PRISON BASEBALL

by Meredith Linden

I am a bit of a history buff, and while at first I was intimidated by my Android phone, I now use it regularly when I’m out and about. Sometimes it’s when I’m on my own traveling some unknown hiking trail, but mostly it’s when someone in the car asks a question no one can answer.  I’ll pull up the site and read the history of the topic to everyone.  My job also often requires a search for historical documents or pictures of a sort, so I’ve gotten pretty good at finding obscure information.

The other night, my wife and I went to a restaurant situated on an older portion of Folsom Blvd. The history of the restaurant was outlined on the back of the menu.  After reading it, I really looked around.  In the gigantic dining room with original 1913 high-beamed ceiling, two historical photos, yes only two, were on the wall opposite us.  The first was a photo of the building in the early 1900s.  The second was an outdoor scene with a wide-open space and people surrounding it.  For some reason, it reminded me of baseball even though there wasn’t a clear diamond. I tried reading the caption and thought I got the first two words: “Warden Reilly.”  Since I wasn’t sure and since the word “warden” seemed to be there, I had to get up and read it for real.  I also have a fascination for all things criminal and prisony.  “Warden Reilly opens 1911 baseball season.”  Aha, it was baseball.

Once I got up and saw the nuances of the photo, I could have stared at it for days looking at all the minutiae.  In the foreground were a couple of guys in stripes; yes, prison stripes.  There was a bench and a bunch of bats laid out under a tossed prison uniform.  Two more guys stood in the middle of the open area, and a long line of what I figure were spectators were standing on the edge of what must have been the playing field.  I needed to know more.

On my way home, I was limited in my Android searches.  That night and the next day I went to it on my computer.  I could not find that particular picture, which actually surprised me. EVERYTHING is on the internet now!  I did find Warden Reilly who served from 1908 to 1912 and resigned following charges of incompetency.  Of course those were the charges: Reilly let his prisoners play baseball!!  Yes, it is a little nutty.  I understand prisoners playing basketball. Really, how much damage can they do with a round rubber ball?  Besides, as a former teacher, it reminds me of taking 25 6-year-olds out onto a giant yard and either letting them scatter for free play or try to listen to me explain the rules of a game to them.  When playing a game with the whole class, usually kickball (a little like baseball), there were always a few shenanigans, non-players, or escapees only to be found hiding out in the bathroom.

So what makes wardens think prisoners should even be allowed to do that sort of thing?  No doubt there were escape attempts during some of those games.  Incompetency?  Well, maybe not that strong.  Apparently, his incompetency was running Folsom prison “in the manner of a middle age dungeon, of allowing the prisoners to be treated cruelly and failing to put a stop to drunkenness among the guards” (San Francisco call., May 18, 1912, p. 13).  Guess he was only after the hefty salary of $5K.

 

As an administratively organized sport, prison baseball began in 1904 by Warden Charles Aull, instigating 4^th of July Field Days complete with baseball games.  Prison baseball was played with organized teams on the weekends and holidays.  In 1913, Folsom prison started having amateur games, and teams from around California would go to the prison to play.  Even the guards were proudly involved in the baseball season, talking smack about the San Quentin nine.  San Quentin prisoners didn’t start playing baseball until 1920 or so and call themselves the Giants. The namesake wasn’t just to honor the Giants but to thank them for giving the prisoners their uniforms.  In 1994, outsiders began going to San Quentin twice a week to play the prison team. Ok, that sounds a teensy bit unsafe, you think?  Although San Quentin has death row, it is not near the level of security as Folsom.

They even had their share of scandals.  In 1928, in Black Sox manner and with four prominent teams ready to play, some gambling inmates became mobsters by fixing certain players and selling the winnings to losing bettors at crazy prices.  They got caught, of course, and it turned out all four teams had crooked players, even the Chapel team.  Of course, the San Quentin staff was all over it, as if nothing like that had ever happened there.

I don’t know if baseball still continues at Folsom as I was unable to find any current info.  The only recent bits on Folsom prison you get these days is lockdown info.  My guess is with the regularity and length of the lockdowns at Folsom, not much baseball is getting played.  I just don’t know if I would trust those maximum offenders with a baseball, much less a bat!  My son wholeheartedly agreed.

AS MUCH OF A RED ASS AS ANY

by Scott Soriano

My life has been very poor when it comes to celebrity sightings.  Oh, I’ve met some famous writers and a few rock stars (including, of course, Ozzie’s William Fuller), but these meetings usually happen way before fame has struck.  There are two and a half exceptions and they are ball players.

The half famous ball player is West Sacramentan Steve Sax.  I write “half-famous” because Sax is known for three things: His right wing politics, an appearance on The Simpsons, and “Steve Sax Syndrome,” which is the inability to make a routine throw from the second base position to first.  He also was a Dodger.  I walked by Sax, when he visited my high school for some pep talk.  Sax was chosen when the communications teacher was unable to obtain his (and the male student body’s) first choice, alum Barbi Benton.

Without a doubt the most famous person I’ve ever met, and probably ever will meet, was Joe DiMaggio.  I was seven years old when that happened, so at the time, I didn’t know the magnitude of the moment; but my dad did.  The family was on a visit to the San Francisco zoo, when my dad stopped, silent and shocked like he’d just saw a tiger bite the head off of a zookeeper.   It wasn’t a feline felony that stalled my dad, it was the sight of Joe DiMaggio sitting on a park bench, eating an ice cream cone.  My dad, who only seems to get excited about things involving bread and cheese, was trembling: the greatest Yankee of all time was sitting 50 feet away.

Calming himself, my dad walked what probably seemed like a hundred miles, and stammered to DiMaggio, “Sir, would you take a photo with my sons?”  Approaching DiMaggio for anything was akin to poking a tiger, but my dad probably figured that the Yankee Clipper wouldn’t swing at him if he was asking for his boys.  DiMaggio grunted “Yes” to my dad and we were hurried up on the park bench and told to sit still and smile.  We did as we were told and somewhere in a box is a photo of me, my brother, and Joe DiMaggio with an annoyed smile on his face and an ice cream cone in his hand.

