how to throw a baseball correctly to keep kids from hurting their arms. But with that nickname, there’s not going to be a lot of people wanting you to teach their kids. And until you have the opportunity to sit down and talk with somebody to explain the mechanics of the position and that you do know them, they won’t know what you can do. I spent 11 years in the big leagues and never got stiff or sore. I know how to throw the ball correctly. But the nickname absolutely hurt me in that aspect.

Zisk: If you were offered a job as a pitching coach for a major league team, would you do that now? Would you give up the media career you’ve built up right now?

Williams: You know…I don’t know. I honestly couldn’t answer that question. It would all depend on the job and where it would be, because I love what I’m doing now and it would have to be somewhere pretty special for me to leave what I’m doing.

Zisk: In Straight Talk you dive into how pitch counts have had a dramatic impact on today’s game. When did it really start? Did they become a factor when you were playing?

Williams: When I first got to the minor leagues it wasn’t so low. They didn’t want you going out there and throwing forever. I remember getting taken out of a no hitter in the 5th inning with 155 pitches in the minors.

Zisk: Holy crap.

Williams: I just never believed in the pitch count. If you throw mechanically right you can throw all day. And it just teaches kids now—it’s a mental thing. It’s a mental block for them. A manger will go to the mound and say, ‘How do you feel?’ And they don’t say, ‘Fine. I feel good. How many pitches have I thrown?’ It doesn’t matter how many pitches you have thrown. It’s how do you feel. I’ve always believed that the other team will let you know when you’re tired because they’ll start beating your brains in. It’s that simple.

Zisk: What was it like making the transition to the other side of the microphone? When you first started on air in Philadelphia and now on the MLB Network, did you ever feel like you had to restrain what you said? When I watch you on MLB Tonight, it seems like you don’t hold back and shoot from the hip much of the time. It doesn’t seem like you’re holding anything back.

Williams: No, definitely not. The only thing I concerned myself with is that I don’t ever want to forget that I played the game. And it’s a difficult game. I will never attack a player personally. I’ll never question his integrity, what he tried to get done or anything like that. I’m going to analyze what is in front of me. And I’m gonna tell the truth. If I see something that happened that shouldn’t have happened, I will say it should not have happened. I’m not going to sit there and say, ‘Oh, he tried to do it this way on purpose and it wrong and his whole thought process was wrong.’ You can’t do that. All you can do is analyze is what’s in front of you and give an honest analysis of the game.

Zisk: One final question—we’re doing a special issue marking a decade of Ichiro and Albert Pujols playing in the major leagues. How you would pitch to each of them if you were playing today?

Williams: Well Ichiro I would go at him like I would any other lefthander. Albert Pujols, he’s either going to swing at balls or he’s going to walk, period. I’m not going to give him anything that he could possibly hit a home run. That’s how I would approach him. I would try to get ahead of him in the count and then expand the strike zone. And then he either swings at balls or he walks.

Zisk: Do you ever shake your head watching some pitchers approach Pujols? Like you think yourself, “What are they doing?”

Williams: (Laughs) Oh yeah, absolutely. There really is no one way to go at him. So you have to continually change up how you’re going to go at him. And if you do have to pitch to him, you better know where his nitro zone is—and where he can do the least amount of damage.

Biding My Time: The Lee Smith Interview

Zisk: One of the things I didn’t know about your career before I read the book is that you didn’t want to become a reliever, and that you actually quit baseball because of it.

Smith: Yeah, I did and was going to play college basketball. But Billy Williams visited me and talked me into coming back. The Cubbies wanted me to be relief pitcher and they wanted me to throw sidearm. And the one thing that bothered me was that I didn’t know if my arm would snap back day in and day out. Luckily it did, and the rest is history.

Zisk: The transition from being a starter to a reliever, is it more on the mental side of things? Or is it the physical toll, like you talked about worrying about your arm day after day.

Smith: It’s definitely more on the mental side of things. You have to go out there day in and day out and think about getting major league hitters out. As a starter you’ve got three or four days to prepare for a full lineup. And after a while, I finally got to a point where I knew how much to throw to be ready each day. Because as a reliever, as you well know, you can throw three or four days in a row and not even pitch in a game. Some mangers might think, ‘Man, you had three days off.” And I’m like, ‘No, I’ve been warming up in the bullpen every time you call down there.’ So you’ve got to learn how much warming up you need to do before you go into the game.

Zisk: Was there a certain point in your career where you thought, ‘Okay, I am a reliever and I’ve got the right mental approach down.’

Smith: I think in 1987 at the All-Star Game in Oakland that happened. I struck out Mark McGwire, and I guess that’s where the recognition started that I was one of their premiere closers in the game. And it was around that time that I really embraced being a closer. I thought, ‘Man, I like this job.’ That’s because up until that point, I was always thinking about trying to get back into the rotation. But thank God I never did. I had always dreamed of following in the footsteps of great pitchers like Bob Gibson and Fergie Jenkins. I always wanted to be that because in that era, the only way to get recognition was to be a starting pitcher.

Zisk: You mention Fergie Jenkins in your forward and in you interview in the book. What kind of impact did he have on you as a baseball player?

Smith: He was my mentor on and off the field. I loved the way he pitched. As a matter of fact, Fergie Jenkins taught me a curveball because I was going to be a starting pitcher. And once I started closing our manager Jim Frey said, ‘Hey, you don’t need a curveball. You don’t need two breaking balls, you just need one.’ So I ended up throwing a slider, a two seam fastball and a four seam fastball, and then I ended up throwing a forkball towards the end of my career. But back to Fergie, wow, he taught me so much. He even talked me into wearing cowboy boots. Now what does a Canadian dude know about wearing cowboy boots? (Laughs) I really liked rooming with him because he would talk to me about looking at hitters in key situations and how to pitch to them in a game. But it was so different for him, being a starter. He could throw some of his secondary pitches in the fourth inning and it wouldn’t hurt him. But if I tried to go out their and throw a get-me-over slider I with the first pitch of 9th inning, it might not be a good idea. I took what he told me and applied it to my role. I used it for on the job training. I prided myself on my control, and that’s what Fergie was great in helping me with against hitters.

Zisk: When Jim Frey told you to ditch the curveball, were you pretty confident in it at that point?

Smith: Oh yeah. Heck, Fergie even told me he thought I had a better curveball than a slider. But it was the right move. If you’re at Wrigley Field early in the season and its 30 degrees and the wind’s whipping, you want to go with what you can control best. The slider was that pitch that I could control the best at that time. If I missed with a one curveball on a day like that because I couldn’t grip the ball, you knew that the game was over. But Fergie always thought I had a better curveball than a slider.

Zisk: Do you remember your first official save?

Smith: Yes I do. I got one save in 1981 against the Dodgers. And you know what, I didn’t keep the ball. I probably had at least 150 saves that I never kept the balls for. I used to always throw them in the stands to the kids after the game. Kids are going to remember that more than adults would. There was this one kid I threw a ball to that now works at a restaurant outside Danbury, Connecticut. We crossed paths again recently and he brought the ball for me to sign—and he’s 45 years old now! And the ball was all yellow!

Zisk: Your career kind of bridges the gap between when closers would go for multiple innings to the way it is today where its one inning and they’re done. Did you like that transition? Did it extend your career?

Smith: When I first started I always wanted to pitch more than an inning. I wanted to pitch those last three innings with the game on the line. The closer back then got more of an opportunity than the closer of today get because we would go in with the scored tied and if we held them, we could get a win. I went in in probably about 100 games for the Cubs where we were down by a couple of runs in the 7th or 8th inning. But when you’re playing at Wrigley Field, a couple of runs mean nothing. (Laughs.) That was what I liked when I first started, getting the chance to win the game for your team when it was close, even if you were losing.

Zisk: The cover of the book features a picture of Mariano Rivera, who has been the dominant closer for the past 13 years or so. Is there anyone else that you would pick out as a reliever that stands above the rest during that time period?

Smith: Well, Rivera is the perfect guy to be on the cover. He’s unbelievable. But I can’t go without giving my buddy Trevor Hoffman a lot of credit. His changeup has been devastating for so long and he’s such a class act. If I had to pick someone that could last as long as the two of them, I’d say Jonathan Papelbon of the Red Sox has a chance to do that if he stays healthy.

Zisk: You’re currently working as a roving pitcher instructor for the Giants, and I’ve always wondered, what exactly does that job entail? Do they say, ‘We have these pitchers we’d like you to work with,” or do you just pick a different minor league affiliate to go to for a while? Explain to me how your job works.

Smith: Basically my job is that I go out through the entire organization, look at all the young pitchers and examine their mechanics and try to determine if they’re better suited as a starter or as a reliever. There’s so many guys now drafted as a closer out of college, but you can’t have a closer throwing 84 miles per hour. He might have been a closer for Southwest Missouri State, but he’s not going to close for San Francisco. So my job is to identify the strengths, teach them how to pitch out of certain situations and put them in them in a position—and the right league—to succeed.

Zisk: There’s been a lot of talk over the past five years about what it will take to get closers into the Hall of Fame. Your votes have gone up every year since you were first eligible. Are you in the mindset of, ‘What’s taking so long,’ or do you think it will happen eventually? It seems like the writers haven’t respected the impact closers have had on the game the past three decades.

Smith: I think you’ve summed it up right there. (Laughs) I don’t know how the writers think when they vote each year. It seems to me they only want one or two guys in each year. I mean, the NFL has seven per year. But to be honest, I’m okay biding my time. I mean, just to have your name on the ballot with all these great players is a great honor. It gives me goosebumps thinking about it. When you go there and look at all the greats, many of whom I never got to see play, and just look at their accomplishments. And to even be considered for that place, wow man. I mean, I came from a hometown that had a high school graduating class of 26 at one point. It was small. And to now be thought of as having a chance to go into the Hall of Fame, it’s a good feeling, you know? I do have to say that I don’t understand how the voting works. I mean, look at Bert Blyleven. I think he must have done something so bad that it’s kept both of us out. (Laughs)

It's Begining to Look a Lot Like...Strasmas? by Dr. Nancy Golden

2010-08-28T15:10:00.000-04:00

(Editor’s note: Dr. Golden wrote this story before Strasburg’s 2010 season was ended by an arm injury, requiring the dreaded Tommy John surgery. While we’re Mets fans and would normally cheer the news of an NL East opponent falling upon hard times, we feel baseball is much better off with Strasburg pitching every five days. We wish him nothing but the best and hope he returns to form in 2012.)

Us Nationals fans have so little to hope for. If it’s going to be over 90 degrees and stifling the entire month of July, let a cool breeze penetrate the sticky heat every couple of innings. If Teddy Roosevelt is going to win a mid-inning race, let it be a legitimate win against one of the other presidents, and not the Baltimore Oriole or the Geico Gecko. And if we’re going to suck, let us suck so exquisitely that we earn a first round draft pick who’s as good as we are bad. And let him actually sign with us.

And so hope has led us here. To the top of the 7th inning, with the entire sold-out stadium on its feet and chanting. “Ste-phen Stras-burg.” Clap, clap, clapclapclap. “Ste-phen Stras-burg” Clap, clap, clapclapclap. It was almost too much. Strike one! I wanted them to stop, to just be happy with what he had done so far. Strike two! To take some of the pressure off this kid and just let him—Strike three! And just like that, Stephen Strasburg had struck out the side. The last seven batters in fact. Fourteen in total. The stadium exploded into an ovation the whole city could hear. And as he walked back to the dugout, unlikely to return for the 8th inning with his pitch count at 94, we knew that Stephen Strasburg, last year’s stunning reward for our remarkable failure, had fulfilled our hopes. For tonight at least. And much more than a cool breeze ever could.

The major league debut of Stephen Strasburg was nothing less than a spectacle for Washington DC. The hype surrounding him since his first-round draft pick and eleventh hour signing could not have been more wonderfully over-the-top. Purported to be one of the sport’s best prospects ever (ever!), Strasburg was to be our very own superstar and the savior for whom we had been waiting to lead our team to greatness. As an All-American from San Diego State, his deeds were renowned. He accumulated a 0.63 conference ERA, struck out 23 batters in one game, and earned a bronze medal with two starts as the only collegiate player on the 2008 Olympic team.

And he once reversed the rotation of the earth to bring his girlfriend back from the dead.
When it finally came time for Strasburg’s major league debut, it was Christmas in June. It was Strasmas. The game sold out. Several times in fact. Every time the team released more seats, each with higher price tags and more strings attached. But the days-long dance of trying to catch the right announcement at the right time was completely worth it. Even the weather was in on it, dropping from a Code Red weekend of mid-90’s and high humidity to a crisp 75 and sunny by game time. Outside the stadium the streets swelled like no other Tuesday night. And inside the stadium, we lined up anxiously to get to our seats, and waited nervously as the National Anthem temporarily stopped the flow of traffic. A misdirected couple at the front of the line met the wrath of the masses when their hesitation slowed down our migration. Everyone wanted to be in position for the first pitch. We were here to witness the birth of an ace.

Though tonight he would finally make his major league debut, this was not the first time many of us had seen Stephen Strasburg pitch professional baseball. In an effort to prolong control of his rights, the Nats sent Strasburg on an early summer minor league tour. In a two-month span, he racked up a 7-2 record with a 1.30 ERA in 11 appearances. I saw him pitch for the Double A Harrisburg Senators in Pennsylvania after snatching up two of the last seats following the announcement of his start. Even before he threw a pitch, the one-hour rain delay (and subsequent 20-minute power outage) probably allowed Strasburg to generate enough revenue for that team to last the whole season—not a soul departed the stadium but instead drank beer, ate food, and bought t-shirts that we hoped would commemorate an historic wait. And when the grounds crew rolled the tarp back out after less than three innings of Stras-tainment, 95% of the crowd cleared out, knowing the object of their affection was unlikely to return to the mound.

But with his major league debut approaching, those bush league outings began to seem little more than diversions to distract us from the wait. So one month later back in DC, we held our collective breath, cameras poised, as Stephen Strasburg threw out his first big league pitch. For a ball. And then another ball. And then a line drive out by the Pirates’ Andrew McCutchen. The crowd cheered in approval. Neil Walker stepped to the plate next. Ball one. OK, he’s just got the jitters. Ball two. The ump must need glasses! Ball three. Boooooo! Boo? BOO? Did we really boo? Thinking back now, it seems preposterous. Him being just negative 14 strikeouts from history at the time. And then, after a grounder to first for the second out, it came on the third batter, Lastings Milledge. Strike one - strike two - strike three swinging! We exhaled, so easily won over. We so wanted things to work out with this guy. We wanted him to go to prom with us, to take him home to meet our parents. We wanted him to be the real thing.

From that first strikeout, the rest of the evening flowed. Strasburg settled into a groove and the crowd reacted to his every pitch. The 100 mile per hour fast ball followed by the third strike curve clocked in at 83. After just three innings, I was already in love, if not quite ready to admit it. I leaned over to my friends, “This is really working out, huh?” As big of an understatement as has ever flowed from my lips. Strasburg even came close to a hit at his first at-bat, making his way to the plate to the White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army.” (Swoon, even his batting music rocked!) But when Pirates shortstop Ronny Cedeno made a great play to rob him of a single, we found that we really didn’t mind. For we were already thinking that when not actively pitching, perhaps Stephen Strasburg should be packed in bubble wrap and placed behind protective glass. And transported to his starts in the Popemobile. Like the Presidential motorcade, we’d bristle with annoyance when the Strasmobile held up traffic, but strain with reverence to get a good look.

Despite the evening’s obsession with fastballs and sliders, what you won’t glean from the pitching line—and what made it truly a fan’s game—is that it was more than just a great performance by an individual, but an actual contest. It was a game of dueling homeruns that wasn’t decided until the end. Ryan Zimmerman, unwilling to be shown up by the new kid on the block, homered in his first at-bat to give the Nats a second inning advantage and assure the crowed that he would not so readily relinquish the title of hometown hero. Stras allowed the first two batters to reach base in the 4th, and ultimately lost the lead on a two-run homerun later in the inning. And we waited nervously until our team scored again in the 6th—and allowed our hero to have a shot at earning a W for his gem—on a two-run go-ahead shot by Adam Dunn. Josh Willingham rounded out the inning with yet another homerun in a rare showcase of Nats power, played out of a rare stage.

But Strasburg had the last word, maintaining the sluggers’ lead with no further signs of life from the opposition. Wrapped up in the emotion of the game, I found that by that 14th strikeout, I was no longer afraid to express my feelings. A bandwagon had arrived, and I needed to get on it. Finally willing to leave our seats with the certainty of a pitching change on the horizon, we made our way to a very long line at the team store, where the supply of Strasburg t-shirts had already been picked over and depleted. In fact, so many #37 shirts were sold that night that I was asked during the return trip home on the Metro if it had been free t-shirt night at the ballpark. The game ended in an efficient two hours and 19 minutes, with our man securing a new Nats single game strikeout record and gaining his first win on four hits, no walks, and two runs. But when the final out was recorded, nobody left. We stayed for the fireworks, for the interview, and for the pie in the face. We stayed for that tradition unique to DC, the donning of the silver Elvis wig. Outside the stadium, drivers honked their horns and friends randomly slapped each other on the back, “How great was that?” Rarely do things live up to the hype and expectation, and almost never do they exceed it.

It wouldn’t be until tomorrow that we would realize the rest of the world had been watching. Tomorrow there would be David Letterman and Sports Illustrated and personal reflection by every sports writer in the nation. There would be Strasburgers on the local menus and early debates about the All-Star game. But tonight it was still parking lot celebrations and lingering in the stands and extra-long walks to the metro and planning how we would retell it at the office in the morning. How would I retell it? I’d gather my coworkers, sit them down in a semi-circle, and retell it like this if I thought they’d listen. But in the interest of time, I’d tell people that it was better than Opening Day and the playoffs combined. And Obama throwing out the first pitch. It was anxiety replaced with joy, hope replaced with satisfaction. But that didn’t really capture it. For it was like nothing I’d experienced before. So much so that it required a whole new adjective to describe it. It was Strastastic. Wholly and uniquely Strastastic.

Dr. Nancy Golden spent part of her summer rescuing animals impacted by the BP oil spill. The editors of Zisk applaud her efforts—and are pretty sure than no one else on the staff has done something that noble this year.

Adrián Beltré's Right Nut by Todd Taylor

2010-08-28T15:00:00.000-04:00

It’s safe to say that no dude likes getting hit in the nuts really hard.

On Wednesday, August 13, 2009, during the ninth inning, Seattle Mariner third baseman Adrián Beltré Pérez attempted to field a routine ground ball off of the White Sox’s Alexei Ramirez. The ball took the unkindest hop of all. With great force, it smashed into Beltré’s right testicle. Although Beltré was able to recover the ball (the one in his mitt), his throw to first base was far off the mark, resulting in an error.

“It hurt pretty bad,” Beltré said about the ball’s impact. “It was hurting me pretty much the whole game after that.”

After the ball-to-ball contact, Beltré played five more innings and three more at-bats. He was suffering from a yet-undiagnosed tear in his testicle, which had become contused from the blow. (Picture one of the claymation California Raisins doing an extended blues sax solo.) In the tenth inning, Beltré tackled the White Sox’s Scott Podsednik on a pickoff throw from catcher Rob Johnson.

Blood continued to coagulate in Beltré’s scrotal sac through the fourteenth as Beltré dove back into first base during a pick-off attempt after his single. The game ended with a Ken Griffey, Jr. single and Beltré scoring the winning run of the game.

Poor workmen blame their tools. Professionals play through pain and act like nothing’s out of the ordinary. Beltré left the field stoically and assessed the damage in the clubhouse. “When I looked down, after the game, it wasn’t a pretty sight. My testicle got the size of a grapefruit.” The average, unwhacked-by-great-force male testicle is approximately the size of an unshelled almond, fig, or robin’s egg. Beltré iced his injury. He was put on the disabled list. Surgery was scheduled.

Beltré is a man who needs room to boogie. He had not been wearing a cup when the accident occurred.

Adrian, a native of the Dominican Republic and born in Santo Domingo in 1979, had signed with the Dodgers organization when he was fifteen years old. During his youth and when he played on the Liceo Maximo Gomez High School team, he had never worn a cup. “When I came through the Dodger camp, they forced me to use it,” Beltré said, “but I told them I can’t play like that. I feel like I can’t move.”

Beltré advanced to the majors, debuting with the Dodgers in 1998 at the age of nineteen. He didn’t view wearing a cup as a minor inconvenience. It sucked. He felt it as an unnecessary hunk of plastic in a restrictive place that prevented him from playing his best game. Beltré’s a steely dude. He isn’t a whiner. The cup wasn’t just a minor inconvenience. Prior to the 2001 season, while in spring training with the Dodgers, he suffered the after-effects of a botched appendectomy. While healing from a second operation to close the wound left by the first, he fielded ground balls while wearing a colostomy bag.

C-bag? No problem. Cup? No ma’am.

And so, for over an entire decade, the quick-fielding Maginot Line-style hands of this third baseman were all the protection he had needed to stop all balls advancing into his groinal area. Thousands of balls had hurtled towards him at over one hundred miles per hour from one hundred feet away. In 2007, he won a Gold Glove.

But if decade’s-worth of watching America’s Funniest Home Videos has taught me anything it is that it only takes one direct shot to the snacks to convert one man’s private tragedy into a nation’s laughter.

Mariners’ manager Don Wakamatsu used Beltré’s misfortune as a public service announcement directed to aspiring baseball players. “This guy is not a guy that hadn’t played a long time in the majors. But sometimes you think your hands are so quick, it will never happen to you. The word is—no matter how good you are—that one chance is not worth taking. Wear a cup.”

Beltré’s confidence in his skills and his freedom of movement had far eclipsed concerns for his nuts’ safety and continued sperm production.

“If it happens every ten years and you get hit there, it’s not bad,” Beltré reasoned. “I have never been hit right in the spot (before). It’s been close, which hurt, but not right on one of the testicles. A cup just got in the way... I made a play and dove and it hurt more when you had the cup on than without it. I never liked it…I couldn’t run. I couldn’t move.”

In the two weeks that followed the incident, while on the fifteen-day disabled list, the final diagnosis was good. Although there had been internal bleeding and there was a tear on the testicle wall, there was no permanent damage. All systems go. Clean bill of health. Unshelled almond-sized testicle once again.

Upon Beltré’s return, Wakamatsu insisted his third baseman wear a cup to facilitate a complete recovery.

When reporters asked if Beltré—father of two—would consider “cupping up” upon his return, his response was similar to that of old bikers when requested to voluntarily wear helmets “for safety’s safe”: a fuck you that almost sounds like a yes.

On Wednesday, September 2nd, 2009, at his first at-bat after the errant ball, Ken Griffey Jr. got the stadium to play Tchaikovsky’s “Nutcracker Suite” as Beltré stepped into the batter’s box.

As for the cup?

“I wore it for a couple days,” Beltré said, “so they think I’m wearing it. After that, I stopped. At the end of the year, I was back to normal.”

Beltré is currently swingin’ in the breeze once again with the Red Sox.

A Short History of the Jock Strap and the Cup

Adrian Beltré had a five-year, sixty-five million dollar contract with the Mariners. A fancy jock strap with an ergonomic cup runs around fifty bucks. It’s reasonable to assume that finances weren’t the reason he didn’t wear one. It was freedom. Freedom of movement. Freedom to play baseball in the manner most comfortable to a player, regardless of the risks involved. Freedom from the Man cupping several precious ounces in the name of security from future attacks. What is comfortable and right for one man may not be for another. What is important is the right to choose and the pursuit of happiness, be it commando-style or hardened protection. In contrast to Beltré, pitcher Tom Seaver of the NY Mets used the security of two straps, plus a pair of jockey shorts, all sandwiching a plastic cup fitted inside the second jock. During his career, he threw 3,640 strikeouts with his “kids” wrapped up like a mummy during Halloween.

Let’s set down the equipment basics. What’s referred to, almost interchangeably as “the jock strap” or “the cup,” is actually a two-part system. “The cup” is a piece of hard material used to physically shield the genitals from impact. Such cups normally define a cavity area which is designed to encase the male genitals. The original designs look like urinals and bananas. The new ones—like the NuttyBuddy and the Shock Doctor—are more contoured and form fitting. The NuttyBuddy, in particular, looks as if you cupped Michelangelo’s David’s groin with loving, careful hands, and formed a PG-rated bump of plastic in that private place.

“The jock strap” is a garment that houses and positions the protective cup. It was traditionally a knit pouch held up above by a wide elastic waistband and below from two leg straps going upward from the groin. Jock straps have, in recent years, been largely replaced by compression shorts (stretchy boxer briefs) with a pocket for the cup to be inserted into and look a lot less like the wearer is in a Cameo video or an extra on A Clockwork Orange.

In 1874, Charles Bennett was approached by the Boston Athletic Club to design an undergarment that would help alleviate the blistering and chafing which resulted from the friction between a bicycle jockey’s dangling testicles, the bicycle’s seat, and the violent jostles provided by Boston’s rough, irregular cobblestone streets. The thin material of a union suit wasn’t limiting the sway of a heated scrotum against the surface of an unforgiving seat. A device was needed to comfortably hold the genitals close to the body so they didn’t bounce around—and get crunched—during vigorous athletic activity. Bennett adapted the idea of women’s girdle, but for dudes, positioned a little bit lower. Athletic supporters were born. The garment’s original trademark name was the Bike Jockey Strap. Its insignia was a penny-farthing’s spoked wheel. Over time, the undergarment became known simply as a jock. Bennett’s invention was a continued success. In 2005, after over 130 years in production, Bike had made its 350 millionth jock strap.

