CHEWING THE CUD

by Meredith Linden

In the particular state I am in, I really really get something about baseball.  I mean, previously I understood why baseball players did it; it’s just that I get it so much more right now.  “It” would be the chewing…of something.  If there weren’t gum or chew, they’d probably be somewhat like beavers, chewing on their bats or gloves.  Mmmm, leather.

In my particular state, with my jaw clenching and my brain flying at the speed of light, I get why they must chew so much.  I wouldn’t mind something to chew on right now, though I think it might make things worse.  I don’t really want something to eat, as that doesn’t last.  Just chewing would be the thing to do.

In my last post, I mentioned the fact that baseball is the only sport I know of during which a player can chew something.  I would guess 80% of baseball players’ time is spent waiting, watching, waiting, standing, sitting, watching, and waiting.  And not patiently, either.  They want to play, damn it.  They want to move their team forward to victory.  However, I would guess most baseball players must be of a patient sort, at least on the field, to stand that kind of delayed gratification.  Yes, I know.  I have heard the stories of the errant baseball player and his loss of patience, but how often does that happen during a game because they are tired of waiting for their turn at bat or the ball to come to them?  I don’t really know since I don’t watch it.

At any rate, right about now, I started remembering the chewing gum that came out in the 1970s.  Not the baseball card chewing sticks, though I bought those, too.  It was the bag of Big League Chew!  Wormy little pink pieces of gum you could use to emulate your favorite baseball player who may or may not get mouth cancer.  Lovely.  It came complete with a comic-style baseball player on the bag, all to remind you of the inspiration behind it.  Later came the roll of gum in a plastic box with a caricatured baseball player on the lid. 

 

Perhaps that is when baseball players began chewing gum more than chew.  Some sources say chew is banned, but when I see a player spit, I immediately think he is chewing tobacco. Also, the stuck out lower lip is a bit of a giveaway.  I heard one story that a player was probably saved from jail because he was chewing.  Apparently, he had a bad night on the field and nearly ripped someone’s head off.  I guess gum and chew can serve to alleviate tension.  Probably why I want some now.

I have no idea how this came into my consciousness except for the fact that my increased involvement with Baseball Diary has also increased my awareness of all things baseball.  Since being here, I have proclaimed baseball as boring, watched a bit of baseball, and thought about baseball much more than I have in easily 40 years.  While I am no more interested in watching all the playoff games, I am more interested in my friends’ team preferences and why as well as who might go to the Series.  And I have vowed to watch a game of baseball (preferably in total) before the season is over.  Meanwhile, I’d better get something else to do or some gum to keep me busy while I watch.

BD DRINKS AND GOES HOME

by the Editor

It was with resignation, frustration, and sighs that I bid farewell to the Dodgers Tuesday night.  How appropriate that their arch-nemesis lit the fire on their funeral pyre.  I gotta give it up to the Giants: minus their ace closer and star hitter, they still ran away with the division.  Well played, lads, well played.  Credit where it’s due and all that.  Dodgers, we'll see you next year with the new ownership, deep pockets and high hopes.
 
My chagrin was made more palatable by a last minute gift from BD scribe S Soriano: the piece of vinyl shown here!  Yes, though an admitted Dodger hater, I guess he took pity on one of their fans and gifted me this amazing artifact just a few days ago.  Oh, to hear the incomparable Vin Scully explain “What is a Dodger” ("No city looks good at 4:00 in the morning/A Dodger rates respect/A Dodger is a way of life"), to dance to the groovy sounds of Stubby Kaye, shortstop Maury Wills, and outfielder Willie Davis singing "Dodger Stadium" ("There is a place you gotta dig/I mean Dodger Stadium!"), to hear show biz legend Jimmy Durante on "Dandy Sandy [Koufax]" ("They can't hit what they can't see/To them a pop up is a moral victory/Dandy Sandy!"), yes, these and more are soothing balm to this haggard, tired soul.  

And of course also easing the pain were the Oakland A’s.  I couldn't have put it better than this from The Guardian US:

“What can you say - we gush over the Oakland A's. They play in a dump, in front of no one, for an owner the locals detest, one who is trying to move them away, they have no money, a tiny payroll, and they win. They win big. It's awesome…Not surprisingly, Bob Melvin's team never gave up, certainly not when they were 13 games out of first place on June 30…Yes, there is a flare for the dramatic in Oakland for sure, winning the division on the final day of the season, a day they usually clear out their lockers. The young pitchers are bold and fearless, as are their hitters, so much so that they struck out 1387 times, the most in baseball. They are dangerous, even more so now that they're heading straight to an ALDS…”

Onward to the post season!