The other famous ball player that I met became my favorite ball player of all time.  Like Sax, this guy was a local boy.  Unlike Sax, he was a great player, one of the best at his positions, and as much of a red ass as any player has ever been.  My favorite player?  The Philadelphia Phillies’ Larry Bowa.  I actually met Bowa twice, both times as a pre-teen at BBQ’s thrown by his sister, who lived down the street from us.  The other day, I mentioned to my dad that I remember him not liking Bowa because he was a Phillie.  “Oh, no,” my dad replied, “I didn’t care about the National League.”  He also told me he liked Bowa because he was a red ass, a hot head, and played like he had something to prove.   (Considering that my dad was a high school point guard and stood about 5’4”, that makes sense).  I remember Bowa as a nice guy who gave us signed baseballs and photos.

I also remember a bit of his playing days, when he set a record for single season fielding average (.991) and topped the stats in double plays made, and assists.  He still owns the NL career record for fielding average (.980).  He hit over .300 one year, rare for a shortstop, and batted .375 in the 1980 World Series, which the Phillies won. He also sang on one of the funkiest baseball songs ever sung by baseball players, “Phillies Fever” (http://youtu.be/M8dxdTII358).  Not bad for a guy who couldn’t make his high school team, had only one pro team interested in him after college, and signed for a $2000 bonus!   

SLIDING INTO HOME

by Meredith Linden

My teen kids are with their dad, which means no more consecutive run-downs for me between them.  As a half-time parent, sending my kids to the bus stop on Monday morning would typically send me sliding into home.  It represents the last of the dust and conflict of the game, this week.  But lately, I’ve struggled to find home base, an enigmatic semblance of getting a pitch in the wheelhouse.  The contact is good, the flow is, well, flowing, and it all comes together to give me the energy to move on.  Sliding into home is the beginning of filling the well for me.  Yes, I love my kids, and no, they are not the only batters hitting me in.  Sometimes it’s a hike, a stint in the studio, a series of enlightening, comical, or otherwise engaging emails with a friend, or dancing a jig in the kitchen to the Fratelli's while my lunch cooks.

I have two rather taxing activities in my life: parenting and self-employment.  My work is somewhat seasonal and right now I am unseasonably busy.  Work busy is always good when there are ups and downs in the income.  I’ve also taken on a new position that has some perks, like using the pool at the university, but requires quite a bit of time, I’m finding out.  And the money really doesn’t match the time.  Yes, I’ve re-entered education, so of course that would be the case.  The money never pans out; it’s a labor of love.  So a week without kid pick-up, homework checks, or worrying about food until 7:00 or 8:00pm would seem to put me into the category of hitting some home runs with my work load.  What I wouldn’t do to have a four-bagger today so I could just get home.

I feel stuck on third base. Home is in view and close, but there’s more dirt, some guy in the way, and another hitter who’s got to push me on.  It would be nice to have a team on which to rely sometimes, as sitting here alone trying to finish my work so I can get home just isn’t cutting it. I’ve always gone for the individual sports and I guess that’s carried me through to where I am now.  I wanted to play softball as a kid, but it was in conflict with music.  I’ve had to figure out ways to trudge on my own.

Amazingly, sometimes being alone does work in my favor, even when I need a little help.  Yes I’m on third, looking at home plate, scanning the field and seeing who’s up to bat.  That’s it.  I’ve got to make it happen for me.  I can’t keep waiting until the work is done or until someone else hits me in.  I’ll never get there.  I’ve got to advocate for myself.  The ball is hit high, right over my head, but the outfielder is too far to the left, at least that’s what I’m hoping.  I don’t wait for the fly catch (if there is one).  I’m off.  It’s been nice knowing you and I’ll be back, but for now I’m stealing home.  It’s the only way to get it.

THE CLUB YOU LOVE TO HATE

by Scott Soriano

Nearly as important as finding your favorite team is choosing the club you love to hate. Rooting for a team to get the crap kicked out of them is as American as baseball, apple pie, corruption, crappy TV, and a decaying infrastructure.  My act of patriotism was to make the Los Angeles Dodgers my One True Hate.

With all due respect to the esteemed editor of this here blog, hating the LA Dodgers is pretty much a duty of every Northern Californian. Whether you root for the Oakland A’s or the San Francisco Giants, you must root against the Dodgers.  If you live in Northern California and your favorite team is the Royals or the Rangers, you still must root against the Dodgers.  The land north of the San Joaquin speaks to  you to root against the Dodgers.  Put your ear to the ground and listen to the earth.  It will say to you, “Screw Tommy Lasorda, that ice cream-eating bastard!”

So what about the California/Anaheim/Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim?  They are from “down there,” why not hate them?  Well, until the invention of that insidious Rally Monkey (what are we, five year olds?), there was no reason to hate the Angels.  Sure they were from SoCal, but for most of their existence they were the other SoCal team, the Clippers to the Dodgers’ Lakers.  Hating the Angels, at least when I was a kid, was pretty much an act of bullying.  That isn’t to say losing teams are not worth hating.  The Chicago Cubs certainly deserve scorn - largely because their fans glory in their Loveable Losers status.  The Boston Red Sox have had many years of suckatude, but Sox hatred is pretty much granted by any American League fan who doesn’t claim Boston.  The Yankees have had a few losing stretches and stomping on them is never a crime.  But all these are iconic clubs.  Hating the Astros, the Royals, any Florida team, or the Mets (ha! The Mets!) is an act of cowardice.  So that’s why no scorn for the Angels (until the f-ing monkeys come out).

