17 Years Later

by The Editor

Prior to this year, the most recent volume of Baseball Diary was published in 1994. In the intervening years, I had wanted to bring out another volume, but for various reasons, this was not possible. Toward the end of the century, I began thinking about doing it online instead of on paper, but time, technical know-how, and other factors conspired against me. Then, earlier this year, Spencer Kimball and I started a blog called Half Forgotten. In May, I asked Spence, who is the smarter and tech-ier of the two of us, if we could somehow connect that blog with a new Baseball Diary. And there you have it, our triumvirate: Half Forgotten, Baseball Diary and the BD Archive.

With this post, Baseball Diary Volume 11 "officially" comes to a close. However, I will still be continuing the Archive posts, though on a more limited basis. And BD posts will continue if the baseball muse strikes me, OR if it strikes you - BD is always looking for posts of a personal, penetrating nature, and now, we can basically have them anytime, even off-season. So if the muse strikes, send along your efforts. Officially, we'll be closing up shop for the winter, with Volume 12 starting sometime around Spring Training 2012.

And of course this current season would not have been possible without the incredible contributions of this year's BD contributors. A HUGE THANK YOU to Richard Rosen, Danny DiPierro, John Hilton, Spencer Kimball, Everett Evers, Peggy Kincaid, Bob Stanley, Meredith Linden, and Tom Gibson. I love you guys! Hope to see more contributions soon!

Have a great winter! And here's some closing thoughts from yet another contributor, some thoughts that pretty much sum it up:

From The Diamond Sonnets
By Bill “Shaky” Spear

No. 73 (1981)

This time of year thou mayest in me behold
When pennant flags, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those poles which shake against the cold
O’er bare ruin’d diamonds, where late the players sprang

In me thou see’st depression of such day
As after Base-Ball fadeth in the fall
Which by and by naught else can turn away
Death’s second self, from here to Montreal.

In me thou see’st the yearning for such thwack
As bat upon the ball doth make, and I
With trembling fingers daily do ransack
The sporting news and wish it were July:

But all 'tis hoops and goals — how sickening! —
And ne’er an RBI ‘til gentle Spring.

Notes Regarding a World Series

by The Editor

Game 1
The "set-up" begins: turn to Fox, the network carrying the World Series, and pause it. Then go about my business for the next 15 minutes or so. When the dvr has reached its limit, the program goes on. I now have about 15 minutes to "play" with, which is usually enough so that I don't have to watch any commercials. With the saved time, I can fast forward when I hit the commercials. And when I inevitably need to get up during the game, do so while the commercials run to an empty room. This will generally get you through a three hour game commercial-less.

What is it about Joe Buck that has most everyone I know cringing when he announces? His constant stating of the obvious? His vain attempts at being funny? His idiotic repartee with Tim McCarver (who, yes I'll admit it, I do like)? Well it's all of these things of course, but for me, his biggest sin is his grotesque need to figure out each game's "narrative" before it happens. It's like he thinks he know what will occur based on what usually occurs, and because this is baseball, when it doesn't occur (which usually happens), he adjusts his all-knowing comments to embrace a new narrative. He's got to have a narrative. Just let the game unfold, Buck! For god's sake, let the game unfold and try to think of something interesting to say!

Game 2
Look, I don't have a dog in this race, but I gotta tell you, I cannot abide the sight of war criminal torture mastermind GBW sitting side by side Nolan Ryan, buddying up to each other, smug self-serving bastard acting like he's the king of the world. Good lord.

THIS is my favorite kind of baseball game, low scoring, a pitcher's duel with a final twist ending! I realize that most people, even many baseball fans, do NOT share my enthusiasm. But when you have a game like this, half-way through, if not before, EVERY pitch becomes exciting, every nuance is important, every "mistake" is monumental, it's just a glorious nail-biting thrill ride. Loved it, even though Bush's team won.

Game 3
Yeah, and then they have to have the guy throw the opening pitch!

Wow, can the Rangers turn a double play or what?!

Possibly the saddest moment of Baseball 2011: "07/09/11: Texas Rangers star Josh Hamilton revealed his heartbreak Friday after a fan plunged headfirst to his death while trying to snare a baseball tossed by the American League MVP. Shannon Stone, a 39-year-old firefighter, fell from the stands at Rangers Ballpark Thursday in front of his 6-year-old son, Cooper. 'It was just hard for me, hearing the little boy screaming for his daddy after he had fallen - and then being home with my kids, really hit home last night,' Hamilton said.

If only they woulda done it (yeah, right): From Canada's The Star 10/22/11: There was a Canadian chill in the air when George W. Bush turned up in Surrey, B.C., on Thursday to speak to a business audience. A couple of hundred raucous protesters were on hand, chanting “Arrest George Bush” and urging the Mounties to clap the former U.S. president in irons. “Complicit in torture,” one sign read. “Waterboard Bush.” “War criminals out of Canada.” And “Shame, shame, shame.” The campaign to make Bush a pariah in this country seems to have legs. Groups such as Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch are trying to shame the Canadian government into doing what the U.S. government won’t: To arrest and try Bush for authorizing the waterboarding of terror suspects when he next sets foot on our soil.

