NOTES #241

NOTES FROM THE SHADOWS OF COOPERSTOWN

Observations from Outside the Lines

By Two Finger Carney (carneya6@borg.com)

#241 July 23, 2001

A WEEKEND IN THE SUN

We are still all slouching towards Cooperstown, but I try not to use these titles more than once. So this week’s comes from a piece I wrote long ago, and you will have to plough through a record number of pages (this is the longest NOTES so far) to get to it, it is batting last in this week’s lineup.

Leading off, a second invitation to the August 5 SABR meeting in Cooperstown. Since last week, I learned that Clete Boyer and Indians author Morris Eckhouse will be joining us.

Then there is part four of my 1991 “Little League Parent” diary. Re-reading this has been a real trip down memory lane, for both myself and the coach I assisted, Ray Bepko. And for my wife. And I think my son is finally interested in reading the thing!

Then, two more designated writers, whom you met in previous issues. Scott “Mr Utica Baseball” Fiesthumel will introduce you to the Mills Family, and Bob Palazzo will take you on another excursion into the deep shadows just south of Cooperstown, where you will think you are in the Hotel California.

Finally, there are three or four more short pieces to warm you up for Hall of Fame Weekend, which is now kneeling on deck. These include one of my first essays on The Pete Rose Problem; a look back at Opening Day at the Hall and the Class of 1939; then two short ones on HOF Weekend 1993, NOTES’ rookie year.

Weather permitting, I am slated to volunteer (with my wife) at the NY Empire State Games, a kind of New York Olympics, that happens to include baseball. More on this next time.

The Utica Blue Sox have turned out to be an average team this summer, not a contender, but good enough to dream, and they are capable of beating anybody on any night. Their top pitcher, a cousin of Pedro Martinez (his name is Denny Bautista) has been promoted up a notch already, with a few other Sox. The team has drawn poorly — I know, because I’ve been to most games, except the one glaring exception: one warm Friday evening, they drew almost four times their average crowd — for fireworks! You would hope the owners notice that promotions draw people … really, there is no reason not to have 4,000 in the stands every night! I am sorry I missed that game, but on the other hand, I bet the lines at the concession stands (there are no vendors) stretched back to the parking lot! Americans love their fireworks!

CALLING ALL FANS — AN UPDATE

Since last week’s invitation, I have learned that Clete Boyer will be joining the SABR meeting in Cooperstown August 5 (see Bob Palazzo’s story later in this issue — timing is everything) … no autographs … and Morris Eckhouse, former Exec Dir of SABR and rabid-level Cleveland Indians fan (he’s written a book on them), will also be there, talking about the 5th Game of the 1920 World Series. (That game is historic for at least three reasons — can you name them all?)

In case you missed last week’s invitation, here we go again:

On Sunday, August 5, Cooperstown will be in the national spotlight, as the Class of 2001 is inducted into its Hall of Fame. I have always carefully steered away from the village on Induction Day, but this summer I will be in the thick of things, and will report on my adventures in #243.

The annual HOF-weekend SABR meeting will take place at Tillapaugh’s Funeral Home, across the street and down half a block from the Hall. It’s open to all fans, SABR members and non-members (or, we hope, future members) alike. The meeting starts at 7 PM. If you come early, you will pass busloads of people leaving the village … parking near the Hall is usually not a problem, and I almost always find a spot right in Tillapaugh’s parking lot.

Come for the camaraderie, not the food. You never know who might wander in — one year it was Tony Oliva (one version has it that he was looking for a rest room, but he chatted with the group — I trust that was after they let him use the facilities.)

If you do come August 5, you will be treated to Rob Edelman talking about Turkey Mike Donlin and other ballplayers who took to the Vaudeville stages (we have videos to prove it) … George Case, SABR’s Executive Director will be on hand with home movies — usually a painful affair, but not in this Case (no pun intended) — George’s dad played ball and caught a lot of his fellow players on film (also now on ESPN-level video.) There will be more, too, probably a couple hours more. I dare say that this will be more entertaining than listening to speeches in the hot sun.

So come on down, join the fun, then join SABR! (Just kidding, there will be no pressure.) Bring a friend (don’t tell your enemies.) And as we like to say in our Cooperstown Chapter invitations, bring something for “show and tell” — some baseball artifact that means something special to you.