But I had a deeper reason for hating the Dodgers, one that was very personal.  You see, when I was in grade school one of my best friends was a guy named Scott De***ch.  He lived down the street.  He had a cute older sister who was obsessed with Peter Frampton and a cool older brother with Led Zeppelin records.  He also had another friend, a guy named Kenny C***sen.  Kenny was tall, played baseball and was an arrogant prick.  When Kenny and Scott hung out, I was on the outs.  Thus, I hated Kenny C***sen.  And because Kenny’s dad pitched for the Dodgers (or so he said), I had extra reason to hate the Dodgers. 

Doing research on Dodgers teams of the Seventies, I find no mention of Kenny’s dad.  I do know that he played for the Dodgers organization, so he could have never made it to the Bigs.  I also remember that he blew out his arm and that he was a red-ass of a little league coach, who leaned really hard on his son – which might explain why Kenny was such a prick.  So Kenny is off the hook, but the Dodgers are not.

Why continue the Dodger hatred?  Well, there is the aforementioned blood oath of blue bashing one must take if he/she is to consider him/her a True Northern Californian.  But there’s also the 1981 Dodgers and the Big Blue Wrecking Crew.  That the Dodgers won the World Series that year is no big deal.  It was against the Yankees.  If any other team represented the National League, I would have rooted for them against the Yankees.  No, the reason the Dodgers must always be hated is this: http://youtu.be/RsObqS_v1-M   To turn away from such a crime without comment would be inhumane.

MY BASEBALL WEEK, DAY 7: THE BASEBALLISHNESS OF A SLURVY SLURVE

By the Editor

(huge tip o’ the hat to ML and James Joyce for inspiring this final MBW column)

ferryrun, past Philiipe’s and Little Joe’s, up to where la la la el lay la Sorda is these days seen sorta slumped down in his Googie nest, south not north!  From ravine to bend of bay, ravaged fans play chin music with each other’s mugs, okay so long as it’s not my frank, and amber and green stein.  One finger, two fingers, a deuce Kafka’ed into a dying quail into an out.  Hoping this fence buster posin’ and preenin’, becomes a Most Vile (Alstonian) Punch and Judy peanut butter and jelly belter, more Mendoza Line MVP&J than MVP. 

A worm burner ignites a pink and red rhubarb; the brouhaha features lip licking and dirt kicking and premature ejection, field now funked with slick expectoration, bases now drunk with besotted expectation.  I pine for a Golden Sombrero, a quadruped goose-egg, and I smell the pungence as the cheese flies home.  I also hear the cold clear oomph caused by a cutter’s whiff, and the clarity of exaltation at the next can of corn.  Climactic clarity?  Good God, is this how My Baseball Week ends?  Not with Angellian prose or Angelesian glory, but ever repeating cluttered crystals of foggy fog fog prisming reflection and insight that never quite focus?  My mind is a glass arm flailing for grok satori a priori apprehension, or at least a decent pitch.

Cast me as a circuit clout salami, hit hard on an out of the parker odyssean return to the fount of origin, a Baltimore chop that no bazooka can stop.  Or maybe get me thrown by a Picasso on that solid sweet spiral consensual arc only to become a whackadoodle thwackadoodle ball/bat kiss of exalted flight!  I weep at the cove and long for a more satisfying baseballian journey, a much longer river ride, an epic different kind of

MY BASEBALL WEEK DAY 6: A WALK ON THE WILD (CARD) SIDE: LIVE AT AT&T, DODGERS VS GIANTS

Post Game San Francisco from the ferry after Dodger Shut Out

by the Editor

Holly came from Miami, F L A

Hitch-hiked her way across the U.S.A.

Plucked her eyebrows on the way

Shaved her legs and then he was a she

She says, "Hey babe, take a walk on the wild side"

He said, "Hey honey, take a walk on the wild side"

Lou Reed

We came from Vallejo by ferry across the bay. It was late afternoon, a gorgeous day. The ship's insides were bleeding with black and orange but I tried not to let it bother me too much. The Dodgers had come on strong in the beginning of the season, buoyed by an ownership change, but seemed to be fading, so now they were trying to get back the glamor, spend some big money on some plastic surgery and make a move for the spotlight again. But it probably just wasn't gonna happen this fast.

The Giants were in good shape this weekend, four games above the Dodgers, so Los Angeles basically HAD to win the series. After their Saturday win, it looked like that might happen, especially with Clayton Kershaw scheduled to pitch, but a few hours before game time Kershaw was scratched because of hip problems, and Blanton was added. Blanton's struggles this season continued and Barry Zito looked like he did a few years ago (i.e., tremendous) and the Dodgers were shut out. It's cruel and brutal being a Dodger fan at a Giants game, what with most of the fans gloating and preening like Andy Warhol superstars; towards the end one of the “gamer babes”, as the Giant announcers call them, ripped a Dodger fan's hat off his head and began rubbing it on her butt, rendering him crushed, beaten, and emasculated. I was “incognito”, but my happiness at the few Dodger hits and amazing Flyin' Hawaiian catches probably gave me away, and I swear the guy behind me “accidentally” brushed my head with his dirty Giants rally rag on purpose more than once.

The Dodgers' main post season chance at this point seems to be the wild card. I've been pretty much against this one-game wild card playoff change, but I will say this: on the plus side of it, more so than before, NO ONE wants to be a wild card team because in a one game playoff anything can happen and it's no surprise for the “inferior” team to win. So every contender wants to be sure to win their division more so than before to stay away from that unpredictable wild card, and this seems like a good thing to me. I'm not sure if that's enough to keep the new system, it probably isn't, but it is one positive aspect to this new wild card business.

