NOTES #195

WHEN DAVID BECAME GOLIATH

One of the things about baseball that endears it to writers is that the
event can be missed, but written about almost endlessly. I never saw Babe
Ruth’s “called shot,” yet I can plan to write a whole book on the topic (it
would include four pages of this issue of Notes.)

I missed David Cone’s perfect game on July 18th, too, but does that mean
I cannot headline the event here? Of course not. I missed Ted Williams at the
Fenway Midsummer Classic, and I missed some late-inning Blue Sox excitement
when I left early, and those misses are fuel for this issue, too.

But back to David Cone. I first learned of his perfecto driving home
after my second heat-dodging, air-conditioned movie at a mall that weekend
(Star Wars), on a car radio newscast. No details, just the bare bones:
27 up, 27 down for Conie.

If I was a Yankee fan, my VCR would have recorded the event, and upon my
arrival home, I would have basked in the delicious monotony of those nine
straight one-two-threes.

If I was a Mets fan, I likely would have groaned — one more no-no by an
ex-Met. Surely Seaver and Gooden and Cone had terrific seasons with the Mets,
the Mets who let Nolan Ryan get away!

If I was an Expos fan, I might curse Interleague Plague a little. (I was
wondering how many of the Expos had faced David Cone before. I think I can look
that up.)

But for this event, I was merely a baseball fan, and so I tip my cap to
David Cone. There is no such animal as an easy perfect game, the odds are
always astronomical.

When I later learned that it was Yogi Day at the Stadium, and that Don
Larsen was on hand for the occasion, the phenomenon became even more
phenomenal. To be “pitcher perfect” with echoes of 1956 in the air — this is
just one more time when baseball writes a script that Hollywood would have to
reject as too unreal. It is more Twilight Zone than actual occurrence. It is
the stuff of sandlot daydreams, of fiction and of fancy.

Except, of course, that it happened. For this one game, this David
became Goliath, an unyielding giant smiting all batters in his path,
sling-shotting his way to glory. Amen.

“PAST GEHRIG, CLOSING IN ON RUTH; SETS SIGHT ON COBB”

Who would not want to be the person behind the headline above? Well, it
happens to fit many baby-boomers, who have now lived longer than the Iron Horse
(who died just shy of 38), and are now chasing the Babe. I personally hope to
catch Mr Ruth next November 16, and then begin my dogged pursuit of Ty Cobb.
The Georgia Peach reached 74 years, 7 months.

I’m not sure why turning 53 myself last May 6 (the same day Willie Mays
turned 68), reminded me that I was in Ruth’s vicinity. For a while, I thought
I’d passed him — I can never remember if he was born in 1895 or ’96.

But I always remember that he died in August of 1948, and that is
because when I first learned the date, I was astounded: for a couple of years,
me and the Babe walked the same planet! OK, I mostly crawled, but then, so did
Ruth in those years. Today, I am more amazed that Ruth lasted 53 years,
given the abuse his body endured.

According to the special Sporting News edition that paid tribute
to Ruth — Nation Mourns Ruth was the headline — the Babe died without
ever knowing the cause of his death. Which was throat cancer, officially — and
not an overdose of saccharine induced by a choir of schoolkids singing “Take Me
Out to the Ballgame” outside his hospital window (as the William Bendix movie
has it.) That always struck me as odd, that his doctors and family refrained
from using “the C word” around Babe. It’s not like he didn’t have a right to
know, y’know?

Babe Ruth had rallied from a severe illness in the winter of 1946-47,
and attended the premiere of the Bendix film on July 26, 1948, just several
weeks before his death. According to Fred Lieb, his doctors let him leave
Memorial Hospital in N.Y. to travel to the Astor Theater with his wife Claire,
thinking “it might do him good.” However, they failed to preview the film.

While the Babe gave it a weak “thumbs up” — saying in that husky voice,
“it was a good picture” — the popular movie summary of his life may have
hastened his passing. Was Lieb suggesting this, when he commented, “What really
went through [Ruth’s] mind as he watched Bill Bendix portray Hollywood’s
version of his legendary career and exploits will never be known.”

