Notes #433 — The Silly Season

                             NOTES FROM THE SHADOWS OF COOPERSTOWN
                                           Observations from Outside the Lines
                                     By Two Finger Carney (carneya6@adelphia.net)
 

#433                                                                                                               JANUARY 30, 2008
                                            THE SILLY SEASON
 

            This issue’s opener was penned by Hugh Keogh, of the Chicago Tribune, almost exactly 97 years ago.
 

BASEBALL IN JANUARY
 

Trot out your creepy scandals,
Your disquieting reports,
Your mucking accusations,
And your peppery retorts;
Stir up your sleepy magnates
And set them by the ears,
Take a sortie into fandom
And provoke its hopes and fears.
 

Take a little  bit of gossip,
Multiply it sevenfold ‑
The bugs wax apathetic,
Their attention you  must hold.
Haven’t anything to give them?
Well, then, give them what you’ve got.
They won’t question what is in it
If you serve it good and hot.
 

Any little fleeting fancy
Will be good enough to try;
It doesn’t have to flourish
Till the ink on it is dry.
Any little thing in baseball,
Be it genuine or queer,
Serves the January purpose,
For the silly season’s here.
 

            This poem came to my attention when I asked Joanne Hulbert if she had a bit of verse that might be suitable for reading at a SABR meeting on a cold January morning. Joanne has thousands of baseball poems in her growing collection, so this was like asking A-Rod if he could spare a dime.
 

            The poem addresses the quandary in which the baseball writer may find himself when on what I call the Dark Side of the Calendar, the abyss between the last outs of the Series and the first cracks of the bat in the spring.
 

            This January ends on a sad note here in the shadows of Cooperstown, the announcement that the Hall of Fame game this year will be the last. Another tradition gone.
 

            The HOF Game was an oasis of pure fun in the middle of the serious business of The Summer Game. It was a place where people could see what used to happen a lot, all over America — the best players, on display in a countryside village, rubbing elbows with the fans who may never or only rarely get to a big league game. It was like watching a blacksmith do his thing.
 

            Baseball magnates, never the shrewdest at marketing the game, once feared radio, because maybe folks would stay home and listen for free, instead of coming to the park. When they realized radio could draw people, and provide a new source of revenue, they got over that fear. Same with TV. Same with letting fans wear Yankee caps. Barnstorming was something the magnates did not control, however, not at the beginning. So ballplayers could finish the season, and keep playing, touring all over the country. For Smalltown, USA, barnstorming was a treat, their chance to see in person the guys that they knew mostly from box scores and printed accounts, along with the occasional photo.
 

            The HOF Game was simply an old-fashioned exhibition game. It had become, for the two teams selected each year, a burden. At best it was a chance to visit the Hall of Fame, but the cost was the loss of a precious day off, with travel to boot. No matter how much fun was to be had at the Hall, or playing a relaxed game at Doubleday’s miniature field, it was a nuisance. In-season exhibition games were never popular with players, as far as I know, unless they shared in the extra income. They were as welcome as those days when your boss asks you to come in on the weekend to finish a project.
 

            I attended a couple HOF Games, and I’ll include here later on my description of one of them. I understand why these games will no longer go on, but it still feels like baseball is cutting off not a branch, but a root.
 

 

THREE MORE YEARS  
 

            I’ve never met Bud Selig, but we exchanged letters, and he owes me one, because I wrote last. That in itself means little or nothing, most people with whom I’ve corresponded owe me a letter, because I have that annoying habit of almost always responding to mail. I don’t think it’s that I have to have the last word, I just want to keep — most times — the conversation going.
 

            So why was I so dismayed at the news that the current group of magnates rewarded Bud Selig with three more years of Commissionership?  Let me explore an answer to that here.
 

            First, let me say that I know that my disappointment with Selig is not universal. I know some fans think MLB has flourished in Bud’s term, and because of Bud. Giving credit where it is due is important to me, so I will concede that his reign has not been without its accomplishments. Most importantly for Bud, he has pleased the magnates, the owners who hired him, which means that they are satisfied with his performance, which means that they are probably all better off today than when Bud took over.
 