Game 4
I love Molina's right neck tattoo: some musical notes that look like they're emanating from a treble clef? I did a quick search to find out why he got it, and only came up with "personal reasons, probably relating to his father". Anybody know? And did you see his pickoff of Kinsler?!?

STL Today 09/26/11: La Russa bolted from Busch Stadium that night so he could catch the final songs of Carlos Santana's set at the (fabulous) Fox Theater in St. Louis' Grand Center. La Russa had a backstage pass, and soon after he showed up was given an on-stage duty -- shaking two maracas to the beat...After the show, La Russa spoke with Santana for awhile, and the guitarist took off the necklace he wore during the show and gave it to La Russa...In one retelling of the gift-giving moment, La Russa said Santana offered the necklace with these words: "You need this more."

Game 5
Okay, he is a Texas Ranger, but Derek Holland's Harry Caray impersonation was pretty hilarious - and that's a compliment.

The master strategist? No, this CAN'T be real: Bernie Miklasz, St Louis Post Dispatch: "Game 5 came down to phone calls? Really? And how do we possibly explain this...According to LaRussa, he called the bullpen with orders to warm up Jason Motte and "Scrabble" Rzepczynski. LaRussa might as well have made a long distance call to China, because the message got garbled and didn't make it through. Somehow, in the middle of all of this, Lance Lynn began loosening up even though the entire team knew that the plan was to give Lynn one more day of rest after he threw 47 pitches in Game 3. LaRussa attributed the problem to the very loud stadium noise. 'They heard Rzepczynski and they didn't hear Motte, and when I looked up there, Motte wasn't going,' LaRussa said. '(Later) I called back and said Motte, and they heard Lynn. So I went out there, wrong guy. (Lynn) is not going to pitch today...That's why - it must be loud. I give the fans credit." Rzepczynski heated up, and Motte sat, leaving Rzepczynski to deal with Napoli. LaRussa said he called later, asking for Motte, only to have bullpen coaches Derek Lilliquist and Jeff Murphy get Lynn read instead. Again, the excuse was crowd noise...After Napoli's double, imagine LaRussa's shock when he signaled for a pitching change two baters later, only to see Lynn walking in to pitch to leadoff man Ian Kinsler...'I thought it was Motte, and they were yelling at me as I went out,' LaRussa said. 'I didn't hear them. It wasn't Motte. So I saw Lynn. I went, oh, what are you doing here?'...Lynn was told to lob four pitches to intentionally walk Kinsler. Motte was finally and belatedly summoned too take care of the #2 hitter Elvis Andrus."

Game 6
What I said about Game 2? Fehgedduboudit! I think this was one of the best games I've ever seen - up there with the Red Sox games from, what was it, 2004? Good Lord! Coming back TWICE from two runs behind with one strike to go? No way. Was this for real?

Game 7
Congratulations St. Louis Cardinals. From ten and a half back to champs. Thank you AND the Rangers for the kind of WS I wish for every year but rarely get.

Then the Doctor Threw a Can of Beer at Her

Special Midsummer issue!
Featuring diamonds, raw fish, boiled potato, chives, sour cream, a devilish mustard/dill sauce, akvavit, and plenty of singing.
PLUS: Ken Koss!
All this and more in the latest Archive issue.
Click here to see.

In Which T.S. Eliot Takes the Field

by Bob Stanley

Tom was left-handed

so they put him at first base

not realizing he was right-brained.

In the second inning

when a ground ball found his glove

surprised, he cried

Let us go then, you and I

to the ball,

and in the lamplight

(it was a night-game)

he stepped on the bag for the out.

“Four Quartets”

we realize now

is not about the Upanishads

or Catholic imagery,

it’s about

the four bases of

the diamond:

how we hit, run, slide,

score &

steal,

as if we could stop time

and always be absolved

so that even victory becomes painful

on so many levels:

in my big inning is my end.

It’s about baseball,

which the Midwest transplant sorely missed

as a bank teller in London;

he missed the feel of dirt

sweeping his glove along the ground

and the chance

to pluck the fast moving ball

with a snap of his wrist.

April was a cruel month, indeed

since the Cardinals

were looking good that year.

There's Something About a New Car...

The Editor defiles a precious thing.
The Fearless Forecaster boils over with baseball tales.
Ken Koss goes to a game in Anaheim.
PLUS: Bruce Walkup joins the BD lineup!
All this and more in the latest Archive issue.
Click here to see.

Reagan, Not in the Ballpark

by Bob Stanley

Willya look at that – the clouds have parted and we’ve got sunshine all over Comiskey Park as the grounds crew hustles – look at those guys run – to tuck away the tarp along the third base line. We’re live from the South Side of Chicago as Luis Tiant takes his final warm-ups. Tiant, fifteen and nine this year. stands with hands on hips, and looks like he’s put on a few pounds this year, but it hasn’t helped the batters any. Don’t you think he looks sharp today, Jack?

Well you bet, Ron. That slider’s biting the way he likes it, and this stiff breeze will help his change dance against lefties, too!

Thanks, Jack, well, we’re all set to go now. Sandy Alomar steps in for Cleveland, knocking dirt out of his spikes. The first delivery from Tiant is – strike on the corner – right on the black – and we’re underway.