Unlike the reasonably verifiable origins of the jock strap, there is very little corroborating evidence—or even a claim about—who first inserted a cup into the jock. Specifically designed to lessen the impact of hard objects hurtling at high speeds to protect the male genital area, there is speculation that it found its way into hockey rinks soon after Bennett’s invention. However, The Cultural Encyclopedia of Baseball credits White Sox catcher Claude Berry with introducing “the safety cup” to major league baseball in 1904. Berry’s cup was made out of steel.
To this day, major league baseball regulations state that only the catchers are required to wear a protective cup. It is voluntary compliance for all other players, primarily enforced by their ball clubs in the name of safety, prolonged productivity, and the protection of valuable assets.

Todd Taylor is the editor and publisher of Razorcake Fanzine, America’s only bonafide non-profit zine dedicated to DIY music. He is currently figuring out which Little League team that plays in the field near his house is the absolute worst and will start cheering for them. He’s a sucker for the underdog.

The Night Boog Bodyslammed Hondo by Tim Hinely

2010-08-28T14:50:00.001-04:00

It was nearing the end of the 1969 season when the two titans of the American League, John Wesley “Boog” Powell (at 6’ 4” and 230 lbs.) and Frank “Hondo” Howard (at 6’ 7”, 260 lbs) couldn’t agree. Over beers in a Washington, DC pub, The Hungry Lion, on a hot August night, they were ready to come to blows. The Baltimore Orioles were just up the road playing their rivals the Washington Senators. The Senators won 7-6. Both Howard and Powell slugged two home runs each and when all was said and done, the two friends retired to their favorite watering hole to share a good time.

As the story goes, they pounded 13 beers each, could barely stand and were ready to come to fisticuffs when a mutual friend, John Sprague, stepped in and broke the two pickled behemoths up. Sprague suggested the two step into the squared circle to settle their differences with a wrestling match. They agreed but Sprague thought it was all drunken chatter and would be forgotten the next day. That was not the case.

The following day, a day off for both players, they each called Sprague and asked to set up the match. He would build the hype and both Howard and Powell thought that maybe they could each earn a little money. Smith had some connections and before you knew it the two physically biggest players in major league baseball were all set to wrestle in our nation’s capitol at the old 9:30 Club (a rock venue!) on a Saturday in October following the baseball season (since neither team was in playoff contention).

They scoffed when asked what their training regimen would be. Training regimen?! “I’ll see if I can drink more beer each night!” snorted Howard while Powell concurred, “This gut will be no smaller by fight time.” Finally the night came. In the front row at the club ready to watch these two heavies rip each other’s heads off was their biggest fan, Yogi Berra, as well as plenty of hard-working, blue collar Washingtonians ready for a night of hard drinking and pure entertainment. Most thought that Howard, by his sheer size alone, would get the job done. The match was one fall and set to be 60 minutes. Someone was going to come out a winner and someone a loser.

The bell rang. The two came out and shook hands and the grappling began. Both were wearing the sleeveless wrestling suit (you know the kind), Hondo’s was black while Boog’s was a shade of red brighter than his hair with white stripes. With Powell facing the crowd and raising his hands and accepting the cheers, Howard sucker punched him, knocking him to the mat. The boos began to rain down on Howard but he didn’t seem to care. He threw out some vulgar hand gestures to the fans which made them boo even louder. Powell, meanwhile, was slow to get up and a cut had opened on the back of his head where Hondo had clocked him.

Hondo shouted in his ear, “Hey Boog, I nailed your old lady last night!” and then put a few well-meaning kicks into Powell’s left ribs. Powell got to his feet and with the crowd chanting “Boog! Boog! Boog!” Powell raised his hands as a show of force and was recharged. He went after Howard shouting, “You always were a crude sumbitch, Hondo!” before first getting him into a headlock and then tossing him off the ropes and giving him a clothesline maneuver which laid Howard flat on his back. Powell then whispered “Nighty night” in his ear and dropped a few atomic skull crushers onto Howard’s head while he was still down on the mat.

At that point Howard’s manager, Ted Williams came into the ring with a chair, attempting to blast Boog with it but Powell caught the chair in mid-swing, turned the tables and nailed Williams on the head while the crowd, led by Boog’s manager, the feisty Earl Weaver, roared with approval. Blood streamed down Howard’s forehead. He pleaded with Powell not to hit him anymore and in a moment of pity Howard kicked Boog right in the groin, sending Powell to his knees. Howard went to work on Powell with a series of punches, chops and kicks. Powell, down and nearly out, gathered up all of the strength he had and came back, thwapping Howard with a series of punches and kicks. With Howard down, Boog pounded Howard with a powerful knee right to Howard’s neck. Boog then did the seemingly unthinkable, he climbed up to the top rope and, while the crowd was going bananas, leaped off the rope with a knee to Howard’s skull. The crowd was loving it, seeing the suddenly unfair and dirty Howard get his just desserts. Then, pulling off a finishing move as if he invented it, Powell scooped up Howard attempting to body slam him.

Powell struggled at first, but the crowd chanted and he slowly lifted his opponent. Finally, he had Howard up over his head, blurted out, “I’m buyin’ the beers tonight, Frank,” and then tossed him down with a ferocious body slam. Powell climbed on top of a stunned, dazed and defeated Howard while the ref did the three-count. Powell was victorious!

The match was over, Boog was victorious and the crowd continued chanting “Boog! Boog! Boog!” Howard and Williams sat in the corner of the ring, dazed and astonished. The classier Powell walked past them on his way out of the ring and extended his hand. Howard refused and the two baseball titans never spoke again.

Tim Hinely wishes he was the referee for the Boog/Hondo fight. And he still lives in Portland, Oregon. And still publishes DAGGER zine.

The Hidden Superstar: A Zisk Special on Ichiro

2010-08-28T14:40:00.000-04:00

In August of 2009 I found myself watching some West Coast baseball, as the Yankees were playing the Mariners at Safeco Field. And, as I found myself doing rather frequently after I joined the iPhone cult, I was scrolling through Twitter and making an occasional post. New York Times Yankee beat writer (now their national baseball writer) Tyler Kepner tweeted a comment about Ichiro Suzuki being the only player that could have hit a certain pitch. I responded to him by asking, “Ichiro has to be a first ballot hall of famer, even if he doesn't make 3000 hits, right?” Kepner responded by saying the outfielder definitely was in his mind. I tweeted back to him, “Good to know. I hope there's no ‘East Coast’ bias when he is up for election.”

That exchange got me thinking about the Hall of Fame and how Ichiro and Albert Pujols would both qualify for entry once they started their tenth seasons this year. So I hatched a crazy idea to compile thoughts from our writers about these two players who have been considered by many to be among the best of the past decade. My suggestion yielded very little on the Pujols front (our long-time contributor Jeff Herz goes into some detail about Pujols in his piece below), but people seem to be passionate (either positively or negatively) about Japan’s greatest export to our favorite game. So what follows are five takes on Ichiro, his place on the game, his Hall of Fame of potential and his seemingly endless amount of quirks.

(Note: The articles by John Shiffert and Jeff Herz from this issue are not online because the graphic tables they used ended up looking like crap when I tried to post them here. Hopefully I'll be able to rectify that at some point. And when I do, they'll be up here.)

Is Ichiro The New J.D. Salinger? by Arne Christensen

2010-08-28T14:30:00.002-04:00

Toward the end of the 2009 season, as Ichiro neared new milestones in his career, Arne Christensen and David Shields talked about Ichiro's style, his personality, and his abilities as a ballplayer. In summer 2001, Shields compiled a book of Ichiro quotations, Baseball is Just Baseball, and also wrote a profile of Ichiro for the New York Times Magazine. Their exchange, which continued into this year, describes Shields' changed perspective on Ichiro eight years later, with his status as American superstar and future Hall of Famer firmly established. With Ichiro in his tenth season in Seattle, here's Shields and Christensen on Ichiro as pop icon, intensely focused performer, and deeply layered persona.

Arne: A little while ago, I did a keyword search for Ichiro and J.D. Salinger, and I found a quote from Ichiro in 2007: “I hate being touched by other people, so rather than being touched, I’d rather run away from them.”

Salinger, the recluse, was the guy you’d expect to have said this, not Ichiro the ballplayer. But it occurred to me that with both men, much of their appeal is their inaccessibility: each utters gnomic statements, either through the press or in his books, and has a hidden private life. But he’s not completely closed off: Ichiro waves to the bleacher fans at the start of each game; Salinger very occasionally met one of his fans. They both also seem extremely dedicated to their crafts.

David: I would never have thought of equating Ichiro and Salinger, but I think that’s a great connection, Arne. Look at how Ichiro ran away from his teammates when they wanted to mob him after his walk-off single against Chicago on September 17th, 2009. Ichiro literally ran away from them. Salinger, at age 90 or so, was more figuratively running away from fans. But for whatever reason both are constructed this way, and it seems obvious to me that their art and craft, their entire personality, depend upon this isolation.

Arne: At a game last August, I sat behind Ichiro, in the right field bleachers at Safeco, for the first time. I noticed how casual his glove wave to the crowd at the start of a game is: very unassuming, more like saying “hi” than an acknowledgement of adulation. It made me want to wave “hi” back, not start cheering, ranting, bowing, or booing him. Ichiro has a lot of devoted fans, but he’s a very quiet superstar.

David: Right, but I wouldn’t want to mistake his posture for humility. He’s unbelievably proud, somewhat vain, self-obsessed, selfish, etc. It’s more a cultural style than anything else. My friend David Xiao explained to me that in the East one expresses oneself by the degree to which one erases one’s personality, whereas in the West one expresses oneself by brandishing one’s personality. Ichiro’s cultural style is to express himself by a kind of self-erasure. He complicates this, though, in all sorts of ways, which I’ll talk about later.

Arne: Another thing you notice from the bleachers is that Ichiro’s continually stretching in right field: bending from the waist, flexing his arms, swiveling his body, adjusting his stirrup socks, etc. He doesn’t really fidget, though: his movements have a purpose.

David: To me, he’s very much a person who doesn’t want to waste his life or any moments in his life. Think of the hours other outfielders waste by just standing there. Ichiro is doing all sorts of stretches, in preparation for his next at-bat, next catch, throw, run, etc. I don’t know if this is still true, but he used to not watch TV, in order to preserve his eyesight. He’s very “American” in that way—very Ben Franklin, very utilitarian, hyper-practical, “useful.”

Arne: Also, he doesn’t ever seem to sweat: maybe I haven’t watched Ichiro closely enough, because he must sweat on muggy days in Texas or Kansas City, but he literally always looks cool. When he’s running, he reaches high speed very quickly, but he’s not pressing or straining, just cutting at the ground smoothly and cleanly, with no wasted effort.

David: This gives me a chance to tell my Kansas-City-in-summer story. Bob Costas asked him what his favorite American expression is, and he said, “Kansas City in August—hotter than two rats in a fucking wool sock.” Costas and the crew broke up, of course, and Ichiro delighted in shocking them. But then he took away the shock and returned to Polite Japanese Zen Artist by saying, “I have a very bad teammate,” e.g., Griffey or whoever told him the story. He seems to relish traipsing back and forth across the boundaries by which people attempt to know him and define him. I also like that he blew the joke. It should be “hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock.” Did he know the joke and clean it up for Costas, or did he get it slightly wrong?

Arne: There’ve been rumblings from time to time about Ichiro as a selfish player, who doesn’t go all out for balls, doesn’t try to fit in with his teammates, doesn’t really provide leadership. What’s your take on that issue?

David: I actually think it’s a fair criticism, don’t you? He’s a very rational person, highly calculating. And I think he figures what is the point of catching a single ball and breaking my leg and being out for six months? Whereas the American model is more Griffey: watch me go crashing into the wall and be out for half the year, but show you what a man I am. It’s very complicated and very interesting. I respect Ichiro’s approach, but I can see how it’s a complex fit between Ichiro and American athletes. Also, he’s hugely anti rah-rah, so he’s not going to get up there and shout, “Go, team.”

Arne: One of the things that comes across in your 2001 book on Ichiro is his ability to block out the white noise and concentrate on the ball. He very rarely looks or turns away from the field. And at one point in the game, with Ichiro in the on-deck circle, a foul ball came screaming maybe five feet over his head. Ichiro didn’t flinch.

David: That’s Ichiro, isn’t it? Somewhere in my forthcoming book Reality Hunger: a Manifesto, I talk about how Ichiro doesn’t just look the ball into his glove. He really, really, really looks the ball into his glove. It’s one of the most important things I’ve learned from him and tried to incorporate into my life and my work: this sense of being not just present but really, really, really present. Once, sitting in the right field bleachers, I saw a contingent of eight or so screaming Japanese girls, clearly dying for Ichiro to acknowledge them somehow, and he just never turned his body toward the stands. I love your story about the ball coming so near him but Ichiro not flinching. Laser vision.

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Arne: Ichiro’s statistics have been very consistent for an entire decade: power, average, walks, fielding—they’ve all remained within a pretty narrow range. He doesn’t seem to be slowing down or playing differently than he was in 2001, or probably even 1994, his first full year in Japan. I suppose that comes from his dedication.

David: Sure, of course; that seems a huge part of his success: his stretching, his diet, his eye exercises, his batting practice, etc, etc. Ichiro’s so thin, you don’t expect him to be durable. But he trains so much, he disciplines his body so much, that there’s no spare fat, everything’s taut and supple, he doesn’t get muscle pulls, strains, etc. And have you ever watched him in batting practice? If he wants, he can hit ten balls in a row out.

Arne: I was looking at some of the old stories from 2001. When Ichiro had the coins thrown at him in Oakland, he said, “Something came out of the sky and hit me” and “I couldn’t tell if it was rain or money coming down” and he also said that once in Japan, “The gods threw an aluminum can at me.” Jay Buhner, the guy he was replacing, talked about counting up the change the fans threw at him, complained about having to dodge coins, and said, “Some fans just resent the idea some players make a lot of money."

David: I think that line may have been the one that convinced me I had to put together a book of quotations by and about Ichiro. It is just completely brilliant; it shows why Ichiro charms so many people who are turned off by other major leaguers. Ichiro was disarming, irreverent, whimsical, whereas Buhner was literal, obvious.

My daughter is now 16 and can take care of herself just fine, thank you, but when she was little, especially perhaps since she’s an “only child,” she wasn’t great at dealing with teasing of any kind at school. Now she’s a great teaser-back, and I frequently used this line of Ichiro’s to explain how you have to change the conversation. You can’t stay on topic. You have to empty out the anger and return it as comedy. Ten years ago, I wrote a book partly about Gary Payton, and I see some odd parallels between the two of them. As different as they are, both are beautifully incapable of staying within sportswriter cliché.

Arne: Speaking of clichés, the “overcoming adversity” trope knows no limits in athletics. Last September vs. the Yankees, Ichiro looked probably bad as he’s ever looked at Safeco, getting picked off twice in a row by a right-hander. Then he came up at game’s end and hit one out on Mariano Rivera to turn a 2-1 loss into a 3-2 win.

David: To me, it comes back again to his extraordinary craftsmanship. He is extremely rational, analytical. It’s never about adversity, etc. It’s all about making adjustments. He’s never not thinking about adjustments. When his swing’s off, Ichiro looks miserable, like all he can do is hit two-hop groundouts. But it only lasts for a game or two, then he’s right back to gathering his two hits a night. His attitude doesn’t change in response to his statistics. And, he never talks about “adversity”; he doesn’t respond to the ups and downs with those clichés about pressing, staying focused, “one day at a time,” etc. It reminds me somehow of what Hemingway did after World War I: all those big words were meaningless and his writing was about emptying out “honor,” “glory,” “country,” “patriotism,” “sacrifice,” etc., and returning himself and the reader to the vivid present. Ichiro is not post-war, but he is post-modern, post-ideology, and he is hugely about the exact moment.
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Arne: When Ken Griffey Jr. came back to Seattle, there was a lot of talk about how he broke the ice for Ichiro, loosening him up, taking away the attention, making it easier for Ichiro to just be in the clubhouse. Griffey had regular tickling sessions with him; they apparently did a lot of roughhousing, clubhouse humor, etc. Ichiro seemed to like it, but he didn’t initiate it himself. He said, “In Japan, all relationships are respectful, so no one would ever do that to me. If someone else did it here, I’d probably punch them in the face.”

David: That is an interesting line by Ichiro, and it suggests the depth of his feeling on the subject. It makes me feel that Ichiro may not adore the tickling—remember again how he ran out to center field when teammates came to congratulate him after walk-off single—but he has this abiding respect of Griffey. It’s an interesting question, isn’t it, re: Griffey? Did Ichiro truly like it, or did he have to put up with it because it’s Griffey? There’s a great video of Griffey throwing his glove at Ichiro, and Ichiro genuinely seems delighted—great acting?

Arne: It seems like Ichiro wanted that sort of loose atmosphere Griffey provided, but he’s not comfortable trying to create it. Sure, he’s a huge Griffey fan, that’s why he let the tickling happen. But there’s also his self-regard, and he comes from Japan: he doesn’t pick up on the culture and behavior cues that are second nature for Griffey, who’s been around major leaguers since infancy.

David: I think obviously this has much to do with cultural styles: American slap-happy jocular jocks v. a more understated Japanese style. What’s fascinating to me is the way Ichiro plays with these styles—sometimes crossing the boundaries, sometimes not, really insisting that he is not knowable. It reminds me somehow of Todd Haynes’s film about Bob Dylan, I’m Not There; in a sense, Ichiro, too, is not there, or if he is there, he is there fleetingly before he’s off to another “there.”

Arne: Ichiro’s the guy you pay attention to at Safeco Field: no one else really commands your interest. How do you compare him to Griffey in the ‘90s?

David: It was amazing to watch Griffey in the early to mid-‘90s, wasn’t it—when he was at his peak? Your entire evening would be structured around his at-bats. The two players feel so different. I seem to want to compare them to different food groups. Griffey moved me in certain ways that Ichiro might not. When Griffey scored in game 5 vs. NY in ‘95 (I was there—really!), I hollered and cried for what felt like hours.

Arne: To what extent do you think Ichiro is playing with the media, and his fans, by presenting all his gnomic statements? At this point it’s so established you’d be much more surprised if he gave the standard flat, clichéd answer than by another weird statement from him.

David: He is definitely playing with people’s perceptions (as I tried to imply above). It’s central to who he is and it’s closely related to his game: in the same way, he gets into our heads, the heads of fans, he gets into the heads of pitchers. It’s the same M.O. You can’t predict what he’s going to do with each pitch. I must say I’m curious whether he ever perused Baseball is Just Baseball and it pushed him toward more consistently gnomic statements. I’d like to think maybe so, but who knows? In any case, he’s definitely aware that these one-off quotes are what’s expected from him.

Arne: Ichiro’s clearly a big hip-hop and rap fan. At that August game I went to, the one time he really looked away from the field was in the 8th inning, when he looked up at the video board, where fans were dancing to Michael Jackson’s “Don’t Stop Till You Get Enough”; during the same game, the video board told us his favorite song is “Ain’t Nuthin But a G Thang.” He uses tracks from Flo Rida for his introductory songs at bat. From what I’ve heard, in Japan he’s not seen as a Zen prototype, just as an extraordinary player and pop culture icon.

David: I think that’s a better way to see him. What interests me a great deal is the way in which layer after layer of other prototypes intermix, the way in which he’s infinitely unknowable, and how important it is for him to remain so. He’s obsessed with resisting your definition of him.

Arne: What’s your essential summary of Ichiro? What would say is the core of what he does and who he is? He strikes me as finally just a ballplayer, someone who virtually every day is either practicing or playing.

David: I think of him mainly as an unusually devoted and perfectionistic craftsman. He often says, “I’m batting .360. Why am I not batting .380?”

Arne: What are your thoughts on Ichiro’s historical position? It’s apparently very important to him that he rank among the very best players. My guess is he came to the U.S. in 2001 to prove himself at a higher level than the Japanese leagues, and he’s done that, but the fear of declining and failing still keeps him dedicated to his game.

David: Last year it suddenly became a given that he is a lock to be in the Hall of Fame. Something switched over. It was no longer a question. I always think about something Mike Cameron told me: the second baseman would move over six feet to bird-dog the runner back to the base, and Ichiro would hit the ball exactly to the spot that the second baseman had just vacated. How could a human being possibly do that? That’s the question I want to keep thinking about from now until the Hall of Fame ceremony.

Arne: The Mariners are going through another woeful year, and Ichiro is once again registering a .300+ batting average for a sub-.500 team. Don’t you think he gets the urge to call out his teammates and the Mariners management, in public or in private, for their failure to commit and perform up to his standards? Especially since he’s been criticized repeatedly for not being a team player, but seems to never criticize his teammates to the media.

David: I think it’s one of the most interesting things about Ichiro. One could say that he is loyal to the Japanese owner of the team, and that is certainly part of it, but I think there is a large part of him—it was true of him when he was in Japan—who likes to play for a small-market team, prefers to play for a team that is low-key, perhaps unsuccessful, and therefore he can concentrate on his solo craft. Ichiro is very individualistic in both a good (idiosyncratic) and “bad” (“selfish”) way. He is the consummate craftsman, and I think he likes focusing on that to the exclusion of everything else. It is odd that he’s never volunteered to bat third and let Chone Figgins bat first, where Figgins is more comfortable. I think in some essential way Ichiro is not willing to sacrifice at bats or stats for the sake of the team. At least so he seems to a Western perspective. He has numerous ways in which he argues against this, and in some ways he’s right (e.g., it makes no sense to dive against the wall for a ball if you’re down 6-1 and injury will take you out of lineup for next month), but it’s hard finally not to see a certain irreducible self-immersion on Ichiro’s part (again, in both “good” and less attractive ways).

Arne: How long do you see Ichiro performing at or near his current level? He’ll be 37 this fall, but in a way he’s like Jamie Moyer or Pete Rose: he doesn’t rely on raw muscle power, and he conditions himself so well, is so focused on staying in the game, that it's hard to see signs of breakdown, and you wonder if he’ll be out there in 2020.

David: Hmm. 2020; that seems stretching the point. But certainly 2015, I would think, is a good possibility. To me, it is/was painful to see the contrast between Griffey, with his huge gut, and Ichiro, who keeps himself in top shape. This is all hyper-rational on my part, but if you’re an athlete, it seems hard to see how or why you wouldn’t stay in great physical condition, eat right, exercise in off season. Ichiro even does that thing whereby he does stretching exercises between virtually every pitch when he is in the outfield. It makes a lot of sense. He is über-utilitarian, isn’t he? He’s all about maximizing efficiency. I wonder sometimes if other players resent his no-frills attitude. He is, in a way, all business.

Arne Christensen lives in Seattle and runs 1995mariners.com, a site about that year's Mariners team, as well as a baseball history blog at miscbaseball.wordpress.com.

Rice Balls, Ass Tattoos, and Elvis: Ichiro a Go-Go by Steve Mandich

2010-08-28T14:20:00.000-04:00

Steve Mandrich hails from Seattle and found Zisk through our blog. He also just happens to be a slightly obsessive Ichiro fan. This is his first piece for Zisk. —SR

Ichiro Suzuki is my all-time favorite baseball player. Here’s why:

--The 36-year-old is currently in his tenth major-league season, all with my hometown Seattle Mariners.

--He’s the only player in baseball history to amass 200 hits in nine consecutive seasons. As of this writing, he’s on pace to reach 200 hits again in 2010, tying Pete Rose’s record of career 200-hit seasons. However, it took Rose 17 seasons to reach the mark, while Ichiro should do it in ten.

--Rob Dibble has Ichiro’s name tattooed on his ass. During Ichiro’s 2001 rookie campaign, a skeptical Dibble vowed on ESPN radio that if Ichiro won the batting title, he would get the butt tat and run naked through Times Square. Ichiro led the majors with a .350 average, so Nasty Boy Dibble ate crow on a cold, wet night that December. The cops wouldn’t let him run in the altogether, so he wore a Frederick’s of Hollywood thong.

--Ichiro is the first-ever Japanese position player to sign with a major league club. Besides his ’01 batting title, he also led the majors that year with 242 hits, 56 stolen bases, and 3,373,035 All-Star ballot votes, becoming the first rookie ever to lead all players in All-Star balloting. He won both the AL’s MVP and Rookie of the Year awards, joining Fred Lynn as the only player to do so in the same season.

--On Cleveland: “To tell the truth, I’m not excited to go to Cleveland. If I ever saw myself saying I’m excited going to Cleveland, I’d punch myself in the face.”

--Before coming to America, Ichiro played seven full seasons for Japan’s Orix Blue Wave. He won seven consecutive batting titles and seven consecutive Gold Gloves (or whatever they’re called there), and played in seven consecutive all-star games. He became the first player to reach 200 hits in Japan’s 130-game season, and his 210 hits in 1994 remain Japan’s single-season record. Ichiro amassed 1,278 hits and a .353 batting average in his Japanese career, and was nicknamed Elvis as the most-recognized person in the country.

--At Meiden High School, Ichiro was primarily used as a pitcher—he had a 93 mph fastball—though his career high school batting average was .505.