Here’s my Insider Tip: the Cooperstown Chapter meetings have become known for their book auctions … some fantastic bargains … members bring and donate books, raising funds for the Chapter … so bring an old duplicate you were going to toss in the trash, and be ready to bid on THAT BOOK YOU ALWAYS WANTED!

* * * * *

 

[This is the fourth installment of a diary I kept in 1991; the previous three can be found in NOTES #238-240, in the Archive.]

 

DIARY OF A LITTLE LEAGUE PARENT

Or, How to Survive the Old Ball Game and Have Fun, Too!

 

FRIDAY, MAY 17

[There are games that are exciting only to those playing, or to those who know someone playing. The following play-by-play of a softball contest in Mary Ellen’s league may be “too much” for the reader, and for those not really interested in how these games go, I suggest skipping ahead to the final paragraphs of this entry.]

At 5:38 PM, twenty-two minutes before Game Time, the rain threatens to cancel — oops, I mean postpone — yet another Sweetie contest. If the game goes on, I’ll watch this one from my car, parked behind the backstop again. I’ve been lucky this spring so far, this spot is as good as box seats. But I’ll have to use the windshield wipers this time!

About seven Sweeties are huddled in their covered dugout, with one of the coaches. About the same number of gold-shirted opponents, sponsored by Tallman’s Tires, are opposite them, along first. It’s hard to believe they’ll play today, but no one is leaving.

It’s not only wet, it’s dark. They’ll probably ask me to turn on my headlights soon! The field actually looks pretty good — no huge puddles, but the grass is soaked, and the showers continue. Suddenly, the bases are planted, and it’s a Go. More kids arrive, dashing with their gloves over their cap brims, to the dugout islands. Their parents stay in their cars, wipers on.

At 5:46 PM, the Goldies leave their dugout and start warming up in the drizzle — it’s letting up. Are they sending the Sweeties a message, “We’re tougher”? After a while, a Sweetie coach jogs to his car and hauls out the bats and equipment, and soon everybody is warming up, some (including Mary Ellen) in jackets. Before leaving the house this evening, she asked Pat if umbrellas were legal for outfielders. She was serious, I think!

At 5:53 PM, the coaches from both teams confer. I imagine that they are wondering if it’s worth starting. The rains pick up again, just as the umpire arrives. I wonder if he gets to vote, with the coaches, or does the ump decide himself? The sky is solid gray, horizon to horizon. At 5:56 PM, the decision — cheers from both squads as the coaches tell them. But what is it? “Play ball!”

Mary Ellen starts the game standing near second base. It looks like her wish to play the infield is coming true. The game gets going, with eight Sweeties against seven Goldies. I’m hoping the ump will suggest to both teams that batters should swing at anything close to strikes tonight, to avoid time-consuming walks.

He doesn’t. The lead-off Goldie takes four balls, the last one close, then moves to third in the usual way while the second batter walks. But then they start swinging. In quick succession, an infield hit (the shortstop tossed to first instead of getting the easy force at second), a pop out to the catcher (!) — pause here for two more walks, one forcing in a run — a squibber through the thirdbaseman’s legs, and another run-scoring walk. “Ninth batter” is called. Two more Tallman players arrive during the inning, and one rushes right to the bat rack.

The 9th-B smacks a 3-1 pitch hard up the middle, past the Sweetie pitcher who lunges too late. But the shortstop knocks down the liner and tosses — yes, there’s Mary Ellen standing right where she should be, on second, for the put-out and the end of the half-inning. The stands are empty, so no crowd goes wild, but one car honks a cheer. Guess whose.

The Goldie pitcher is a fire-baller, who occasionally whips one high off the backstop — just in case anyone was thinking of digging in against her. The first two Sweeties whiff on 1-2 counts, and after a hit (or E-3), the cleanup Sweetie fans on three fast ones. Tallman has a Roger Clemens-type franchise player, it appears, by far the best I’ve seen all spring.

A new Sweetie hurler is on the mound in the second. Her first pitch is a strike (we Sweetie parents by now notice and cheer these rare strikes), but then she lobs up four wide ones. Here we go again. One squib hit, and then another, directly at the shortstop. A whiff, which is an out because first is occupied. The next Goldie steps across the plate to watch a low outside pitch, and the ump awards her first when the ball hits her foot! Hey, I thought it was out of the batter’s box, OUT, not a free pass. A familiar run-scoring walk follows. A roller to the thirdbaseman, nicely stopped, goes for a hit when she ignores the force at third and tries to stop another run, her peg home arriving considerably after the Goldie runner crosses the plate.