            It is easy for me to be cynical about the magnates, having spent a lot of time in recent years with the gang from 1919 and the years following, watching them elect Judge Landis. It would be easy to say that there’s a Catch-22 at work here: If the owners want the candidate, he should not be elected; if they do not want him, he’s probably done or said something to worry them, and that means he’d be a Commish that just might put baseball’s interests above theirs.
 

            My bias about Selig was definitely formed when he was a Temp, right after the magnates forced Fay Vincent out. Vincent was Giamatti’s man, and everyone loved St Bart, even though his handling of the Pete Rose case was, I think, bungled. We don’t know if Giamatti would have avoided the Strike of 1994, declaring “not on my watch” and forcing the owners and players to either settle or call a truce, so the season could have continued and the World Series played. Perhaps I am too influenced by Lords of the Realm, the book in which John Helyer underlines pivotal Selig’s role in the ouster of Fay Vincent. It didn’t help Bud that he was named Vincent’s successor, if he really was the key owner in turning the tide against his predecessor.
 

            Vincent was no Giamatti, image-wise, but his confrontations with the magnates had raised the hope that he really would be a Commish who took the best interests of baseball seriously. When he resigned, my reaction was “Say it ain’t so, Fay!” — because he was leaving the henhouse to the foxes. What followed was the Strike of 1994-95, which I often call Selig’s Strike, because it happened on his watch, and he had the power to avert it. Or at least he was supposed to. For anyone paying attention, Bud was in a puppet’s role, with Jerry Reinsdorf and George Steinbrenner pulling the strings harder than the rest of the magnates. They forced the players to strike, then engaged in months of effort aimed at breaking the player’s union.
 

            A federal judge ended the impasse, not a Commissioner acting in baseball’s best interests. Was this a day as dark as “the Black Sox scandal”?  Was the offense more heinous?  More costly to the Game, financially?  More damaging to its image?  Yes, to all four questions. Selig’s record as Commish, even though he was a Temp, and a puppet, began with a blemish that, in my view, was entered on his record in permanent magic-marker-thick ink.
 

            Fast forward a few years, as players bulk up and home runs start to fly out of ballparks as never before. Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa lead the parade, as it draws fans back to baseball, fans that turned it off during Selig’s Strike. Of course the magnates knew that the extra muscle on display was not only the result of serious workouts and extra cans of spinach. But they did not care to investigate further, the bulk and the homers were a good thing, a fan-magnet, and look at attendance!  Never mind that the players might be on a track that could shorten their careers, or their lives. Look at those turnstiles click!  This, too, was on Selig’s watch.
 

            What oozes to the surface in the steroid discussion, to me, is the hypocrisy. If Selig and company stood in the limelight when McGwire was a SuperHero, how dare they abandon him when the facts come to light?  What many players did was not out-of-bounds as far as baseball was concerned, baseball took ‘way too long to come up with and implement ground rules for steroids.
 

            As a fan, my expectations for any Commish have always been low. That goes back to when F*rd Fr*ck meddled with things in 1961, trying to salvage his pal Babe Ruth’s record of 60 from the expansion-season slugging of Roger Maris. To be honest, until Bart Giamatti came along, it was quite easy to be a baseball fan and not pay any attention at all to the Commish. When they got our attention, it was never a good thing: skirmishes with maverick owners like Veeck or Charlie Finley; insisting that night games in Canada in October was a great idea; and their most dastardly deeds — like giving control over the airing of the World Series to television — went unnoticed.
 

            I guess it was Bud Selig’s misfortune that he became Commish just as I was starting to pay closer attention to baseball than ever before (Notes started up in March 1993). I became a kind of chronicler of baseball, continuing to do that all through the Strike. Those were definitely the darkest days for Notes.
 

            So when the news of three more years for Bud reached the shadows of Cooperstown, I flashed back to 1972, where Republicans chanted four more years as Nixon swept to a second term. That seemed to be an awful turn of events, and when Watergate came along and forced Nixon out, that only helped a little. Looking back, I can give Nixon credit for his accomplishments, too. But he became an embarrassment for Americans. And when so many agreed, he had to resign.
 

