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...

A Cork, a Pennant Race, and a Dream Come True

Just what is a corked bat?
How do I handle a pennant race?
PLUS: Fernando Valenzuela plays right field!?!
All this and more in the latest Archive issue.
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Baseball in India

by Everett Evers

Editor’s Note: Way back in the third year of Baseball Diary, Everett “Ev” Evers began a series of articles regarding baseball around the world. His first report concerned baseball in Afghanistan, and he filed several more in the ensuing years. We are thrilled that he has come out of “retirement” to send us this completely new entry in the series.

The small plane landed with a hop and a thud, braked hard on the short runway, throwing the few passengers forward in their seats, then coasted for a few minutes huffing and puffing until stopping with a lurch by the tumble-down, one-story terminal. Shouts from outside as the passenger door opened, and almost immediately the cabin was transformed into a tropical sauna, the dense water-laden air smelling vaguely of gasoline and rotting vegetation. The rickety staircase was rolled up to the plane and, the last passenger out, squinting against the brilliant sun, I descended carefully to the tarmac, the heat-cracked asphalt sticky in the oppressive heat. At last I was back in India.

It had been many years since I last visited the land of Bharata, as the natives call it, there to help establish the 6-team league that had since expanded to nine or 10 teams (it wasn’t at all clear from the reports I received exactly how many teams there were. Apparently at least one team, from Benares, had continual financial worries, its players forced to go begging for their salaries). But here in Gorakshapur, baseball had captured the imagination of the locals and had, in that typical Indian way, been elevated in the fans’ minds into a kind of spiritual exercise, the games themselves into a cross between a solemn public ritual and free-for-all celebration that more than once had ended in mass rioting. Though the smallest market in the league, the Trishulas (a Sanskrit word meaning “trident”) had established themselves as the powerhouse of the All-India Base Ball Playing League (AIBBPL), the equivalent of our major leagues.

Since the league’s inception 20 years ago, the Tris have been champion 12 or 14 times, depending on how you defined a “year” and “champion.” Appropriately, as the "New York Yankees of India," the team right now had the greatest player in Indian baseball history, center fielder Ashok Narayan, called the “Mickey Mantle of India,” because of his position, his switch-hitting, his speed on the base paths, but most of all his prodigious go-for-broke power. With Shoky, as he was called, it was either a home run or strike out, singles were considered beneath his dignity and in fact he often refused to run out a clean hit, simply turning and walking back to the dugout in disgust as the outfielder flipped the ball in to the first baseman to record the out. He even wore Mantle’s number 7 on occasion, when the moon and stars were aligned in a particular manner, otherwise he wore 65, 43, or on extremely propitious days, 109.

Entering the terminal I was immediately accosted by the hordes of cab wallahs hungering for a fare. Suh, suh, came the chorus of cries, here, here, their arms waving madly, some at the periphery of the crowd trying to push their way forward to claim my attention. But I would have none of them; my ride was already arranged. Though the crowd pressed in on me from every side, I could see him standing calmly off to one side, his blue-and-white vintage Brooklyn Dodger hat (worn properly with the bill forward) contrasting sharply with the many sweat-soaked green-yellow-and-pink caps with the distinctive orange “T” of the beloved Tris. Indra smiled as I forced my way through the throng (Suh, suh, here, here), and soon we were in his old ‘58 Arjuna and on our way to the hotel. We had a lot of catching up to do as we weaved across G-pur, avoiding the buzzing swarm of recklessly piloted motor scooters, the unheeding pedestrians wandering in and out of the traffic wherever their whims might take them, the slow moving bicycle rickshaws, their drivers hollering at each other, shaking their fists in anger, and of course the ubiquitous cows, doing just what cows are meant to do except in India, not in a pasture but right smack in the middle of the street.

To Be Continued

In Transit

By Spencer Kimball


n.
1. The act of passing over, across, or through; passage.

Departure, 2 P.M.: Traffic on Highway 1 is mired in summer-seekers, no matter the direction.

Arrival: An imagined leisurely trip to the San Jose Caltrain station becomes a rush up the ramp to the track three minutes before departure.

2.
  a. Conveyance of people or goods from one place to another, especially on a local public transportation system.
  b. The system or vehicles used for such conveyance.

Departure: Do not pull handle, do not remove rubber, there is no emergency. We are now part of a contingent of several hundred fans entraining to San Francisco. A young woman has announced that she is getting married; she has a tiara over her Giants cap, and a satin sash proclaiming "Bride to Be." The conductor (-tress?) has announced that our departure is delayed by the presence of an unpaid interloper in the front car, normally reserved for bicycles, suitcases, and SRO. A sheepish young black man with a backpack departs within a minute, and so does the train.