Ron looks down at four words on the teletype: “Tiant, pitching to Alomar.” If I can do this, (he grins for a second), I can convince anybody of anything.

Monday in the Park - Elysian Park - No Drama, No Controversy, No Game

by Tom Gibson











Dodger Stadium from Angel's Point, Elysian Park













Dodger Stadium from Academy Road, Elysian Park












Dodger Stadium from Victory Memorial Grove, Elysian Park

Even Though the Glove Touched the Thigh

by Meredith Linden

She loves baseball, but that’s beside the point. She speaks in metaphors and that’s more to the point. Her metaphor of choice: baseball. She speaks of chapters in a life as innings in which one is either ahead or behind (or perhaps tied). A struggle to the end is encapsulated in the pocket of being safe at home even though the glove touched the thigh. Her most recent delve into baseball-speak revolves around her current relationship. She is a Yankees fan, and we know what that means. He, even though he sometimes roots for the Yankees, is a Mets fan. Is this the one deal breaker? Will he go to Yankee games? She, for one, knows she can only sport Yankee memorabilia at any baseball game, no matter who’s playing. And if the Mets played the Yankees, well, there’s no doubt which side she’d be sitting on. How does that line up for a relationship? Is he in for a home run, a walk, a foul?

The subject has been broached. He asked her to convert. This is, after all, her religion. A conversion would change everything. She’s decided that even if she were to give in to going to Mets games, she would tote her large Yankee soda cup (don’t leave home without it). It’s a tall order to contemplate, so it may be a while before we hear the result. What she decidedly likes most about baseball is just when you think everything that’s happening is expected, something unexpected happens. And so it goes in relationship. The conversion was never expected.

The Slog

"Once the ball leaves your hand what happens next is out of your control.
... to pitch an amazing game...[is] a feeling you'll gladly endure a season of hell to experience."


- Dick Hayhurst, "Bullpen Gospels"

It's hard for the fan to properly appreciate the feat of endurance that the achievement of "the show" represents. Although playing 150 games, not least with the travel that implies, represents quite an odyssey compared to many sports, it bears emphasizing that getting to the first game requires the running of an impressive gauntlet.

First, of course, there is the ten thousand hour rule which applies to the upper tenth of a percent of the high school talent pool. Only massive repetition allows a hitter to adjust subtle body mechanics at the right level to deal with ball movement typical of that level, and the same applies to the development of a somewhat effective slider or curve. And the difference between a .200 hitter at that level and a .250 hitter is like the difference between the four-ball juggler and the five-ball juggler - it's factors of time from one level to the next.

Then, some fraction of those players will find that magic talent/repetition combination that will attract a scout seeking to add to the ranks of roughly 4000 players participating in the MiLB system's 200+ teams. Then you are introduced to the schedule familiar to the major leaguer, but with much less comfortable travel.

"Finding a comfortable routine is especially important for a baseball player, since you are more or less doing the same thing for five straight months. And as a minor leaguer, a good portion of your routine inevitably rests atop eight big wheels. 


As I write this article I am sitting through one of our four bus rides this week. Our bus pulled out of the stadium in Lakewood, N.J. at about 10:30 p.m., and we are scheduled to arrive back in Ohio at around 6 a.m. Pulling an all-nighter on a tiny coach bus is nothing out of the ordinary in the minors."


- Frank Herrmann, blogging about his Indians farm league experiences

Jim Thome, just honored by the Hall of Fame, had an unusually speedy and enduring pattern. A thirteenth round draft pick in 1989, he debuted in the majors late in the season two years later, and spent most of his lengthy career activated since then. More typical of the minor leaguer is a spottier pattern, only hinted at by these stats up a level:


"The average career of a Major League Baseball player is 5.6 years, according to a new study by a University of Colorado at Boulder research team. The study also revealed that one in five position players will have only a single-year career, and that at every point of a player's career, the player's chance of ending his career is at least 11 percent...
Between 1902 and 1993, 5,989 position players started their careers..."


- Science Daily, July 2007

This means that there was only room in all of twentieth century MLB for about a couple of seasons' worth of MiLB players, and plenty of backwaters. Dick Hayhurst talked about how he spent weeks in a slump, unable to figure out how to achieve control, and aware that he was sliding into a trough typical of players specifically deployed to "lost cause" games, and only those games, strictly to supply a warm body to fulfill the essential rule of having a pitching roster entry for a given inning.

"Ask a chameleon why it changes colors - it adapts." - Giants closer Brian Wilson

The notoriously flat interviews after a game - "You can roll over and quit, or keep battling... just looking for a good fastball to hit" (Blake DeWitt of the Cubs after a win, in this case) - really underline the sense of the usual behind the unusual: they "sit on" a fastball as  they have hundreds of times before, hoping that this isn't the pitch that makes them look inept, and mutter as they walk away; tell themselves for the thousanth time as they leave the dugout, "just do what you always do, don't let them psych you out"; and every now and then, perhaps once every thirtieth game if they're lucky, have something go right enough that they are satisfied both that they were competent, and that they were seen by the fans and their teammates to be competent enough to warrant applause.