--Ichiro’s dad maintains a Nagoya museum dedicated to his son, containing nearly 3,000 artifacts. Besides Ichiro’s childhood baseball memorabilia are his dental retainer, Nintendo game cartridges, Transformer toys, a Go game, and a mannequin of a 12-year-old Ichiro sitting at his childhood desk.

--Ichiro’s 262 hits in 2004 is the all-time single-season record. George Sisler’s 257 hits in 1920 was the previous record, though it was set during a 154-game season. (It took Ichiro 160 game to surpass Sisler.)

--Before every game, Ichiro eats a rice ball.

--He led Team Japan to gold medals in both World Baseball Classic tournaments thus far, in 2006 and 2009. The stress of defending Japan’s WBC title in ’09 landed him on the DL for the first time in his career, due to a bleeding ulcer.

--Ichiro has played in ten All-Star Games in as many seasons, baseball’s longest current streak. He has started in nine of them, leading off a record nine times. (He’s also won a Gold Glove and hit at least .300 during each of those seasons.) He was named MVP of the 2007 game, hitting the only inside-the-park homer in All-Star history.

--On American hygiene: “Although it is a tradition to shake hands in America, people don’t wash their hands when they go to the bathroom.”

--Ikkyu is the name of Ichiro’s pet Shiba Inu, a Japanese breed of dog. Ichiro’s wife Yumiko and Ikkyu high-five each other whenever they see Ichiro get a hit on TV.

--Ichiro keeps his custom Mizuno bats in a humidor.

--Like Vida Blue and Chili Davis before him, only Ichiro’s first name appears on his uniform. In 1994, he was one of four Orix players named Suzuki, so his manager had him use just his first name, as a publicity stunt to promote the rising star. While "Ichiro" means "first son," he actually has an older brother.

--Like Randy Johnson, Bill Wilkinson, Steve Fireovid and Rey Quinones before him, Ichiro wears number 51 for the Mariners, as he did in Japan. Upon being issued the digits in Seattle, he promised to “work hard not to damage the reputation of the number." Presumably he was just referring to the Big Unit.

--There are a handful of songs about Ichiro, including tunes by surf-rock kings The Ventures, Terry “Talkin’ Baseball” Cashman, Japanese garage girls Supersnazz, and the mighty Baseball Project.

--"I very much like hip-hop and rap,” Ichiro says. His favorite song is “Nuthin’ but a ‘G’ Thang,” his favorite musical artist is Snoop Dogg, and one of his two favorite TV channels is BET. (The other is Animal Planet.)

--Ichiro’s favorite movies include Mr. 3000, Love Actually, Miss Congeniality, The Full Monty, and Cool Runnings. His favorite TV shows are Lost, Prison Break, and Dragon Ball Z.

--In 2006, Ichiro began hosting the TV show Ichiro-Mondow: Two Chairs, in which he interviewed Japanese athletes, actors, models, scientists, lawyers, and “Peter,” a popular Japanese drag queen, all on a barren set (save for the chairs).

--He played himself on the January 4, 2006 episode of Furuhata Ninzaburo, a police detective drama series, in which he kills a guy who blackmailed his brother.

--Assuming Ichiro remains healthy and averages at least 200 hits a year through 2014—not too far-fetched—the 40-year-old will have amassed 3,000 hits in his major league career. Combined with his Japanese totals, he would have over 4,300 international career hits, surpassing Julio Franco's record of 4,229. Rose’s 4,255 hits are probably out of reach, but becoming the Hall of Fame’s first Asian member should be a cinch.

Domo arigato, Mr. Suzuki.

Steve Mandich runs the Super Ichiro Crazy! fan page.

Keep Your Head Up Ichiro by Scott McCaughey

2010-08-28T14:00:00.000-04:00

Po' po' Ichiro... Deceived by the Mariners' early success in 2007, he signed a five-year extension, only to see them wobble in and out of mediocrity (or worse) year by year since. Picked by many pundits to win the AL West in 2010, the season has been a disaster. And yet Ichiro, perhaps the most disciplined player of all time, continues to hit, and will probably tie Pete Rose's record of most seasons with 200+ hits this year. But I do feel the Mariners dismal offensive showing is wearing on him—what’s the joy of getting on base when no one will drive you in? Ichiro can be proud of what he's done this year in the face of overwhelming disappointment, turbulence, the whimpering end to Ken Griffey Jr.'s career, and the occasionally embarrassing conduct of some Mariner teammates.

“Ichiro Goes To The Moon,” which will appear on the next Baseball Project album (February 2011 release, folks), is my tribute to both the self-assurance and the humor that makes Ichiro so damn cool. The guy can pretty much do whatever he wants. I feel like if he wanted to build a rocket ship in his basement, he could do it. I wouldn’t bet against him. The song is also a tribute to his prowess at eating. Despite his slim build, the guy can really put it away. I respect that. I super-respect that!

But my song is not the first Ichiro song. There may be hundreds in Japan, who knows? I know the tremendous Japanese garage-punk group Supersnazz recorded one called “Go Go Ichiro.” And when talking to Death Cab For Cutie's Ben Gibbard earlier this year (in mutual anticipation of a big M's year spearheaded by King Felix and Cliff Lee), we discovered we'd both penned tunes about the great one (apologies to Jackie Gleason). Ben's song is probably better than mine, though he disagrees. Anyway, maybe it's better that neither of us have released our songs yet, as this just doesn't seem to be the most glorious time for the big salute. Maybe next year, eh, Ben?

Giants and Mariners fan Scott McCaughey has been making music out of the Pacific Northwest for three decades with such bands as Young Fresh Fellows, The Minus 5, The Baseball Project and R.E.M. The latest group to join this list, Tired Pony, includes his pal Peter Buck and Snow Patrol’s Gary Lightbody. Their excellent debut album, The Place We Ran From, is due out September 28th.

Long time, no writing!

2010-04-07T12:17:00.002-04:00

We apologize for the long radio silence about Zisk. We’ve had a lot of other projects taking up our time. For example:

--Steve spent all of his free time in the fall working on the 20th anniversary of his music ’zine, The Reynolds Top 20 as well as recording and posting 30 podcasts to mark the occasion (you can sample them here.)

--Meanwhile, Mike was putting the finishing touches on his first book, The Hanging Gardens of Split Rock, which will be published on May 22nd by Gorsky Press. You can get more info about the book through the site for Mike’s ’zine Go Metric.

--Mike’s band Egghead. recorded their second album over the winter. It’s their first disc in 12 years and will be coming out this summer on Knock Knock Records.

--We also pitched our Zisk book proposal around and had a couple of bites, but no deal as of yet. We plan on hitting up some more publishers this spring and summer. If that doesn’t work, we just may go the self-publishing route. We’ve done that for over 11 years already, why stop now?

So with all of these things in the works over the past few months (as well as trying to have time with our loved ones), we’ve decided to only publish one issue this year. Our deadline for submissions is Friday, July 30th. Issue # 19 will be published the week of August 16th.

We also have a special focus for this issue. This year marks the 10th season for both Albert Pujols and a longtime Zisk favorite, Ichiro Suzuki, making them qualified for the Hall of Fame. To mark that milestone, we’re looking to have a few articles or essays about both players. So if you have any anecdotes about either player, or you think you can write an entire article, lets either Mike or myself know. And if you have ideas for other articles, we’ll look at them too.

Send your story ideas to either Steve or Mike.

And one final note on the blog front from Steve:

One of my favorite baseball books of the past decade is Fantasyland by Sam Baker. His tale of joining the Tout Wars fantasy league is so entertaining that I went back and re-read it this winter to get myself ready for my own fantasy league. That was the total amount of preparation I did for this year. I went into our draft with no plan and no idea what players were injured (except Joe Nathan). So I’ve decided to chronicle my risky fantasy season on the Zisk blog. Look for the Dental Hygenesimmons (my team’s name) Chronicles to start this Friday and to appear a few times a week through the rest of the season.

Whew. That was a lot to catch up on. We hope the spring is treating y’all well,

Steve Reynolds & Mike Faloon

Whoa.

2010-04-05T21:46:00.002-04:00

We've been quiet since October 8th, 2009? Jeebus.

That's about to change. Stay tuned for a full Zisk update, including the deadline for our next print issue, and details on a new blogging focus for this season.* Details coming Tuesday or Wednesday at the latest.

*And no, it won't be the Krazy Keith Khronicles again.

Zisk # 18 is Out, The Price is Up, The Mets are Down

2009-09-01T17:46:00.004-04:00

You should have gotten your paper copy by now (unless you live halfway around the world), and if you're a subscriber and haven't, shoot me an email. (The digital version will be posted this weekend.)

Speaking of subscribing, because of the increase in postal costs for us we're going to raise the subscription price. That way we can at least lose only around 50 bucks for each issue, as opposed to 100. We hope you understand. I'll be sending out an email long before we get to issue # 19 to explain.

Finally, I was going to use this post to talk about a few Mets-related issues. But then Deadspin did it in pictures for me, and holy hell, it's an amazing lineup of gaffes.

Wow, this really might be the worst Mets year since 1993.

Zisk # 18

2009-08-15T19:26:00.014-04:00

Panda Saves the World by Ken Derr

Rusty Staub: The Zisk Interview by Steve Reynolds

What to Do When Not Paying Attention at the Ballpark by Mike Faloon

The First Hack Man by Michael Baker

Darryl Strawberry Comes Clean About His Life by Steve Reynolds

In Omar We Trust by Michael Baker

Selena Roberts: The Zisk Interview by Steve Reynolds

Jumpsteady! by Tim Hinley

Why I Hate Fantasy Baseball or What's a Fan's Real Job by Jon Vafiadis

Time May Change Me... by Mike Faloon & Steve Reynolds

Panda Saves the World by Ken Derr

2009-08-14T18:00:00.000-04:00

Unemployment just hit 11.6% in California. The state is paying its bills with IOU’s. Parks are closing. Schools are setting up corner graphing calculator stands. Even the Governator cannot stem the tide of woe sweeping across this once golden stretch of promise, and most jaded observers believe no one can.

What we need is a little hope. Something to believe in. Someone larger-than-life who can give us a sliver of possibility in a place where people have quit on themselves.

What we need, clearly, is a fat, switch-hitting, ambidextrous Venezuelan panda.

Pablo Sandoval may be our only chance. The 22-year old Giant rookie third baseman is the brightest bulb on a coast gone dark. Yes, “the round mound of pound” led the resurgent Giants in hitting (.333), homers (15) and RBIs (55) at the All-Star Break , but a man charged with teasing out Giant fans’ smiles (and solving the state budget crisis, bringing peace to the Middle East, and capturing Osama bin Laden) is going to need more than numbers. He’s going to need style, which is something the Panda exudes, with effervescent ease.

Pablo was born in the fighting port city of Puerta Cabello, Venezuela, which explains a few things, when you consider that the World Values Survey consistently find Venezuelans among the happiest people on earth. This oil-rich nation has produced five Miss Worlds, five Miss Universes, and five Miss Internationals (no, I don’t know the difference either, but I’d be willing to learn), which might have something to do with it, but there is also that Caribbean, happy-go-lucky exuberance oozing from Pablo’s pores. He’s not only Mr. Excitement—he’s Mr. Happy, and his unbridled enthusiasm has won the hearts of the dying faithful in Baghdad-by-the-Bay.

But if gusto were enough to part the seas and clouds, Richard Simmons would be king. A hero needs game, and that is something Pablo brings every night. He is currently fourth in the National League in hitting and sixth in slugging percentage. He missed the All-Star game only because the National League wanted to set the record for futility. The NL’s anemic offense achieved its goal that night, but Frisco fans seethed, knowing who didn’t pinch hit late to save the game for jumpy starter, Timmy Lincecum. “I had the numbers, but not the votes,” Pablo offered humbly about his snub. Somewhere, Charlie Manuel should be sucking paste.

Let’s try another number: 246, which the program lists as Pablo’s weight. Now that doesn’t look so high, until you see 5’ 11” next to it. So his zest for living extends to the buffet table, but that has only enhanced his legend. To see him run is to fall in love like a middle-schooler. When he leaped over Dodger catcher Danny Ardoin last year to score, Barry Zito dubbed him Kung-Fu Panda. In a post-post 9/11 return to irony, he is now “Little Panda.” My eight-year old son was so moved by the third-baseman that he wrote his first song about him, rhyming “runs so fast” with “such a fat ass.” How many songs of praise have your team’s infielders inspired lately?
Early, Frisco fans were concerned that third base might be a challenge for the former minor league catcher and first baseman, but Pablo has been lithe at the hot corner, making only four errors. He has even shown some hop on liners, turning potential doubles into Sports Center outs. In the nimble big man sweepstakes, he sits at the Jackie Gleason table.

Aside from his girth, the Panda is also famous for his generous conception of the strike zone. He makes Manny Sanguillen look like Kevin Youkilis. Giant batting instructor Carney Lansford insists that he tells Sandoval before every at-bat to swing at a strike, but Pablo’s approach remains, “See ball. Swing.” One pitch he looks like a cricket player, and the next he’s a lumberjack. To watch him at the plate is to squirm, cringe and burst with glee simultaneously, and to let the ball fall where it may.

While watching Panda hit can be emotionally vexing, watching him run is pure joy, especially when he’s heading for third. The best image in baseball is Pablo rounding second, especially when he doesn’t arrive. Early in the year, Pablo was heading for a would-be triple when he fell flat on his face. Most mortals would scramble to rise, but Sandoval knew the gig was up. He just lay there, looking, according to manager Bruce Bochy, “like a turtle on his back. Except he was on his stomach.” Some Giant players were concerned that their leading hitter might be hurt as he lay face down in the dirt, but not All-Star pitcher Matt Cain, who remarked, “Kung Fu Panda doesn’t get hurt.” To prove the point, two innings later Pablo hit his first walk-off homer, a three-run shot to beat the Nationals, 9-7. “I just want to get my pitch and drive the ball,” he said later. “I don’t want to tie the game. I want to end it.” And so he did.

These are dark times indeed, and the smart guy number crunchers who got us into this mess are trying to convince us that they know how to get us out. Yea, and Billy Beane promised cheap annual playoff teams arriving on an escalator from minor league city. Pablo Sandoval is the anti-metric. He is a rotund, free-swinging switch hitter who falls down a lot, and he is the reason, Lincecum aside, that Giant fans care again. “We should treat fans like friends,” Pablo said recently through his incessant smile. He is charming and unpolished and completely new, and even if he does not create world peace or put everybody back to work, he will continue to remind fans why sometimes all the suffering is worth it—–if only to see what Panda will do after he falls on his face.

Ken Derr lives in the Bay Area and hopes the Giants have procured a big bat by the time this Zisk comes out.

Rusty Staub: The Zisk Interview

2009-08-14T17:45:00.001-04:00

For those of us who came of age watching baseball in the 1970s, Rusty Staub was one of those guys who you’d love to have on your club. Staub was a player who approached the game tenaciously and worked hard to make himself better year in and year out. He was an excellent hitter (one who is the answer to a great trivia question, as you’ll see below), a decent fielder and late in his career he became one of the top pinch hitters in all of baseball. But most importantly, he had an awesome nickname from his time playing for the Montreal Expos—Le Grand Orange. Staub has a little less of his trademark orange hair now, but his no-nonsense approach to the game lives on in a book he did with New York sportswriter Phil Pepe titled Few and Chosen: Defining Mets Greatness Across the Eras. In it Staub picks the top five players at every position throughout the Mets 47 year history. I had the pleasure of chatting with Staub about the book, the origin of his outstanding nickname, and how to get ready for my next appearance as a pinch hitter.

SR: The idea for doing a book like this seems like it’s something that could be hatched over happy hour amongst a bunch of Mets fans. How did the idea for this book get started?

RS: Well, Phil Pepe called me and said he done this type of book with some other people on other teams. I know he did Ron Santo on Chicago and Brooks Robinson in Baltimore—there were other teams where he did stuff. I think the Brooklyn Dodgers, or the Dodgers, he used Duke Snider and Bobby Thompson did the book with him on the Giants. He came to me wanting to do the book about the Mets. And I said yes for two reasons. One, not only is he a close friend, he’s a terrific writer and two, I knew I could trust him. I thoroughly enjoyed studying all the stats and making the selections. We talked long and hard about different things. And I’m very pleased with the outcome of what we have done here. I don’t expect 100% of the people in Met land to agree with me, but it was my choice and I took it and I’m very proud of it.

SR: Coming up with the list of players for each position, what were the criteria that you went through? Was it more stats-oriented or more of what you had seen and what Phil had seen? How did you balance between the two?

RS: Well, Phil wrote the words as I spoke them. The truth is, if you just wanted a stat book, they wouldn’t need me. I put a lot of thought into what a person meant to the ballclub. I mean, I picked Buddy Harrelson as the best shortstop. Now Jose Reyes might be a Hall of Fame player, if he doesn’t let the off the field stuff get in his way and he doesn’t get injured as often as he’s been. He’s already been on the DL more times in his career than I was in 23 years. The truth is, Buddy Harrelson meant everything to that ballclub. He was the core of the defense. Any pitcher that had him at shortstop was thrilled that he was there. And he learned how to help offensively by walking and bunting and hit-and-running and all the little things that you do. He always placed himself defensively exactly where he needed to be. He anticipated, he knew what was coming. He worked hard with the pitchers. Having been around him as long as I was, he was my pick. Somebody else can pick whoever they want. Again, it’s not just about stats, it’s what you meant to that ballclub in that era. And I know there are differences of opinion all the time, and may they continue. Let people argue as long as they want. But these are my picks, and I’m very pleased with the people I picked.

SR: Well, books of sports lists are basically done to start dialogue between people so they can talk about there favorite sport.

RS: That’s what’s great. I’m sure there will be people going, “How could he pick so and so?” Well, I picked it for my reasons. Again, if you just wanted to do a stat book, we would have put all the stats down and titled it New York Mets Stats.

SR: What was the hardest position for you to pick? I would think catcher might have been close, since you have one guy that’s in the Hall of Fame (Gary Carter) and another guy that will be going into the Hall of Fame (Mike Piazza).

RS: No, that wasn’t the most difficult. Second base was probably the most difficult. Mike Piazza, his total stats with the Mets dwarf Gary’s. I mean Gary had a Hall of Fame career for the Montreal Expos, then came and played five seasons for the Mets. The first couple were brilliant seasons, they won a world championship. All of that was great. But if you look at cold hard facts, Piazza was way past Carter. He almost doubled the stats of Gary in the same amount of time for the Mets.

SR: Now why was second base so difficult?

RS: Well, after analyzing stuff I picked Jeff Kent as number-one. Other people probably feel that other players could be there on top, like Felix Milan. And there’s Gregg Jefferies, and Wally Backman and Tim Teuefel—I put them in as a sort of quinella at the end because they were so good together.

SR: Well of course—it was a great pairing.

RS: But Jeff Kent had the best stats of any second basemen in the history of the Mets, even though he was only a starter for three full seasons. And he was tough. He played hard, he played hurt. He wasn’t the most gifted second basemen but he worked very hard. And he really worked hard on making that double play. As it was, the Mets wanted to move him to third and he didn’t want to move there. And the Mets eventually traded him, which was not the best decision they ever made.

SR: Yeah, if you included the list of Top 5 worst trades in Mets history, I’m sure that would be on there.

RS: I know. And even with the trade, he still had incredible stats with the Mets. He’s got more home runs and more RBIs, and only Felix Milan has more hits than him. But of course, Felix also played longer. And you know, Gregg Jeffries had some pretty good statistics too, even as he went on to not play consistently for the ball club over a long number of years. He had a fine career, that young man. But he struggled here. Things could have been better here. I’m not sure that everything was handled the best for him the way projected him as the next coming. They put too much on him with a veteran team, and I don’t think that was a plus for him.

SR: Now this book goes through all of the positions. But one you did leave out, the position you probably would have been number-one as, was pinch hitter. You were known as an exceptional pinch hitter in your time with the team. So can you take me through your mindset as a pinch hitter and how you’d prepare yourself to go in and pinch hit?

RS: Well, number-one, I tried to get my body temp up if there was any chance for me to hit. I mean I’d jump rope, I’d hit the ball off the tee, and I’d run up and down the runways. I liked to have my body temp up. I wanted to be perspiring when I went up there, like you would be if you were playing. The anticipation, the study of the pitchers you were going to face, that all had something to do with it. As was having a game plan. I talk to young hitters now and I say, “What’s your game plan when you go up against this guy?” And they say, “Well, I’m going to try to get a good pitch to hit and I’m gonna hit it.” And I’ll say, “So you’ve never considered what he’s done to you in the past?” And they’ll say, “Well, no.” I mean, this is a profession. I studied it professionally. If the guy starts you out with a breaking ball every time, why would you look for the fastball? If a guy got two strikes on you and always threw a certain pitch, why would you not anticipate that pitch? You can’t guess. That’s the biggest problem. I think the biggest difference between a really, really good hitter and a guy who has talent is that the guy that’s a really, really good hitter doesn’t get himself out as often as the guy who just has talent.

SR: Now a couple of weeks ago you were an answer to a trivia question Keith [Hernandez] and Ron [Darling] were working. The question was who was the only player to have 500 hits with four different clubs? And Keith said something interesting when they gave the answer—he said that he was surprised that you were only with Expos for just three and a half seasons and that he thought it was more. Why do you think people still have vivid memories of you as an Expo even though you weren’t there as long as you were with the Mets?

RS: Well, it was the first time the game went out of the country. I became Le Grand Orange. I hit well, I threw well, I played well in my time there. The fact that there was now a team in Canada was of note to start out with. I meant a great deal to the franchise at that time. I worked a lot in the off season trying to promote the ballclub throughout the province of Quebec. And it worked to such an extent that we had this young Expo club and we had 75,000 children enrolled in it after the first year. And after the second year we had 150,000 children. I was also a representative of a national bank and I ended up traveling across the country. And I was really part of what the team was doing in Canada. I felt very proud to be helping baseball be spread there. And whatever came with that, the pluses and the minuses. I think studying French and trying to do some of the television shows and answer some questions in French meant a great deal to the people that were there. You can’t factor in what that kind of stuff means to the people that you’re playing in front of.

SR: How exactly did your nickname come about?

RS: It was Ted Blackman. He was an English writer up there. We had lost a lot of games in a row. And I had a great day against the Dodgers I think, I can’t remember for sure. But Ted Blackman used the—they used to call me Big Orange. And he’s the one who put le in front of grand orange. Normally in front of a vegetable or a fruit they put la in French. And he actually made the statement, “If you think I was going to put a feminine article on his name, you’re crazy.” (Laughs) So that’s what it was. That’s why there’s no e at the end of grand. Technically in French, it should be a la grande, with an e, orange. So Ted did it, and it exploded. From the first time it came out —I’ve never seen anything take off like that.

SR: Do people today still call you that?

RS: People say Le Grand Orange all the time to me.

SR: You’re also known for owning restaurants and being someone who appreciates fine cuisine, so I need to ask if you sampled any of the places to eat at Citifield?

RS: I’ve been out to Citifield many times, as I still work for the ballclub in kind of an ambassadorial role. So when I’ve been out there I have tasted food from many of the places, and it’s excellent. And I must say the comments from people on the food have been as good as I’ve ever heard about stadium food ever. I mean, they’ve got some great restaurateurs there. Danny Meyer has four places. Drew Nieporent has a wonderful restaurant there. These are some of the best restaurateurs in the city of New York, and what they have done there is terrific.

SR: Could you have ever imagined ballpark food getting to a place where it’s reviewed by the food critic for the New York Times?

RS: From the origins of baseball, no. But where life has been taking everybody, you could see that baseball was trying to do things that were going to make things better for the fans. Better food, people seemed to always want that. I mean, they always wanted their hot dog, or hamburger or popcorn, which seems to have taken over for Cracker Jack. But now they’ve got sushi! I mean, you name it and it’s there at a ballpark. It’s part of the game-going experience now.

What to Do When Not Paying Attention at the Ballpark by Mike Faloon

2009-08-14T17:30:00.000-04:00

The line drive sailed into left field, straight and true. It had all the markings of a routine play. Gary Sheffield settled in, feet planted, glove lined up. I assumed he was paying attention right up until the moment the ball bounced out of his glove allowing the Marlins runner to ease into second with a stand up double. He never scored, though because his Florida teammates followed with a pop up and ground out.

Keep the “E7” in your scorecard if you want but his miscue didn’t cost the Mets any runs. And Sheffield didn’t get fined or lose any more respect, so there was no cost to him. Not paying attention can be all right. And this season Mets fans—and apparently Mets players—have good reason to divert their attention elsewhere. This set the tone for the games I’ve seen this summer. Here’s what I’ve been focusing on during my trips to ballparks through the northeast.

How to Play Moundies
Marlins vs. Mets
CitiField, NYC

Moundies. It’s a game my friends Alex and Sue taught me. It goes like this. At the end of each half inning follow the ball. If it rolls onto the mound, then the person holding the cup wins the money. If the ball doesn’t end up on the mound, then the cup is passed to the next person. Bring lots of singles.

It may help if I run through those steps a bit more methodically. Here we go.

One: Get a cup. Alex plays old school and just wipes out a used beer cup. You can also ask for clean cup.

Two: Have each person put a dollar in the cup. My wife and I went to a Mets/Marlins game with Alex and Sue. (It was our first trip to Citi Field. Nice park. Should be called Gil Hodges Stadium, though.) Four participants means you start with four dollars. The math gets no more complicated than that.