HOW DID IT COME TO THIS?

by Meredith Linden

My wife and I took a trip up to lovely Redding this weekend.  No, it wasn’t to escape the heat.  In fact, when it was planned, we had hoped the heat would have dissipated.  Of course, this weekend was hotter than last. Damned September in the valley. Our purpose was to steal our 6-year-old granddaughter (hers biologically, mine by marriage) away and stay in a gifted hotel room doing fun things like playing games, going swimming, and the like.

Little did I know how much Baseball Diary has affected me.  As many of you may remember, I am not a baseball person.  So I’m pretty sure you have asked yourself, or the computer, “Why the hell is she writing blogs about baseball at all?”  I may have reached a consensus among my selves regarding that type of questioning.

While in Redding, we ate out for every meal because, although our room was good, it did not have a kitchen.  For dinner the first night, we had a gift of a meal at the 3 Shastas Bar and Grill, a sports bar.  A long booth stretched along the side wall of the restaurant underneath some black and white photos of the building of Shasta Dam.  Of course, the historian in me thought that was way cool.  I sat across the teensy table from my wife and granddaughter in a high-level bar chair.  As I scanned the photos, I noticed they didn’t have captions and they didn’t seem to be in any particular order.  Hmmm.  I would have to sort them out for myself.

Then I scanned upward and right above my wife’s head was the Giants and Padres on a 36” flatscreen.  Another hmmm went through my mind.  A flatscreen to the right of me showed college football.  The one to the left, all within peripheral vision, was again the Giants and Padres.  Our TV was on mute so I found myself reading the commentary, full of vocabulary I didn’t know, words put together into strange contortions called sentences.  For some odd reason, I started following the game and wondered how the commentators knew Vogelsong threw a fastball.  My wife wondered when I was going to converse with her, then gave up and watched football.

In the morning, we went to our complimentary breakfast. There must have been some sort of convention going on as I noticed teens walking around in baseball uniforms.  There were no TV's so I was not as distracted as before and we finished our meal as a family.

Lunch was from Guadalajara, but this time it was the Tigers versus the Twins.  The TV's were too far from us to get either a good look at the game or to hear it.  But I began marveling at my desire to know what was going on.  My desire to write, my willingness to try something new, and my need to prove myself wrong have gotten the better of me, I decided.  Watching the university players practice in their strangely attractive uniforms last week hinted at it, but I pushed it aside. Things were surfacing a little more forcefully now.

I unsuspectingly walked into Outback for dinner Saturday.  I was playing I-Spy with our granddaughter when my wife mentioned UT was playing.  Heads-up, my Alma Mater was on, and I wondered if it was the OU game.  Yeah, I used to be a sports nut, going to all the home games in college.  I even made it to one OU game in Dallas with all my buds.  Road trip!  But on this particular road trip, I was glued to another game as my head swiveled to the other TV playing the Giants/Padres game.

So I speculated.  Hmmm, I know the World Series is coming up soon because it’s the end of September.  So they must be in the playoffs now.  And some text from the game the night before rolled across my brain: the Giants have to beat Washington and the Reds if they want to be number 1 seed.  Right now, they’re going for number 3 seed.  You may be laughing at me on how little I know, but I know what playoffs are and I know what seeding and wildcards are.

Again, our table was too far away to hear any commentary on either game but that was ok.  I had made peace with my new found desire to contemplate why baseballers chewed tobacco or gum so much.  It was because they could.  You can’t really do that in any other sport.  Really bad news in football, basketball would be a messy sport with chew or gum, and soccer?  One hit on the head with that ball…

Our final morning at breakfast I was thinking about other things.  Baseball had again left my immediate existence, or so I thought.  Then I heard someone say, “He was standing right behind the catcher when it happened.”  About six men in identical hats started laughing.  I looked over.  Oh yes, their hats outed them as part of the Contra Costa Umpires Association.  I did have to wonder what Redding held for all these baseball people, but for me - well I’d have to say I was visited by Uncle Charlie.

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.