And even for an Albert Pujols or a Derek Jeter, the look back over the years is less a Marching Through Georgia and more a Groundhog Day.

n.b. The slog took a southerly turn for Billy Chamberlain, now a Chavez Ravine regular .

And Yes He Made the Pitchers Vomit

By Hazel Edith Gripp

(Note: Hazel Edith Gripp, once known as the Poetess Laureate of Baseball, wrote these two quatrains, circa 1960. They were discovered in her writing desk on the morning of her death. It’s not known if they belonged to her monumental Ode to Nicknames, or if they were a separate tribute. John Hilton, the great baseball historian and Hazel Gripp authority, has speculated that the poem was to be dedicated to Mickey Mantle. Research continues on the subject.)

And how could we forget the Mick
He used to make the pitchers sick.
He used to have the kind of swing
That made the baseball angels sing.

Also called the Commerce Comet
And yes, he made the pitchers vomit.
He made us jump and scream and shout
Even when he’s striking out.

"Migod We're All Gonna Fry!"

Ray Mungo explains Chrees-masu.
DCF slaps an hysterical neighbor.
Steve Yeager's hearse driving cousin.
PLUS: More LA/SF acrimony!
All this and more in the latest Archive issue.
Click here to see.

Modified Ancient Asian Poetic Form Used to Describe 2010 Post-Season Championship Run by West Coast American Baseball Franchise

By Bob Stanley

win loss win win

win loss win win loss win

win win loss win win

Waiting to be Opened by Some Insectoid Heir

BD scofflaws appear in newspaper, cause state scandal!
Opening Day 1983!
Hats off to Three Finger Brown!
PLUS: Jack Hastings' Chavez Ravine photo essay!
All this and more in the latest Archive issue.
Go Here Now!

Among the Stars (for Thom Ross)

By Bob Stanley

When I was 8 we stood in practice side by side
Fred hit flies long after it was dark
(Dad told me he had a plate in his head
from shrapnel – the war – our manager)

Straining to see those balls he hit high in the night
we never caught the Seals that year
though forty years later I still remember
waiting, in the darkness, for something hard to find.

Bible Baseball

BD Volume 2 begins!
New cover artist Michael Kellner debuts!
The Fearless Forecaster out on another limb!
PLUS: Jack Hastings' Dodger Stadium photo essay!
All this and more in the latest Archive issue.
Just click on the tab above & look for issue #1.

Insistent in the Dusk

(Photo by Rebel Shea http://www.ttnmc.com)

by Bob Stanley

It was about this time of night, when the grey
fringes toward slate and trees become only shadows.
My father was shadow too, out between home and first
he was arguing with Konnie Knudsen and the umpire,
the same one who had just called the game on account of darkness.
The Stars (our team) had scored and gone ahead in the top
of the inning. Or tied it. Anyway I remember this grey
discussion: three grown men (maybe 35?) My father Paul,
wise mentor of the noble Stars, wearers of grey and blue,
voice insistent in the dusk, convinced the game should go on,
and Konnie, bright-eyed and bold, coach of the dreaded
Salvage Shop Seals, our arch rival in red and white, Konnie,
who would the following year become my coach,
teach me the humiliation of the blue nosed gopher,
bring victory and glory within my grasp so that I could never
rest without it. He moved me to first base at age 9, where
I would stay for 6 years, until I became my own mirror image,
and moved to third. Now three and a half decades later,
I still move quietly to that spot in the line of fire, and wait
for that late inning rally which will bring me all the way back.
And now I think I know what it was my father fought for,
and now I know how it was that they could be friends,
and share in the teaching of a young man, not only then,
shouting in the fading light the rules of a game they knew
better than themselves, but in endless repetitions of field and toss,
of step and swing, of wrist and hand and eye.
Paul and Konnie drilling deep into the heart of a life,
there is a reason that we fight for one more inning,
another chance to find out what will happen, before it gets too dark.

Half a Right Leg and a Mouth Full of Sputum

Last issue of Volume 1!
Brewers/Cardinals World Series!
The Big O gets sexy!
PLUS: Tommy DiMarco's watercolor of Guera!
All this and more in the latest Archive issue.
Just click on the tab above & look for issue #17.

Untranslatable

By Bob Stanley

One October afternoon
standing on the knoll above the tetherball poles
the sixth grade guys huddled together
eager to dispel the fifth-grade rumor
that the World Series was over
and the Giants had lost.
Expecting one more miracle
obscured in transistor static
we heard it was true: final score one-zero.

The next April Grandpa Joe sent me a poem from Paris –
some American missed the crack of the bat
the dust - the tension
and the casual inattention that turns to a roar
without warning - untranslatable.

Each season would go by
and win or lose, we’d stand with the black and orange

That last season
when cancer was coming at him like an
inside pitch, he called
hoping we could go to the game
as he took me twenty years before to the
night game Mays won off Warren Spahn in sixteen:
one-zero
but by then I was asleep in his arms.

This time it was Dwight Gooden and the Mets
but I couldn’t make it –
you took the bus out there by yourself
it went extra innings again.

Can that many years go by
and still the zero be on the scoreboard?
The peaks and valleys of a single game
are easily described in a box-score
but extra innings
well, that’s just poetry.