Three: Set your order. We played from left to right. Sue sat on the left. She held the cup first. Allie, Alex, and I sat to Sue’s right in that order. We passed the cup along in the order. That may be a bit more detailed than necessary but I’m taking no chances here. It’s not like a classroom where you can raise your hand and ask a question. Or just call out, which my students do a lot and I don’t mind, as long as what they’re saying is relevant, especially when we’re having an impromptu debate, let the good ideas surface without reservation. But let’s get back to Moundies before I get all Socratic.

Four: Watch how each half inning ends. The top of the first ended with the Marlins’ Jeremy Hermida striking out. Mets catcher Omir Santos caught the third strike and rolled the ball toward the mound. It rolled off the second base side of the mound. Sue was watching—we all were at that point—but she did not win. The ball has to stay on the mound for the cup holder to collect the funds.

Five: Put more money in the cup. Bottom of the first. Sue passed the cup to Allie and everyone ponied up another dollar. Omir Santos swatted a grand slam, the first in the history of Gil Hodges Stadium. The Mets scored six runs in the inning.

Six: Keeping watching the mound even when the game is exciting. We all forgot about Moundies after the grand slam. Allie passed the cup to Alex, who won when Fernando Tatis, playing first base for the Mets, recorded the last out of the top of the second inning. The pot was up to $12.

Seven: Start again. The cup had $4 when it came to me. We got talking about work, specifically Secretaries Day, which is not something that teachers should forget. (Sue and Alex teach at the same school I do.) Unlike a dropping a fly ball in the major leagues, there are consequences to neglecting your school’s secretary. I got to thinking about this and lost track of the game so the cup went back to Sue.

The rest of the game was pretty dull but playing Moundies livened up the evening. One more tip, a bit of etiquette really: if you seem to win more than often than the rest of your group, treat everyone to some snacks or a round of drinks. The idea is that everyone kind of comes out even in the end.

The Big Four-Oh
Leheigh Valley Iron Pigs vs. Syracuse Skychiefs
Alliance Stadium, Syracuse

I turned 40 in July and my wife threw me a surprise party. It was awesome. She rented a box at the Chiefs stadium and invited tons of family (who were already in town for the 4th of July). Was I surprised? Yes, for the most part. We had been hanging in my mom’s backyard—Allie, me, the kids, my mom, my brother Pat and his boyfriend—and suddenly everyone had to leave. Pat and Chris were going downtown to check out a record store. Allie and my mom wanted to take the kids out for ice cream. These are normal things. My other brother, Casey, and I were planning to go to the Chiefs game anyway. So they left and I waited for Casey to pick me up. There were two unusual things that left me curious. Allie woke up our daughter from a nap, which is Haley’s Comet-rare. Second, about five minutes after everyone left I saw Pat and Chris drive by the house in one car followed by Allie, my mom and the kids in another car. Despite these clues the surprise party caught me off guard, especially when I saw my Uncle Steve, from Maine, and a good friend from NYC, Brian Cogan, in the same room. It was like a harmonic convergence of funny Irish guys with great senses of humor and good taste in music and movies.
My cousin’s husband joked that I’d be kind of ticked off by having so many people at the game because it would be impossible to actually watch the action on the field. I did bring my scorecard, thinking I’d be watching the game with one brother and my dad, but I never picked it up.

Technically I Paid Money to See Bob Dylan Perform
Wyios, Willie Nelson, John Mellencamp, Bob Dylan
Alliance Stadium, Syracuse

I can’t be blamed for not paying attention to the game on this trip to the ballpark. There wasn’t a game scheduled. There was a four-act bill, however. It was my first concert at a ballpark. The stage was set up further back than I expected, in the middle of center field. I was there with my brother and my dad. We all loved the opening band but didn’t know their name until they were done. The Wyios. They did this slow version of Willie Dixon’s “My Babe,” which reminded me of Tom Waits. The rest of the set was like western swing (they covered Bob Wills at one point) crossed with Spike Jones.

Willie Nelson was great. He walked one with no introduction, broke into “Whiskey River,” and kept the hits coming for an hour. It wasn’t the most passionate performance (“Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” was truncated, only hitting the chorus twice; “Good Hearted Woman” didn’t shift into double time like it used to) but he gave us our money’s worth (which is saying a lot given the cost of the tickets). His voice still has that beautiful timbre even if its force is a bit diminished. Four songs into the set he said, “Hello there” and went back to the hits. I was surprised he didn’t monologue more but the dude was there to work. (To his credit he could have had some young buck shouldering the lead guitar duties but Willie was at the wheel the whole time.) Plus, there are other ways to endear yourself to fans. He threw his bandanas into the crowd. That seemed to work for a lot of people. So did the trio of Hank Williams songs. My favorite was the cover of “Me and Bobby McGee,” barely recognizable because it seemed so much faster. I think my dad’s was “Georgia On My Mind.” He harmonized and shared the history (“This was written by Hoagy Carmichael and of course Ray Charles did it, too”).

I liked John Mellencamp more than I expected. I haven’t heard a new John Mellencamp song in 15 years and I recognized most of the set. I found myself listening to the words more than the music. They’re country lyrics set to rock songs, which may be obvious but it hadn’t dawned on before.

Dylan was awful. My expectations were low and I still couldn’t take it. Big deal, right, another Dylan hater. Let me explain. I’ve come to like some Dylan. Not just his songs when sung by other people but his versions. Highway 61 Revisited. Bringing It All Back Home. Blonde on Blonde. The classics. Nothing fancy. Couldn’t take Dylan ’09, though. We left after a couple of songs and talked about the Wyios and Willie as we walked back to the parking lot.

“Sultans of Swing”
Falmouth Commodores vs. Orleans Firebirds
Orleans, MA

There is nothing quite like a Cape League game. College all-stars playing on high school fields. No aluminum bats. Fans brings their own chairs. I usually buy a scorecard so I know who’s playing but I went Sheffield this time. My wife and I forgot chairs so we lay in the grass. I came to in the bottom of the ninth. Tie game. At first I didn’t understand why “Sultans of Swing” was playing over the PA. It seemed too mellow for a “rally the home team” song. Then the title hit me. Sometimes it is worth paying attention at the ballpark.

The First Hack Man by Michael Baker

2009-08-14T17:15:00.000-04:00

My favorite athlete of all time is the alcohol-soaked Cubs outfielder Hack Wilson who nonchalantly patrolled centerfield during the heyday of both the ungodly Prohibition and the soul splitting Great Crash. Invective-hurling Albert Belle, anti-Nazi speedster Jesse Owens, enigmatic Jim Thorpe, marathon runner Pheidippides, double-amputee sprinter Oscar Pistorius, and ground-breaking Jackie Robinson all vie for the top spot in my pantheon, but it was only Hack Wilson who could lay claim to this: When his Hall of Famer manager Joe McCarthy lectured Hack about demon alcohol, Joe used the following analogy—If you drop a worm into a glass of whiskey it dies. Wilson pondered this biological fact cheerily, saying: "If you drink whiskey, you'll never get worms."

Lewis Robert Wilson was born at the turn of the century in the Pennsylvania hamlet of Ellwood City. He broke into the majors with the Giants and was dropped inexplicably after three years by the greatest manager in history, John McGraw. Now with the Cubs, in six mercurial seasons Hack established his Hall of Fame bona fides. Along with Saint Sandy Koufax, Hack's peak numbers were dense, short-lived, and otherworldly, but unlike Koufax, his election into the Hall came a long time (31 years) after his death. He was pugnacious, an indifferent fielder, and as slow on the base paths as George Bush was to take responsibility for the immoral malaise that hangs presently through the Western worlds. Hack Wilson was as well the oddest physical specimen ever to play at such a high level of competence: 5’ 6”, over 200 pounds, implausibly buttressed by size six shoes. Think Lindsay Lohan with an extra hundred pounds (but no lesbian lovers).

In six campaigns with the Cubbies Hack battered the ball, raking 190 HR, a .322 average, and a startling 769 RBI in only 850 games. But it was in 1930 that Hack Wilson tiptoed on tiny feet to baseball immortality. Chuck Klein, a rival National League outfielder, put together a top ten season of all time that included 158 runs, 250 hits, 445 total bases, 170 RBI, and a lofty .386 batting average. And yet, Hack outperformed him, setting, among other lethal stats, the all time record for RBI: 191 in 155 games. That record will never be broken. The next highest National League total since this high-water mark of human civilization is a paltry 160 and that was illegally generated 40 years later than Hack's mark by fellow Cub and serial steroidist Sammy Sosa. As with Hack, I prefer whiskey to cheating. 191 RBI translates to 1.22 RBI per game. That's perfection, like gin at lunch or Linda Evangelista in a bathing suit.

Before you naysayers chime in about league averages and park adjusted values, I know that in 1930 everybody but Herbert Hoover in the Senior Circuit batted above .300, or seemingly so. The league average, after all, (with pitchers batting!) was .303; 19 full timers hit above .330; the Cubs' 5th best player (after Gabby Hartnett, Woody English, Kiki Cuyler, and Hack) was Riggs Stephenson who merely batted .367. But no one then, before, or since batted in 191 runs. He also batted .356, never missed a plate appearance, slugged .723, totaled 423 bases, scored 146 runs, hit 56 home runs, and was on base over 45% of the time.

Adjusting for offensive value and based upon comparisons of park and league efficiency, Wilson's season has been diminished through the haze of time. In one sampling, his offensive win total was eclipsed by, for example, Kevin Mitchell, another portly indifferent outfielder. But Kevin Mitchell could not walk in Hack's size six shoes. And it did not help that his dipsomania cut short his talent, career, and life, only topping 100 RBI once for the rest of his sketchy 6 year career. As with Gaul, Hack Wilson's career was divided in three parts: scuttling for a few seasons with ignorant Giants, the six god-like years with the Cubs, and the fitful, disappointing last six years, bouncing from tavern to saloon to bar. We mere citizens would be thankful, however, for a few peak years like our hero Hack's peak; unlike Jimmy Brown, my brown Adonis from my addled youth who performed well at everything—lacrosse or basketball or balletically evading Sam Huff or throwing blondes off balconies—Hack was born deprived and devoid of any physical advantage. He made up for these disadvantages however by fueling his hatred for himself with channeling that hatred into an imperious stance towards all pitchers and all pitched balls. Hack could hit.

He died unreformed and unapologetic at the age of 48, in Baltimore, like another fevered genius of the bottle, Poe.

Darryl Strawberry Comes Clean About His Life by Steve Reynolds

2009-08-14T16:45:00.000-04:00

I’d like to say I wasn’t nervous walking over to shake Darryl Strawberry’s hand before we spoke, but that would be a big old lie. The 1986 Mets were the first team I was truly passionate about. And Strawberry was a key cog to that bunch of bad guys. And when he grabbed my hand and said hello, my first thought was, “Holy shit, this is what a ballplayer should look like,” quickly followed by, “Holy crap, he’s got some huge hands” and then “Wow, he looks like he could still play today.” Strawberry and I then sat down to talk about his book Straw: Finding My Way. It’s a fascinating read about one of the most compelling New York sports figures of all-time. In it, Strawberry pulls no punches talking about how he messed his own life and the lives of his family. We spoke about taking responsibility, Derek Jeter’s star power, and one very unlikely best friend.

SR: Towards the end of the book you talk about gradually coming back into the public eye and having people propose book and movie deals, which you turned down. Why was now the right time to write down your story? What made you think you were in the right place mentally to do it?

DS: Well, I think because I’m finally committed to doing it. I think that’s the first step you have to do. You have to be able to commit to it and say you wanna do it, because when you have to go back and revisit things—I mean, there’s a lot of painful things there. It takes a person time to think through it and see that these painful things are gonna come up. And these feelings, you think about your children and the relationships that you were in and your part that you played in that that made a difference of affecting lives. It’s never easy. And when I reached that point I said this is pretty much a good time in my life. And it wasn’t all about me. My wife convinced me that it was also about helping other people. It’s a message to help other people because when people have loved and cared for you, there are people hurting to and they need to hear this message of hope. Of why you don’t quit. People say, “Why shouldn’t I quit?” And I can say that you just don’t, you should never give up.

SR: One thing that I found interesting in the book is that you really don’t put the blame on anybody else for anything in your life. You’re very direct in saying, “This was my fault.” How did you get to point in your life where you can say it’s your fault and you’re not here to blame anyone else when describing your life?

DS: Well, it’s about taking action and taking full responsibility for your life. I took action on the field and excelled there. Well it was time I took actions for my mistakes off the field too. You need take responsibility for those things. And doing that it allows people to see who you really are. Instead of what’s been created and written about you, they’re able to see from your side who you really are. And that’s what I wanted people to see more than anything. I wanted them to see the real heart that I have and the real understanding I have about life—life challenges and life mistakes and taking full responsibility for it. Because that gives people a clearer understanding that when things occur in your life and you take responsibility, you have a chance of getting on the right path. You’ll never get there if you don’t take responsibility. And you know, it took me a good while to understand that. I was taught a lot of that through my wife and I’m grateful for that. Because behind every good story there’s a good woman pushing you. If they tell you there’s not and they did it on their own, they’re lying! (Laughs)

SR: I really found it fascinating when you talk about signing with the Yankees in 1995 and you and Derek Jeter were riding the bench as the team was making their playoff run. You talk about giving Derek advice about not letting the city eat him up when you would be on the bench. Could you tell at the time that he would be someone who would thrive in New York and be able to survive the pressure cooker?

DS: Oh yes, I could tell he would be okay because I saw him play before down in Columbus. When I saw him play I said to myself, “He’s got the potential to go to New York and they’re going to love him and he’s going to be a star.” I could see it. Why? Because I’ve experienced it myself. And I wanted to share it with him. I told him, “You’re going to have a lot of opportunities in this town. You’re gonna be a star in this town.” I said, “Just take care of yourself. Don’t make mistakes like I did. Because there’s gonna be a lot of people pulling at you and there’s gonna be a lot of opportunities for you. Just be careful about what you do.”

SR: You also talk about coming back to the Mets to work on SNY and to work with some younger players. How important is it to you to be able to share your experience with these players just starting out, not offering just baseball advice but also advice on how to act when you’re in a New York organization?

DS: It’s about dealing with your life properly when you play in New York and dealing with the pressure and dealing with the media. I just try to explain to some of the younger guys that come along, don’t get caught up the hype of how good you are—or how horrible you are. Because it’s going to come at you from both ways. I tell them to try and keep balance and stay focused. All that outside pressure, it is what it is. Don’t lose yourself in it. That’s what’s important for young players. Don’t lose yourself in it and think you’re great immediately, because you could have a chance to play a long time in this city if you are successful.

SR: Was part of your healing process coming back to the Mets? Did working on SNY and coming back to Shea feel like coming full circle?

DS: That definitely was a major part of the healing process. I walked away from a place I admired and adored the fans and the winning tradition that I learned playing here in New York. I mean, it all happened in Queens for me. I may have gone over to The Bronx and played, but I knew how to win because I was a winner in Queens.

SR: You were part of two of the most beloved teams ever in New York—the 1986 Mets and the 1998 Yankees. What was it about them that make them so loved in New York? Why do fans think they were so special?

DS: Well, attitude. Swagger. Belief. We came to the ballpark with a purpose. We came to the ballpark believing we could win everyday. There was always excitement. I think fans could feel the excitement in the air when they came to the ballpark. I mean, you came to the ball park and you knew those teams were ferocious! They took a lot of pride in what they were doing. And people could see that.

SR: You also talk about your friendship with Eric Davis, who had his own battle with cancer before you did. You two didn’t have the exact same disease, but was it important to have someone you grew up with and shared your experiences as a ballplayer? Did that strengthen your bond?

DS: Oh, we had a very strong bond. We grew up together, played little league together. Along the way we realized we both had the same intentions and the same goals and same passions, to get to the majors league and be successful. And we did it. And it was very special for to stay close, to be like brothers through everything, and for both of us overcome everything, and be successful as professional athletes.

SR: Finally, I have to ask about George Steinbrenner. You write in the book about how he gave you multiple chances. Obviously a lot has been written—both good and bad—about him over the years. What kind of friend was he to you?

DS: Remarkable. I mean, he was someone I could have a personal conversation with when most people were scared to talk to me. I could just go to him and talk to him about anything. He was the kindest person to me and my family that I’ve ever known. Even with all the things that happened and things that were written about me during that time, he never turned his back on me. When everybody else told him, “don’t do it, don’t do it,” he was like, “I’m doing it. I care for him. I care for his family. I wanna see that they’re taken care of.” He took care of me and my family and I will always thank God for him.

In Omar We Trust by Michael Baker

2009-08-14T16:30:00.000-04:00

Venezuelan shortstop Omar Vizquel is a man of grit, grace, and class, sort of like George Gershwin if George could throw deep from the hole. He is winding down a remarkable career: 2700 games, many awards and post-season appearances, and nearly 2,700 hits. Whether he makes it into baseball's Hall of Fame remains to be seen—he is with Texas now and more post seasons seem unlikely. I must also say that I am torn between bifurcated poles of thinking here: as a lifetime Tribe fan, I saw Omar elegantly spur the Cleveland Indians into the playoffs six out of seven years. I have seen up close and live and on TV Omar play so many times, and watched breathlessly so often as he turned two so effortlessly, or laughingly viewed his grabbing bare handedly distaff line drives so often, my heart certainly says yes, a Hall of Famer. But there are many negatives as well—he was never at the top of his profession in comparison with more gifted peers, and he seems to be for the last few campaigns a mere statistic compiler, not a difference maker.

A strong argument against Omar is the level of competition at his position. Near contemporaries already in the Hall dwarf his accomplishments: Cal Ripken, Jr., Robin Yount and Ozzie Smith richly deserve their bronzing; the still playing Alex Rodriguez and Derek Jeter are locks. Tony Fernandez, Miguel Tejada, Barry Larkin, Nomar Garciaparra, Jimmy Rollins and Edgar Renteria, although none of them belong, certainly at one time in each of their careers the player maintained superior seasonal value compared to Omar’s performance. And we can't forget the two studs who project to be first round selections in 20 years or so: Hanley Ramirez and Jose Reyes.

Some compilers, of course, belong—Don Sutton and Rafael Palmiero (drugs aside); Rusty Staub, Craig Nettles, Darrell Evans and Steve Finley do not. More so than level of competition—it's his fault the position of shortstop changed in the mid-1980's to include bigger athletes with more power?—compilers seem a little awkward to emotionally and statistically deal with. What with medical advances, obscene pay, and the stretching point of major league franchises, it's not hard to figure why someone plays until the age of 40. And lest we be called cold hearted bastards, there are very few professions where we eliminate, Logan's Run style, the semi-mature denizens of any sect, not to mention that normally we applaud athletic fitness and steadfastness, lunch-pail obduracy, and fidelity to both corporation and mission.

Let's get back to facts, Jack. Omar Vizquel has been selected to three All-Star games. He has won 12 Gold Gloves—only three position players have more (Pudge Rodriguez, Brooks Robinson, and Ozzie Smith). Over 1250 times Omar walked or struck a sacrifice hit: persistence and patience at the plate are too often overlooked as galvanizing attributes and sacrificing yourself so that the team (or Albert Belle) can thrive is an outstanding quality of civilized humanity, almost as if Omar had a sense of agape, or spiritual selflessness. Most importantly, metaphysics aside, he was successfully doing something well over 1250 times (walks, sacrifice hits) at the workplace. I, for example, in my non-illustrious career, have done something right at work fewer than three dozen times. He is, as well, virtually guaranteed to get well over 2700 hits which would land him in the top 50 of all time. He has 530 extra base hits, 1400 runs, and nearly 400 stolen bases. In comparison, Ozzie Smith has 1257 runs, 2460 hits, 501 extra base hits, and 580 steals. To further make the argument for Hall inclusion, non-peers Joe Tinker and “The Scooter” Phil Rizzuto have stats that can barely match Omar's first ten years in the league: Scooter, the winner of the NYC media whine party, had 877 runs, 1588 hits, 149 steals, and 339 extra base hits while Tinker, the famed recipient of starring role in the worst poem (“Tinkers to Evers to Chance”) since The Fairie Queen, had 774 runs scored, 1687 hits, 408 extra base hits, and 336 steals, or, in other words, a decent six year stretch for George Sisler.

This hasn't really gotten us anywhere. I can (barely) hear a resoundingly sighed “maybe” from you, the silent majority, hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frère! I would lean towards the negative because of the essential truth—on any given Thursday night in the late 90's Omar Vizquel was not even a top 5 shortstop playing that humid evening. So let me try something else. His range factors compared to league average, not surprisingly, have been consistently well above average, but so were many fielding statistics of the other half dozen all stars that were playing pepper before games (or knocking down multiple clandestine rendezvous with high class hookers—Hi A-Rod!). What if we can find a statistical anomaly that separates OV from both his peers and his potential Hall classmates?

In basketball there is an unspoken stat that suggests the point guard's efficiency: his turnover to assists ratio. It is pointless to have a point guard fostering three on two breaks with clever passes eight times a game if he or she throws the ball away six times that evening as well. A good ratio would be 3/1; a Hall of Famer ratio would be higher. John Stockton had 4244 turnovers but 15,806 assists. Magic Johnson had 3506 turnovers, but 10,141 assists. They are over 3/1 and they are in the Hall of Fame. Allen Iverson has 3198 turnovers, 5511 assists. Someone has to think deeply before voting for that malcontented, megalomaniacal, practice-shunning, anti-Semitic rapper. So what’s the point? How about stacking up a ratio that examines errors to turned double plays as a slice of fielding excellence? For instance, Hall of Famer Pee Wee Reese had 388 errors and 1246 double plays. That's a ratio of 3.21 to 1. Peer Rizzuto had 1217 double plays, 267 errors (4.55 to 1). Rabbit Maranville (with 2600 hits a close offensive comparison to Omar) had 630 errors (WTF?), 1183 turned twos: 1.87 to 1—no stew for you, Rabbit! Hall of Famer shortstop Joe Sewell's stats make me weep—333 errors and only 665 double plays (1.96 to 1). Luis Aparicio and his 366 errors come out to 4.24 to 1. Tejada's is slightly over 5. Ozzie Smith logs in at 1590/281, or 5.33. The benchmark? Not really. In over 20 years of fielding excellence Omar Vizquel has turned 1713 double plays and laid an egg 183 times; that translates to an astounding 9.74, or: for every ten double plays achieved Omar made an error.

Now this is almost simply anecdotal evidence, not taking into consideration slick second basemen with terrific moxie and howitzer-accurate arms, smooth first basemen scooping semi-errant throws out from oblivion, or a pitching staff that is or is not predominately low strike throwing. Then again, in my baseball experience, turning two is good for the team, and making an error is bad. And Omar does more good things than bad. Many more. And if we could, we should turn back to the emotional side of the argument. I have loved the Tribe since Rocky Colavito came back, like MacArthur, a hero into my infantile psyche. I have witnessed the soul deadening of baseball ineptitude for the next 30 years, as if I were a Sioux and had my picture taken every five minutes of my life. Omar and Orel and Albert and Eddie and Carlos and Sandy gave me, the city, and my friends and family a sense of hope, a sense of relief, a sense that the prior years since 1960 were worth laboring over. And that cathartic relief was spearheaded by the indefatigable and ingenious leadership of Omar Vizquel. He is in my Hall of Fame.

Michael Baker once from Ohio, now New Jersey, is an award winning poet, a teacher of university composition classes, a frequent contributor to Trouser Press and Zisk, and a writer of extended Perfect Sound Forever essays on The Kinks, Cleveland in the 1970s, and Alex Chilton. His baseball blog, Knock the Rock, can be found at marcelproust666.mlblogs.com

Selena Roberts: The Zisk Interview

2009-08-14T16:00:00.000-04:00

It was shaping up to just a quiet Valentine’s Day 2009 in the sports world until a post on Sports Illustrated’s website broke a stunning news story—New York Yankees third basemen Alex Rodriguez had tested positive for steroids back in 2003. The writer who broke the news of the suppose-to-be-anonymous testing was Selena Roberts, who discovered the revelation in doing research for an in-depth profile on A-Rod for the magazine with reporter David Epstein that was to be followed up by a book due out in June. That revelation set off a stunning chain of events that have been hashed and re-hashed to death in the months since then. (However, I must admit to cackling at A-Rod when he told Peter Gammons that Roberts was a “stalker.” That was just too rich.)

After the initial buzz died down, Roberts was left with a project that most people assumed they already knew the juiciest parts. (And had its publication date moved up by two months) That wasn’t the case, as A-Rod: The Many Lives of Alex Rodriguez saw Roberts uncover evidence of pitch-tipping and steroid use in high school. The book is an interesting read, yet it seems like if Roberts had had more time she could have fleshed out a fuller portrait of the man. (And as you’ll see in our talk, she admits to feeling the pressure of the quick deadline.) When we spoke, Roberts had gone through a pretty brutal beating by various print and online columnists as well as sports-talk radio hosts. Yet I found her to genuinely funny and very comfortable with being an easy target for sports fanatics.

Steve: First, let’s tackle the most shocking revelation in the book—A-Rod’s dad was a freedom fighter in the Dominican Republic?