When Albert Nobel read his own obituary (oops!), he was so bothered by
the way he would go down in history — as the inventor of dynamite, which had
been turned into a weapon of mass destruction in wars — he decided to set up a
fund to reward peacemakers. Jean Henri Dunant, who founded the Red Cross, was
co-recipient of the first Nobel Peace Prize in 1901 — five years after Albert
died. My point is simply: how do we remember Nobel?

Babe Ruth never recovered from Bendix’ film, never had the opportunity
to work with a director on his own version of his life. Imagine the Babe living
another 53 years — he’d be with us today, tossing out first balls, and we’d
have seen a lot of him last summer, out at the park watching McGwire and Sosa.
Whom would the Babe choose to do his auto-bio right?

I like to think the Babe would have welcomed Creamer’s book, and
insisted that it be the basis for the script.

Given the Babe’s penchant for sampling a variety of the spices served up
by life, I also like to think he would have given a wink and a go-ahead nod to
a number of different directors over the years, each searching for “the real
Ruth.”

Ingmar Bergman, for example, opens his film with the Grim Reaper, draped
in black, and the Babe (smoking a cigar, in his underclothes), playing stud
poker. The Reaper is frustrated at his inability to make Ruth appreciate the
serious nature of what is really at stake in the game. Drawing to an inside
straight, Ruth comes up with a wild card bearing the number 60, which he slaps
down with a guffaw. “Pretty good for an ugly orphan kid, right, chum?!”

Woody Allen might have tackled Ruth in his (Woody’s) early period. We
might see Ruth visiting a hospital, with Woody playing the sick kid. “Gee,
Babe, do you think you could hit one for me today?” Sure, kid. “That
would be great, maybe one home run would clear up my sinuses. How about two,
Babe, think you could hit two?” Well, kid, I’ll try my best. “Try your
best? Babe, I’m dying here, I got one chance in a million to live through the
night, not that I want to put any pressure on you or anything, but geez, Babe,
can’t you hit two for me?” Sure, kid, I’ll hit two. You just keep the radio
on. “How about one for my Uncle Harry, who is so sick he can’t even visit
me, not that he would anyway because he never liked me, it was always my
brother Josh, but — ” Shut up, kid, or I’ll sit out today’s game.

With the money he made from suing the animators of Babe, Pig in the
City, Ruth might hire Quentin Tarantino to give it a shot. In this one,
Robert DeNiro bulks up like he did for Raging Bull, to play the Babe who
just can’t say No, especially to pasta. The Called Shot turns out to be an
elaborate plot set up the night before when one of the Babe’s fans (played by
Joe Pesci) threatens Cub pitcher Charlie Root, taking a baseball bat to a
variety of melons while making his point. The hit men hidden in the shadows at
Wrigley Field (Travolta and Samuel Jackson) are never needed, but their
adventures on their way to the park provide enough action to guarantee success
at the box office. Bruce Willis plays Lou Gehrig, who almost has his streak
broken when he is mistaken for a certain crooked boxer while driving home after
the game.

As usual, I am only scratching the surface here. Send me your movie
versions of “The Babe Ruth Story” for future Notes!

SO CLOSE AND YET SO FAR DEPT.

Anyone who has ever met a Cub fan knows that 1908 is fondly recalled as
the last time the Cubs won the World Series. For Red Sox fans, it’s 1918, but
then they always bring up 1986, when victory was snatched away in Game Six,
with one out to go. I am wondering why Cub fans do not bring up 1935 as much as
BoSox fans drag out 1986.

My attention was drawn to 1935 when I was scanning a sketch of Tiger
Stadium by Amadee in Take Me Out to the Ballpark (The Sporting News,
1983), and noticed a figure standing at third base with a large anchor chained
to his left ankle. The caption goes like this: “Where Stan Hack was stranded
after opening 9th with triple in final game of ’35 Series.” Naturally, I had to
look up the rest of the story.

Something had to give, in the World Series of 1935. The Cubs had
returned to October’s Game in 1910, 1918, 1929, and 1932, and had been defeated
each time. Their last Series wins had come back-to-back against the Tigers, in
1907-08. The Tigers had lost again in 1909, and in 1934, for a perfect 0-4
October record. So something had to give, one streak was destined to be broken.

The Cubs took Game One, 3-0, in Detroit, then dropped the next one, 8-3.
Games Three and Four must have been heart-breakers, as the Cubs returned to
Wrigley, only to lose 6-5 in eleven innings, and then 2-1 the next afternoon,
to go down three games to one. The Cubs salvaged the last home game, 3-1.