Then, a miracle. A “come-backer” (hit right back to the pitcher) is thrown home and the force is made. And then a routine 1-3, pitcher to first (as if anything in this game is routine!) Two straight outs! Then I count up the batters — there were nine again!

The leadoff Sweetie, catcher Kelly Meola, walks. While the Goldie ace is ringing up K number four, Kelly “steals” second and third, and the steals seem real against this pitcher. The rain stops! With Kelly ready to charge home, a pitch in the dirt bounces away, but the Tallman pitcher races in to cover against any score. She wants a shutout! Strikeout number five follows.

Now Mary Ellen comes up, with a chance for an RBI, but she walks on four pitches. The next Sweetie whacks it up the middle, over second, and the shutout is ruined. A high pop falls in behind third, and Mary Ellen scores. A liner to short is juggled, then dropped, and the runner is safe at first while a third run comes home. A pop to first ends the rally — but the Sweeties were swinging and hitting and running, and you can’t help but like them. Their pitching makes them underdogs.

The Sweeties try out their third pitcher in three innings: this little gal looks determined, and in her warm-ups, seems to have better control. The first batter she faces raps the ball up the middle and she reaches first. Next, a grounder to short, but no one covers second! (Mary Ellen has been moved out to left field, and probably winces at the miscue.) Two on, none out.

Another ground ball to short is again fielded flawlessly, and this time the Sweeties get the force — at third. The first walk of the inning loads the bases, then there’s another 6-5 put-out, short to third. A walk loads the bases again, but then the Sweetie thirdbaseman snags a bouncer and races to the sack for her third hot corner PO of the inning. Yes!

One of the Sweeties yells out, “It’s 9-3,” to an arriving teammate, as the sides change. There are now enough Goldies to crowd the outfield. The father of the newcomer tells the ump, “This is the only game in town” — meaning that everything else has been called on account of rain. Well, it is TGIF, Friday.

The first Sweetie up in the home third draws a walk, earning it by fouling off a bunch of hard pitches, with some mean swings. So does little Kelly, who swings lefty from a low crouch. The runners move up on a passed ball, and the lead runner scores when the throw to third sails wildly past the fielder. A minute later, Kelly comes home on a carbon copy play.

Two outs later, Mary Ellen gets another turn. A called strike prompts her to swing late at a high one. After two balls, she whiffs on a real wide pitch, too far outside for the catcher, and Mary Ellen races to first and is safe on yet another wild toss by the Goldie catcher. A weak hit to third and a walk load the bases, and another walk permits Mary Ellen to — walk home. “Ninth batter” is called, and the inning ends not with a bang, but with — you guessed it, a walk. I wonder if it was intentional — it cost the Goldies a run, but only one run, with no risk of more. And the Goldies are still ahead, 9-7, I think.

Oh, oh. A fourth Sweetie pitching. Mary Ellen is back at second. “Hold ’em!”

The first Goldie goes down swinging — and is chewed out by her coach for swinging at a pitch way outside, and for failing to run to first soon enough — a graver sin. The coach is still on her as the following batter singles. Mary Ellen fields the next hit smoothly, but tosses to second, where she has no play, instead of to first, where she does. She seems to be programmed to throw to second when first is occupied — and not to judge for herself where the putout is likely to be made.

Then, rapidly, a nice play at home, a tag play out, and almost a second — I think the ump blew the call, he says the Goldie runner slid under the tag. The inning ends when the Sweetie pitcher nabs a soft liner. Again the Goldies score only one run, making it — 10-7?

The Goldie flame-thrower has exhausted her arm (a few of her pitches last inning rolled in), and a new Goldie is on the mound. The Goldie catcher wears a long, blue quilted coat now, added protection against the ball, and the cold.

The Sweeties start things off with a walk, and get a break when the new pitcher drops a pop fly. Then Kelly (I still don’t know many Sweeties by name, but Kelly, I recognize) raps one up the middle for a run. The Sweeties have learned to run on the passed balls/wild pitches, and this minimizes force-plays.