The Day We Were Humiliated into Playing Horseshoes

Richard Rosen finds a new definition for Billy Ball!
Viola Weinberg starts Billy Martin advice column!
The Fearless Forecaster answers questions!
PLUS: Guera strikes back!
All this and more in the latest Archive issue.
Just click on the tab above & look for issue #16.

Adrift and Addled on the Mad River

By William Fuller

9:00AM Sacramento train station. If I knew how prophetic the name on our car would be, I might not have gone (which of course would have been a mistake). Of the six or seven major league teams that are currently playing the worst, Donna and I were on our way to see two of them. Next stop: The Oakland Coliseum.

11:30AM The train arrives! We make our way to the A's ticket booth and score some choice tickets (this is NOT the team across the bay). We're sitting one level up behind home plate, a little to the first base side. We decide to start this one in style, so we get a table at the Westside Club, looking straight out onto the field. Before we're seated, I need to use the restroom - more to collect my wits than anything else - caffeine and disorientation have me semi-reeling. I walk towards where I think the bathrooms are, but it's dark and somewhat confusing, especially in my condition. There's an open door; I walk through and marvel at how clean this ballpark bathroom is - probably because of the section we're in - it's so first class, they don't even have urinals - we each get our own private enclosed stall. I'm the only one in there, odd but it is an hour before game time. I do my business, and as I start to wash my hands, a woman's voice comes from the entrance: "Are you cleaning up in here?" I turn around and she's looking straight at me. I realize I dress kinda ratty, but what the hell is she talking about and what is she doing here? And then, finally, I get it - I've just spent the last few minutes in the women's bathroom. Needless to say, I make a quick, apologetic exit as the woman moves as far away from me as she can, not taking her eyes off me for a second.

12:40PM First inning and the A's are already ahead of the Orioles 2-0. This second baseman Jamile Weeks is really impressive, despite a flurry of recent errors. We've finally finished our lunch and are ready to take our seats. As we enter our section, the usher stops us and asks to see our tickets. Problem is, with the tickets we bought, we got $10@ off the bill - and now we're not sure if the waitress gave us back the tix. When we left our table, we were talking to the mother/daughter next to us and exchanging blog addresses. I can't find the tix. Donna thought she had them, but cannot find them either. The usher is adamant - there are actually some seats in the outfield today that are only $2 (it's Two Dollar Wednesday!), and he's gotta be careful no scofflaws like we appear to be get into the better seats. Finally, after several more minutes and a coupla runs scoring, Donna locates the tix. We're in our seats!

1:20PM A's first baseman Brandon Allen hits a huge fly straight into center field. O's center fielder Adam Jones misjudges it, and it soars over his head and hits the base of the 400 foot fence, bouncing back at him. Allen goes flying past first. Jones bobbles the ball as Allen turns second. Jones seems to get control, but amazingly, drops the ball again. Allen is waved home - Jones finally gets control of the ball and hurls it to the cutoff, who sends it home, but incredibly Brandon "Barry" Allen beats the ball! An inside the park home run! Never have I beheld such a sight live! Astounding!

2:30PM A sky-hi foul Oriole ball heads straight towards me - it falls one row in the empty seats in front of me. But at this point, slow witted and confused, I watch the ball come to a stop as the gentleman with a mitt to my right goes over the seats and snags it!

4:15PM Back on the train, Jack London Square: final notes. The game ended with a ninth inning out at home, the A's victorious. Exciting game, great day. Who cares if it doesn't matter one bit in the 2011 scheme of playoff hopes and world series dreams? Who cares if the bulk of the last few hours was one embarrassing moment to the next? Any day at the ballpark is a day well spent. Note to self: Will have to do this way more often.

Infield Suite

By Bob Stanley

As we file in
the symmetrical green
begins to play its little music
soft strum of gloves tasting soft dirt
swung by bodies loose and warm –

Fielding – being of the field,
at one, loose, low,
strong and centered –
the process of finding that center –
Fielding.

* * * *

Keep the ball down
comin’ in, comin’ in
two out, two on,
a jam you’re in
you know you’ve arrived
ball in hand
with a one-run lead
as you stand on the mound
you have all that you need
let fly the ball
let it cast its design

* * * *

It wasn’t recording the out at first base
it wasn’t the hand-slapping victory dance
the end of the inning, the end of the game

but the moment
two down
bases full
all at stake

when you paused and looked
into center
and back

at the game that had brought you
to stand in this spot

Evening warm
ball in glove

it’s small
it’s white
and forever
in this life
you will reach for it
in its flight.

Unwrapping Your Fourth Gus Zernial, Part II

By Richard Rosen

So what did I inherit from my nephews? I immediately wondered if something really valuable turned up, if I should come clean and share the money or ? So just to make sure I went to an on-line price guide to see what I actually had. The most expensive card: #1 Ken Griffey Jr., his rookie card worth $38, about five times the value of the next most valuable card, #25 Randy Johnson at $7.30. After this the prices drop precipitously, in the $3.50 to $4.00 range, Gary Sheffield, John Smoltz, Craig Biggio, and ironically enough, Mark McGwire and Barry Bonds, the former worth 1¢ more than the latter. In the $2.50 range, a picture of Nolan Ryan throwing a football, though from the looks of things I wouldn’t quit my day job. Finally bring up the rear in the Dollar Club, Ryne Sandberg, George Brett, Greg Maddox, Robin Yount, Mike Schmidt, Ozzie Smith, and one of my favorites, Donnie Ball Game, Don Mattingly. Most of the other cards fall between 30¢ and 50¢; the cheapest ones I found belonged to Rance Mullinicks and Paul Assenmacher at 19¢.