Back in Detroit for Game Six, the teams battled to a 3-3 tie through
eight innings. Then Smiling Stan Hack led off the ninth with a triple “into
deepest center field” (according to Robert Smith’s World Series, 1967.)
“When Hack pulled up at third, the stands were so silent that a man could hear
the crunch of peanut shells ten rows away.”

Tiger pitcher Tommy Bridges was in the pinch. He fanned Bill Jurges. Cub
pitcher Larry French batted next, and rolled one back to Bridges for the second
out. Charlie Grimm was the Cub manager that declined to go to his bench. It was
up to Augie Galan, who poked a long fly, hauled in by Goose Goslin. Hack
stranded at third, and yes, he might as well have been chained to an anchor.

In the bottom of the ninth, Mickey Cochrane got aboard on a hit that the
second baseman “just could not field cleanly.” Black Mike raced to second on
the next ground ball out, then came around on Goose Goslin’s single. Game over,
Series over, Tiger drought over, Cub streak intact.

Imagine the contrast between the silence in the stadium after Hack’s
lead-off triple, and the roar after Goslin’s catch took Bridges off the hook. I
love games with that kind of emotional range. I think most fans do.

THE BABE DIDN’T POINT

When I came across the book so titled — it’s by Bill Bryson (Iowa St U
Press, 1989), I was at first very disappointed. Why? Because I have been
thinking of writing a book about Ruth’s “Called Shot” myself, and it looked
like I was scooped.

Wrong. Bryson’s sub-title is “and Other Stories about Iowans and
Sports.” He devotes the first page and a half to the Called Shot, and that’s
it. I am relieved, and am looking forward to reading the rest of the book,
which seems like a well-organized collection of baseball stories.

The dust jacket has a photo of the Babe in a famous post-HR pose, bat
perpendicular, torso slightly twisted, eyes following the bleachers-bound ball.
On the photo, in what appears to be Babe’s own handwriting, are these words:
“To My friend Bill Bryson, Sincerely Babe Ruth.” Was Bryson a friend of the
Bambino’s? Did Ruth confide to him about the Called Shot?

Bryson (1915-1986) was “Iowa’s premiere baseball writer” in a career
that lasted nearly fifty years, according to the book’s intro — most likely
written by one of his sons, as they compiled and edited the book. He seems to
have been a kindred spirit — a prolific writer who did not live near any major
league parks. He did witness Larsen’s WS perfecto, Maz’ HR, and Willie’s Catch,
but chose as his greatest thrill, Ruth’s HR in the first All Star Game in 1933.

Alas, his opening essay “The Babe Never Called His Famous Homer” —
which is more accurate than the book’s title, since Babe did point —
sheds no new light on the issue. Bryson knew Charlie Root (a manager in Des
Moines in the 50s), and as we all know, Root always said if Ruth had
called his shot, Root would have stuck the ball in his ear. He also quotes Root
saying, as a clincher, “Ruth himself never said he pointed.”

Bryson does mention a 1944 interview of Ruth by James Carmichael of the
Chicago Daily News, in which Ruth was quoted: “Right now I want to
settle all arguments. I didn’t exactly point to any spot, like the flagpole …
I just sorta waved at the whole fence.” The only locker room quote from Ruth
after the game that NY Times sportswriter William E. Brandt took home
was this, after someone praised the Babe and Gehrig for each hitting two HRs:
“Aw, go on now, the wind was with us, that’s all. Any time they let us hit into
the air, zowie — the wind did the rest.”

Zowie? Aw, go on now? I am guessing that Mr Brandt may have
papered over a few expletives there, but maybe not. An editor’s note after the
essay passes along this tidbit, which was news to me. During the game, Ruth did
gesture — “to alert park personnel that part of a temporary wooden railing
atop the outfield wall had broken loose and was in danger of falling onto the
field. The repairs were made, Ruth saved the day. What a guy!

FROM THE ARCHIVES OF NOTES

The Called Shot was a main topic in a hot stove issue of Notes
(#52, February 5, 1994). Fox had aired its special on the subject, and I had
recently been perusing The Joe Williams Baseball Reader (Algonquin Books
of Chapel Hill, 1989.) Here is what I came up with when I started putting
things together.