            I wonder what the results would be if baseball fans were polled on Bud Selig?  My view is that he is an embarrassment — I cannot see his face without 1994 coming to mind, then his praise of McGwire and Sosa, then his woeful hand-wringing before two Congressional committees. And I’m not thrilled with the way he’s handled the Mitchell Report, either. Investigate, yes. Learn from our mistakes, of course. But release nearly 90 names of players as if they were all equally guilty of horrible offenses, that baseball knew nothing about?  Not when reputations today are so hard to restore.
 

            There is one other thing about Selig’s reign that bothers me, and I might as well add it to this list. I do not see much progress toward solving the problem of the Haves and Have-Nots. Bud gave that problem more attention when the Milwaukee Brewers were floundering, I think. (Would a Commish with roots in Pittsburgh make this a priority issue?)  I hasten to add that I would not expect Selig to solve this problem himself, but I just don’t see him trying to bring it to the magnates’ attention. Yet it probably affects the game more than random drug testing. I know this is not really a case of the rich getting richer while the poorest teams starve — they don’t, there plenty of money to go around. But is there more competitive balance today than there was before Bud?  Don’t ask me, I’m a Pirate fan!
 

            Three more years. Unless he says or does something that gets himself fired. It could happen, but it’s not likely.
 

            Maybe Bud Selig is a strong Commish, and deserves full credit for everything that’s happened in MLB during his term. Or maybe he’s really a puppet, or better, a reflection of the will of his employers, the magnates. To borrow Pogo’s phrase — either way, it’s a mighty soberin’ thought.
 

            In the end, I don’t know Bud Selig, and do not want to judge him. I’m just a fan, who calls ’em as I sees ’em. But I do wish baseball had a better ambassador. Image is certainly not everything, but it’s something, especially if your man is going to appear more or less regularly on C-Span, defending baseball.
 

            In the end, I want to forgive Bud Selig for the Strike of 1994-95, but as long as I sense that he is still adversarial, and not interested in working as partners with the players, I can’t. (Not full partners, but appropriate partners — the Mitchell Report was the latest opportunity blown.)  If I do forgive, I will not forget, and that’s a problem, too.
 

            In the end, I must believe baseball could have done better. If it’s really all about image, then why Bud?  He is not that articulate. I’d pick on his haircut, but mine is no better. If it’s not about image, then why Bud?  Surely there are better minds out there, who can be a worthier foe for the media, for Don Fehr, and for dealing with those magnates. Oh, there’s the rub. The magnates are comfy with Bud. Three more years. Easy for them to say — do they even watch C-Span?
 

            Three more years. That used to be what fans said, bemoaning dynasties. Or figuring out how to build a winning team from one that finished last. And that was OK. But as a caption under a photo of Bud Selig, not OK. I hope I’m wrong, but something in me says he’ll always be the Acting Commish. But they’ve all been actors, in a sense. That’s the way the magnates designed it.
 

            I attended my first HOF Game in 1980, watching Willie Stargell and Manny Sanguillen and the World Champion Pirates play ball. It took a while to get back for another. From the NOTES Archive: #143, August 10, 1996:
 

 

A DAY IN THE BLEACHERS  
 

            In The Fireside Book of Baseball, is an excerpt from Arnold Hano’s 1955 book A Day in the Bleachers. It is Hano’s story of Willie Mays’ catch in game one of the 1954 World Series. Fireside editor Charles Einstein calls Hano’s book “rich” — “it defies easy classification” — and if the rest of the book is as good as the Fireside excerpt, put it on your Must Read list.
 

            I spent a day in the bleachers myself recently. Saw some good catches, but nothing as spectacular as Willie’s. The bleachers belonged to Doubleday Field, Cooperstown’s field. It was the Monday after Hall of Fame weekend, and the Montreal Expos were taking on the California Angels in the annual exhibition.
 

            I was in a foursome that arrived early, in time for the Home Run Derby, and stayed till the bleachers were empty again. I gave Play of the Day honors at a Blue Sox game to a sunset last month. This time, it went to a tiny cloud that gave us a few minutes of respite from the upper-eighties sun bleaching us, and to the faint summer breeze that made the day bearable.
 