The other box my daughter handed me included some interesting players, and a few great ones. Here are three Hall of Famers, Nolan Ryan (who the year before was only 12-11), Eddie Murray (28 homers, .284 BA), and Bert Blyleven, who certainly didn’t have a Hall-of-Fame type year in 1988, going 10-17 with a 5.43 ERA. I also found Ken Williams and Al Leiter, both now Yankee broadcasters, and Joe Girardi, the Yankee manager, who spent 1988 in Pittsfield—that’s FIELD, not BURGH—and hit 7 homers in 357 ABs. Then there was Fred Lynn in a Detroit uniform, Jack Clark in a Padres uni (though he spent ‘88 with the Yankees), and Jim Abbott, the one-handed pitcher, the Angels’ number one pick in 1988, just coming off a gold-medal performance at the Olympics, where he went 8-1 with a 2.55 ERA. Moving from the famous to the infamous, we can start with Ozzie Canseco — that’s OZZIE not Jose — steroid-user Rafael Palmeiro, who was with the Cubs in ‘89 and hit 8 homers in 580 ABs (pass the syringe, Raffi), and Wally Backman, still a few years away from bankruptcy, DUI and being fired from the Diamondbacks for not telling the truth. Finally, believe it or not, I found Omar Vizquel's 1989 rookie card; Vizquel is now 44 years old and still active.

I’m not sure what I’ll do with that second box of cards. Guess on the one hand I could put them away for a rainy day; they must be worth in the vicinity of $50. Or maybe I could trade them, hows about Dwight Smith, Greg Briley and Rob Murphy for Gus Zernial? Nowadays he’s worth $8.

You Butchered My Story, You Heartless Assassin

BD staff stricken with grief!
Jack Hastings sets out for San Franciso, ends up in Ensenada, and finally makes it to Chavez Ravine!
The Fearless Forecaster sums up the season!
PLUS: Jagne Parks answers Guerra's attacks!
All this and more in the latest Archive issue.
Just click on the tab above & look for issue #15.

Oh, Ricky!

By Peggy Kincaid

The cutest boy I ever saw lived next door.

His little sister was my best friend, but

this isn’t about her. It’s about sneaking

into his room to get the scent

of boy and see his baseball posters

and touch his boy pajamas

when I spent the night with her.

I was only 9, but really, that’s old enough

to know how fine that sandy-haired boy looked

in his tight baseball pants. Lucille Ball

had nothing on me with her Ri-i-i-cky!

That was the cry of my insides:

Oh, Ricky, please notice me.

And when I watched him play the field,

snagging grounders, pulling down line drives,

snapping the ball to third, running over the first baseman,

I melted into my blueberry snow cone, and,

Oh, Ricky, my Bazooka bubblegum froze solid.

Unwrapping Your Fourth Gus Zernial

By Richard Rosen

When the call came in, I knew right away from the sound of the ring it was my daughter. She was spending the week in Vermont, visiting with her two male cousins. Apparently the boys were cleaning out their closets and, never big on sports themselves, they wanted to know if I wanted some old baseball cards. Silly question; while I don’t actively collect them anymore, I still have my collections from when I was a kid a looooong time ago. My prize possession among all the hundreds of cards is my 1957 Topps Mickey Mantle, valued at $650, though that would be in mint condition and mine was far from that. Of course back in the day I was collecting these now prized pieces of cardboard we didn’t realize that someday some of them would be worth a small fortune, or actually what would have been a fortune in 1957, but today is a few tanks of gas and a ticket to the promenade level behind home plate at AT&T Park, along with a sausage smothered sauerkraut and an ice-cream. Sure I’ll take ‘em.

The kid gets home and hands me two very heavy, very well made boxes, both holding “high # series” Upper Deck cards from 1989. Here are a few surprises; as Zimmerman sang, “the times they are a-changin’”. Back in the old days the cards came 5 or 10 in a package wrapped in plastic coated paper with a flat rectangle of powdered bubble gum. When you bought these cards you had no idea which ones were inside. Early in the collecting season then, each time you
opened the package there was the thrill of several new cards to add to the collection. But as the number of cards in the collection increased, your chances of finding new cards decreased, and then you understood about the agony of defeat when you unwrapped your fourth Gus Zernial. Your only hope was to unload your doubles, triples, quadruples, working a trade with your albatrosses (much like the Giants would like to do with Barry Zito) that would net you a new player. If worse came to worse you could always clothespin one of the cards to the front fork of your bicycle where it would make a clack-clack-clack sound like a motorcycle as you pedaled along.