THE FICKLE FINGER OF THE BABE

My poem Called Shot appeared here last October, and I’ve
surely made enough references to this “event” over the past eleven (!) months,
that my view of it is pretty well known: George Herman did not say Read
My Finger, and the idea of the “called shot” was hype, pure and simple … OK,
maybe just simple. Let’s not be that naive.

Yet here we are in February 1994, and the Fox Network is spending an
hour on this “controversial” subject. I hate to sound like a Grinch, but it’s
only controversial for those who haven’t done much reading of the eye- and
ear-witness accounts … OK, maybe that’s who Fox is targeting. Who reads
anymore?

“Apparently the story is too good to die,” wrote Joe Williams, a
reporter who was as close to Ruth as anyone in that era. “So it lives on, true
or untrue, depending on the version you wish to accept.” Williams could never
draw Ruth out on the topic, and concluded that he deliberately avoided the
question. Ruth’s manager never agreed with the legendary version. Yankee Art
Fletcher stated “There was no talk about it in the dugout at the time.”

That’s what Williams wrote in 1965, but it was his story in 1932 that
gave birth to the myth. Joe Williams was the only journalist to see the
miracle, and his reputation gave the story credibility. As Williams talked to
more and more players, he realized that he had created — not a Frankenstein,
but a Santa Claus — for a country full of Virginias.

The story is too good to die. Because the fantasy shows how
Babe Ruth was regarded by America’s fans: he was that good, he might have
done it. He was that cocky — yeah, maybe he did call the homer. Sixty-some
years (and counting) later, what happened is much less important than what was
believed. And that French proverb comes into play again: for those who
believe, no explanation is necessary; for those who do not believe, none is
possible.

In 1953, Williams even reported a “deposition” by prizefighter Mickey
Walker, a pal of Ruth’s. Walker and a hotel man had the Babe “nibbling on
nutritious, body-building scotch” one night, when they pinned him down. Ruth:
“I had two strikes on me and the pitcher was levelling with speed curves. We
were kiddin’ one another and I swept my arm, motioning to the outfield, trying
to rib him into a fastball. I was waiting for the pitch and when it came I
belted the ball over the centerfield fence.”

YOU BE THE UMPIRE

“It will never be known for certain, but on-deck hitter Lou Gehrig
insisted that Ruth had meant to call his home run and point out where it would
go.”

— 20th Century Baseball Chronicle, 1991 (!)

“Gehrig said he read about it in the papers the next day. ‘And that was
the first I’d heard about the Babe “calling” the shot.'” — Joe
Williams, 7/14/65

“He really didn’t do it, you know. I hate to explode one of baseball’s
great legends, but I was there and saw what happened. Sure, he made a gesture,
he pointed — but it wasn’t to call his shot. Listen, he was a great hitter and
a great character, but do you think he would have put himself on the spot like
that?”

— Billy Herman in The Glory of Their Times

“[Charlie Root] used to tell me that there was no way Babe Ruth could
have done that to him and gotten away with it. Charlie Grimm told me the same
thing. ‘Root would have put that next pitch right into Ruth’s ear if Babe had
tried that on him,’ he said. Root was that way. He had a reputation as a
head-hunter.”

— Gene Conley in A Donald Honig Reader

“He hit two home runs in that game and so did Gehrig, but as usual Ruth
was the center of things. Here’s what he said:

“‘I was out at the hospital this morning and I told a little kid I was
gonna hit him a home run today.’

“Mrs Sewell told me later that when Babe came up she heard Mrs Ruth call
out to him, ‘Remember the little boy.’ And that’s when he pointed out and hit
the home run. He’d already hit one, but I guess he figured that wasn’t enough.