Selena: Yeah, isn’t that weird? There’s a lot of surprises you run into with Alex Rodriguez. The first surprise was, I didn’t know he was on steroids when I started doing this story on him. I didn’t know about the pitch tipping. All those kind of things. But then the personal stuff was really the more interesting stuff to me. Because I didn’t know about the relationship with his father. And talking with his father, he was fascinating. When he left Alex at age 10, there was a lot of pain that went both ways. Alex certainly felt the pain of losing a father. There were times in the middle of the night were he’d go into his mom’s room and try to sleep in his dad’s spot, just to be close to him. So there was a lot of pain there. But also on the father’s behalf, he said he cried into his pillow in the middle of the night because he missed his boy so much. So there’s a lot of stuff that went on there. And then I started looking into the history of the Dominican and I started seeing these stories of Victor Rodriguez, the father of Alex Rodriguez, being a freedom fighter against the Trujillo regime. There were a lot of things that were surprising to me and I think they were fascinating and added many layers to Alex Rodriguez.

Steve: Do you think that the steroid revelations kind of overshadow those interesting stories about his life? I mean, if this was any other biography, revelations like that would make people go, “Really? No way!” Has that stuff just been totally overshadowed?

Selena: You know, that’s true. And I get it. I’ve been in the media in New York City and I understand what makes a headline and I know people go through a book quickly and they extract certain things for news value. But to me, the steroid stuff is just part of who he is. The arc of deception is more of what I’m interested in. Like how it followed his whole life and his whole career. About how he felt like he needed to exaggerate himself to please. And really that all stems from the day his dad left. It’s really an amazing father-son tale of when his dad left and how needy he was and how he never wanted anyone to leave him again. And when you feel that kind of pain, you’re willing to do anything to please people. And it started for him really early on in life, where he wanted to be adored, where he wanted to be loved. And all those kind of things we hear from a psychologist or a shrink about this type of relationship—well it’s real. And it was real for him and I think that’s how he got to be the way he is.

Steve: You broke the steroid news in February of this year for Sports Illustrated, so I assume you’d been working on this book for a while?

Selena: Well, the weird part about the way the book developed is that I signed a deal to do the book based on the profile material I had, which was the interesting stuff about the father-son relationship. His family relationship. His dynamics within the clubhouse. I had interviewed dozens and dozens of people on that. And David Epstein and I had worked on this profile for Sports Illustrated. So really the book was going to be based on that. And then as we were getting the profile ready, we started hearing that the steroid issue was there. It started as a rumor, and it turned into reality when we were able to verify it with the evidence that we had from the 2003 tests. So it was an additional element to Alex that came along in the process, but it was never the underpinning of the book in the first place.

Steve: So did you feel like, “We’ve got this explosive story that everywhere, and I have this book deal—I’m going to be sitting at the computer forever!”

Selena: (Laughs) Get me a rewrite! (Laughs)

Steve: So did you feel extra pressure in getting the book done quickly?

Selena: Yes. I’m screaming to myself “rewrite” a couple of times because I had to go back in and re-report some things and go back to people. And go back to a high school coach when I found out some more stuff about the high school years with him. And go back and really study what he had told me about how scouts did not recognize Alex as a junior because his body had changed so much. So then I started talking to some more people and found out some information about high school and his steroid use there. So a lot of things unfolded after the fact. And certainly you’re always under pressure to make a deadline. The deadline was not going to change. They wanted it quick and they wanted to get it done. As a writer, you always want more time. You’re always trying to squeeze out a last few minutes with the copy. That wasn’t going to happen and I understood that because the publisher has to make a deadline. Yes, a lot of things changed once the story was released. Because I had to go back and I had to retrace some steps and I had to go forward with new information I’d received right after that. So it was a bit of a push, but I think as a writer you know that’s going to happen and you know there’s going to be somebody sitting on you to get it done. At the end of the day it’s done and it’s out so you get some relief on that in some ways.

Steve: So when the paperback comes out, do you think you’ll be able to add in some of the things that happened in the two months since the book was finished?

Selena: Oh yeah. Let’s face it—Alex is a work in progress. He is different right now than he has been before. He came back—and I was actually pretty impressed by this—he came back a different person. He went out screaming and ranting and raving about a book I was working on and he’s come back being very quiet about what it’s become since he’s come back. And I think what he’s trying to do, and what I’ve understand he’s done, is that he’s taken a lot of the celebrity people out of his life. [Editor’s note: This interview happened before the Kate Hudson news broke.] He’s distanced himself from Guy Oseary, Madonna’s manager. He’s distanced himself a little bit from that world. Which I think the Yankees are happy about. He talks about being more introspective. He talks about looking in the mirror, and this time not kissing himself in the mirror like he did for that Details photo shoot.

Steve: Oh yeah, that was a smart move.

Selena: So that’s a good moment of progress. I think he’s doing and saying a lot of things that may develop for him in a good way. If he’s just about baseball and being a baseball player, I think he has a lot of success to come.

Steve: Now I assume you’ve read all the criticisms about this book.

Selena: Oh yes.

Steve: Let me ask you this—if it was a male name on the front of this book, would the sports world and sports talk radio take it more seriously? To me, I think there is a level of sexism that exists in both.

Selena: Well, we’re a genderized society. You can’t get away from the fact that people look through things using a lens of gender. It doesn’t mean that it’s right or wrong or that we’re unequal, it just means that there’s a different lens that they use to look at different things. So certainly that goes on. But I have been the beneficiary—I’ve been in this business for 23 years, so it’s not like I just dropped in and did a book. A lot of people know me, and I have a pretty good reputation, I think, out there. Certainly people take shots. I was a columnist for five years at the New York Times, I took shots at other people too. I dissected people, I scrutinized people. So to have it come back on me, I can’t complain about it. Because I lived by that sword, I’m going to have to be happy when the sword is used against me, in some weird way. (Laughs) So I think that it’s fair play. Their opinions of me and the book are fair, because it comes from a place where they feel passion for it. And when you write about a polarizing figure like Alex, you’re going to get a polarizing response in return. I’m okay with it at the end of the day.

Steve: I was watching Baseball Tonight just before the publication date and they were talking about the allegations about A-Rod stealing signs. And it seemed like the former players on the show took that as more of a blow against the game than the steroids issue. Now when you were talking to people about that, did you get that impression from your sources that they had more problems with that than steroids?

Selena: Absolutely. Because here’s the thing—even though it was in blowout situations and it was no attempt to try and alter a game or anything else, it was like slump insurance. I got your back if you got my back, I’ll tip you if you tip me. If I’m 0 for 4 and it’s at the end of the season and nothing matters, help me out sort of thing. So it wasn’t something that was going to be this tangible deal that people were going to freak out about because it changed the game. But what it does is that it changes the dynamic in that clubhouse. It changes it for the guy who’s on the mound who’s just been called up at the end of the season. He’s a minor league prospect and he’s on the mound and a pitch-tipping thing is going on and the guy gives up a hit, it extends an inning. Something else happens and the next thing you know his ERA blows up. That’s the thing that gets guys crazy, because you are affecting your own teammates. You’re affecting the morale, you’re affecting the trust level, and you’re affecting the integrity of the game. All those kind of things are, for players, a far bigger issue than steroids. Because they feel even though steroids have altered the game in so many ways—it’s certainly altering the statistics—it’s a repercussion you’re going to have to live with later in your life for taking steroids. What will they do to your body later? Okay, you do that, you’re doing it to yourself. You tip a pitch, you’re killing everybody else. And I think that was the thing that kept coming across over and over again to me, and certainly has since the book came out.

Steve: One thing I find interesting about people’s reactions to the use of steroid by big-time players is that A-Rod sort of fessed up after your broke the news, and now people are looking for the “A-Rod makes a clean comeback angle,” yet Barry Bonds is the ultimate pariah in all of this. It’s kind of an interesting dichotomy between these two stories.

Selena: I think Barry had a different veneer than what Alex has. Barry was never accessible to people, he was a bit surly. He was a sort of “me against the world” kind of guy. And so there was a distance there with fans. Not the San Francisco fans, who loved him, there’s no doubt about that. But elsewhere there was that distance. With Alex, I think most people see him as, “Yes, he’s kind of a screwed-up guy, but he’s a vulnerable guy. He’s a guy who is not a bad person. And I think that’s very important to remember. He’s not a guy who goes into a bar and punches somebody else out. He’s a guy who’s complicated who has, yes, who has lied and who has cheated, but is very vulnerable because of it. And is someone who really wants to please. Barry never wanted to please people. Alex does. That’s the very root of his problem is so many ways—the exaggerated need to please people because he needs this exaggerated form of glory in return. So I think that people see Alex and they also see a guy and they want to be part of that comeback story. Fans have an incredible emotional connection to the wounded. And right now Alex is wounded. He’s wounded with the hip injury, he’s got an injured psyche, all those kind of things. And I think fans really love to be part of the comeback story. They want to be there roaring in the background when he hits the home run because they want to have a part in this comeback. And I think in New York they do it all the time. You may be vilified somewhere else, but you’re our guy. That’s where he is right now and I think it’s a healthy pace for him.

Steve: I wanted to ask you a question about your current job at Sports Illustrated. You were at the Times for a long time, and looking at the state of newspapers right now, did you make the jump to the magazine world at the right time?

Selena: You know, anything that probably lands on your lawn or in your mailbox like a magazine is in danger. So I might have jumped from the burning building to the sinking ship in so many ways. For me it was just a new window to look out of. I had been in the newspaper business my whole life, I had been at the Times for almost 12 years. So I just thought it was a good time to go and use some more muscles, different brain muscles, and do a different thing with writing. I don’t know if the business is going to—it’s going to survive in some way, I just don’t know which way. That goes for magazines as well. But timing wise, I guess some people might say that. But then I look around and magazines aren’t doing that great either. I think we’re all in a little bit of trouble. And I really think it is incumbent upon the leaders to come up with some sort of way to survive.

Steve: So with rushing to get this book done and all the press associated with it, do you have another book on the horizon? Or are you thinking, “You know what, I’m going to stay out of the spotlight for a bit?”

Selena: I have a margarita on the horizon. (Laughs) I think that’s what’s on the horizon for me right now, a nice little umbrella drink.

Steve Reynolds is the co-editor of Zisk, and would like to use this space to thank my co-worker John Weber in his assistance in making this and the Darryl Strawberry and Rusty Staub interviews in this issue happen. So if his Phillies repeat as World Series champs, I really can’t get that upset about it.

Jumpsteady! by Tim Hinely

2009-08-14T15:45:00.000-04:00

Triples. We all love it when a player can get to the elusive third base on a hit. (The only thing better is an inside-the-park home run, which you can read about in my Willie Wilson article in Zisk # 12). I’m not sure who has the record for the most triples in a season and to be honest I’m too lazy to look it up [Editor’s note: we’re not that lazy, it’s Pittsburgh Pirate Chief Wilson with 36 in 1912] but Garry “Jumpsteady” Templeton had 50 in three seasons with the St. Louis Cardinals from the years 1977-1979 (18 in 1977, 13 in 1978 and 19 in 1979). It might not seem like a big deal now but it sure was back then. Wait a minute—it is a big deal even now. Heck, in a recent interview Garry called the triple, “The most exciting play in baseball.” Just for the record Templeton is 137th on the all-time triples list with 106. The all-time leader is Sam Crawford with 312. Most of the 158 players in the list are old timers so for more modern day players Templeton’s triples numbers are quite impressive.

Garry Lewis Templeton was born in Lockney, Texas on March 24th, 1956. He made his MLB debut on August 9th, 1976 as a shortstop for the St. Louis Cardinals and from the get go this guy had some serious wheels. He was the first switch hitter to have 100 hits from each side of the plate and made the all star team in 1977 and 1979. He gained some notoriety in 1979 when, despite have better numbers than the two other N.L. shortstops, Larry Bowa and Dave Concepcion, Templeton was not selected to start the game and made his now famous quote, “If I ain’t startin’, I ain’t departin'.”

The middle finger. Things seemed to be going well for Templeton even into the 1980s though an incident on August 26th, 1981 soured the man in the minds and hearts of the Cardinals. Apparently during the game some guys had been heckling Templeton so at one point during the game he came out and flipped off the hecklers (at least one account says it was a crotch grab and not a one finger salute). Manager Whitey Herzog took him out of the game. At the end of the season Templeton was traded to the San Diego Padres for Ozzie Smith, a trade that excited players and fans for both teams. Though a knee injury slowed him down in San Diego he was one of the most popular players on the Padres and was team captain from 1984 on. He played with the Padres until 1990 and then was traded to the NY Mets for the 1991 season before calling it a day.

These days Templeton is manager for the Long Beach Armada of the Golden League. His stats probably will not get him the nod to Cooperstown but when some young buck approaches you and starts telling you about some Johnny Come Lately who hit double digits for triples in a season then say one word to them, “Jumpsteady.”

Tim Hinely has been a Pittsburgh Pirates fan for as long as he can remember (he claims he once saw Honus Wagner play in person) and he has been publishing his own zine, DAGGER, for nearly as long. Check it out at www.daggerzine.com.

Why I Hate Fantasy Baseball or What's a Fan's Real Job by Jon Vafiadis

2009-08-14T15:30:00.000-04:00

Root, root, root for the home team, if they don’t win it’s a shame. It is a shame. The most exciting time in sports is when two fierce rivals are about to go head to head and the love of your team is equal to that of your hate of the opponents. Analyzing every bit of minutia, figuring out match ups, and vehemently booing their stars; the level of electricity in the air is unparalleled in any other facet of life. Unfortunately, it’s dying off. The strong willed, maniacal fanaticism of hating the opponents, regardless of rivalry is definitely waning. The culprit is none other than fantasy baseball.

All team sports are very tribal in the sense that your devotion is formed at a young age and determined by those around you. Your team is the best and rest either stink or suck depending on acceptable slang of your generation. Tribes left home and traveled to neighboring villages in an effort to pillage and return home victorious. As a member of the tribe you should be supporting and cheering on your tribe regardless of the likelihood of victory.

The beauty of being a fan is that you are a fan for life. The years of missing the playoffs become instantly worthwhile in that solitary championship moment. All the heartbreak gets washed away with an irremovable smile that lasts through the offseason. It’s the collectivism of it all that makes it so potent, and yet fans are happy to sacrifice all of that in an effort to waste time every day at the office.

Fantasy baseball takes away the potency of a home late inning loss when the opposing hitter hits a three run shot and happens to be on your fantasy team. Instead of a profanity laced rant about how the manager doesn’t know what he’s doing and that he should have pulled the closer two batters ago because he didn’t have it tonight, you respond with, “oh well, but at least that’s going to put me over the top for RBI and home runs this week.” The game isn’t the only thing lost, the sense of team and community is lost. Baseball is a team sport and by rooting for individuals over the team we lose the fundamental crux of the game. You root for the uniform, not the name on the back.

Inevitably at some point in your fantasy baseball career, due to the drafting process, you will end up with a star player from your most bitter of rivals. As a result you get emotionally invested in that player’s performance and the fervor you have against his team wanes ever so slightly. As the fantasy season progresses and he comes up bigger and bigger for you in weeks that you thought were lost, it wanes some more. The next thing you know it’s the end of the season and you are now you find yourself cheerfully ambivalent to your former rival thanks to the spectacular fantasy play of their stars.

At the end of the day I have to acknowledge that fantasy baseball has some beneficial side effects such as that it makes us better fans because we follow the games that we ordinarily wouldn’t or that we track stats with a Billy Beaneesque fervor. By becoming more knowledgeable fans, who are better informed, and more insightful with our sports talk radio calls we can spread that enthusiasm to kids and even convert casual fans to die hard fans. These are all great side effects but when it comes to competition it’s the passion or the heart that puts teams over the top. Similarly it’s what makes being a fan great, the irrationality of it all. There’s no need for complex analysis or detailed argument for who you root for, it’s simple really, root for your team and against all the rest. Fantasy baseball is slowly but surely destroying that and soon enough we’ll be forced to change the lyrics to “root, root, root for whoever is on my fantasy team, if they strike out it’s a shame.”

Jon Vafiadis has yet to fulfill either of his life long dreams of playing for the 1986 Mets or punching Tim McCarver in the face during a live broadcast.

Time May Change Me... by Mike Faloon & Steve Ryenolds

2009-08-14T15:00:00.000-04:00

Overheard one afternoon at the Zisk office in midtown Manhattan…

Steve: So Mike, it’s the 10th anniversary of Zisk this summer. Can you believe it?

Mike: It’s amazing. If we keep this up, soon we’ll catch Go Metric in number of issues produced.

Steve: Wow. I never thought that would happen, especially after we survived that lawsuit from Barry Bonds back in 2000. I still can’t believe he sued you in an attempt to make sure you never attended one of his games ever again. He really thought you had cursed him.

Mike: Yeah, and now look—10 years later he’s the one in court. Fucker.

Steve: Fucker indeed. It’s amazing how things have changed in baseball over the past decade.

Mike: Yeah, back in ’99 you could buy a ticket for Shea Stadium for under ten dollars. At Citi…dammit, Gil Hodges Stadium, they charge you 10 bucks just for saying “Jackie Robinson rotunda.”

Steve: You couldn’t pay me $10 to say something positive about this year’s shitty Mets team. In ’99 the Mets had the most exciting team with the best infield in baseball—Olerud at first, Alfonzo and Ordonez up the middle and Robin Ventura at third. In ‘09 the Mets have the most exciting disabled list in baseball.

Mike: True, but it’s not all about the Mets. Remember how in 1999 people said that 36-year-old Jamie Moyer was over the hill? Now they say that 46-year-old Jamie Moyer is older than the hill.

Steve: He was just replaced in the Phillies’ rotation by Pedro Martinez.

Mike: A former Met, who led the team’s resurgence back in ’05 and ’06. Oy, the Mets. Let’s talk about another team.

Steve: How about their main rivals these days, the Phillies? Yeah, they never had to worry about Moyer using steroids to extend his career. Or how about the Cardinals? Back in 1999 St. Louis had a slugging first baseman that people figured was on steroids but just tried to ignore it. Right now St. Louis has a slugging first basemen….well, let’s just say people still want to ignore it.

Mike: Mets fans especially. Pujols kills them. What else was happening a decade ago when we started Zisk?

Steve: The Yankees were on their way to winning their second straight World Series crushing everyone in sight with a killer lineup that overshadowed their marginal pitching.

Mike: Except Mariano.

Steve: Who owned the Mets.

Mike: Still does. And Jeter. Killed the Mets back then.

Steve: Still does. Same with Chipper.

Mike: Lawrence may be the supreme Met killer. Is there anyone who doesn’t perform exceedingly well when facing the Mets?

Steve: Mo Vaughn. Roberto Alomar.

Mike: Who the Mets later acquired.

Steve: What about managers? Joe Torre’s moved on.

Mike: To the Dodgers, who are 5-1 against the Mets this year.

Steve: (slaps head) Have you ever seen Groundhog Day?

This About Sums This Week, Season, Decade, etc., Up

2009-07-29T12:50:00.001-04:00

Good to see that moving to L.A. hasn't changed their sense of humor--or their connection to New York.

Odds and Ends

2009-07-29T12:17:00.002-04:00

Top 5 Most Embarrassing Moments as a Mets Fan in the Past Decade
5) That cheesy song (whose name I've blocked out) that they tried to introduce to kind of replace "Meet the Mets."

4) Art Howe telling the press Mike Piazza would play first base--before telling Piazza.

3) The second September collapse.

2) The Zambrano for Kazmir trade.

1) All of Monday, July 27th that didn't involve the actual game. At this point, I refuse to believe anything Omar Minaya or Jeff Wilpon have to say. Good thing I only am going to one more game this season.

Wow, after looking at that list, I can't believe I still watch this team's games. Speaking of...

Gary, Keith and Ron in Fine Form
I've actually watched much of the past two games, and these three have been on fire. I had to pause and rewind last night's game for this exchange:
(After some talk about Rockies pitcher Jason Marquis hitting a grand slam last year off the Mets, SNY shows footage of Seattle Mariners pitcher Felix Hernandez doing the same thing at Shea.)
Keith: That's weird seeing old Shea isn't it?
Ron: You're right.
Gary: Very sad.
Ron: They paved paradise and put up a parking lot.
Gary: It's like going back to the old neighborhood and seeing your old building torn down for a shopping center.
Keith: Nice little Joni Mitchell, Ronnie
Ron: Thank you. (pause) We're more sensitive than you think.

Issue #18 Coming Along
Looks like the next issue should be heading out in the mail in mid-August. Oh, and still looking for a book deal.

Whoa, Where The Hell Have We Been?

2009-06-06T13:38:00.002-04:00

Has it really been six months since I posted on here? Jeebus.

I could say that during that half a year Mike and I were held captive in Somalia while on a mission for the U.N., or that we've been misdiagnosing injuries for the Mets or we've been heading up the panel that does stress tests on banks. But those would be mostly lies, so I won't.

I can say that our lack of posting on the blog has been due to work (I survived two rounds of layoffs, while having more duties added to the 2 jobs I already do) and family (Mike has two young kids, which is plenty of work in itself) and planning. Yes, to celebrate the 10th anniversary of Zisk Mike and I have been been pouring over our 17 issues and various blog posts to put together a best of Zisk book. Our proposal is almost done and ready to be be pitched, so we'll slowly be creeping back into the blogging world. I'm not sure exactly what we'll be writing about the rest of this season, but I can tell you the days blogging every Mets game are long behind us. We're both burned out on doing that, especially when our friends Jason and Greg at Faith and Fear in Flushing keep coming up with great ways to write about a team that is, for a third year in a row, very frustrating.

There are a few other things I wanted to mention:

1) The next issue of Zisk (#18) will be out in time for the pennant push in late August. If you're a contributor, the deadline for this issue is Monday July 13th. To send your article to me, click here.

2) Bill Janovitz, who we interviewed in issue #9, recently did a great song about the Red Sox ageless knuckleballer Tim Wakefield.

3) Issue # 17 interview subjects Steve Wynn and Scott McCaughey -- known together as The Baseball Project -- will be hitting the road in August to do shows that will mix Baseball Project songs along with Wynn solo material, tunes from his former band The Dream Syndicate and McCaughey's band The Minus 5. Wynn also reports that a second baseball Project album is in the works.

Hope the season is treating your team well so far,

sr

Goodbye Endy (and Aaron)

2008-12-11T06:32:00.003-05:00

Dear Endy Chavez,

You made the greatest play I've ever seen in person at a baseball game. But things haven't gone so well for the Mets since that moment, so we need to say goodbye. You will always be one of my favorite Mets for your glove work and I hope you get the chance to show off your skills to the Mariners fans.

Oh, and when you see Aaron Heilman tell him he should enjoy the fresh start with a whole new set of fans that might not eat him alive.

Steve
Zisk Magazine

P.S. Any chance you could take Luis Castillo with you?

P.P.S. Oh, why not one more look:

P.P.P.S. I guess you'd have to be the world's biggest pessimist to say that the Mets bullpen has not been improved with the trade for J.J. Putz and singing K Rod. Still, I'll believe it when I see it in game 162.

Zisk # 17

2008-10-23T17:28:00.012-04:00

Editor's Note

Goodbye, Goodbye: The Zisk Staff Shares Stadium Memories

A Ray of Hope: The Devil Speaks Out by Steve Reynolds

The Zisk Classic Book Corner by Mark Hughson

More of the Baseball and Rock Connection by Steve Reynolds

The Some Star Game by John Shiffert

The Comedy of Baseball by Steve Reynolds

Editor's Note

2008-10-22T21:35:00.000-04:00

Editor’s note: This issue we focus on our last visits to various ball parks. Hence the following...

Shea Stadium isn’t the best baseball stadium in New York City. It’s not even second best, trailing the more aesthetically pleasing parks in the Bronx and Coney Island. But Shea is my favorite.

Shea’s shortcomings are numerous and obvious. The stadium is located in Flushing. It’s removed from any sense of neighborhood. For those taking the subway there’s nothing to do in the area before or after games.

Hopefully the last game I saw at Shea will fade from memory but I’m still going to miss the place, even more than I’m going to miss Yankee Stadium.

Despite a rather pronounced disliking for the Bronx Bombers I never turned down a trip to Yankee Stadium. The narrow hallways. The low ceilings. Monument park. I’m far too much of a baseball sentimentalist to resist. The last time I went to Yankee Stadium my wife and I lucked into box seats. We also saw Guliani while waiting for the elevator and passed King George along the way. But despite that legendary aura and those brushes with fame I always preferred Shea.

The last game I saw at Shea was a forgettable late-August blowout against the Astros. My brother and I made a day trip out of it. On our way to Flushing we had lunch at Virgil’s Barbeque. We stopped for a beer at Jimmy’s. After the game we hit a midnight movie in Times Square. There wasn’t a moment all day when we forgot that we were in New York City. That’s why I always loved a day at Shea. No matter how good or bad the game I was watching—even that 1993 game lost when a ground ball squirted past an out-of-position Joe Orsalak—I was always getting a thoroughly warts-and-all NYC experience.

When you looked past the outfield fence and you got an eyeful of the Queens skyline—expressways, parking garages, car repair shops. And when you closed your eyes and the sounds of the game were periodically drown out by air traffic from nearby LaGuardia Airport. All of those things will be there to greet the completed Citi Field, which is going to look great, no doubt. But when I look at Citi Field I get a sense that its designers, consciously or otherwise, don’t care if I’m aware of New York when I’m there. It’s newer and shinier and it’s the model that will get better mileage, but it’ll always lack Shea’s scratch and dent charm.