            The HR Derby became boring after a while, but we had to watch, in self-defense. Doubleday’s outfield is shallow all around, and we were sitting ducks in right-center, five rows back, for the little white missiles peppering all around. The white rain that started with the Derby (25-30 drops), continued in the game that followed — ten more dingers. That broke a record set in 1979 — see, the 1996 ball is juiced! Then there were the dozens of balls lobbed into the stands by the players and coaches. Players smuggled balls out just to throw at/to us.
 

            Doubleday’s stands are intimate, you can yell from right-center to friends behind third base. When one fellow nearby did just that, informing his buddy that “I got two balls,” he drew some great punchlines in reply. Later, when he got a third ball, more comedy ensued. The crowd was in a good mood, despite the heat. We were kept supplied with cool drinks by Cooperstown High students, raising funds for a school trip, and I bet they made so much at this game that they can go anywhere they want.
 

            The game was of the old-fashioned brisk variety, well-executed in under two hours. Remember reading how teams used to speed things up, to catch trains that wouldn’t wait?  Well, there was a lot of first- and second-pitch swinging, and the fans appreciated the pace. It ended in a 6-6 tie.
 

            Nothing at stake in this game, it was just — a game. As my friend Joe observed, it was also a day away from the office, out with the crowd, under blue skies, enjoying baseball. We saw some big-leaguers, some prospects, one manager headed for October and another (it turned out) in his last days. Saw a bullpen catcher/ coach step in for his first at bat in three years, and slug a long HR on an 0-2 pitch. Made his day. Helped make ours.
 

 

SPEAKING OF SILLY SEASONS  
 

            The dice are rolling again here in the shadows. After a break of at least several years, I’ve resumed my third APBA All-Timers competition. I’m not going to report here in Notes on every game, or every week. But in the past, my APBA simulations often suggest topics that end up here. So, we’ll see.
 

            I picked up mid-season, with the games of July 1. I play a series at a time, and first up, the Reds were at Wrigley for three with the Cubs. The Reds took the opener, 3-2, Ewell Blackwell dueling Three Finger Brown (no relation). All the scoring was early. Ryne Sandberg’s HR was one of just three Cub hits.
            The Cubs evened the series and ended the Reds’ four-game win streak the next day, 7-1. Ryno (again), Hack Wilson & Ernie Banks all went deep and draftee Steve Rogers held the Reds in check.
 

            Then the Cubs took the finale, 6-2. Banks (again) and Josh Gibson (the Cubs had first pick in the Negro League draft, held in the mythical spring) homered to give Lon Warneke the win. The Cubs are climbing (now 38-36) and hot, but their 4th of July doubleheader with the Giants has been called on account of rain.
 

 

MEANWHILE, BACK ON THE TRAIL  
 

            While anxiously awaiting the opportunity to see some actual material from the 1921 “Black Sox trial,” I visited my library and picked up Great Trials of the Twenties by Grant & Katz. This 1998 book looks at ten famous trials … but I don’t think I’ll bother to read about the others. The treatment of the B-Sox was full of errors, and it appears that the deepest research was done in a theater, taking notes on Eight Men Out. Just awful. I was hoping to add it to my B-Sox bibliography, but cannot. Next issue, I’ll report on Jazz Age Jews by Michael Alexander, a book that features three famous folks of the same era, including our friend Arnold Rothstein (the others are Al Jolson and Felix Frankfurter).
 

ONE I CAN RECOMMEND  
 

            Not related to the B-Sox, but perhaps just as scandalous, is The Kansas City A’s & The Wrong Half of the Yankees, by Jeff Katz. I think this one will appeal more to Yankee haters, than lovers, but everyone will enjoy reading about how the KC A’s became a Yankee farm team between 1955 and 1960. Does that sound odd?  Well, I was there, and that’s how I always thought of the A’s back then. I never expected it was actually the case, but Jeff has made a strong case that it was. The documentation is impressive, with the focus on the behind-the-scenes activities that eventually wrestled the A’s away from the Mack family and Philadelphia, and into the lap of a Yankee partner.
 

            I suspect this story will seem a bit fantastic to younger readers, who were not there in the nineteen-fifties. How could baseball let all this happen?  Easy. Just set aside the best interests of the game and focus on the money.