Here's the thing about this Dodger season though: it may sound like sour grapes, and I'm still rooting for a Dodger “comeback”, but even if they don't go post season this year, 2012 will be a victory for them. Because after a decade or more of one of the worst ownership debacles in baseball history, the Guggenheim Group seems to actually have a handle on Dodger history and wants to once again field a team that represents the glory of “The Bums” tradition. This ownership has some deep pockets, and no, you probably can't “buy” a winning team so close to the end of a season, but no matter what, it has been a pleasure to see them out from under the McCourt travesty. 

But yeah, it was a mostly agonizing few hours, what with 40,000 rabid Giant fans unable to shut up. But that's the way it goes, and any time at the ball park, even under these adverse conditions, is a great time. And I gotta give it up to SF: AT&T is probably the best stadium I've been in – no, not steeped in the traditions of the east coast parks, but good lord, that view, of the game AND the bay, is simply heaven. And ya know what? The ushers have little signs that stop you from going back to your seat until the batter has completed his at-bat! Wouldn't want to disturb the extremely sophisticated absorption of the Giants dilettantes! Ah, what the heck. I WILL be back.

MY BASEBALL WEEK DAY 5: MOVIES

Damon Runyon's Prologue to Pride of the Yankees

by the Editor

(Pictures also by the Editor; reflection on each picture is of our stained glass lighthouse window)

I was a movie fan way before I was a baseball fan. And by movie fan I mean movie fanatic; I made movies when I was a kid (my first film was a stop-motion action epic about cowboys and dinosaurs; yes I was ahead of my time), continued making them in high school, and even did one or two in college. A couple of college courses really turned me around and I began educating myself regarding world cinema. And this was going on in the Seventies, so if you know anything about cinema, you know that there were incredible films coming out on a regular basis. About a year ago, I decided that it was time to catch up on the “important” films I'd missed, you know, the Sight and Sound Top 50, that sort of thing. So in the last 10 months or so I've been watching La Dolce Vita, Stalker, The Rules of the Game, and many more – and my movie love has just been growing.

Very first shot of the film immediately after the Prologue

Among sports movies, the only ones I really liked were baseball movies, and this was before I became a baseball fan. Bang the Drum Slowly (Robert De Niro), Fear Strikes Out (Anthony Perkins), Bull Durham, Field of Dreams, Eight Men Out, The Sandlot, the list goes on. (I think the only non-baseball sports film I've ever enjoyed was Hoosiers?!) But one baseball movie I've never seen and always wanted to, because of its huge reputation, was Pride of the Yankees. I'm not sure why I never saw it, probably something to do with my well known distaste for that particular team and even greater distaste for what I thought would be unbearable corn. But this is my year to catch up, so I decided to finally see it today. 

“Maybe I ain't cut out to be an engineer.”

The prologue sets things up quite nicely. I was drawn in by Damon Runyon's simple words. I figured this was going to be a simple story about a “simple” man, and it starts out right on cue. This film was released in 1942, the first full year of America in WWII. It's also about a year after Gary Cooper starred in Sargeant York. Hollywood was happy to give us the heroes it thought we needed, and patriotism was high. Though the powers that be didn't manage to sneak in God Bless America, Irving Berlin was nonetheless well-represented by this film's theme song, “Always”. Though it should be noted that the song played over the opening credits is – what else? - Take Me Out to the Ball Game!

Lou opens a can of Whup Ass on some fraternity scum

“He's nutty enough to play with the Brooklyn Dodgers!”

This said regarding the “peculiar” Lou Gehrig. (I'll take that as a compliment.)

“Athletes do everything well.”

Ellie (Teresa Wright), very suggestively, to Lou on one of their first meetings.

I gotta say I was completely drawn in to the first hour or so of this movie. Solid build-up, terrific acting, Walter Brennan truly fantastic as Lou's newspaperman buddy, some interesting staging and lighting, like when Lou proposes to Ellie, and that amazing dance number by Veloz and Yolanda! Not to mention Babe Ruth appearing as himself, and not just a brief cameo but in several scenes, usually with his mouth full of food or preening about in a new hat. But the corn kicks in pretty heavy at the “Billy in the hospital” scene, and doesn't really let up. Okay, okay, maybe I teared up just a little at the end, but even in 1942 they could've pulled back just a little, don't you think?

Veloz and Yolanda do their thing in a nightclub Lou and Ellie visit

Anyway, Pride of the Yankees wasn't half bad and it reminded me of my love for baseball films. When the season's over, and the cold days stop the swing of the bat, there's some incredible movies to bide the time until April (or February if you're of that mind.) Be sure to check out the ones I mentioned above, and if you have any other recommendations, send a comment.

I'll be loving you always.
With a love that's true, always.

When the things you've planned
Need a helping hand,
I will understand, always... always.
Days may not be fair always.
That's when I'll be there, always.
Not for just an hour.
Not for just a day.
Not for just a year,
But always.

VIDA WHO? VIDA BLUE!

 

by Scott Soriano

As a kid who grew up in a city without a Major League ball team, there were only a few things to consider when picking a favorite team. A Sacramentan had the following to mull over when making this life changing decision:

1. Localism I: Does one go for one of the two Bay Area teams, the Oakland A’s or the San Francisco Giants.
2. Localism II: Does one follow the team of a Sacramento player – Larry Bowa’s Phillies, Dusty Baker’s Braves, for instance.
3. Your Parent’s Favorite Team: Sacramento has always been a town of people who came from some other place. In my parent’s case, the place was Upstate New York. My mom could give a rat’s ass about sports, but my dad was a die-hard Yankees fan.
4. Whomever the Sacramento Solons were affiliated with: Our minor league team, at the time of my youth, housed in the cozy confines of Hughes Stadium (insane to think that Pink Floyd or Roger Waters’ hijacked version of them played there) and affiliated with the Milwaukee Brewers.
5. The Outfits: Not just the uniforms but the overall look.