—Mike

Goodbye, Goodbye: The Zisk Staff Shares Stadium Memories

2008-10-22T20:50:00.000-04:00

(Editor’s note: With the demise of both of New York’s baseball stadiums this year, it seemed like the right time to ask our core group of writers of their memories of their last times at their favorite stadia. The results are below.—SR)

Steve Reynolds
As unenthused as I was about the 2008 Mets (which I hated until Willie Randolph got the ax, so maybe I just didn’t like the former Yankee?) I was very excited for my last trip to Shea Stadium on July 26th. This was no ordinary trip, as I was joining about 35 other people on a cruise from the East side of Manhattan up the East River to the stadium. We were all gathered together to celebrate our friend Jonah’s birthday. But it was much more than a birthday celebration—it was a life celebration. Three months earlier we found out that Jonah (pictured below) had melanoma that had spread to one of his lymph nodes. And while my circle of friends (and Jonah himself) were optimistic that everything would turn out for the best, it was apparent to me that we all had seeds of doubt in our heads. As someone who has lost two family members to cancer and has friends who have lost spouses and others to this tenacious disease, I know I couldn’t help but dwell on the negative.

Fortunately things went well with Jonah’s surgery and his radiation treatments. (Ed. note--Unfortunately after #17 went to print, Jonah had a recurrence. He had another surgery and is recording quite well as I write this on 10/27/08) As a matter of fact, Jonah’s last day of radiation was two days before the cruise, the game and his birthday. So that ride to Shea was perhaps the most joyful I’ve ever experienced going to a Mets game. People hugging each other, drinking really overpriced “cheap” beer as if it was water and waving to people on the shores of the river—it was quite a party. The game almost seemed secondary compared to the fun we had on the way. And it was for almost everyone, as I was the only person left at the end of five hours and 14 innings when the Mets finally lost. I’ll admit to being disgruntled by yet another loss as I walked down the numerous ramps from the upper deck. Once I got to the ground I paused, turned around and looked at Shea one more time. And I thought to myself, “Yeah, this place has always been a dump. Bring on less seats, higher prices and gourmet food at Citi Field!”

Ken Derr
The last time I went to Candlestick Park I was drunk before noon. It was teacher cut day and we were wearing our party hats. It was also the last time I tailgated at a Giants game, because PacBell Temple does not allow such messiness. You also don’t see fans in the new joint like the one who sat behind us that day, the only man in the bowl more hammered than we were. “Let’s go Johnny Bench. Come on Johnny, ya fucking punk.” We were playing the Braves in 1999, but no matter—we loved this dude, for his performance was worse than ours, and our guilt thusly redeemed. Visiting the Stick was something like making the pilgrimage to Mecca, if you believed in the trinity of wind and cold and intoxication. I saw the face of Marvin Bernard in a Carnation Chocolate Malt, and I’m still waiting for the right eBay moment to dump that one. I can’t remember a single detail of the game. We got plastered, sunburned and embarrassingly confessional, and I’ve been in counseling for years trying to erase the image of that science teacher and the attendance secretary with the asymmetrical ass. Mixing business and pleasure can be an expensive and dangerous proposition. Anyway, I think we drove home, but that image remains in unnavigable caverns. The only thing I can recall is that the Giants were good then. Imagine that. Russ Ortiz and Robb Nen and Bill Mueller weren’t that great in our eyes and hearts during those years, but boy are their replacements sad copies. I can’t say the same thing about the new place, because it is gorgeous. But I do miss the loudmouths, and I’ve yet to hear the name Johnny Bench uttered in the palace Peter built.

John Shiffert
Although I saw game two of the 1980 World Series at the Vet, Connie Mack Stadium (nee Shibe Park) is still my favorite stadium among the two former stadia wherein the Phillies have performed.

My last game there was the last Opening Day at Connie Mack Stadium—April 7, 1970. The Phillies had a new manager (Frank Lucchesi) and a much-heralded new rookie doubleplay combination, shortstop Larry Bowa and second baseman Denny Doyle. This was my senior year at Germantown Friends School and since the senior class was not required to attend classes (we were all working on senior projects) I was free to go the game with my grandfather, the one and only Ralph M. Shiffert—an old catcher and A’s fan from way back in the Eddie Plank/Stuffy McInnis days.

Since he had recently retired from the Philadelphia Electric Company after 50 years, he still had an “in” with Peco, and we parked over at his old substation on Hunting Park Avenue (as everyone in Philly knows, Hunting Park spelled backwards in Krap Gnitnuh—say it out loud a few dozen times), hard by that other famous Philadelphia landmark, the Tasty Baking Company. This was much preferable to trying to park near 21st and Lehigh, where the neighborhood kids, undaunted by the specter of the Vet raising in South Philly, were still playing the old “watch your car for a dollar, mister” game. So, we walked about a half mile to the old ballpark.

There was quite a buzz that day, mostly about the new skipper, who was, among other things, the first Phillies manager since Gene Mauch with any kind of personality. Indeed, Lucchesi had a lot of personality, but not many players. (The Phillies would finish the season 73-88.) As it would turn out over time, Bowa would live up to his billing. No, that’s not right. He lived over his billing—there were serious questions on April 7, 1970 as to whether or not he’d hit his weight (155 lbs). He could field, and run like the wind, but he looked like a Little Leaguer in the field, and the Cubs, the opponent that day, played him at Little League depth. Nonetheless, Lawrence Robert Bowa would go on to play in 2246 more major league games, to accumulate 2191 hits, help lead the team to the 1980 World Series title, become manager of the Phillies, win the Manager of the Year Award in 2001, and become one of Philadelphia’s favorite adopted native sons.

This first game wasn’t particularly edifying for Bowa. He popped to shortstop batting leadoff for the Phillies in the first, and ended up going 0-3 with a walk, although he was flawless in six chances in the field. Although Doyle had three hits, and one of the Phillies two RBIs in the game, his career would be a lot less noteworthy, just 944 games in eight years.

In the other dugout were three genuine Hall of Famers, another should-be HOFer, and former Phillie favorite Johnny Callison. Nonetheless, despite the presence of Callison, Ernie Banks, Billy Williams and Ron Santo on the field and Ferguson Jenkins (another former Phillie) on the mound, the home team won their last opener at the park they had occupied since 1938 (and which had opened 61 years before). Chris Short, coming off back surgery, and pitching one of his last great games as a Phillie, shut out the Cubs on five hits and the Phillies won, 2-0, scoring single runs in the third (on a triple by Doyle) and seventh (on a double by Don Money).

Although neither Stuffy McInnis, nor Eddie Plank, nor Dick Allen (my personal childhood favorite) made an appearance, granddad and I went home happy.

Frank D’Urso
Luckily as a Red Sox fan, we have owners who understand the importance of history and consistency. Hopefully I'll never have to have a last memory of Fenway Park and I get to have my ashes spread across left field so I can never leave it. But now here are my last times at other, less fortunate ball parks.

Memorial Stadium
It was the Orioles last season their before moving to the Fenway-inspired downtown Baltimore Camden Yards. I had attended a few games at Memorial Stadium, was particularly impressed with the suburban neighborhood that surrounded this great old bowl of a park. This last trip was special, with my now ex-in-laws, we watched as Harmon Killebrew was honored for hitting the longest homerun in Memorial Stadium history. I remember the big sporty jacket Harmon wore that day, impressed that that much fabric could drape a man of his stature. A living idol of mine ever since the Boston Globe Sunday Comics page had a series of full page posters of Major League Stars. Appropriately it was a Twins versus Orioles matchup. I forget who won.

Shea Stadium
My friend's company had box seats that we got to use. I had the balls to wear my #14 Jim Rice Red Sox jersey there (post-1986) and was impressed that there were other members of Red Sox nation in the stadium. I disliked the way they chained off the empty seats in front of us. What a waste. The upper level was so far away and so vertical I had nightmares just looking up at it. (Not to mention the skeevies I felt looking down at first base.)

Candlestick Park
My job had a bunch of tickets, and as we were out of towners a bunch of us went to see the Giants play. We had two extra, and seeing a bunch of fans lined to buy tickets I figured to give them away (also wanting to avoid the land sharks known as ticket scalpers we have to deal with on the east coast). People kind of avoided me though when I tried to give the tickets away. (Did I look that shady?) I resorted to shouting out "I've got two free tickets to the first person who can tell me the Giants original team name."

People just kind of looked at me.

"Okay, where did the Giants first come from?"

(I was looking for the answer: Troy Haymakers, but would have accepted New York.)

People were a bit bemused now, so I said, okay, "Who can tell me who wore #24?"

Which of course the nearest teenager/college kid replied, "Willie Mays."

I handed him the two $45 tickets and said thank you. I don't think anyone believed that I was actually giving away any tickets, let alone (what were then) expensive tickets.

Mark Hughson
My final game at the MacArthur Stadium (home of the Syracuse Chiefs of the International League) in the summer of 1996 had three unforgettable moments. I had been away at college for two years and hadn’t been keeping up with the local media hoopla surrounding the decision to “sell out,” close the park, and move the team down the street. When I arrived at the park and saw the back of a t-shirt that read “Last Crack At Big Mac” I finally recognized that there are season-ticket holding baseball lovers here that lived and died by the local farm team. It was the first time it dawned on me that 62 years of history was soon to become a parking lot. Depressing. The second moment happened halfway through the game when two old dudes turned around and told me to shut up and watch the game or they’d call security on me and have me removed. I guess they had grown tired of my incessant yelling, cheering, and (justified) umpire booing. My brother and his girlfriend were with me and naturally did not rise to my defense, so I stayed quiet. Upsetting. The storybook ending is close at hand though. In the final inning we were down by 3 with the bases loaded. There was still an outside chance at work here, so the crowd did indeed grasp a sliver of hope. As the outs tallied up and the baserunners stayed put we started to lose our grip. I mean yeah, it could happen but it probably wouldn’t. But it might. The only chance we had to win the game right there and then was a grand slam by the catcher. The pitcher slung one over and the catcher sent it to deep center right. It towered (crowd rises), it carried (crowd buzzed), it went out! Crowd erupts! We did it! FIREWORKS! AMAZING! Great game.

Kip Yates
I remember the last game I ever attended at the Texas Rangers old Arlington Stadium. It was a converted minor league ball park and had undergone several renovations including a grandstand behind home plate. It was a hole though. It was one of the many charmless cookie cutter ball parks from the sixties. Think the Vet without the attitude. Shea without the airplanes. The Astrodome without the aura. It was the place I witnessed my first ballgame. It was the place where as a kid George Brett made a gesture to get my attention just so he could return the wave I gave him from the stands. I grew up an Astros fan but since I lived in Arlington, had to watch the fruitless Rangers. Their seasons usually went like this. Play like gang busters in April and May, cool off in June as the weather became warmer, cling to first or second come All Star time, and then fall dramatically during the sweltering second half. I think the Rangers finished second once or twice while I was growing up.

Arlington Stadium does have its limited place in baseball history. It was the birthplace of nachos at the ball park. They didn't just give you some tortilla chips and then slip some melted cheese into a tiny cup attached to the plate; no, they smothered your nachos with cheese. Want beef with that? You got it. Jalapenos? Well help yourself; they are out there by the condiments. Ah, good times! My dad could take the four of us to game, sit behind home plate (the screened part, not the nose bleeds), buy beer, nachos, and peanuts and a souvenir batting helmet for $60. I spent nearly $100 recently at Shea for two tickets and a bobble head.

Arlington Stadium also has its limited place in my memory. I witnessed good games and bad games there. One of my favorite memories was the opening four days of the 1980 season. It snowed in Arlington in April and they still played. Not only that, they played a double header. However, the Rangers opened their season 4-0 by sweeping the Yankees. I was at all four. I still wish I had my Beat the Yankees hankie that they gave away before one of the games. I have other memories beside the Brett memory and beating the snot out of the Yankees. I remember going with my parents and showing up at the ball park before the gates opened. Two hours before the gates opened, in fact. My brother, Kyle, and I still laugh that we would show up outside the right field fence at 4:00 for a 7:30 game. My mom's rationale was we have to get there before the crowds. Sure Mom, but do we have to get there before the visiting team? Anyway, we would show up and be bored out of our minds for two hours until the excitement of the staff removing the chains from the locks. Then it was go time. We were off to the races. We always ran to get seats on the first row of general admission section and watch not only the Rangers take batting practice but the visiting team as well. It was not all bad, though. I usually came home with some pitcher's autograph. I would toss them my ball while they warmed up doing calisthenics in the outfield. I met Jim Kern, Steve Comer, Danny Darwin, Goose Gossage, Jon Matlack, Gaylord Perry, Fergie Jenkins—all players who stopped sucking when they wore another uniform. My brother worked the grounds crew during the summer of ’81 (the hot one). He brought me Al Oliver's hat, Jim Sundberg's broken bat. One of my favorite stories that Kyle tells is the time he met Mickey Rivers. He told Mickey that he wore number 17, played outfield, batted leadoff to which Mickey scoffed, "Yeah, but you ain't black." Touché!

I attended my last game at Arlington Stadium during the summer of '89, five years before they would open The Ballpark at Arlington. My then girlfriend and now wife Jamie went to see the Rangers play the Mariners. I don't even remember a kid named Ken Griffey Jr manning the outfield. What I remember best was witnessing the only triple play I have seen in my life. I do not remember all of the details except Steve Bueschele hit a hard grounder to Dave Valle at third and before I knew it, the promising inning was over and the Rangers trudged on to another loss.

I finally witnessed my first game at the new ball park this summer—a loss to the hated Yankees. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Jake Austen
In 2000 for some reason I attended the last game at Tigers Stadium, and it was a spectacular production, with a melodramatic, sentimental post-game ceremony that involved a seemingly unending parade of Tigers legends running, hobbling and being wheeled onto the field to take their historic positions for the final time. I was glad to be there, but it meant little to me as I never had particularly strong feelings for the Tigers. Once when I was sitting in the Comiskey Park bleachers between a group of Michigan girl scouts who were holding up Kirk Gibson signs and a group of “Gibby’s” buddies I witnessed the then-future hobbling homerun hero make obscene gestures at his friends, somehow not noticing the proximity of 8 year old girls, but that is something that shaped my opinion of Gibby rather than of the Tigers. I admire a quote by Tiger’s skipper Jim Leyland about Magglio Ordonez’ long curly locks that went something like, “He’s I grown man, I’m not going to tell him he has to cut his hair. But it looks terrible.” Still that didn’t make me a Tigers fan. And I didn’t even become a Tigers hater after attending a New Comiskey Park game earlier in Detroit’s historic 2000 season in which the White Sox and Tigers had a series of brawls, the longest of which was an almost 15 minute sprawling melee that involved dozens of players wandering around the field like two armies in field combat, occasionally exploding into genuinely bloody fisticuffs. At one point Magglio, then a young White Sock, actually used a karate kick on someone. This led to the biggest mass suspension in MLB history and was a highlight of the 10th season of New Comiskey Park.

Oh yeah, that’s what I was writing about. My original point was that the final game in Detroit was a spectacular production, especially compared to the low-key affair I attended on September 30, 1990. At the time the 80 year old Comiskey was the oldest park in baseball and was in the shadow of the soon-to-be newest park, a blue spaceship-looking monstrosity that despite having less seats towered over the old whitewashed brick stadium due to the extra level of luxury boxes and an elevated playing field necessitated by a space-age drainage system designed to allow safe ballplaying an hour after a monsoon. Anyhow, my brother, father, friend Marcus, one of my teachers, and myself were part of 42.849 attending the swansong of the “Baseball Palace of the World.” The Sox had already diminished the occasion by selling it as a two-part finale, billing Saturday’s game as “closing night” and ending it with spectacular fireworks. The only ceremonies I recall for the last game were the players throwing some balls into the stands and attendees receiving 8 ½” x 11” certificates to frame your historic ticket that looked like something you got at day camp for participation in a camp Olympics.

The game itself was kind of perfect. It was a 2-1 victory over Seattle (there seemed to be more 2-1 losses or wins than any other score in Sox history). In our one scoring inning the best Sox triples hitter of my lifetime Lance Johnson was driven in by a solid single by the best pure hitter of my lifetime Frank Thomas, who came home on (bizarrely) a triple by lumbering, pot-smoking power hitter Dan Pasqua. Considering that Sox fans have more expectations of seeing something strange than seeing actual great baseball this seemed fitting.

The most memorable part of the day came in the morning when I called up my visiting art school teacher Richard Merkin to wake him up for the delecious pre-game brunch my mom prepared. Merkin, a well known painter (he’s in the Sgt. Pepper’s album cover montage) was staying in a downtown private club where he was surprised by the call, stumbled out of bed, and broke his nose. He arrived at our home with a bulbous crooked honker and some distressed under-eye blood vessels, forever convincing my mom that he was W.C. Fields-esque damaged drunk. But besides that footnote, it was just a cool last game, totally appropriate for a team whose fans understand that they are rooting for the second team in the second city, a team who plays for working class dudes, broad shouldered broads, shirtless teens getting high in the upper deck, and for pockets of whatever ethnicity is populating the southside each decade. We are not supposed to have the national spotlight or the fanciest anything. The fact that out shiny new park, with instantly cracking concrete walkways and perilously steep upper decks, was a disaster seemed appropriate. It was quickly made obsolete by Baltimore’s retro park, marking new Comiskey as the last terrible ballpark, and only an expensive re-retro-ization a decade and a half later (they removed the UFO façade and added old time wrought iron awnings) has made it a decent digs for the first Chicago team to win a 21st Century World Series.

But there actually was one perfect “ceremony” to end the final game at the grand old, beautifully crumbling park. As we left Nancy Faust, the ageless veteran ballpark organist, the woman who introduced rock music to baseball parks and whose musical puns (“In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida” for Pete Incaviglia) put Chris Berman to shame, played us out with a song she introduced to professional sports. As fans wandered down the dank walkways out of Comiskey one final time her organ gently wept “Na Na Na – Na Na Na – Hey Hey Goodbye!”

A Ray of Hope: The Devil Speaks Out

2008-10-22T20:35:00.002-04:00

The Tampa Bay Devil Rays finished in last place in the Al East in 2007. In 2008 the Tampa Bay Rays finished first in the AL East and made it to the World Series for the first time. Was it the development of the club’s young starters? The emergence of Rookie of the Year candidate Evan Longoria? The wisdom of the wily veteran Cliff Floyd? Nope—it’s because the franchise’s deal with The Devil was finally over after a decade. Without “Devil” in their name (and the dark prince of all that is unholy messing up the works) Tampa Bay finally has a winner. To get more on this story, we tracked down The Devil at his vacation home in the Caribbean, where he was creating hurricanes to destroy lives in North America.

Zisk: So what do I call you? Satan? Beelzebub? Your holy darkness?

The Devil: You can call me Ron—but just don't call me late to dinner like my last wife, Anna Nicole Smith! Whoa, I thought things would be great when I brought her down to my pad, but she would not shut up! She was the eighth wife in a row I had to burn to a crisp.

Zisk: Well, Ron, after seeing that South Park movie, I thought you were gay.

The Devil: That was just a phase I went through. I was young, I needed the souls.

Zisk: Um, okay. So as I understand it, you originally made a deal with former Rays owner Vince Naimoli that you would make Major League Baseball give him an expansion franchise. And part of that deal was you getting a piece of the name?

The Devil: Well, the deal for the devil name was only for 10 years because I wasn’t sure how being associated with the game would impact my public image. I mean, this was right after the strike of 1994, and baseball’s public image wasn’t much better than mine. (Laughs evilly) So I said we’d do a deal for a 10-year period only, and that we would revisit it during the 2007 season.

Zisk: Legend has it that when you make a deal for a soul, people usually get something great at first and then it comes back to bite them in the end. It seems to me with the Devil Rays that nothing good ever happened.

The Devil: Well, Naimoli said he wanted a competitive team quickly, and he got one. They did compete in games. That didn’t mean they would actually win any of those games. You humans are always suckers. Well, except for that Daniel Webster guy. That case still chaps my ass.

Zisk: I guess it’s easy to hold grudges when you’re immortal. So now that the deal with the team expired when Naimoli sold and the new ownership group removed your name from the team, do you have any regrets about causing all that misery? I mean, people did notice the team started playing better when your name was taken off the uniforms.

The Devil: Nah, I don’t have any regrets. That deal got me great seats to see the Red Sox and the Yankees. Being the lord of all that is unholy doesn’t get you great seats at Fenway without at least a grand to back it up.

Zisk: One last question while I have you on the phone—who did the worse job portraying you on the big screen—Al Pacino or Elizabeth Hurley?

The Devil: Oh, Pacino, that’s for certain. The day we signed that deal so he could be in The Godfather he said to me, “I like your style. I’m going to remember that if I ever play you in a movie.” He got my hair all wrong.

The Zisk Classic Book Corner by Mark Hughson

2008-10-22T20:20:00.000-04:00

Summer of ’49 by David Halberstam
When you are writing a book solely about two teams (Yanks and Sox) during a single season of baseball, you can certainly afford to go in depth about the teams and go on at length about the players. But would you really want to? The book itself follows a fairly linear path, but isn’t all that captivating a story, since we already know the outcome. While Joe DiMaggio and Ted Williams get the most pages and the most hero worship, Halberstam goes deep into the lineup, giving us the entire roster for both teams, and the forgotten (or just overshadowed) players like Bobby Doerr, Chuck Stobbs, Ellis Kinder, and Birdie Tebbetts get highlighted as solid teammates, exceptional athletes, or at least interesting characters. Ted and Joe were amazing men, but they didn’t make or maintain the old dynasties single-handedly. Overall there’s a lot to learn but Halberstam doesn’t give us a lot to ponder—he’s just relaying the facts (the book is indeed well researched) right off the timeline. Thankfully his style is warm and nostalgic, so the book definitely falls into the pleasure-read category. If you’re into Williams and DiMaggio this book is up your alley; personally my favorite parts were about the stingy bastard George Weiss, local restaurant owner and confidant, Toots Shor, and of course the voice of baseball, Mel Allen. Apparently it was Allen’s idea to put a camera in the outfield giving us the now standard perspective that’s seen in all ball games on TV.

Halberstam is a respected author and this book sold well when first published in 1989, but while the book “celebrates a simpler America” it’s also a relatively simple book. If you’re looking for a book with dirt in its cleats then move on.

White Rat by Whitey Herzog with Kevin Horrigan
Whoever thought using Herzog’s nickname for a book title should have been fired on the spot. Herzog casts a pretty favorable light on himself (the book was published in 1987, during his moment in the sun) in this autobiography, and while one may chuckle at his claims of being baseball’s best talent scout, manager, coach, or whatever position he once held during his tenure in baseball, the book does have some good qualities. The first comes right at the beginning, where Herzog breaks down a “day in the life” of a manager, the early start, the meetings with players and press, handing in the lineup card—everything. It’s a pretty neat look at all the work that’s done in a day, since all we see on TV is an old dude sitting in the dugout with his arms folded. The next best part of the book happens at the very end. Herzog decides to pull no punches and talks pretty frankly about cocaine use, inflated salaries, and the politics of baseball. He names some names, but it’s nothing that’s not common knowledge these days. Still, it’s cool to see someone rant about these things rather than try to sweep it under the America’s Pastime rug. Otherwise, White Rat goes through the motions of your typical baseball book (the bad years, the rebuild years, that one great year), and is neither impressive nor offensive to the typical baseball lit fan. That one great year the Cardinals had (1982) was cool though: with guys like Lonnie Smith, Ozzie Smith, Willie McGee, Keith Hernandez, and Tom Herr becoming World Series champions, Herzog makes a pretty strong case for having one of, if not the best, small ball teams in baseball history. He tried to repeat the formula a few years later with some of the same guys as well as Vince Coleman and Andy Van Slyke, but alas fate had other plans. Final tally—pretty good read, horrible title!

Mark Hughson lives in Syracuse, NY and enjoys baseball. His knowledge of the game is comprised entirely from 1980s paperback books he purchases at the local library for 50 cents.

More of the Baseball and Rock Connection by Steve reynolds

2008-10-22T19:45:00.000-04:00

A Home Run for The Baseball Project

What happens when two great songwriters decide to focus their talents upon their favorite sport? You get the highly entertaining debut disc from The Baseball Project, Volume One: Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails. The album is the brainchild of Steve Wynn (Dream Syndicate, Steve Wynn and the Miracle 3) and Scott McCaughey (Young Fresh Fellows, Minus 5, and R.E.M) and includes R.E.M’s Peter Buck chipping in on various stringed instruments. Due to the interview Mike and I did with Scott for issue 14, McCaughey hatched the idea for us to write the bio to be sent out with the album to the press. So for the first time ever, here is the complete unedited interview I did with Scott and Steve for the bio.

Zisk: How long have you guys known each other?

SM: Good question. I'm not sure when we first met! Maybe Steve remembers? I can tell you I first saw the Dream Syndicate play in 1983, opening for U2, then saw them in 1984 opening for R.E.M. But I don't think I met Steve until quite a bit later.

SW: I honestly think the first time we met was side-by-side at the urinals at the Offramp in Seattle when I played there in 1992. You didn't try to shake my hand.

Zisk: When did the idea for this project get started?

SM: We've been blathering about it for three or four years I guess. Finally shut up and did it!