A walk loads the bases and the Sweeties are poised to go ahead — for the first time all season? A grounder to the firstbaseman gets one run in. Mary Ellen whiffs, but hustles to first after the missed third strike, and is — safe! Another ground out gets a run in, then a little nubber toward the mound goes for an infield hit, as Mary Ellen streaks home. After another hit, the dreaded Ninth Batter raps one to the outfield and everyone takes off, at least two runs scoring before the umpire practically picks up the Goldie catcher and tells her to step on home for the final out (the Ninth Batter is “forced” to try to score, since no batter will follow to hit her in.)

The Goldie coach is furious and yells at his team in their dugout, loud enough for the parents parked around the diamond to hear. “We’re losing 13-10!” he broadcasts. I can’t tell if he’s angry that his girls are behind, or if they are behind a team that he figured to cream.

The Sweeties stay with their pitcher, who pounces on a dribbler and lobs it to first, but the throw is muffed. A walk sets up an unassisted force at third. A hit and a series of bad throws let in two runs. With two out, Mary Ellen cleanly fields a roller, looks to second for a force — but there is none, no one was on first — and the split-second action costs her the out at first. The tiny error opens the gates for several more runs before the Goldie Ninth Batter whiffs, with first base occupied (thank God, because the Sweetie catcher missed the pitch, then threw wildly to first. Great call, ump!)

It’s a classic see-saw game, and the Goldies have the lead back as the drizzle starts up again and the shades of gray overhead darken. But the Sweeties refuse to fold. Two singles, sandwiched around a ground out, bring in one run, and two walks load the bases. The Goldie catcher takes a foul ball off her bare hand, and has to leave the game, in some pain. A walk on a 3-2 pitch forces a run in. Not just a run; the go-ahead run!

Mary Ellen up again, time for heroics. The count goes to 3-2, and she hangs tough, fouling off a few, before bouncing to third (I can’t believe that she finally pulls one) for an RBI force out. An insurance run! Horns honk, the Sweetie cars applaud, and I join in (or did I start it?) But the inning ends on a liner to first, the hardest hit of the inning and of the last hour or so. The Sweeties are back in front, with three outs to go.

Mary Ellen starts the sixth in centerfield — just behind second base. Crunch time. The win can almost be tasted now.

The first Goldie batter takes a called third strike on a 3-2 pitch, and catcher Kelly chases her back to the dugout for the putout, as the players on the bench, but not their coach, laugh. After a walk to a midget Goldie with no strike zone at all, the Sweetie shortstop grabs a smack right at her, and tags out the runner for out number two. An easy grounder to first is muffed, and a run scores, but the Goldie batter presses her luck, and is thrown out trying for second on the play! Three outs!

It’s the Sweeties’ turn to squeal at last, and their noise blends with the honking car horns. It’s a great win, a comeback win, on a wet day, like that Pirate game we saw at Three Rivers last month. Sort of. Mary Ellen is beaming, like the sun that we will not see again till tomorrow. The Sweeties are drenched, and as they scramble into their parents’ cars, they resemble a team that has clinched a pennant and poured champagne on each other in celebration.

 

SATURDAY, MAY 18

Come Saturday morning, the Bizzaris are back in action. Pat and I rise (quietly, while Mary Ellen & Mom sleep in), eat breakfast together, and are at Wankel at 8 AM to practice, game at 9.

I am assigned to work with our potential pitchers for the first time. Coach Ray picks out his son Jimmy, Billy McDonald and Tony Mucitelli. One by one, they work with me, loosening up and then showing me their stuff. I start each one-on-one session with a mini-lecture. “Who’s the best pitching coach in the majors?” I have to tell all of them it’s Ray Miller, now with the Pirates. I don’t know if he’s really the best, but I want the kids to pay attention to his three rules for pitchers: “Work fast, change speeds, throw strikes.”

They all work fast. I work on slowing them down, making them think a little between pitches. They don’t have a lot of control, and I see a lot more walks than K’s on the horizon, at least at first. As for speed, they don’t show much difference between their fast balls and change-ups. Pitching in the majors might be all about destroying batters’ timing, but at this level, good control is probably as lethal. At the end of the workout, I decide to forget about changing speeds, and trim Miller’s maxims to two.

Game time. The Bizzaris hold off their green-jerseyed opponents, Village Toy Shop, in the first, then get off flying with a flurry of six or seven unanswered runs in the early innings, on some long hitting and super heads-up base-running. For a while, it looks like VTS is in the wrong league, but they score a few runs — it’s 10-3 at one point — before the Bizzaris lock it up, 18-7.