For me the decision came down to one thing, with a few others to back it up. My dad’s favorite team was the New York Yankees and pray to the devil if it was gonna be mine. Not only would I not root for my dad’s team but my crap-assed disposition dictated that I find a team that would crush his on a regular basis. That, localism and one other key thing pointed to the Oakland Athletics being my team. The key thing? The Oakland A’s not only had the fanciest uniforms (gold tops and white shoes!) but my A’s wore moustaches! Oh, and the elephant mascot on the uni, can’t forget that!

One other thing about them A’s are the names: Sal Bando, Joe Rudi, Campy Campaneris, Catfish Hunter, Rollie Fingers, and, especially, Vida Blue. Vida Blue was my favorite. Blue had style. Blue threw hard. According to Pete Rose, Blue’s fast ball was the toughest he ever faced. Bill James puts Blue as the second hardest thrower of his era, behind Nolan Ryan. In 1971, his first full year, Blue won 24 games and both the Cy Young and AL MVP.  The Indians’ Chris Chambliss won the Rookie of the Year but it should have went to Blue. A six time All Star, Blue should be in the Hall of Fame. Some say numbers keep him out, but that is BS. What has kept him out is Blue’s dive into drug addiction at the end of his career and the HOF’s idiotic morality play (I mean, if Ty Cobb stays in, everyone should be considered). Perhaps advanced stats will put Blue where he belongs.

If Vida Blue never gets into the Baseball Hall of Fame, he certainly deserves a plaque in the Baseball Music Hall of Fame. Vida Blue was such a sensation that he inspired two of the funkiest baseball songs ever. Both titled Vida Blue, Jimmy Bee’s insanely rare single is a James Brown-style funk classic (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jHw8zikOub8). In 1971, Tri City Records released a split single with Albert Jones’ funky blues groove (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vs_8KRZZd2Y), the flip being a Country Western tribute to Blue. 

Vida who? Vida Blue! That’s right! 

DAY 4: STORM OVER THE MINOR LEAGUES – IN SEARCH OF THE ARKANSAS TRAVELERS

Little Rock B&B sun room, before the blackout.

by the Editor

Last April we journeyed, for the first time ever, from California to Arkansas, for a family wedding. The blessed event was in northern Arkansas, but we had to fly in to Little Rock and then road trip the rest of the way. It turned out that a storm was following us as we drove up north, but we always seemed to stay a few miles ahead of it. In any case, I found out that Little Rock had a double A team called the Arkansas Travelers, that was affiliated with the Angels. So I figured it would be great to take in a game. If you haven't, ya gotta go to minor league games. My first experience with them was the Stockton Ports, a High A affiliate of Oakland. It was a while ago, in their previous ball park, but it was a hoot going there. While I don't necessarily like all the constant falderol in between half innings, it's great to be in a small park with enthusiastic fans and hungry ball players. The Arkansas Travelers were founded in 1901 and, according to the team site, are named after a guy who had a minstrel show that roamed the Ozark Mountains. Why the Little Rock team still retains this name is a mystery for a northern man like me, but I guess it speaks to southern ways.

Unfortunately, the team was out of town while we were in Little Rock. On our last night in the city, we went out to dinner, but on the way back, it started raining pretty hard and seemed a lot darker than most cities we have been in before, and sure enough, the storm had finally caught up with us and we ended up in a four hour blackout. We were staying in a great old two story house that was converted to a bed and breakfast (recommendation available upon request). When we got back, the owners told us that a large part of Little Rock, including where we were, had no electricity and would not for awhile. So they gave us some flashlights and we retired to a completely windowed “sun room” on the second story. For the next couple of hours we drank wine and enjoyed one of the most breathtaking displays of lightning and thunder you can imagine. We began to think we saw the Travelers up in the night sky, playing a game, batting and pitching with such power as to make the heavens shake. The rain became more ferocious and the night more fragmented; perhaps this was typical of the kind of storms that regularly ravage Arkansas, but to us it was magic – huge blasts of light zig zagging across each other followed by ear splitting, roaring, grumbling thunder. I never felt fearful, but I can't say the same for my companions. In any case, right around the time we decided to go to bed, the lights came back on, the rain continued, and we fell into a serene slumber.

A few weeks ago, I went to an Oakland triple A affiliate game with the Sacramento River Cats. Now if you know Sacramento, you know that August is usually unbearably hot and very dry; rain is a distant memory and something to look forward to down the road. But on this particular evening, towards the end of the game, clouds began to form and the weather man's possibility of thunder storms became a reality. The River Cats were behind at the time, but not by much. As the rain started, a lot of the crowd got up to find a dryer spot to watch; I guess they hadn't bothered to check the weather before they came, and why should they, there is not usually much difference one day to the next in August. We, on the other hand, had come prepared, so we stayed in our seats. The rain wasn't hard enough to stop the game, but shortly after it started, the thunder and lightning began, another night sky show that was amazing to behold, especially with the game continuing on the field. As I watched the jagged light ripping through the stars, something was happening on the field – the River Cats started catching up! With one inning to go, a monumental light show exploded above us, and as the thunder followed it up, I swore I could see a couple of Arkansas Travelers looking down on our beloved Cats. Whether or not this actually occurred, Sacramento made its rally complete and took the game in the final inning. The night sky calmed down shortly thereafter.

And you know what happened next? Well, it was fireworks night. But I gotta say that the show we saw during the game trumped the one after it.

TO BE CONTINUED: THE PRIDE OF THE YANKEES

MY BASEBALL WEEK DAY 3: LIVE AT THE COLISEUM: ANGELS VS A's

The wharf, the dwarf, the decay on the Train to Athletics

By the Editor

(pictures by Donna Copeland Fuller)

Way out west on Oakland's wharf

You can smell the rotting dwarf

We dress the part with synthetics

We're on our way to Athletics

Passing ships in strange decay

Left for dead along the bay

We adjust our prosthetics

On the train to Athletics

Where they don't know nothing

No they don't know nothing

Because there ain't nothing

That they can know

Hear the sound of someone's song

Donna's face is looking long

Sings of baseball and aesthetics

We're on our way to Athletics

Train is filled with trails of smoke

Pennant dream is filled with hope

Will wailing song be prophetic?