But nowadays (or at least in 1989 and I assume still today) you buy a sturdy box of about 100 cards and you know exactly which numbers are in the box. Think about it, THE CARDS ARE IN A BOX, a corrugated cardboard one at that, surely meant to protect them. In truth, you were no longer buying baseball cards in the sense that we did as kids, to look at endlessly, to play games with (flip the cards toward a wall, the one that lands the closest wins, a card that “stands up” against the wall, officially known as a “leaner,” is an automatic winner), and (God forbid) to write on when the player gets traded to keep things up-to-date. No, once we bought baseball cards, lots of them. That’s one reason why they’re so valuable today: every kid that wasn’t headed to the ROTC in junior high to avoid PE had baseball cards, and because they were so common, no one gave them much thought, and so they were destroyed in one way or another or lost or thrown away, leading to relative scarcity and the baseball card boom of the early 2000’s. Today you’re not buying cards, you’re making an investment, the cards come in sealed “strong boxes” better not opened, you might rumple one, and just tucked away somewhere where your mother can’t find them. It’s akin to buying a US savings bond and waiting a few years for it to mature.

To Be Concluded

The Slide Part II

By Bob Stanley

Very suddenly things begin to change. The ball ricochets away to the left, angling towards another diagonal wooden backstop, and the catcher – one of these proud youngsters we would love to beat - the catcher jogs after the ball. After all, I'm only two-thirds of the way to third base. But I can read the angle of the next bounce the ball will take which will carry it a little farther down the line towards first base. I can read the mindset of the catcher, the angle that the pitcher will receive the ball at, as he comes in to cover the bag, and I know that Sully has scored, with two outs, and if I don’t score this inning - well, who knows. Remember, I still have to reach third.

But at that time-frozen moment, when all is computed, and the battle is joined, I accelerate, negotiate the inside corner of the bag and dash for home. I do it because my father, thirty years ago, must have told me it is better to play than watch, I do it because a down-on-his-luck former major leaguer told me to trust myself, to take the extra base, to force the mistake. I do it, in the end, because I think I can.

Time, which had stopped, suddenly unravels as I run, now really run, as I have not done for a long time. But also swiftly, catcher recovers, retrieves ball, flips to pitcher covering plate. As I close in, time slows down again, as if decision and awareness were a more complete definition of how we measure our lives than seconds or weeks, I'm almost there, but I can see I'm in trouble. He has taken the throw, and though his back is turned, he is pivoting his torso to face the sitting duck that races toward him.

This was where indecision proves beneficial to my cause. In a straight-on slide I'm dead to rights – instinctively I feel he’d tag me on the foot as he swings around to find me in the obvious spot. Collide? Do the Pete Rose thing? I'm 40, he’s 30. It’s 10 o’clock at night and this is a rec league, friendly, you know. Check, I rule this out. Out of options, I stumble, high speed half-step pitch forward, and trust gravity to suspend for one short time – I dive, nay, crash, into the hard dirt, glasses rolling off, 210 pounds of un-toned poet slamming into the dust, but to the first base side of the plate, away from the base at an angle he does not anticipate – I know this can be done.

Now it is just the battle of two hands reaching for something at high speed. I can see my goal. He can’t see his. Even as I skid, my right hand hesitates, then splays forth. Exactly as his glove sweeps above my arm, my open palm sprawls across the plate. Touches it. Even the umpire can see that the tag is missed. I have touched down. The startled call is SAFE, and the game, which after all is only a game, is won.

There must be moments of peace in this life, some sense of unbridled gratification. Certainly the high-fives from my jubilant teammates, the pats on the back, my fuzziness (where are my glasses?) at discovering blood on my face and blood and dust everywhere on my white uniform, certainly these are to be kept as congratulation, a sense of what has been done, But to me the moment of definition was the moment when I first saw the extent of the possible, and made the first move, the burst of whatever speed these knees could provide, and the banked turn around third, as if there were no boundaries, and all things could be, at the moment we let ourselves go.

And Then He Kicked Her

Ken Koss vomits into his pocket, attacks a pet, and pens a World Series Summary!
Jack Hastings sets out for Chavez Ravine, changes his mind, and heads for San Francisco!
Jagne Parks pouts!
PLUS: Guera not happy with BD covers!
All this and more in the latest Archive issue.
Just click on the tab above and look for issue #14.

The Slide

by Bob Stanley

(Note: Bob Stanley is Sacramento's current Poet Laureate. Among other things.)

The whole thing only took about fifteen seconds. The rib, whether or not it was broken, is less painful every day. The cut on my cheek is healed, still a little slick, a little red where the skin is filling in, but the scab is off. The season is over, we didn’t win a championship t-shirt this year, but I still remember the one play as if it just happened. I replayed it over and over in my mind, for the first few days, and it still stays with me now, nearly two weeks later. I think it will for a long time.

I first sensed we would come back and win while I sat on the bench, even though we were behind by seven runs. The team we were playing had crushed us, 20 to 1, a few weeks before, and we were behind 13 to 6 at the time. For some reason I mumbled to nobody in particular, “We have a really solid team tonight.” I wasn’t sure why, but there it was, some vague confidence bubbling to the surface.