“Do I believe he really called it? Yes sir. I was there. I saw it. I
don’t care what anybody says. He did it. He probably couldn’t have done it
again in a thousand years, but he did it that time.” — Teammate Joe
Sewell in Honig

“The next thing you know some newspapermen are saying he’d pointed to
the center-field bleachers, and people are believing it. Ruth went along with
it, and why not? Just to show you how some people can be led along, I had a
good friend who was at the game, and he swore to me later that Ruth pointed to
the bleachers. ‘Forget it,’ I’d tell him, ‘I don’t want to hear about it.'” —
Burleigh Grimes in Honig

A POSTSCRIPT ON THE “CALLED SHOT” AND MR. RUTH

I wrote the above before I watched the Fox Front Page segment on
Ruth’s “called shot,” which featured the never-before-telecast “Zapruder film
of baseball.” In case you missed it, a fan named Matt Campbell had his home
movie camera at Wrigley Field that day in 1932 when the legend was born, and
the lens were open at the decisive moment. Unfortunately, Mr Campbell did not
have box seats, so our view is from well behind third base. Mr. C. also kept a
journal, by the way, and noted there that he had caught the Babe hitting two
homers, on his film, but mentions no gestures.

Front Page assembled an interesting jury. The Babe’s daughter
noted her dad “had a flair for doing the right thing at the right time,” and
after viewing the film, exclaimed, “He really did.”

Robert Creamer, who bio’d Babe, repeated the saying “all the lies about
Babe are true,” then concluded that the argument about The Shot “doesn’t matter
a damn” — Ruth homered in response to taunting, and that’s all that counts.

(He noted that the crowd was wowed by the blast, as it was one of the longest
seen at Wrigley.)

Several fans who were at the game, after viewing the film, were
convinced that their memories were correct: Fan A, that Babe “in a very
arrogant way, pointed out to where he was going to hit a home run” — “I saw
it!” Fan B saw nothing like that.

Mickey Mantle and a group of ex-Yanks were shown the film, and Mantle
recalled how he himself once called his shot, a game-winning homer in the 1964
Series. “I called them about 500 times — that was the only one I hit!” he
added. Reggie Jackson said “it had to be a Reggie Jackson or Babe Ruth type, a
Muhammad Ali type” of person to pull it off. After viewing the film, Reggie
said, “He was jawing — I don’t see a called shot here.”

For some reason, Front Page did not mention Joe Williams and his
World Telegram story, the seed that sprouted the legend. (The NY
Times mentioned gestures, but none of the other print reports, and I think
there were 16 in all, noted anything unusual.)

Cub SS Billy Jurges (who had a great view) thought at first Ruth called
it, but then talked with catcher Gabby Hartnett, who told him Ruth was saying,
“that’s only two strikes.” Debunking is not pretty, and Jurges went on to say
that he hoped this would not be the end of the legend, which is “good for
baseball”. Bob Costas had a similar sentiment: “I’d like to believe….”

Mike Lupica’s final remarks were thoughtful. Are heroes still possible?
Or does the tabloid treatment eventually cut everyone down to size, because
that’s what we want today? “In the golden age they only knew what they wanted
to know, and what they wanted to know was that their sports stars were heroes.”
Lupica concludes, “Maybe the problem is that we don’t want heroes anymore,” and
we can’t blame the athletes, “we did it to ourselves.”

REFLECTIONS ON BASEBALL’S SUMMER INTERMEZZO

To be honest, the only time I really looked forward to the All Star Game
was 1994, when I had tickets. Most other summers, I slightly resent the
interruption in the daily grind of the races (especially if my team is hot),
and the break cannot end soon enough. My collection of All Star memories is not
vast or particularly interesting. Exhibition games, y’know?

In my first years of rooting, the ‘Star Game seemed much more important
to watch than it has in recent years. Of course, it was in the afternoon, and I
was out of school. I mostly wanted to see how the players from the Pirates did.
Once they were out, so was I.

I do recall liking early on, the idea of rotating the Game around the
leagues, with each city taking its proper turn. Going to the Game when it came
to Pittsburgh, as it did in 1959, was never an option. (I never thought I’d
make it to Disneyworld, either.) But I was proud to see old Forbes Field in
national TV — that game, I probably watched, and perhaps tried to
score. I recall scoring just one time — it could have been ’59 — but because
it was such a headache with all the changes, once was enough.

This time around, I got to wondering whatever happened to that neat
pattern of rotating the Game. I did a little research, and found out that the
pattern never was perfect, even the first time around: the second and tenth
games were both held at the Polo Grounds, while the Phillies did not get to
play host as the original sixteen franchises passed the baton.