On the train to Athletics

There's little that can usually shatter the sublime pleasure of a day at the ball park, but this twist of fate did, at least for awhile. I think it was very well put by Sacramento Bee writer Marcos Breton in today's Sports section: “I've been going to baseball games for 40 years and they've almost always been joyful experiences. But that changed Wednesday with the crack of a bat and the sickening sound of a baseball striking a human head.” I've seen pitchers get hit and batters get hit and guys colliding in the field, but never anything so dramatic as this. When A's starter Brandon McCarthy went down in the top of the fourth inning, it felt like all the oxygen in the Coliseum was sucked down with him in a horrible, startled communal gasp. With great pleasure we watched him sit up, probably too early for his own good, and eventually walk off the field with a little help from the trainer. Word is he's doing okay. Get well soon McCarthy!

Pre-Game Ricky Henderson

So you may or may not know that when three outs occur and the first baseman goes back to the dugout, someone from the dugout always throws him a baseball on his way there. Check it out if you don't believe me. But why? From straightdope.com: “As you know, one of the first baseman's principal responsibilities is throwing a ball around the horn to warm up the infielders when the team takes the field each inning. Naturally that means the first baseman has to scare up a ball somewhere to start with. In the early days of the game, many first basemen were evidently so dense they could barely find the bathroom much less a baseball. Hence the practice of handing them a ball as they entered the dugout, lest they delay the game looking for one later. Today, of course, most first basemen have advanced educational training that renders such precautions unnecessary - but the tradition lives on. Such reverence for the past is what has made baseball great.” 

Spontaneous variation on The Bernie

Towards the beginning of this season, I noticed on TV that sporadic fans at A's games would seemingly be seized with a spontaneous urge to stand up and start dancing in a bizarre, stiff, almost zombie-like manner. I considered this one of the greatest things to hit baseball in years, but since I don't usually listen to the sound when a game is broadcast, I had no idea what was going on. A few weeks ago, Oakland had a special “Weekend at Bernie's” promotion and I finally figured it out: it was the Bernie dance! WTF? Who thought this up and why was it happening? It seems there's a rap song “Moving Like Bernie” released in 2010 that Brandon Inge started using as his walk-up song this year. And it sent a dance fever shock wave through the team and fans, so people are doing it all over the stadium! I fully endorse this spasmodic show of affection, and must confess that a few weeks ago at the A's Triple A affiliate River Cats game, before I even know what was up, I did the dance myself. And will probably do it again.

Oh, and the A's were humiliated by the Angels 7-1.

TO BE CONTINUED: SONGS IN A MINOR LEAGUE

MY BASEBALL WEEK, DAY 2: THE SEVENTH INNING STRETCH

by the Editor

As RR has already, in his own inimitable way, put it so well: along with crying, there is no God in baseball.  So does God really want to be recognized at every baseball game?  Does Irving Berlin's "God Bless America" really need to still be heard during the 7^th inning stretch?  Does American exceptionalism really have to be emphasized at most major league games?  I get why Padres media-wrangler John Dever came up with the idea after 9/11 and I get why Bush and the Yankees and Bud Selig ran with it, but isn’t it time to get back to Take Me Out to the Ball Game, and ONLY Take Me Out?  After the Star Spangled Banner, do we really need another dose of enforced patriotism, heavily injected with Christianity, later in the game?  (And remember: it is not appropriate to pray for anything in baseball, oh, maybe that no one gets hurt, but NEVER for your team or favorite player to come out on top.)  And if you HAVE to consider another song, I'm STRONGLY in the "This Land is Your Land" camp, ya know, Woody Guthrie's REPUDIATION of God Bless America!  I think that the music at a baseball game is important, and this present travesty should be put to rest.

I must have started piano lessons when I was around eight or nine.  I liked it okay and practiced fairly regularly for several years.  My teacher was Mrs. Cruikshank.  We entered thru her garage, very quietly, and took our seat if there was another student before us.  The lessons were on an upright, but she also had a baby grand.  She was a great lady, encouraging and not too stern.  I embarked on a pretty unremarkable musical path, the classics, some of my favorites being Gounod's Funeral March of a Marionette (the Alfred Hitchcock TV Show theme) and some difficult Beethoven (Prelude in C# Minor perhaps?) that I could hardly really play.  Mrs. Cruikshank suffered from some kind of disability, as she would slowly shuffle, as opposed to walk, from spot to spot.  But she could really play that classical piano.  The worst thing about the whole experience was recitals.  I'm still terrified to play the piano solo.  I can play a keyboard with other players fine, and I can sing a capella in front of people too, but alone on the piano?  Terrifying. 

My second stint with piano lessons came about 20 years later in Los Angeles, right around when I was visiting Dodger Stadium on a regular basis.  I wasn't doing anything musical at the time; my first son had just been born and you know how that goes.  But something was gnawing a hole in me, and I felt like I had to have some kind of musical outlet, so I convinced my wife that for our collective sanity, I take piano lessons.  I can't remember my teacher's name, but he looked like Stephen Hawking, without the apparatus attachments.  He was mobile but seemed to have some sort of leg disability.  He talked about "pedagogy" a lot, stuff I didn't really understand.  Under his tutelage, I embarked on pieces by Bach and Schumann.  I actually introduced him to Philip Glass; I bought the sheet music to "Introduction" from GLASSWORKS.  It seemed to befuddle him at first, but then he "got" it and guided me along so that I can still play it pretty decently today.  I never had to appear at a recital with him.  After a year or so, I stopped the lessons, but because of time issues and not because I wasn't enjoying them.