Arrival: The throng traverses the "long block" to AT&T Park, and streams in the McCovey gate, accepting eagerly the day's giveaway of orange and black striped socks. Newcomers will accept that the crowd knows where it's going, and these newcomers will peel off at the second fan gear concession, finding a well-made, predictably expensive gray hoodie with a block-letter logo with gold highlighting to cement a three-layer hedge against the wind chill.

3. A transition or change, as to a spiritual existence at death.

"[Pitcher Stu Miller recalls,] 'By the end of the seventh, the flags were straight out, practically tearing off'... [Miller] went into the stretch for his first pitch when a fierce wind hit his shoulder... " - Jeff Faraudo, Contra Costa Times, recounting the famous "wind balk" during the 1961 All-Star game at Candlestick Park.

Departure: We have left the claustrophibic shelter of the humanity-flooded Promenade Level near the entry, and are near the iconic glove-and-bottle at the arcade, seeking food, specifically the oft-touted Crazy Crab sandwich and some beer. A fifteen-minute wait brings the reward of two carboard trays with the not-too-guilty pleasure, and we seek some nearby place to sit, eat, and drink. We get ejected from the adjacent small triangular eating area, suspiciously not full for a reason, a "private party" to arrive soon they say, and make our way to the nearby bleachers, not quite as suspiciously unfull ten minutes before the national anthem, nearly six o'clock. What happened to that four hours we reserved for home-to-seat? An usher cuts us some slack, and we cling to our trays against the wind's insistence, gobble and slurp, and manage to begin making our way to our seat just as the anthem is rendered by a saxaphone.

Arrival: We are more or less in our seats in mid-View Level, but have lost awareness of the first couple of Lincecum pitches, as well as the first out, in the combination of vendors, arrivals, and shifting of backpacks. We quickly become aware of two things: first, there probably is not a bad seat in "The Yard" as far as field view goes; and second, that if you're not near the front of your section, moving bodies and vendors will be a repeating theme.

4. Astronomy
  a. The passage of a celestial body across the observer's meridian.
  b. The passage of a smaller celestial body or its shadow across the disk of a larger celestial body.

"New York's only run came when Carlos Beltran and Daniel Murphy hit consecutuve doubles with two outs in the first... Nate Schierholtz and Aubrey Huff drove in runs in the first inning off Chris Capuano (8-8)..." - Associated Press

It's looking like it could be a rare game of offense.

           |   2   |   3   |   4   |   5   |   6   |
NYM        0       0       0       0      0
SF           0       0       0       0      0

Hmm... silly me.

I'm noticing foul balls on our side, the left field side, are very difficult to predict; they all look like they're going foul in a way, and then someone maybe out of sight catches them on the dirt. It's not as hard to get a handle on pitch location as I would have thought. It turns out I'm not moved to look through the binocs much. The vendors have become a kind of joke, and they are in on it. At one point, the churros guy is in the middle of the section near a woman who's earlier told the too-slow cocoa guy to squat down, and he points to the top-heavy cotton candy guy hovering at the foot of the section and asks the woman, "cotton candy?" - and she yells, "No! Go away!", and everyone laughs. I ask my neighbor at one point about how Huff got out while said CC vendor blocked the view, and he kindly points out the small characters to the right of the batting lineup entries on the main scoreboard, "3u", ah.

"Lincecum retired the first two batters every inning, but failed to set the Mets down in order even once... was pulled after six innings with 114 pitches." - Associated Press


"Sandoval drove in an insurance run in the seventh when he beat out a potential inning-ending double-play ball." - Los Angeles Times

The stretch is a treat, just as I remember it being in Chavez Ravine some years ago. A fan manages to name most of the parks in the fans' most beautiful top five, this one being the top nationally. The fan cam puts a Giants cap on Mets fans, one stands up and sits down repeatedly, cleverly drawing a laugh.

"Pablo Sandoval had two hits to extend his hitting streak to 20 games..." - Associated Press, 7/10/11


"Scott Hairston, who hit a go-ahead, pinch-hit homer in Friday's win, again came off the bench, but [reliever Sergio] Romo struck him out to record his first save since 2009." - Los Angeles Times

Departure: The "let's go Giants" with the associated syncopated clap continues down the ramps: Oracle Suite Level, Club Level, Promenade Level, it's like being on an overstuffed carousel, each ramp hosting a new 500 people every minute, and, at last, Field Level comes in to view, then there are the orange-lit palms, the buskers, the last-chance vendors, and the fan diaspora returning to their various lairs.