Pat is put at second base, which he hates, but he plays it really well. He gets a few assists at the keystone — VTS is awful on the basepaths, over-running the bags or not running at all when they should. Don Dawes takes over at shortstop, and sparkles, after dropping a high pop that he loses in the sun. He snags line drives and stops grounders like Ozzie Smith, and at least for today, all of the holes in our Swiss cheese infield are plugged.

At bat today, Pat picks up some RBIs with a hit every time up. He lines one ball back off our pitcher, Kevin Schultz — the coach who had accidentally hit Pat with a liner in practice a few days ago (the cut is still visible). When Pat reaches third base, where I’m coaching, a few minutes later, he comments on his hit, “Now we’re even!”

The Sweeties also play this morning, at 11:30 AM, against an opponent they haven’t seen yet, Slocum-Dickson. The Sweeties are “on a streak,” Mary Ellen claimed before the game, and she’s right. They top the green-clad Slocum kids 17-12, and it wasn’t really that close, even though the Sweeties trailed early.

Mary Ellen gets aboard every time up (keeping pace with Pat today), some squib hits and a missed third strike, and she scores every time, too. The Sweeties send up nine batters almost every inning, and as they were home team today, no need for any in the 6th.

I watched this one with a good turnout of parents, in the stands. The Sweetie moms and pops were in a good mood, rooted politely but with enthusiasm, chatting all the while about the crazy rules and the game and their kids.

Mary Ellen doesn’t see much action in the field today. She stops a few in center, stays awake and in position. When the contest ends, she joins in the shouting. The Sweeties played a good game today, and they know it.

 

 

TUESDAY, MAY 21

Yesterday the Bizzaris, those Killer B’s, ran their win streak to three, with a second straight win over Village Toy Shop. The bats were cooler (it was bound to happen), and the VTS kids made some nice plays in the field. More Bizzari kids fanned than usual. (Pat is proud that he has yet to strike out. He’s had some two-strike counts, and he claims that he’s avoided the K by concentrating and swinging easy, just trying to meet the ball — which is not a bad strategy, no matter what the count.)

VTS batted first and jumped ahead 2-0, but the Bizzaris came right back with three in the first and were never caught after that. When the team was in the field, relieving me from my 3B coaching duties, I sat in the dugout with the outfielders who were “sitting out.” (We do fine with eleven in the field, five shallow outfielders and two kids on the bench, rotating after each inning.) I talked with the “outies,” keeping them in the game mentally, trying to show them how they can learn from the mistakes of others.

The kids in the field should be learning, too. I am struck by how much can be learned in any game, almost in any inning, if you have an idea of what is supposed to be happening, of what should be done on each play.

Pat played second again, and again, very well. He made just one mistake, tagging a runner with an empty glove while holding the ball in his bare hand, trying for a double-play. He lost the out at first, too, and it cost us a run. But in the end, we made fewer errors. I pointed out many times to different kids all evening, that the team who makes the fewest number of errors, usually wins — and it worked out that way in this game.

Our defense tightened up nicely, and VTS fanned a lot, and the Bizzaris scored five insurance runs in their last ups to win, 10-4. Again, no need to bat in the sixth. Half a dozen balls we hit got through to the fence, and I bet that John Burger or Jimmy Bepko or Billy McD will get one over it before the season ends. Jared, our former secondbaseman, got two outfield put-outs (in left-center), and not many hits fell in for VTS.

The team won well, they didn’t over-celebrate. The season is eight games old, we’re 6-2. There are more games ahead.

Today Mary Ellen has a practice, no games for her or Pat. She says her whole team showed up yesterday evening, for an optional “sliding clinic” which was for their whole league. She adds that they were all told, seriously, that from now on, they all had to slide into every base! We’ll check that out with the coach.

There’s a game on the softball field, so the Sweeties practice elsewhere. They stop the game in progress for a minute as they drag their stuff across the outfield.

Pat is at his new “kitchen away from home,” the concession stand. A Little League game is in progress nearby, and that’s a good excuse to hang out near the candy and soda.

Today is sunny and hot, and for Utica, this spring has been sensational. Barb is off tonight to a movie with a friend. Our social life is now clearly scheduled around the two seasons unfolding for our kids this spring. Last Sunday night Barb and I snuck away to a concert. A break from the aluminum bleachers, and a step outside of the universe of baseball. “SOFTball, Dad!” I know, Mary Ellen. I know.