SW: And the project finally took flight at the R.E.M. pre-Hall of Fame induction party at del Posto in New York last year. Everyone was happy. The wine was flowing, the food was incredible and spring training had just started. Scott and I talked baseball until most of the party guests had cleared out. And we remembered it the next day. It was meant to be.

Zisk: Had you ever referred to baseball in any of your previous songs?

SM: I tried to write lots of baseball songs before, but none of them quite made it. We refer to the Mariners and Gorman Thomas in the Young Fresh Fellows song "Aurora Bridge," and subtitled our Topsy Turvy album Where is Gorman Thomas? Oh, and Steve had that great song at the end of the film Fever Pitch.

SW: Yeah, I wrote that song "Second Best" when Fever Pitch was meant to be about the futility of being a Red Sox fan. The hook line was "Why do I settle for second best, why is everything a test, just this once can't nice guys finish first and break this curse of always second best." Yeah, and then they won the World Series. Maybe I should take credit. Oh, and I also mentioned Mickey Mantle and Stan Musial in my song "Kerosene Man."

Zisk: Were these songs more difficult to write than regular songs, considering the amount of real players and baseball terms you work into the lyrics? (For example, making all names of the pitchers who threw perfect games flow in “Harvey Haddix.”)

SM: As I recall, the list of pitchers in “Harvey Haddix” was getting perfected and changed right up until Steve cut the vocal track. We actually cut out some of the player listed in a few songs, thanks to Linda [Pitmon, drummer and Steve’s wife] and her keen ear for editing the blowhard songster geeks! It wasn't hard to find the inspiration for the songs, but yes, it was hard to fit in the all the lyrics necessary to tell the stories. It really helped to keep the music fairly simple. Although for Volume 2, we might try to do a prog-rock suite in four movements about Casey Stengel.

SW: The “Harvey Haddix” thing was like lyrical soduku. We had to some how fit in all 17 pitchers. The last piece of the puzzle was a visit to Wikipedia and finding that Catfish Hunter threw his for the A's (we knew that already) and that Len Barker threw his against the Blue Jays. (We didn't know that.) A natural rhyme was born. There are obviously an infinite amount of subjects for a record like this and once Scott and I got rolling the songs just didn't stop. We probably could have made Volume 2 the next week.

Zisk: Did you have to do any research about the players you wrote about? Or did you use your baseball knowledge?

SM: Both. For instance I wrote “Past Time” off the top of my head, then later checked a few things to see if my memory was relatively accurate. I had a line about Walter Johnson that was statistically incorrect, ended up changing it up a bit about Denny McLain. The Willie Mays song was all based on personal experience, but I did look up that Series game in 1973 to make sure he really did make that error that I remembered. I had read Satchel Paige's autobiography, so I used a lot I'd gleaned from that. “Big Ed Delahanty” was adapted from a poem my brother wrote, partly based on a book by Mike Sowell. I did use the book and other sources to help me re-do the lyrics. I think some of the songs on the next album will be completely fictional though. Facts are over-rated.

SW: I mostly focused on my favorite players, oddballs and the emotions and frustrations behind the fabled legends. "Long Before My Time" doesn't mention Sandy Koufax by name but it deals with the universal dilemma of knowing when to quit. I believe that in the song he poses the choice of burning out vs. fading away at the same age that Neil Young posed the same question. And I've always loved the Ted Williams story from Ball Four—he would shout "I'm Ted Fucking Williams and I’m the best hitter in baseball" during batting practice. It was a perfect subject for a rock song if not for the censors.

Zisk: Who is your favorite baseball player ever? Did they make it into any of these songs?

SM: Gotta be Willie Mays. And the proof is in the wax. And I really did have a dream about him, and wrote “Sometimes I Dream of Willie Mays” the next day.

SW: For me it's Sandy Koufax. Such an incredible five year run and then he just walked away. He was in the Hall of Fame at an age where most players are renegotiating their contracts.

Zisk: Did either of you play baseball as a kid?

SM: Four years of Little League, ages 9 - 12. I was mediocre, but got to play a fair amount because I wore "the tools of ignorance." I was an all-star my one year in "the minors" (age 10), then went my entire first year in "the majors" (age 11) without a hit. But we played "unorganized" baseball all summer long at the schoolyard next door. And I played in organized softball leagues in my 20s and 30s. Not anymore though—people get too wound up and pissed off, and anyway I'd hurt myself with my no-regard-for-life-or-limb style of play.

SW: I loved baseball but never played on a team. I was an only child living in a remote part of LA so there weren't many other kids around. My buddy Mark and I would play Over-The-Line all the time since there was just two of us. I got really good at the art of fungo but still can't do much against actual pitching.

Zisk: I guess this one is directed more at Steve—being a California guy, did you get swept up in Fernandomania?

SW: Who couldn't love Fernando? Nobody knew if he was 21 or 40. It was an amazing few months that were cut short by the 1981 strike. I think he should have sued.

SM: Even I couldn't hate Fernando, although he was on hated Dodgers...

Zisk: So the album is titled Volume One—should we expect a Volume Two?

SM: It seems inevitable! After all, we haven't written songs about Ichiro or Bill Veeck yet.

SW: Or Eddie Gaedel!

Eddie Vedder Goes All the Way for His Cubs

Pearl Jam singer Eddie Vedder is best known as the guy from Seattle who spawned a thousand worthless vocal copycats. But Vedder was actually born in Chicago and has been a Cubs fan for many years. In 2006 he even took to the booth at Wrigley Field to fill the shoes of the late Harry Carey in singing a somewhat alcohol-infected version of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

This summer Vedder was approached by Mr. Cub himself, Ernie Banks, to write a song about the team’s playoff push and the 100 years of futility that every Cub fan hoped would end this year. [Ed note--nope.] Vedder took up the challenge and debuted the song, “All the Way,” during his solo shows at Chicago’s Auditorium Theater in early August. A couple of radio stations started playing a bootleg of the song that then spread to bars around Wrigley. And while Pearl Jam’s music might not be up the alley of half of the Zisk editorial team [Ed note—it’s not Steve], Vedder has penned a song that captures what Cubs fans we know are feeling. So here are the lyrics to “All the Way:”

Yeah, don't let anyone say that it's just a game.
For I've seen other teams and it's never the same.
When you're born in Chicago, you're blessed and you're healed,
The first time you walk into Wrigley Field.
Our heroes wear pinstripes and heroes in blue,
Give us the chance to feel like heroes too.
Whether we'll win and if we should lose, we know
Someday we'll go all the way.
Yeah, someday we'll go all the way.

We are one with the Cubs, with the Cubs we're in love.
Yeah, hold our heads high as the underdogs.
We are not fair-weather, but foul-weather fans.
Like brothers in arms, in the streets and the stands.
There's magic in the Ivy and the old scoreboard.
The same one I stared at as a kid keeping score.
In a world full of greed, I could never want more.Someday we'll go all the way.
Yeah, someday we'll go all the way.
Someday we'll go all the way.
Yeah, someday we'll go all the way.

And here's to the men and the legends we've known.
Teaching us faith and giving us hope.
United we stand and united we'll fall
Down to our knees the day we win it all.
Yeah, Ernie Banks said, "Oh, let's play two."
Or did he mean two hundred years?
In this same ballpark, our diamond, our jewel.
The home of our joy and our tears.
Keeping traditions, and wishes made new,
The place where our grandfathers' fathers, they grew.
The spiritual feeling if I ever knew.
And when the day comes for that last winning run,
and I'm crying and covered in beer.
I look to the sky and know I was right today.
Someday we'll go all the way.
Yeah, someday we'll go all the way.
Someday we'll go all the way.
Yeah, someday we'll go all the way.
(Lyrics © 2008 Eddie Vedder/Innocent Bystander ASCAP)

A Golden Voice for the Braves: Emmylou Harris

Emmylou Harris is best known for her haunting harmony vocals that have enriched albums for over three decades and her collaborations with the late country rock pioneer Gram Parsons, Dolly Parton and Linda Ronstadt on Trio and most recently All the Roadrunning, a tremendous album recorded with former Dire Straits frontman Mark Knopfler. While Harris was doing a series of interviews promoting her latest solo disc All I Intended to Be we got to briefly chat about her love of baseball and the Atlanta Braves.

Zisk: Do you think John Smoltz will come back next year for the Braves?

EH: Oh man. The guy is so determined to play. And certainly the fact that he can be a closer as well as a starter gives him more of an opportunity to come back.

Zisk: With all the promo duties of a new album and touring, have you gotten to watch any games at all?

EH: I’ve gotten to watch a few games, but not as many as I’d have liked because for some reason they put all the Braves games on a channel I can’t get. And then when I try to get it on my computer they think I can get it so they black it out. (Laughs) But there is XM radio, so I can listen to every single ballgame.

Zisk: I assume you’ll have that on the bus, but you’re probably on stage when the games are being played.

EH: True, but I also subscribe to MLB.TV for my computer so I can watch the games afterwards. Of course when you’ve seen the score by then, so who wants to watch a game unless their team has won? (Laughs)

Zisk: Exactly!

EH: My brother used to do that. He went to Auburn when Alabama would be up on them every year. It was a very painful time to go to Auburn. And even now, for years he would tape the Auburn-Alabama game and find out the score. And he would only watch the game if Auburn won.

SR: So how do you feel about this current Braves team?

EH: I think they’ve got some great young players. I love this guy Yunel Escobar. And Chipper Jones has had a great year. It’s too bad we didn’t have the pitching because we lost Smoltz and then Tom Glavine. Some of the young guys I don’t know because I haven’t seen them enough this season. It’s baseball—you gotta take the knocks. We had some great years. But at a time like this you gotta stick with your team. Fortunately I love baseball enough to where I can really enjoy watching a game and seeing the subtleties of the game. I thank God for baseball. That’s how I chill out. I enjoy it.

Zisk: I obviously knew before coming in that you were a Braves fan, but I didn’t find an explanation why. Is it that Atlanta is the closest city to Nashville that had a major league team?

EH: Well, there you were either a Cubs fan or a Braves fan because it was either TBS or WGN. And I didn’t have enough soul to be a Cubs fan! (Laughs)

The Some Star Game by John Shiffert

2008-10-22T18:15:00.001-04:00

In the words of Lee Sinins, the Mid-Summer Classic has become the “Some Star Game.” Not a bad moniker for a contest that, in 2008, featured a National League roster with (for some obscure reason) Carlos Marmol and his 2-3, 4.13 ERA record, but was not graced by the presence of Derek Lee, Magglio Ordonez, Mike Lowell, Ryan Howard (who only led the majors in home runs), Carlos Lee or Pat Burrell (among others). While there were a lot of stars who could have appeared at Yankee Stadium, the addition of Marmol was clearly the strangest inclusion, brought about only because he received the highest vote total among relief pitchers on the players’ ballot—just proving that the players aren’t any better than the fans in picking All-Stars.

The current Byzantine voting set-up, involving ballot box (or e-mail in box) stuffing from 30 locations, an on-line fan vote for the 32nd man, the players voting, allowing Clint Hurdle to choose extras, and requirements for all teams to have a representative, even if that representative has been reprehensible (remember Mike Williams appearing for the NL a few years back with an ERA over 6), regularly produces atrocities such as this. There are better (and a lot more fun) ways to choose All-Star teams, such as Theme Teams, a concept originally created and master-minded by that master of trivial pursuits, Bruce Brown. Like the Star Trek All-Star Team…

C – Dick Rand
1B – George Scott
2B – Benny McCoy
SS – Mark Koenig
3B – Jay Kirke
OF – Bones Ely
OF – Rodney Scott
OF – Reid Nichols
PH – Tom Kirk
P – Ricky Bones
P – Mike Scott
P – Jack Scott
P – Kid Nichols
P – Chet Nichols
MGR – Kid Nichols

In case any of you aren’t Star Trek fans (can there exist such benighted souls), it can be pointed out that the real names, character names and nicknames of the stars of the starship Enterprise form the basis for the team and, of course, this is only for the true stars, the original cast. (Sadly, no one named Spock, Nimoy, Sulu or Takei has ever played MLB.) Most of these worthies are pretty familiar, with the exception of Tom Kirk, who appeared in a single game as a pinch-hitter for his hometown Philadelphia Athletics on June 24, 1947, and catcher Rand. Probably no relation to yeoman Janice, he caught 69 games in the National League in the 50s. Manager/pitcher Kid Nichols is a genuine gold-plated Hall of Famer.

Then there are those who write and vote for Hall of Famers. It seems only fitting that some of the top current baseball writers/authors should have their own Writers All-Star team.

C – Matt Stark (Jayson)
1B – Dusty Baker (Jim)
2B – Daff Gammons (Peter)
SS – Dolly Stark
3B – Home Run Baker
OF – David Newhan (Ross)
OF – Larry Rosenthal (Ken)
OF – Si Rosenthal
P – Dennis Stark
P – Big Bill James (Duh… Bill)
P – Seattle Bill James
P – Ken Holtzman (Jerome)
P – Kevin Hagen (Paul)
MGR – Dusty Baker

Yes, there really was a player named Daff Gammons, look him up on baseball-reference.com. Utilityman David Newhan has an inside advantage here, he’s the son of long-time LA sportswriter Ross Newhan. Sadly, no one named Neyer has ever played MLB.

Some of the most interesting All-Star teams are those that shuffle players around into unaccustomed positions. Like the All-Closer Team. This bunch is made up of players who, at one time or another, were used to finish (or close) a game from the mound.

C – Brent Mayne/Jamie Burke (platoon)
1B – Jack Bentley
2B – Dick Hall
SS – Doc Crandall
3B – Charles Bender
OF – Ron Guidry
OF – Hal Jeffcoat
OF – Gene Garber
PH – Terry Forster
SP – Dennis Eckersley
SP – John Smoltz
MGR – Clark Griffith

Burke just made his way into a platoon with Mayne by taking the mound in July as an emergency reliever for the Mariners. Although he was tagged with the loss (the first time an erstwhile catcher picked up an “L” as a pitcher since Roger Breshnahan more than 100 years ago), Burke still received an ovation as he came off the mound. You may recall back in 2000 that Mayne highlighted an unexceptional career by getting the win in an extra-inning game for the Rockies.

As for the other team members, Bentley was a combination pitcher/first baseman, mostly for the New York Giants. Hall came up to the major leagues from Swarthmore College as an infielder/outfielder before becoming a very effective side-arming reliever. Crandall, another New York Giant, was one of the first relief pitchers, and an excellent hitter as well for John McGraw in the first decade of the 20th Century. He was a good enough athlete to play several positions, as was Bender, who Connie Mack used in the outfield and at third base more than once. Although Bender is better known as a Hall of Fame starter, he at one time shared the major league record for saves in a season, with 13. Guidry and Garber were both pitchers who had adventures in center field and, in case you’ve forgotten, Guidry came up as a reliever. Jeffcoat was an outfielder who couldn’t hit and who later became a pretty decent relief pitcher. Forster was a relief pitcher who could hit (a .397 career average). Eckersley and Smoltz are the two most notable starter/relievers, while Griffith had the most success among pitcher/managers.

Finally, in noting that baseball has become an international sport over the past 50 years, here’s the All-Foreign Team. As Bruce Brown (who also contributed to this team, as did Brian Englehardt) points out, this team shamelessly mixes nouns and adjectives, but, then again, as my father and daughter will tell you, I’ve never been an All-Star grammarian.

C – Dane Sardinha
1B – Frank Brazill
2B – Neal “Mickey” Finn
SS – Swede Risberg
3B – Woody English
OF – Frenchy Bordagary
OF – Irish Meusel
OF – Brian Jordan
PH – Israel Alcantara
PH – Greek George
PH – Tim Ireland
PR – Germany Schafer
P – Larry French
P – Egyptian Healy
P – Franklyn German
P – Mike Scott
P – Chris Welsh

Bench/Bullpen
Mark Portugal
Ossie France
Dick Pole
Joe Malay
Blas Monaco
Jim French
Chile Gomez
Dane Iorg
Dane Johnson
German Barranca
Esteban German
George Scott (along with about 50 other Scotts)
Charlie English
Gil English
Israel Sanchez
Jimmy Welsh
Chad Curtis
Dutch Leonard (both of them)
Dutch Ruether
Turkey Stearns

Now, as to how the 2008 game went…five hours? Fifteen innings? Twenty three pitchers? Three errors and three strikeouts by the same player? The prospect of outfielders or third basemen going to the mound to pitch? The possibility of calling the game due to a lack of players? Sounds more like the slow pitch softball game at the office picnic. Maybe that’s because the All-Star Game, the last professional contest of its type that actually was worth paying attention to, has hit rock bottom. Thanks to an overabundance of tacky promos, tacky players, tacky votes and voters, tacky administrators and tacky rules, the All-Star Game has gone in the tack. Well, give some credit to interleague play as well, but you get the picture. Even the artifice of playing for home field advantage in the World Series is really pretty meaningless, since the home field advantage in baseball is nowhere near as significant as it is in say, basketball.

Home Run Derby? A moderately interesting TV show set in Los Angeles’ Wrigley Field around 1960. So what does that have to do with the All-Star Game? Ditto Corey Hart, Carlos Marmol, Brian Wilson (when did he leave The Beach Boys?), Mark Redman and Mike Williams (among others)—what do they have to do with the All-Star Game? Think the fans won’t tune in to watch if they don’t have a hand in the vote? How many were still watching at 1:30 a.m., whether they voted or not? Bud.com? Enough said. Requiring a player from each team and not putting a ceiling on the number of players from a team? Welcome to a Spring Training game between the Cubs and the Red Sox (about the same level of relevance as the July 15 abomination). Fans, writers, sportscasters, executives, etc—you can buy into the hype that this was one of the great All-Star games (true only if you equate “long” with “great” and have no interest in Dan Uggla), or you can realize that the Commissioner has no clothes, and look for ways to fix this broken institution.

It didn’t used to be this way. All-Star games in baseball have been around since “Picked Nines” (the term used in the 1850s and 1860s) from New York and Brooklyn squared off in a three-game set at the Fashion Race Course in 1858. Various other all-star type contests were held sporadically over the ensuing 75 years, including two in one year—a fund-raiser during the 1911 season for Addie Joss’ widow and a series of post-season games to keep the Philadelphia Athletics sharp while waiting to begin the 1911 World Series against the New York Giants. So, when sportswriter Arch Ward suggested a mid-season exhibition game (for that is, in reality, what the All-Star Game is) in conjunction with the Chicago World’s Fair in 1933, it was hardly a new idea. Maybe you recall that Connie Mack and the then-recently-retired John McGraw managed the teams for their respective leagues. Maybe you remember that Babe Ruth fittingly enough hit the first All-Starr home run. But what you probably don’t know is that there were just 18 players on each squad, and a half dozen of them didn’t even get into the game. Jimmie Foxx didn’t play. Bill Dickey didn’t play. Tony Lazzeri didn’t play. (And all three of them would eventually be voted into the Hall of Fame.) Why not? Maybe because Mack and McGraw, old World Series adversaries from way back, were actually trying to win the game. Mack only used 13 players—his eight starting position players, three pitchers, a pinch-hitter and pair of fresh legs (Sam West) as a defensive replacement for the aging Ruth. McGraw substituted more freely, as only pitcher Hal Schumacher, one of only four pitchers on the NL squad (the AL had just five), didn’t get into the game. Of course, putting Paul Waner, Pie Traynor and Gabby Hartnett (also three future Hall of Famers) into the game as subs was hardly conceding the contest to Mack.

The AL jumped on top 3-0 early off of a wild Wild Bill Hallahan, as Lefty Gomez, of all people, singled in Jimmy Dykes in the bottom of the second, and Ruth hit his home run in the bottom of the third. A sixth inning NL home run by Frank Frisch off General Crowder wasn’t enough, since Mack then brought in his ace, Lefty Grove, to pitch the last three (shutout) innings. It was, by all accounts, a good game and everyone had a good time. Not everyone in the game was destined to go to Cooperstown. Among the less-noteworthy players were Tony Cuccinello, Woody English, Jimmie Wilson and Oral Hildebrand. But there were a lot of great players. Future Hall of Famers not already mentioned included Earl Averill, Joe Cronin, Lou Gehrig (the reason Foxx didn’t play), Rick Ferrell, Charlie Gehringer, Al Simmons (all from the AL, Mack had 12 future Hall of Famers among his 18 players), Chick Hafey and Chuck Klein. While the Hall qualifications of some of these players can be (and have been) questioned, you better believe this was a game of stars.

The question is, how do we get back to making the All-Star Game a Midsummer Classic, instead of a Midsummer’s Nightmare? Doing away with interleague play would be a good start, but for now let’s stick to just the rules of the All-Star Game in terms of a fix. Here are six suggestions…

First – Take the vote away from the fans. Trust me on this, they’ll still come to the game and they’ll still watch on TV, especially if they’re guaranteed to see two true all-star teams in action. Give the vote to a panel of experts, including the BBWAA and the many and varied baseball writers who don’t belong to the BBWAA, but who in many cases know far more about baseball and player value than many of the establishment type—the Bill James, Rob Neyers, Jim Bakers, Bill Chucks, John Thorns, Pete Palmers, Dayn Perrys, Lee Sinins, Bruce Browns, SABR board of directors, Baseball Prospectus guys, some of the top internet moguls, etc., etc., etc., of the baseball-writing world. Maybe add in another panel of baseball execs—managers and GMs—who will vote by sealed ballot with the codicil that they are not allowed to vote for their own players.

Second – Establish new guidelines for voting. The voters are to take into consideration not just the first three months of the current season (which is the basic problem that produces a Some-Star Game), but the body of each players’ work over his entire career, and especially his play in the second half of the just-concluded season. This last rule is designed to end the all-too-common practice of someone who has a great second half not getting all-star recognition. All three factors – the first half of the current year, the second half of the previous year, and the career, are to be balanced equally in consideration in voting. Three separate ballots are to be cast for position players (16), starting pitchers (three) and relief pitchers (five). That’s two players per position. The pitchers are designated the All-Star Game starter, an emergency starter in case someone comes down with flu-like symptoms or the erstwhile starter starts a regular game on Sunday, and a long man. Five relievers, even in this age of specialization, is plenty. That’s a squad of 24, and that, too, is plenty. How many regular season games have you seen wherein a manager used more than 20 players?

Third – Throw out the rule that every team has to have an all-star, and put a limit on the number of players that can be selected from each team. Although every team was represented in the 1933 game, there were only eight teams in each league at that time. With either 14 or 16 teams in a league, you get Grant Jackson, Mark Redman and Mike Williams on the roster too often. On the other hand, the Yankees had six of the 18 AL players in the 1933 game, and the New York Giants had four of the NL’s 18, and that’s not right, either. Limit each team to a maximum of four All-Stars. It’s absurd to have eight players from one team as All-Stars, although that in part is a function of ballot box stuffing, which would go away with a more rational system of voting.

Fourth – Eliminate the restrictions on the number of innings a pitcher can pitch. Similarly, ditch the unwritten rule that everyone should, if at all possible, get into the game. Not pulling your starting position players after three innings will help ensure that you won’t run out of position players. Being able to throw your starter for five or six or seven innings, or being able to use your long man for four innings, will also cut way down on the likelihood that you’ll run out of pitchers in an extra inning game. As part of this change, and although the DH is an abomination in the sight of all true baseball fans, let’s indeed use it for all All-Star games, to keep pitchers in the game longer.

Fifth – Ditch the sideshows, especially the Home Run Derby, which reeks of the stupid skills contests they used to have before games in the first half of the 20th Century. (It was in such an event that Rube Waddell broke both the hind legs of an enormous pig…but that’s another story.) The game should be enough of a draw to stand on its own, and it will, if changes like these are instituted.

Sixth – It’s an exhibition game, for goodness sake. Forget about the stupid World Series home field advantage rule and allow the game to end in a tie if need be. Regular season major league games used to end in ties all the time in the days of curfews, and before lights. And this is an exhibition game. It doesn’t count in the standings.

But it should be closer to a real game, played by the real stars. And these are six ways to do just that. Under the present system, Arch Ward is rolling in his grave.

John Shiffert is the author of Baseball: 1862-2003, Baseball… Then and Now, and Base Ball in Philadelphia. He also publishes a weekly baseball zine called Baseball...19 to 21. You can read it at http://tedsilary.com/johnshiffert.htm.

The Comedy of Baseball by Steve Reynolds

2008-10-22T17:26:00.000-04:00

September 19th, 2008 will be a day that lives in baseball infamy. No, not because the Mets bullpen held a lead, it’s because of a three minute piece of video that popped up on You Tube. This video from 2003 shows Royals Hall of Fame third basemen George Brett at spring training talking to a player about how he shit his pants the night before. It’s quite possibly the funniest video I’ve ever seen (besides that monkey washing the cat). I knew that that some media company would have it taken down quickly because it was obviously a pro shot video. So I took matters into my own hands by recording the audio portion. So here, in all its glory, is the genius of George Brett.

(WARNING: If you are offended by shitloads of foul language, you might want to stop reading right here)

GB: I farted. I shit my pants last night

Unidentified player: (Laughs) You did?

GB: I did. Went out and had a great meal, just a great fucking meal, and I had to go to the bathroom so bad in the car I’m going “Trammel, hurry up man I gotta shit.” Got home and I had fucking shit in my pants. I’m good twice a year for that. When is the last time you shit your pants?

UP: Me?

GB: Yeah. Been a while?

UP: Um, yeah, it’s been a long time.