Which brings us to a couple of months ago and finally meeting a "new" neighbor who's been in the hood here for a year or so.  Yes, she's a piano teacher, so I figured, what the heck, the time's right to brush up on my skills.  Her mobility seems to be just fine, and we had an initial "conference", and I think this might work out.  She has a student "recital" every spring, and I kinda begged her to let me stay out of it, and she seemed okay with that.  I start my first lesson today and I decided that in addition to Schumann, Keith Jarrett, Bach, and "Abide With Me" (see, I'm not totally anti-religious), Take Me Out to the Ball Game might be a good addition to my repertoire.  It doesn't seem too difficult; maybe I can learn it well enough to actually perform it solo!  In any case, someone has to continue the Take Me Out tradition: this is the song, BY ITSELF, that BELONGS in the 7th inning stretch.   

TO BE CONTINUED TOMORROW: ALL ABOARD! NEXT STOP OAKLAND!

MY BASEBALL WEEK: IN SEARCH OF THE NATIONAL PASTIME'S SOUL - DAY 1: TELEVISION

The Editor takes a dive in Little Rock looking for the Arkansas Travelers

by The Editor

(photo by Donna Copeland Fuller)

What has driven my sometimes cruel and savage love for baseball? I didn't grow up with it. There were zero sports watched or discussed by my family in my childhood, except for the occasional heavyweight prize fight. As I've noted several times before, my passion for the game was born by being forced to listen to Richard Rosen blabber on and on about it when we worked together recording textbooks in the late '70s. His encyclopedic knowledge was fascinating. And then I moved to Los Angeles a few miles from Dodger Stadium and the deal was sealed. For a half dozen years I went to 25 or so games per season. And then in the early 80's I started a weekly “fanzine” called Baseball Diary. And last year I revived BD online! What is wrong with me?

This week I will seek to find out just why this game is so fascinating, and what brings me back to it year after year. Because it just doesn't make sense to me right now. I've never really liked “sports”, and still don't follow any other.  And yet here I am, glued to the standings every day like any other knucklehead. What gives?

Maybe it's television. Like a couple other BD writers have mentioned this season, I watch every game I can. I haven't yet taken the MLB “watch every major league game when they're on” plunge. But I've come close. Where I live, I can almost always watch at least two games every day for free: the Giants and the A's. I basically detest the Giants, so I love to see them lose, and I love the A's, so these days regarding Oakland I'm in hog heaven. In addition to these two games, about 60% of the time there will be a third free game on. On a day like today, Labor Day 2012, there are FOUR free games scheduled, including my favorite team, the Dodgers. Maybe if I observe my viewing habits, I will get some clue as to why baseball means so much.

The first and only game on this morning starts at 10AM, Yankees vs Tampa Bay. A little after 10:00, I turn on the television, WITH THE SOUND DOWN.  As usual, I will not listen to the play by play, instead opting for music. I listen to music almost constantly. I love music more than baseball, as a matter of fact I actually WALKED OUT of the 1981 World Series at Dodger Stadium in the middle of the game because my band had a recording date (and not a “paying gig” kind of date, just a “record a demo” kind of date). I've been chastised by my family ever since, but that's another story. (I'm sure I'll face further abuse by admitting this here.)  As the games progress today, I will watch some of each game, but I will also be doing other things. The TV stays on so as I pass by, I can see the score and/or anything that may need more careful viewing.

10:00 AM

From Bob Marshall's 1981 DIARY OF A YANKEE HATER:

There are five attributes that Yankee haters all over the country would agree on:

1. They win too much. America loves and roots for the underdog. The Yankees have not only won more pennants and World Series than any other team, their lead in this department is obscene: the Yankees have 22 World Series Championships in their collection; the runner up St Louis Cardinals have 8.

The bad news is, the Yankees are once again on top of their division. The good news is, they're only two games above the Orioles and three and a half games above The (Devil) Rays, who they're playing this morning. As Miles Davis, Graham Coxon and Patti Smith play in the background, I look forward to seeing Tampa Bay make up a game with these overpaid, smug, self-righteous whiners.

11:00 AM (Keith Jarrett, John Cale, Trio M)

(Note: Time is a vague, amorphous concept when I watch games. I often use the "pause" option, so games can last for hours. They usually don't, but they can. This game was paused often, as there is much activity here in the house today, furniture being assembled, exotic Asian dishes being cooked, complex technological mysteries being explored.)

2. The Yankees win by buying the best players and paying them too much. This started in 1920, when Colonel Ruppert bought Babe Ruth from the Red Sox and has accelerated in the present free agent era.

What a pleasure seeing Swisher's frist two at bats turn into two outs. Even Yankee lover/apologist RR dislikes this guy, and no, Swisher didn't point to the ground when he made his two outs. Rays pitcher Shields starts out strong, and the Tampa batters go after Sabathia right away, but as of the 5^th inning it's tied 3-3.

Noon (Left Lane Cruiser, Vivaldi, Roxy Music)

3. The Yankees get more attention than they deserve. They're in New York, which is not only the biggest city in the country, but is the advertising and media capital of the world. If you want to have a candy bar named after you, someone once said, you have to play in New York.

Bottom of the 7^th, still tied. Hopefully the Rays can get a few more hits and actually turn them into runs.

1:00 PM (Moe Tucker, Marcin Wasilewski, Philip Schroeder

4. The Yankees are arrogant, egotistical and loudmouthed. Yankee players seem more interested in their personal statistics and commercial endorsements than in the welfare of the team.

Shields still in the top of the 8^th. Walks Jeter. And then, oh joy! Swisher hits into a double play! Time to give a little listen to the game. And it's Lou Piniella! I did not know he was doing announcing! Okay, I gotta confess: yes Lou was a Yankee, but I love the guy.  Says Lou, “Tampa Bay throws less breaking balls than other other staff in baseball. I don't have numbers to substantiate that, but I watch a lot of baseball.” Nuff said, Lou! And then Cano is thrown out on a great play by TB's third baseman, Johnson. Still tied.