5. A surveying instrument similar to a theodolite that measures horizontal and vertical angles.

Arrival, 10:57 P.M.: Ten hours, more than forty stops, up to Patchen Pass and down again twice, up four levels and down again, down one run and up again, a hundred fifty miles, several thousand steps: ready for bed; three to one, final.

A Kick in the Eye

New Issue in the Archives!
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Viola Weinberg's first BD article, a penetrating reminiscence of her baseball childhood in Tokyo.
PLUS: A Loyal Reader, upset with BD, unleashes his vile venom in another scathing letter.
All this and more!

Ode to Nicknames: Part I (1919)

By Hazel Edith Gripp

"Hazel Edith Gripp was born and lived her entire life in Moscow, Idaho. For many years, she was known as the Poetess Laureate of Baseball. Ode to Nicknames: Part I, was written in 1919, and part 2 in 1945. Miss Gripp died, in 1972, at the age of 104, before she completed part 3. From America’s Favorite Baseball Poems, edited by Homer Winslow" - baseball historian and Hazel Gripp authority, John Hilton

I sing of Cy and Champ and Hug
Of Sport and Dude and Shag and Tug
Of Socks and Dizzy, Huck and Spike
Of Josh and Howdy, Jiggs and Ike.

And thousands more like Sassafras
Who played this game upon the grass
They gave their hearts, did Scoops and Rip
Along with Jocko, Specs and Zip.

Some were Jumbo, Chubby, Fats
Others Slim, Lanky, Slats
Some were Tiny, Pee-Wee, Runt
Masters all of slide and bunt.

Gorgeous, Cocky, Cupid, Happy
Dapper, Honest, Handsome, Scrappy
Slow and Shufflin’, Silent, Gummy
Rebel, Crazy, Brains and Dummy.

And all the crew of Noah’s boat
Rhino, Chick, Possum, Goat
Rabbit, Bugs, Hippo, Moose
Bunny, Bull, Lion, Goose.

Mutt and Bird Dog, Kangaroo
Hoss and Bronco, Eagle too
Thrush and Reindeer, Snipe and Fox
All fauna of the batter’s box.

Woody, Cactus, Cotton, Limb
Tornado Jake, Grunting Jim
Circus Solly, Shoeless Joe
Smokey, Dusty, Ee-yah, Whoa.

A Cowboy, Sheriff, Scout and Chief
A Sleuth and Judge (but not a Thief)
A Fiddler, Wizard, Giant Killer
Parson, Deacon, Schoolboy Miller.

Windy, Gabby, Noisy Fred
Blacky, Whitey, Pinky, Red
More Leftys than the stars above
But ne’er a Righty, ne’er a Love.

I sing of Hack and Rough and Bash
Speed and Hummer, Flame and Flash
Of Stump and Iron, Rocks and Brick
Of Ace and Duke and Bud and Slick.

Snooze and Dreamy, Shoddy, Rags
Buttons, Tacks, Hooks and Snags
Baldy, Curly, Frosty, Cozy
Muck and Diamond, Desperate, Rosy.

Frenchy, Irish, Swede, Ceylon
Peaceful Valley, Klondike John
Tex and Dixie, Broadway Boone
Finn and Turkey, Dutch and Moon.

There’s food enough for everyone
Pepper, Cheese, Noodles, Bun
Doughnut, Pie, Lollypop
Buffalo with Crab on top.

The Georgia Peach, Tabasco Kid
Remember now the feats they did
Remember them as King and Queenie
Greasy, Cracker, String and Beanie.

Big and Bad, Wild and Tuffy
Rube and Country, Scatter, Stuffy
Sunny, Twilight, Bad News, Lucky
Shiny, Rusty, Dolly, Ducky.

There’s War and Sarge and Bullet Jack
A Soldier, Sailor (as yet no WAC)
A Colonel, Shotgun, Cannonball
A Battleship and Admiral.

Sis and Mary, Topsy, Molly
Ginger, Penny, Flossie, Polly
Toots and Kitten, Twink and Tillie
Candy, Sugar, Dots and Sillie.

And flocks and flocks and flocks and flocks
Of Docs and Docs and Docs and Docs
But only one Mysterious
And only one poor Gloomy Gus.

A Champ and a Chump

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Jagne Parks' first submission, featuring a baseball epiphany and the sad story of Bernice Gera, professional woman umpire!

BD Superfan A Loyal Reader's first letter!

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