The story really doesn’t begin until my second run-scoring double, when I stood on second base in the cool October night. Not that those two doubles weren’t an accomplishment in themselves, I just fused determination – stance, elbows, eyes, hands gripping the bat – with concentration – staying with the ball until and after contact – to drive it into the gap in right. I'm not sure if I ever worked so hard for a hit and had it come out so right. Surprised myself, I did.

So here I am on second. Sullivan’s on third, we’re down by one, one out in the bottom of the last inning. Almost like Casey at the bat: “There was Jimmy safe at second, and Flynn a huggin’ third.” Sullivan to tie, Stanley to win. Thirteen-Twelve. On the very first pitch, the batter lofts an easy fly to medium left-center. After the catch, Sully tags and scores, I tag and dance halfway towards third. When the ball scoots past and under the catcher, I quicken my pace, continuing toward third, when our story begins.

To Be Concluded

Crawling Back Into Tuesday Alone

"Doris Lessing at Chavez Ravine"!
The best second baseman in the American League IS NOT Frank White!
What kinda shoes does Rickey Henderson wear?
PLUS: The Fearless Forecaster calls Ken Koss a misogynist, then answers his quiz!
All this and more in the latest Archive issue.
Just click on the tab above and look for issue #13.

Prison Ball

by Peggy Kincaid

(From the back of her Opening Day Poets baseball card: “As a child, Peggy Kincaid was afraid of the ball, so she hung out in left field where she made up stories in her head and hummed. She still enjoys doing both. Though she may write about baseball from time to time, do not, under any circumstances, expect her to catch the ball. She will duck at the last minute, even if your face is in danger. Her poems and essays have been published or are forthcoming in Santa Clara Review, Calaveras Station, American River Review, and the Vacaville Reporter.”)

The hope that one of the umps

would tear off his mask and jump

the chain link kicked the excitement

of Little League baseball in Vacaville up a thousand.

The boys played next to the California Medical Facility,

aka prison, and trustees called the games.

The prisoners looked like regular guys, but

we kids knew those men had done bad things –

scary bad, some of them -- and they escaped

sometimes. When the noon sirens wailed

all over town and it wasn’t noon, mothers stopped

our games of street ball and kick the can, ran

us inside, locked the doors and yanked the curtains.

Sirhan Sirhan passed through our small town,

Juan Corona and Charles Manson came and stayed, so

at ball games we whispered, What if

one of the umps is one of THEM in a stolen uniform?

That thought goosed our spines good.

But Little League games are slow,

the bleachers hard and sticky,

and anxious waiting is hungry work.

So we shagged foul balls for free snow cones and prayed

for anything to happen.

The Unbearable Insanity that Devours You

Living with a Kansas City Royals fan!
The best second baseman in the American League!
Death on the diamond!
PLUS: Jagne Parks' first cover collage!
All this and more in the latest Archive issue.
Just click on the tab above and look for issue #12.

Ode to Nicknames, Part III (1972)

By Hazel Edith Gripp

(Note: Part II of Ode to Nicknames is, unfortunately, lost. Miss Gripp died in her sleep before she could complete the third part of her Ode to Nicknames, but what she did complete is presented below. Many thanks to baseball historian and Hazel Gripp authority, John Hilton)

(To the left: Dick "Dr. Strangeglove" Stuart)

Again I pick up pen to sing
Of Swift and Swish and Stretch and Sting
Of Spot and Buster, King and Slick
And Buzz and Whistle, Clink and Stick.

Squeaky, Slushy, Diamond Jim
Sparky, Shorty, Duffy, Slim
Coca-Cola, Sweet and Honey
Bee-Bee, Go-Go, Choo Choo, Sonny.

Let’s raise a glass and drink to Suds
And all those now forgotten Buds
There’s Kid and Satch and Turk and Maz
And Hoot and Kooz and Pudge and Yaz.

Woody, Wimpy, plain old Porky
Cuno, Chico, Campy, Corky
Husky, Jolly, Pepi, Twiggy
Shady, Digger, Zorro, Iggy.

It’s wonderful how they all played
Hammer, Chisel, Ramrod, Blade
Dr. Strangeglove, Mr. Scoop
Highrise, Downtown, Blue Moon, Bloop.

Guido, Haiti, and Pierre
Spider, Vulture, Cobra, Bear
Big and Fat and Long and Wee
Monbo, Moochie, Boots and Dee.

Le Grand Orange and Daddy Wags
(How did they ever get these tags?)
Dirty Al and Sudden Sam
Hot Rod, Roadblock, Whiplash, Bam.

Penguin, Mudcat, Bumblebee
Catfish, Rooster, Stork and Flea
There’s Baby Bull and Crazy Horse
Chicken, Mule and Hawk, of course.

These nicknames bring the Game to life
Iron Hands and Mack the Knife
Moonman, Phantom, Loco, Tug
Say Hey, No Neck, Monster, Jug.

Stinger, Snooker, Scooter, Skip
Killer, Chalker, Creeper, Chip
Charlie Hustle, Little Looie
Augie, Bubba, Nellie, Dewey.

From East and West, North and South
Come Fireball and Motormouth
From this great country’s farthest reaches
Come Cookie, Pork Chop, T-Bone, Peaches...