1:20 PM (Blur, Actress, Stan Getz)

5. Their right fielder is Reggie Jackson [Editor's Note: substitute and number of current Yankees today.] Reggie is such an immature, attention seeking prima donna that it is possible to hate Reggie and not be a Yankee-hater. But for all those who are in the opposition party to begin with, Reggie is the icing on the cake.

Tampa Bay beats the Yanks! Woo-hoo! This is the start of a great baseball day!

Up Next:

Two games featuring the Giants and A's.

Facts about this season:

The A's have swept a four game series with the $197 million Yankees.

The A's have swept two three game series with the $173 million Red Sox.

The A's have swept a three game series with the $95 million Dodgers.

The A's payroll this season is $55 million.

2:00 PM

The family has joined the baseball viewing and the music is off. We are now in a kind of baseball viewing heaven. Since there are two games on, whenever there is a commercial on one, you can switch to the other: constant baseball with very few interruptions. So it's back and forth now between the Giants/Diamondbacks and the A's/Angels. Neither score is making me particularly happy at this point, but we're only in the third inning of each game.

3:00 PM

The scores are getting much better. What a joy seeing the Diamondbacks come back and take the lead! And the A's look like they may do the same.

4:30 PM

Oh good lord!  The A's lost and the Giants have tied it in the ninth!

I'm too upset to continue. Dodgers versus the Pods in about a half hour.  More tomorrow.

Next: The Seventh Inning Stretch

IN CONSIDERATION OF THE BASEBALL CALENDAR

by Richard Rosen

As every baseball fan knows, there’s not one but actually two calendars that map and track the days of each year.  Of course there’s your slightly off-kilter Gregorian calendar.  Why the old year doesn’t end and the New Year begin at the winter solstice as it properly should, when the Sun "stands still" (sol, sun + stit, to stand) in the sky to signal a significant change in the environmental light, which everywhere and for all times represents a similar change or rebirth in consciousness, our "inner light", is beyond me.  Then the seasons with their solstices and equinoxes would logically begin on the first days of a month, spring on April 1, summer on July 1, and fall on October 1. 

Well, I’m not here to reform this calendar; it’s been tried many times before with zero success. What I am here to talk about is the second calendar, the calendar that organizes the Baseball Year (BY), and which for simplicity we’ll call the Baseball Calendar.  Unlike the Gregorian New Year, which depressingly begins in the dead of winter (except out here in the Bay Area, where there is no winter, where in fact there are no seasons, every day the high is between 62 and 71, the low never dipping below 55), the BY New Year begins with Spring Training, usually sometime around the end of February when the pitchers and catchers report to Florida or Arizona.  And unlike the Gregorian New Year which, once the juvenile antics of New Year’s Eve have died out, everything reverts to exactly the way it was in the old year, the baseball New Year is all about new beginnings.  Sure, we know deep down in the magnus baseballis centrum, hard-wired into the chassis of our brains, the big money teams will likely end up near the top (unless one of them is really really stupid and hires Bob Valentine as their manager), and the Kansas City’s and Houston’s of the world will end up deep in a hole looking up.  But somehow the true baseball fan manages to ignore what he knows is the truth and, watching his patched together team of rejects and has-beens and untried rookies tear up the Grapefruit League, heroically wills himself to believe that such success will carry over to the season.  Which it even might for a month, so that his team in first place after 30 games becomes the "big story" and the subject of much intense professional analysis, until the first 7 game losing streak, then the 3-20 stretch that sends them plummeting like boulder dropped from an airplane to their accustomed place in the pecking order, dead last.  But still.  As they say: hope SPRINGS eternal in the human breast.

Summer arrives in July at the All-Star break.  Of course nowadays the game itself is a joke; it became so as soon as the vote was turned over to the "fans."  Allowing "fans" to vote for the participants in the game is like allowing kindergartners to vote for the best nuclear physicists;  the kids know about as much about the scientists’ work as the average "fan" knows about baseball.  If this isn’t bad enough, the travesty is multiplied many times by letting the "fans" stuff the ballot boxes.  But worst of all is the rule that mandates every team must have a representative.  Look, it’s not that complicated.   The beat writers, the guys that follow the teams and watch them play every single day, or even maybe a non-partisan panel of ex-players, maybe headed by all the living Hall-of-Famers (except Bill Mazeroski, there’s NO forgiveness for 1960), they vote and chose the 25 best guys from each league, period. 

Anyway, Fall arrives in September, which is why I’m writing this now right on the cusp of the new season.  Actually I might get some arguments here, after all the World Series in October is the FALL Classic.  But no, for old-line baseball fans, Fall is marked by the famous lengthening shadow at Yankee Stadium, when in the late afternoon, the pitcher stood on the mound in bright sunlight and the hitter at the plate in the dark shadow, slowly creeping across the infield, of the venerable stadium’s stands.  I can still see Whitey winding up and - well, yes, the old stadium is long gone, and I’m not even sure if they built the new one with its own shadow, but nevertheless, for me, Fall begins in September, when the Bombers of the 50s and early 60s relentlessly wore down the opposition, which wilted under that intense pressure like so many lilies left out in the sun without water. 

Winter then starts, BOOM, the minute the World Series, that shameful shell of its former glorious self, ends.  There’s a scene in The Producers when Kenneth Mars, playing an exiled Nazi in New York City, spits out the name "Churchill" with such venom that the audience for a moment is taken aback, until he follows with the punch line: Now Hitler, there was a painter ... one afternoon, TWO coats.  But that’s how I feel about the wild card.  Just as there’s no crying in baseball, so should there be no wild card.  Two leagues, no divisions, one team from each league, the winners of the most games play each other, best of 7, simple.  THAT’S the World Series.  Ah well, times change and with them we, however reluctantly.  And so here’s wishing you a Happy Fall.