 

WEDNESDAY, MAY 22

An off-night for Pat, but the Sweeties take on Vision Center, now known as “the last team to beat us,” Mary Ellen recalls. She and Barb are late arrivals (from piano lessons), and Pat and I arrive even later. We ask Mary Ellen through the dugout wire backing, “Who’s ahead?”

“They are,” she replies.

“Is it close?”

“No.”

“What inning?”

“Second.”

“Well, they can’t be too far ahead.”

“Dad, they batted around!”

But the Sweeties are at bat as this dialogue goes on, and they’re scoring, and someone says it’s 10-5 as the Sweeties take the field.

The VCs are held to a run. The Sweetie pitcher starts a double play by nabbing a pop, catching a runner off first. She then ends the inning by spearing a line drive before it bruises her ankle. There’s hope. (“Miles and miles and miles,” as the lyric from Damn Yankees has it.)

Pat and I have our gloves with us, and we play some catch while keeping an eye on the game. We passed some time last evening this way, too, while the Sweeties practiced. Ironically, I seem to have played more catch with Pat last year, and the year before last, than this season. “OB,” organized ball, has taken away a lot of time, even as it has given our time much to enjoy.

When the Sweeties load the bases for Mary Ellen with one out, we stop tossing to cheer her on. “Ribbie time, Mary Ellen!” But she fans. However, a wild throw to first by the VC pitcher keeps the rally alive, and the next Sweetie smacks a base-clearing double into left. With four runs in and two on, the Ninth Batter is walked, apparently by accident, but it should have been by design — to guarantee that there’s no further scoring. A terrible rule. I prefer the limit on runs per inning — this Ninth Batter stuff leaves everyone hanging, or has that last hitter racing around the bases, forced to keep going until someone can get the ball to a base ahead of her.

Vision Center is held to two runs in their half-inning, and the Sweetie coach says it’s 15-14, VCs on top, but the Sweeties have last ups. Three or four VC errors later, the lead changes sides again, 16-15 Sweeties, after four.

Mary Ellen sits out the top of the fifth and asks me to fetch her an orange soda. Most of the Sweeties have brought squeeze bottles, or have parents who feed them in the stands when they’re not in the field or at bat. While I’m doing my errand, the Sweeties hold on — I may have missed a minor miracle, a 1-2-3 inning! The Sweeties are out of gas in their fifth, too, Mary Ellen fanning to end the inning, and there are three outs to go.

The Sweeties get the three outs, with the only runner of the inning being stranded at third — but it ain’t over! The VCs must have scored once in that half-inning I missed. It’s tied.

In the stands, the parents wonder if games can end in a tie, or if there are extra innings in this league. No one is sure, and we never find out. The first Sweetie up grounds to short and gets to second when the throw from the shortstop winds up — in the stands along first, or more specifically, in my hands! A few pitches later, another toss past the firstbaseman, Mary Ellen’s friend from school, Mary Kepner, lets the winning run score.

The Sweeties have climbed to the .500 mark, and their parents rise and cheer, while the kids shriek and grin. The VC players spit on their hands, so when the two teams line up and pass each other to say, “Good game!” (or whatever) — a ritual that all of the teams at every level perform after the battle — the Sweeties hands end up wet. At least that’s what Mary Ellen reports, and as soon as we get home, she races to the sink and washes up.

“Do you need a shower?”

“No, I played centerfield tonight.” (No sweat out there.) And she’s probably right. She could have been a statue tonight, she never had to move for anything all the time she was in the field.

 

FRIDAY, MAY 24

It’s another sweltering hot day in this amazing tropical Utica spring. It’s not a night where you go to the field with a “Let’s play two” frame of mind. Getting through one will be hard enough. And it turns out to be a real long evening, as the Bizzaris give up 19 runs and score just 7.

Pat and I were first at the field, hauling the sacks of helmets and bats and balls and the catcher’s gear, and lugging it all from our car trunk to the dugout. I kind of enjoy being on the scene early, and being the last to leave.

We have the team stuff, because Coach Ray is out of town (he took our hard-hitting third-sacker Jimmy with him), so I co-manage with Kevin Schultz. We decide to make one change in the lineup Ray made up, dropping slugger Johnny Burger from leadoff to cleanup, or from first to fourth in the batting order, an exchange for Don Dawes. In the first inning, it makes no difference — they both strike out, but we score two and take the lead, over Pizza Classic, a team we’d beaten twice.