GB: I was in Vegas a couple years ago—this is an honest to God true story. Staying at the Bellagio, I went over to the Mirage for dinner and met some friends of mine over there. Went to Kokomo’s, a great little steakhouse. The guy brings out some fresh crab legs. He says, “These things just came in, I gotta give them to you guys.” So I’m eating them, then we go gamble a little bit. I had a tee time early in the morning, so I said, “Look, I’m gonna get going.” I’m walking back to the hotel, I get three quarters of the way out of the lobby and all of a sudden I go, “Oh, fuck!” And standing there like this—I got my butt pinched so fucking tight. I’m fucked. I can’t move. All of a sudden I felt all right, and then I went just like this—(makes explosion sound) water.

UP: No way.

GB: Yeah, I had food poisoning from the crabs. Take off my leather jacket, tied it around my waist, and I’m standing there and it’s just running down my leg.

UP: (Laughs)

GB: I got jeans on, black bucks, no socks. And I just start fucking walking. Every time I’m walking, something’s coming out. It’s water. Straight fucking water. And then, to tell you how sick I was, I’m standing outside and I get my cell phone and this guy (scratchy noise cuts in). I say “Larry, you won’t believe this. I’m standing outside the fucking Bellagio—I can’t move. I got shit everywhere. I shit all over myself.” And Larry’s about a 48 waist. So he brings me over a pair of pants and some towels. And so he comes over and meets me—I tell him where I’m standing. He finds the closest bathroom when you go up the escalator—I can’t get in the elevator.

UP: (Laughs)

GB: So he goes in, finds the closest bathroom in the lobby of the hotel. And then I get on the escalator, and he kind of pretends like he dropped something so no one gets behind me. Tells me where it is. I go in there. He goes and gets the towel all wet for me, throws it over the fucking stall. I take off all my fucking clothes. [I] just wipe off—leave my shoes, left my shoes, my pants, everything, right there. The towels, right there in the stall. And I’m walking barefoot with my shirt and his pants that are 48 waist through the lobby like this at midnight. Got up in the morning, took the most perfect double-tapered shit I’ve ever had in my life. True story. Who’s the pitchers in this game?

An Important Issue # 17 Update

2008-10-10T11:44:00.004-04:00

Greetings from the Manhattan offices of Zisk. Many of you have probably gotten issue # 17 in your mailboxes by now (the rest will be all out in the mail by Tuesday). I wanted to give you all an update on the Stadium Memories story that starts on page 3. My friend Jonah, who I write about in my memories of Shea piece, has unfortunately had a recurrence of his cancer in a another lymph node. You can get a full update at his own blog, Groinstrong. If you've ever enjoyed Zisk at all over the past nine years, I'd like to ask a favor--please go to the Groinstrong site and buy yourself a wrist band or simply donate money. The donated funds go to help Jonah's medical expenses, The NYU Melanoma Research Program and The Melanoma Research Foundation.

My hope for my first memory of CitiField? Jonah and I and a bunch of other people are there, celebrating the fact that he's beaten cancer for good.

Coming Up in Issue # 17

2008-09-19T12:46:00.000-04:00

Seriously

2008-08-27T02:05:00.001-04:00

Why are people stunned by tonight's (last night's) loss? This is just another one in at least a dozen crappy losses this season. People need to get a fucking grip and realize this is STILL the 2008 Mets and this is what you get.

Jeebus.

How Does this Happen In Just a Month?

2008-08-25T21:47:00.002-04:00

Que pasa, los Mets?

Back to back complete games from Mike Pelfrey? (Helping my fantasy team in the last two weeks of the regular season.)

Carlos Delgado has 90 RBI?

Ryan Church just keeps hitting, no matter what happens to him?

I don't know what to make of this. I almost like this team again. Even when they lose now, at least it seems like's there is effort.

Of course, that could change with this upcoming killer road trip to Philly, Florida and Milwaukee. But at least I've been able to enjoy my favorite sport again.

Ha ha ha ha!

2008-07-23T10:21:00.003-04:00

Here's when you know you still hate a team--I started laughing maniacally as soon as Duaner Sanchez gave up back-to-back hits last night. One more hit and I turned off the TV and went into my bedroom to do some work, knowing that my hated 2008 Mets were alive and well.

I have one more game to go to, this Saturday versus the Cards. Then this team won't get any more money from me for at least a couple of years.

The Baseball Project Is Out Today

2008-07-08T16:09:00.004-04:00

It's not often we talk music on the Zisk blog, but today is one of those days as the debut album from The Baseball Project hits stores. Full disclosure: yours truly wrote the bio for this album, and if I didn't I would still say it is one of my favorite albums of the year. Check out the band's blog (and Myspace) and listen to the entire album here. A fan of baseball or good catchy rock music needs a copy of it in their collection.

And since I wrote the bio (and it says everything I could say about such a fantastic album) I'm going to reprint it here:

What happens when two great songwriters decide to focus their talents upon their favorite sport? You get the highly entertaining debut disc from The Baseball Project, Volume One: Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails. The album is the brainchild of Steve Wynn (Dream Syndicate, Steve Wynn and the Miracle 3) and Scott McCaughey (Young Fresh Fellows, Minus 5, and R.E.M). The two musicians were longtime fans of each other's work throughout the 80s but never met until the early 90s. Wynn recalls, "I honestly think the first time we met was side-by-side at the urinals at the Offramp in Seattle when I played there in 1992." He adds, "Scott didn't try to shake my hand."

After that fortuitous (and sanitary) meeting, the pair quickly discovered that they were both huge baseball fans. The two casually talked about an album of baseball material for a few years, but the idea for The Baseball Project crystallized at a chance meeting in 2007.

"It finally took flight at the R.E.M. pre-Hall of Fame induction party in New York," Wynn remembers. "Everyone was happy. The wine was flowing, the food was incredible and spring training had just started. Scott and I talked baseball until most of the party guests had cleared out. And we actually remembered it the next day."

Soon the pair started working on songs extolling the feats and defeats of players like Curt Flood, Satchel Paige, Ted Williams, and Black Jack McDowell, and convened last December at McCaughey's home in Portland. After a none-too-strenuous week of writing, refining, and rehearsing with Wynn's Miracle 3 drummer Linda Pitmon, they headed into Jackpot! Studios with producer/engineer Adam Selzer (M. Ward, Norfolk & Western), and were soon joined by longtime partner-in-crime Peter Buck.

The end result is an album that impresses not only with its depth of both widely known and obscure baseball lore, but with its melodic sensibility, walls of guitars, and catchy choruses. No, Frozen Ropes & Dying Quails does not require a PhD in pitching mechanics or membership in three fantasy leagues to enjoy on a purely musical level. The joyous chorus of "Ted Fucking Williams" would probably compel Babe Ruth to sing along. "Broken Man" is about slugger Mark McGwire, yet anyone can identify with the semi-tragic tale of being built up and then being humiliated in public in such a brief span of time. And in "Jackie's Lament", Mr. Robinson's trials while breaking baseball's color barrier become an anthemic call to anyone who overcomes life's obstacles.

McCaughey and Wynn admit that the inherent task of including so many names, dates and places required a different mindset than the standard three minute pop gem. McCaughey credits drummer (and Minnesota Twins fan) Linda Pitmon's "keen ear for editing" as a big help in keeping the songs from getting too encyclopedic or list-oriented. He adds, "It wasn't hard to find the inspiration for the songs, but it was hard to fit in the all the lyrics necessary to tell the stories. It really helped to keep the music fairly simple."

Wynn cites "Harvey Haddix" as perhaps the most difficult song to finish. The track makes the case for the Pittsburgh Pirates pitcher to be credited with a perfect game (no hits, no base runners over nine innings) after he lost one in the 13th inning. The chorus names all 17 pitchers in history that are officially recognized with the rare feat--alas, the names of Randy Johnson, Addie Joss and Dennis Martinez aren't really found in rhyming dictionaries. Wynn explains, "It was like lyrical Sudoku. We had to somehow fit in all 17 pitchers. The last piece of the puzzle was a visit to Wikipedia and finding that Catfish Hunter threw his for the A's--I knew that already--and that Len Barker threw his against the Blue Jays. I didn't know that, and a natural rhyme was born!"

Wynn and McCaughey also take time to pay tribute to their favorite baseball players of all time. McCaughey's "Sometimes I Dream of Willie Mays" blends personal memories of his hero into a psychedelic time-warp. For Wynn, "Long Before My Time" marks the amazing career of Dodgers pitcher Sandy Koufax, who quit at his peak in 1966. Wynn says, "He had such an incredible five year run and then he just walked away. He was in the Hall of Fame at an age where most players are renegotiating their contract."

Both Wynn and McCaughey's love of baseball and its legendary players made its way sporadically into songs during their distinguished careers. The Young Fresh Fellows named-checked Seattle Mariners slugger Gorman Thomas on "Aurora Bridge" from 1986's Refreshments, while Wynn tipped his cap to Hall of Famers Mickey Mantle and Stan Musial in his 1990 solo hit "Kerosene Man."

Wynn also penned the closing song for the 2005 baseball romantic comedy Fever Pitch. "I wrote 'Second Best' when Fever Pitch was meant to be about the futility of being a Red Sox fan," he explains. "The hook line was 'Why do I settle for second best, why is everything a test, just this once can't nice guys finish first and break this curse of always second best.' Then they won the World Series. Maybe I should take credit."

With Volume One in the album title, the question begs to be asked, is there more to come? "It seems inevitable," McCaughey says. "After all, we haven't written songs about (Seattle Mariners star) Ichiro or (innovative owner) Bill Veeck yet." Wynn adds, "Or (the one time midget pitch hitter) Eddie Gaedel!"

BONUS: Here's Scott, Steve, Linda and Peter on Letterman June 20th.

I Miss Two Things

2008-06-26T02:41:00.004-04:00

1) Crazy Keith
He was out tonight in the inning I watched. (Watching an inning is a rarity these days for yours truly when it comes to my least favorite Mets team in history.) Number 17 compared the police escort between Friday's upcoming split stadium doubleheader to the days of the Soviet politburo. It was stunning to hear. Gotta get Tivo next season so I can fully transcribe these moments.

2) Funny George
George Carlin is the first person whose obit I have written pre-mortem that we've published at my day job. The existence of those 5 paragraphs make me feel as if I killed him. What a funny man who just happened to love our Mets. Check out these 9 minutes of rain delay genius with our own funny man in the booth Ralph Kiner before The Man pulls it down:

Sleazy

2008-06-17T12:16:00.002-04:00

That's the only way I can describe the Wilpon family in the wake of Willie Randolph mercifully being fired at 3:00 a.m. this morning. It was long past time for Randolph to go, but this was just a shitty way to do it. This organization will never be anything until the Wilpons (I liked one comparison of Jeff Wilpon = Fredo) get out of the baseball side for good and let someone fully take over with full authority. If a person like this ever takes over (Omar Minaya might have been that for his first year in the job, but that's it), hopefully he'll clean house and eliminate all the back-stabbing and stupid leaks that reek from the offices at Shea.

Sigh. It's amazing that 2004 came around again in 2008. I hope that doesn't happen around Election Day.

The Best Post Ever

2008-06-12T10:03:00.003-04:00

Today Greg at Faith and Fear has written the best post I've seen about this collective of crap that are the Mets in name only. I encourage everyone to read it. He states my case for not blogging better than I ever could.

#16 is Online (I Can't Believe I Got It Done That Quickly!)

2008-05-24T15:48:00.001-04:00

Look to your right to access all the articles from our latest print issue. Or click here.

Mike, Keith and Willie

2008-05-21T11:36:00.002-04:00

Apparently I missed quite a doozy of a night from Keith according to my friend Jason. Honestly, when the game was delayed, I decided I'd be better off watching a DVD of a friend's gig (which I guested at) and the Family Guy marathon on TBS. That's how much I don't like this team of old, overpaid, overachievers--even the promise of the trio after a rain delay was not enough to make we turn away from Stewie and Brian.

Speaking of old, Mike Piazza finally hung it up. The last part of his statement makes me think he'll go into the hall as a Met:

“I have to say that my time with the Mets wouldn’t have been the same without the greatest fans in the world. One of the hardest moments of my career was walking off the field at Shea Stadium and saying goodbye. My relationship with you made my time in New York the happiest of my career, and for that, I will always be grateful.”

No Mike, we're grateful we had you. And the Wilpons don't retire your number, someone's gonna have some explaining to do.

Lastly, Willie Randolph is acting like a man soon to be fired, which could happen even though he's supposed to coach at the All-Star game at Yankee Stadium. Even if he's replaced, I can't imagine devoting time to this team. I haven't felt that way since I moved to Brooklyn 13 years ago. And I have a feeling I'm not alone.

The Tide Has Turned

2008-05-16T12:08:00.003-04:00

Who knew that it would take a game where a no hitter went into the 7th inning and then imploded to bring most of the media and tons of blogs around to the cause of replacing Willie Randolph? If the Yanks win two out of three this weekend, the ax might fall and the season might be saved.

Zisk # 16 is in the Mail!

2008-05-13T17:17:00.001-04:00

The first copies went out yesterday, with all of them sent to subscribers by the end of this week. Wait until you see the cover pic.

I've Been Quiet, Thinking, and I'd Like to Third That

2008-05-02T11:41:00.002-04:00

Not much of the usual Mets season blogging going on in these parts. Not because I haven't watch or listened to games (I have missed a few here and there) or due to my medical issues (I am doing great and feel the best I have in three years, thanks for asking) or working on the next print issue (which will be sent out starting May 12th).

Nope, I've been thinking about what I've seen on the field and in the papers, and today I said it out loud for the first time to my co-worker Doug.

Then five minutes later I read Jason at Faith in Fear in Flushing's post from this morning.

Then one minute later I read Tim Marchman's column, and I felt good that other sane Mets fans were thinking the same way.

I hate to say it, but I'd like to third that notion.

Zisk # 16

2008-05-01T18:00:00.010-04:00

I Think We Need Some Pepto in Queens by Steve Reynolds

In The Pink by Dr. Nancy Golden

Leap Year and Baseball: Lena Blackburne, Your Name is Mud by John Shiffert

Clemens Laments by Jake Austen

The Zisk Interview: Bill Monbouquette by Mike Faloon

Sutton, The Garv and Me...The Reggie Smith Story by Tim Hinely

The Zisk Book Corner by Steve Reynolds

Peace in the NL East by Mike Faloon

Curse of the Great Giambi by Mark Hughson

I Think We Need Some Pepto in Queens by Steve Reynolds

2008-05-01T17:50:00.003-04:00

“Someday we’ll look back on this and it will all seem funny.” —Bruce Springsteen

The above line from the classic rock staple “Rosalita” caught my ear the other day. I’d been listening to Springsteen’s The Wild, The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle at my desk as a small tribute to keyboardist Danny Federici, who had died the day before after a long battle with melanoma. And I almost wanted to stop my iTunes because what I was thinking was not a way to remember the man and his organ riffs. I was thinking something much, much worse. And I was thinking it about the New York Mets of the past 18 months, the ones that choked away an NLCS and a division title in that brief time period. My thought?

What if we look back on this and it will all seem NOT funny—only incredibly painful?

It’s a cruel idea to put into one’s own head about your favorite sports team. But as I write this paragraph, the last two days the print media and WFAN have been hashing and rehashing whether or not struggling first baseman Carlos Delgado—a man who has taken only two curtain calls in his entire career, and both were for actual historic events—dissed all of Shea Stadium by not coming out for a one on Sunday April 27th. And the whole hubbub is so idiotic it makes me wonder, what the heck happened? Why do I have this nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach whenever I turned on 660 on my A.M. dial? And why is my head hurting whenever I watch highlights on SNY at night?

I sit back and realize I’ve had similar feelings before—but they’ve usually preceded by some sort of booze in large quantities.

Then it struck me: I had a Mets hangover.

It made total sense! The gamut of feelings I’ve run through on various Saturday and Sunday (and sometimes Friday) mornings have been replicated by the past 180 or so games on the Amazin’s schedule. Regret? Check. Anger? Yup. Remorse? For sure. Irrational outbursts where I wanted to punch my bedroom wall? Ouch, but yes. A pain that will only go away by laying down for six hours straight while watching a Family Guy marathon? Yes sir.

Now if it was just me that had this hangover, it would be no problem. I’ve already let most of the 2008 season go by without blogging it on the Zisk website. Sure, I’ve had health problems to deal with as the season began. But as I’ve started my exercise program, I have not once taken my little A.M. receiver so I could check in on the Mets. And that would be the perfect chance to catch up with Howie Rose. I’ve even not turned on games on Sunday afternoons when I’ve been home—and tried avoid watching day games at work, where I’d basically be getting paid for rooting for John Maine!

But all my transgressions seem minor compared to the rest of the Flushing faithful. Simple put, Mets fans are pissed. They’re venting on the airwaves, to members of the media and lord, lordy, lordy, they’re writing vicious things on Met fans sites everywhere. Basically the fanbase needs about 100 doses of stadium sized Advil to make this feeling go away. And even then, I fear it might not. Perhaps the one amazing season of 2006 (and the trade for Johan Santana) has set fans expectations so high that nothing less than a championship will do. (I’d call this the Yankee-ization of the Mets fanbase.) And that saddens me. Baseball is supposed to be fun and, at times, healing. And right now it is most certainly not for tens of thousand of people, and that’s is wearing off on me. Heck, I even booed when Scott Schoeneweis was brought into the first game I saw this season. This isn’t like me. And it’s making me worry.

My friend Jason Fry at Faith and Fear in Flushing and I not only share a love of The Figgs, beer, and the Hoodoo Gurus, but we also shared very similar feelings about the Mets last summer long before they collapsed. He wrote a great paragraph about this year’s team that I feel compelled to share with you here:

“By too many indications this is the same badly constructed, poorly led, sadly complacent team I came to thoroughly dislike last year. Last summer I found out something I pretty much knew anyway, and would happily have gone to my grave never having confirmed: It's no fun disliking your favorite team.”

I hate to say it, but this hangover has me thinking the same thing. I think I would feel better if it seemed as though someone else besides David Wright cared. From all appearances, no one else does. To wit here’s some choice clippings from the National League’s highest payroll:

“We as a team play hard and want to win more than [the fans] do. [Umm, usually it doesn’t look like it.] That’s why I don’t understand the mentality. I guess they have a right to express themselves.” —Willie Randolph

“If you’re just booing for ridiculous reasons, you just let them look like idiots and go about your business.” —Billy Wagner

“I don’t really want to care about the fans anymore. If they want to boo, let them boo. I’m not going to take them out to dinner.” —Scott Schoeneweis

That’s right, the feeling has become mutual—and Scott’s not going to treat us to Frostys at Wendys! How did it come to pass that within just a season plus this love affair between the Mets and their fans has turned into a sideshow deserving of its own episode of Jerry Springer?

Oh, wait, I know why. Because this team still seems to be very full of themselves:

“The collapse didn't come because the Phillies beat us, the collapse came because we played bad. The Phillies didn't—I don't know how to say this—it wasn't like they beat us. A lot of times we beat ourselves, defense or just not doing things [we'd] done all year.” —Billy Wagner, the opening weekend of the season

Cripes, the 1986 team was totally full of themselves, but at least they had some gusto to back it up. This bunch, I don’t think they would know what gusto means even if I pointed it out in a dictionary.

I didn’t sit down to write a piece that had any big solutions to the Mets problems. For all I know there are none until next season when some more contracts will be off the books. All I know is that during the darkest days of the Art Howe or Joe Torre eras, it never felt this bad.

As Springsteen once sang, “Glory days, well they’ll pass you by.” I hope this time it isn’t true.

In the Pink by Dr. Nancy Golden

2008-05-01T17:40:00.001-04:00

If not for the pink t-shirts, it might just have been a perfect day.

The players were likely still sleeping off last night’s rain-delayed game against the Braves when I showed up at RFK Stadium in DC that September morning. That’s OK, because I came prepared to swing for the seats and take grounders at short—Felipe Lopez would only get in my way.

Ha! If only I had that much confidence going into the day. The truth was, despite the fact that the Nationals billed the day as a “Baseball 101 Clinic for Women,” I was still worried that my desire to run around a major league ball field and meet some coaches might be hampered by my lack of certain skills that seemed helpful to the game. Namely: hitting, throwing, and catching. While I have a solid knowledge and appreciation of the game as a fan, the Nats’ previous events designed to increase female attendance, mainly Ladies Night happy hours, required only skills that I had long ago mastered—drinking beer and flagging down waiters carrying hors d'oeuvres. And now my dirty secret was about to be revealed—an avid fan of baseball, my mastery of its play is just about on par with George Bush’s mastery of words containing three or more syllables. And while in reality I knew deep down that it didn’t at all matter if Third Base Coach Tim Tolman found out that I had a weak arm, I couldn’t help but worry: What if I couldn’t even hit the cut-off man?

Waiting outside the Stadium at 8:30 a.m. for everyone to arrive, my co-clinician Kelly and I were assigned to groups and awarded our swag. Some of the freebies were standard fare—a Nats cooler, school supplies, a scorebook, etc. Others were decidedly girly—a pack of baseball cards featuring Nats players and their mothers, and a t-shirt in the girliest of all girl colors, pink. (Which will so perfectly match the pink baseball cap from that last Ladies Night gathering dust in my closet.) At least the wedding planners weren’t sponsors this time around.

But who had time to gripe when we suddenly found ourselves led through the stands and down into the dugout? We take advantage of the requisite photo ops—sitting on the bench, leaning up against the railing, etc.—before our coaches arrive to teach us some baseball. On hand this morning are all of the Nats actual coaches. And even though they were up just as late as the players last night, each one of them acts like there’s nowhere in the whole world they’d rather be than back there on the field that morning. Then again, it is just them and 75 enthusiastic baseball-lovin’ chicks—maybe they actually speak the truth on this one. Okay, so far all I’d had to do was smile, pose, and clap. Now it was time to get to business.

After a team stretch and warm-up in the infield, we break into our groups and head off to our mentors. My opening set of drills is over at first, where coach Jerry Morales goes over signs with us, fields questions about a dubious call from last night’s game, and teaches us how to run with men on base. Morales is such a good coach that I swear I feel myself swell with inner pride as he praises me for a particularly well-executed banana turn around the bag. Next, over at third base, Tolman teaches us how to get in front of the ball, and then hits grounders for us to field and throw back to the catcher. And here’s where any fears of my dead arm dissipate, for women—contrary to what you’ve seen on Gossip Girl and America’s Next Top Model—are actually uber-supportive of one another in situations like this. My groupies clap for every throw of mine that eventually trickles back to the plate like I’m throwing out the tying run of some future World Series the Nationals might make it to when I’m too old to remember any of this. I even take some extra grounders just to get the praise, and wonder how it would feel to really make a play and have 40,000 fans cheering for me instead of 10.

Feeling more confident now, I follow my group into the clubhouse to the domain of Bench Coach Pat Corrales. Stepping through stagnant puddles of water and ducking crumbling concrete, I envision this to be a good spot for a donation jar for the new stadium, its $611 million price tag a bit of a sore subject for the city. Following a brief lesson on form and execution, I enter the indoor batting cage to take my licks. Swing and a miss! Did I mention that the ball is on a tee? That’s okay, because the real victory was that I am no longer afraid to swing for the seats. With a little personal coaching from batting practice pitcher Jose Martinez, I make good contact on my next few attempts, and score myself a double with two RBIs in my head.

Our last lesson is in the bullpen. After catching the view from that really tall bench, we all grip practice balls as demonstrated by Bullpen Coach Rick Aponte and throw off the mound until the lunch bell rings. And that’s it. I’d made it through my clinic without embarrassment, not because I didn’t suck, but because it was readily apparent that nobody cared that I sucked. Thank you, women. And while we’re speaking of women, let me make it abundantly clear that the piss-poor baseball skills described herein belong to me alone and are not some kind of general indictment against female athleticism. Most of the women present knew exactly what they were doing. I just happened to grow up playing sports that have no relevance to real life. (Pick-up game of field hockey anyone? Great, just let me grab my kilt!)

As we enjoyed our post-clinic lunch with Don Sutton and MASN broadcasters Bob Carpenter and Debbi Taylor, I couldn’t help but think how much I loved Major League Baseball’s attempt to pander to women for their attendance. (Please, don’t tell them they had me at “Strike One.”) Sure, sometimes you have to put up with pink t-shirts (c’mon folks, the team color is clearly RED), handouts defining terms like “pop-up,” and swag from perfume dealers and nail studios, but I’ve also enjoyed all-you-can-drink happy hours with the cost of my ticket, appearances by players about to take the field, memorabilia give-aways with excellent odds, and now, baseball lessons from major league coaches and lunch with a Hall of Famer. And all because I have boobs! I used to feel funny about attending the Nationals’ women-only events (what if the tables were turned?) but I’ve learned to relax and enjoy the benefits. I figure after so many years waiting on those really long lines for the bathroom, I must deserve some kind of payback.

I wasn’t able to stay for the game that night, but ending my baseball activities that day on Don Sutton’s stand-up routine and some autographed balls swiped from the bullpen was a nice way to go. I’ll see you back here for the next event. And yes, you tricky bastards, I’ll bring my girlfriends.

Dr. Nancy Golden will see you at the next Ladies Night event at the new Nationals Park in DC. She’ll be the slightly tipsy one, in the red shirt and cap, unsuccessfully hitting on the giant Teddy Roosevelt mascot.