When the second round began, the pattern vanished right after the
seventeenth game was played at old Comiskey, where the thing started in 1933.
The next game went to Detroit, another AL city. The 22nd game went to Milwaukee
(NL), the 25th to Baltimore, and the 27th (the AL’s turn) to Los Angeles. The
“new” franchises, and then the expansion cities, totally confused things.

Interleague plague, mass movement of players (even All Stars) between
the AL & NL — I don’t think the rivalry is anything like it was, once upon
a time. Does the Home Run Derby get higher ratings now? This time around, there
was squawking about letting fans vote on the internet (apparently a late wave
of e-votes from New England buoyed Nomar G. over Derek J., for the starting AL
SS role.) So it goes.

I tuned in the event itself only intermittently, on radio and TV. I
missed the consensus highlight, Ted Williams the center of attention, a flash
of fine Fenway fantasyland. Then Red Sox (for now) hurler Ramon Martinez fans
five (high fives all around), summoning the ghost of Carl Hubbell to join in
the fun. I am looking forward to reading all about the Boston ‘Star Party in
the next Buffalo Head Society magazine. Play it again!

DIARY OF A BASEBALL JUNKIE — Part 3

July has been sweltering, even here in the Shadows of
Cooperstown, and even at Murnane Field (all night games), and even after
sundowns. I think the heat has kept the crowds down — I know I missed a few
games when it was too hot to move much. But I’ve made more than I’ve missed,
and on one five-game home stand, I think I caught at least parts of each
contest.

How long I stayed depended mostly upon the company I had. With certain
fan friends, I almost always go the distance. (That is, I stay till the last
out.) When I wind up alone, I am more likely to bail out early. I wouldn’t
leave a no-hitter in progress, but the score is not a factor, I might hang
around till the end of a rare blowout, or leave midway thru a tie game.
I’ve missed a few late-inning rallies this summer, and I regret that.

There were seasons, not so long ago, when I could take my kids along for
company. Sometimes they even got into the games, and fought over who would keep
score in my scorebook. Then they went mainly to hang out with friends, and now
they are both driving and so are their friends, but not to baseball games. I am

looking forward to the seasons when I can take their kids to the
ballpark, but I can wait five or ten years for that.

The Blue Sox are a hard-to-follow team. If you don’t go to the park, you
have to read the local paper. The local TV and radio stations give scores, but
not much else, and none of the games, home or away, are televised or broadcast.
I’m convinced this missing link is a big factor in the attendance. I cannot
imagine how thin my memories of the Pirates would be, if had only my ballpark
visits and the newspapers to feed them. Radio and TV lure fans to the park,
raise anticipation, set the stage.

Worth noting is a recent in-game promotion that was great fun. Fans were
invited to drop their names into a box in the first few innings. Five names
were drawn, and these lucky fans got a chance to win a new ($15,000) Saturn, if
they could toss a baseball thru a hole in a wooden panel, from 60’6″ away —
from the mound to home plate. As it turned out, no one even hit the board, but
the suspense was terrific! (My name was not drawn.)

The problem was that the promotion received no publicity in advance of
the game, as near as I can tell. So not one fan came on the chance of winning a
car. This did increase the odds for the thousand-plus who showed, on a rainy
night (the game started about 90 minutes late), but I think some good publicity
might have filled the stands. On “Wegman’s Night” in Syracuse, just down the
thruway, the park is filled annually by fans who come to see if they can drive
a new car home. It’s a raffle, and everyone in the park has a shot, and the car
will be won. It’s great, and the winner is drawn after the game
(the Blue Sox did it mid-5th), so everyone sticks around and the concession
stands boom. Bill Veecks aren’t born every day, and perhaps they cannot be
made.

TIME WARPS

Tom Ruane recently noted on the SABR internet digest how “suspended”
games can make for interesting problems for baseball’s record bookkeepers.

For instance, Barry Bonds made his major league debut on May 30, 1986.
Yet, his first major league hit came in a game played on April 20, same season.
Huh? Well, that April game was suspended, and completed in August, when Bonds,
who was now on the Bucs’ roster, came through with a game-winning single in the
17th inning. The game went into the book as an April 20 game, the date it
began.

Tom also noted that the suspended Astros-Padres game might affect Tony
Gwynn’s 3,000th hit. If he passes 3,000, then gets a hit in the suspended game
later on, does his 2,999th hit now become elevated to the magic number? I would
guess not — but if you tried making a list of all 3,000+ Gwynn hits, using a
book that catalogs box scores in chronological order — you might conclude
something else.

What if a suspended game occurs in the middle a hitting streak for
rookie pheenom Joe Dee? Going into the suspended game, Joe has hit in 28
straight. In the suspended game, Joe goes hitless through five innings.
Then, after connecting in 28 more games, his streak is stopped (again?) A week
later, the suspended game is resumed. Is the pressure now on for Joe to get a
hit, to bridge the gap and break DiMaggio’s record?

If Joe Dee was a Yankee — would there be pressure on his manager to sit
Joe for the last innings in the resumed game? Would Steinbrenner step in and
pull off a trade to prevent Joe’s chance to break the streak of the Clipper?
Would the Commish intervene to prevent either of these moves?

Keep this quirky rule in mind, next time someone asks you if a pitcher
can be credited with a win and loss in the same game — that could happen. Can
a player hit a home run for both teams in the same game? Yup, if he’s traded to
the right team.

Imagine a pitcher being traded, after fanning fifteen batters for the
home team in five innings in a game suspended after 4½ — he then
“starts” the resumed game, now hurling for the visitors, and fans fifteen more,
for a fantastic total of 30 K’s (no dropped third strikes) in 9 innings! It
could happen! And it would be a record very hard to break!!

If you can come up with other Bizarro World scenarios, please send them
this way for a future issue of NOTES.

LAST UPS: A TALE OF TWO TEMPORARY CITIES

The weekend of July 23-25 has been anticipated here in the Shadows of
Cooperstown since last winter, with a mix of dread and joy. While the country
of baseball pilgrimaged to its mecca to honor the Class of ’99, the country of
MTV converged on Rome, NY, for Woodstock ’99.

It was the biggest turnout ever, for both cities. Well over 200,000 fans
of groups like Metallica, Korn, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers camped out at the
former Griffiss Air Force Base — a site I once proposed here in Notes
(#33, 9/19/93) for the baseball theme park, “Ballpark USA.” An estimated fifty
thousand fans of guys like Nolan Ryan and Robin Yount flocked into baseball’s
capitol.

The traffic jams on the NY Thruway that almost everyone had predicted,
failed to happen. The two-lane roads surrounding both cities were packed at
times, but things kept moving.

Both events were in the national eye, thanks to MTV and ESPN. (In the
Shadows, the local media also kept vigil.) It was an interesting weekend …
Willie Mays and Willie Nelson, Bush the politician and Bush the singer …
Georges Brett and Clinton … the tragically flip (Pete Rose) and The
Tragically Hip … Hornsbys Roger and Bruce … fans wooed and nude, all baking
under the same summer sun.

I prefer to tape the Hall of Fame Inductions, rather than attend. If I
could have a remote with fast forward, I would be there in person. I feel the
same way about graduations, by the way. And if I shied away from the
Cooperstown crowds, imagine how far I stayed away from Woodstock ’99. My kids
both went Saturday night, and were disgusted by the garbage scene, but my son
returned Sunday for some groups he likes. Walked right in, both days, by the
way, security was probably tighter at the Hall.

There were no bonfires, vandalism or looting in Cooperstown, but if the
200,000+ had descended on that city, instead of Rome, there would have been
problems. Some of the troubles at Woodstock were in reaction to commercialism
(not to play down the drugs, the heat, and the bands who incited rioting.) In
Cooperstown, there was also a lot of over-priced stuff (including autographs)
selling briskly everywhere. But the baseball folks generally kept their pants
on — literally and figuratively. (This was not the case with Disco Demolition
Night, two decades ago, when fans rioted enough around a bonfire to cause a
game to be forfeited.)

I skimmed through the speeches by the rookie ‘Famers, and especially
through Bud Selig. At one point I was wishing he was on the East Stage, at the
city to the north, where he surely would have been pelted with water bottles.
Selig still smells to me like the Strike of ’94-95, and now 2001 is getting
within range. The odors of Woodstock were not pleasant either, but they will
pass, far swifter than those of The Strike.

Woodstock ’99 cannot be compared to Hall of Fame Weekend, we all know
that (or to Woodstock ’69.) Yet, I seemed to have done just that. Maybe
baseball is connected to everything else.