The PCs are hot tonight, as they seem to bat around every inning, and the game was never close after the first. It’s the third win in a row for the Pizza kids, and one of those wins was over UFCW, the team that beat us twice. It’s hard to remember how we scored 25 against the PCs last time we met, because tonight we were simply outplayed in every department. The balls seemed to stick in their gloves, and roll under, around and through ours.

I managed the team scorebook, while coaching first, and had a third job, too — keeping order in the dugout, and keeping the on-deck hitters alert. This last task was a lot like driving on a long auto trip with ten kids in the back seat. “He hit me!” — “He hit me first!” “He spit!” “Can I go to the bathroom?” (“Are we there yet?”) “What’s the score now?” “Can I get a drink?”

Coaching first was easy tonight. We didn’t have all that many runners. Scoring the game was fun — I’ve enjoyed scoring ball games since I was Mary Ellen’s age. When the game was over, our side showed too many K’s, and theirs, too few batters put out.

Pat hit a nice-looking triple to right-center (scoring on a throwing error, so it felt like a homer.) J.B., our designated cleanup man tonight, who had hardly ever fanned before, did it twice tonight, but “homered” in his last at-bat. But both of those long hits led off innings, and didn’t start rallies — they were “nice, but…” hits. What we needed were big innings, chock full of small hits, instead of big hits in small innings.

So the streak is snapped at three. We have a game scheduled for tomorrow morning, despite the holiday weekend, and rain is predicted for tonight. We’ll take on Monroe, and I hope we get our act together, because (looking ahead) we have a re-match with the Pizza kids on Wednesday, and a showdown the Saturday after with UFCW. If there is a lesson tonight, perhaps it is this, that there are no easy games.

* * * * *

THE MILLS FAMILY, A TRADITION OF BASEBALL IN CENTRAL NY

by Scott Fiesthumel, April 2001

Do the names Wee Willie Mills, Art Mills or Billy Mills mean anything to you? If you were born in the latter half of the 20th century, you might not know anything about this prominent Central New York baseball family. If you were lucky enough to be born in the first half of the century, you may have great memories of one or more of these three generations of Mills’.

William Grant Mills was born in 1877 in Schenevus, NY and his nickname “Wee Willie” was derived from his 5′ 7″, 150 pound frame. Willie began pitching for Central NY amateur baseball teams and his fine pitching caught the attention of the management of the professional Utica club in the New York State League. In 1899 Willie Mills made his professional debut for Utica and had a very successful rookie season, winning 21 games against 14 losses.

The 1900 Utica Reds (named for their uniform’s cap and stocking color) were the class of the NYSL, winning the league championship. Willie Mills was the star pitcher, posting a 26-14 record. The newspapers called Mills “Gatling Gun” for the way he mowed down the opposition. Later in the season, when the umpire didn’t show up, Mills made his second career appearance as a substitute umpire.

Willie Mills pitched for Schenectady in 1901, posting a 15-3 record before being sold to the NY Giants. Willie pitched two games in the major leagues, losing both but pitching two complete games. He returned to the minor leagues and played for Montreal, Los Angeles, and eventually back in Utica. He also coached baseball at Utica Free Academy, working with the pitchers in the gymnasium during the off-season.

Whitesboro resident Billy Mills recalls of his grandfather Willie, “At that time ballplayers were not well thought of by the public, because they didn’t have a trade to support themselves. But I’m told Willie was so highly regarded by the President of Beech-Nut foods that he would send his private car to bring Willie to pitch in Canajoharie. My father had a newspaper clipping that told about the time Willie did everything a pitcher could do in one inning. He gave up a hit, had a strike out, walked a batter, balked, committed an error and also got a hit when he batted that inning. I’m named for Willie, but unfortunately I never knew him. I bet he was quite a character”

Willie met an untimely death when he was run over by a train in Norwood, NY in 1914, a month shy of his 37th birthday. His son, Arthur Grant Mills, was born in Utica in 1903 during the time Willie was coaching at UFA. Art followed much the same path as Willie, pitching several minor league seasons before getting a cup of coffee in the big leagues with Boston’s National League team.

Art once faced Babe Ruth and became one of many to give up a homer to Ruth. Art was a pitcher who could hit, batting .324 for Williamsport in 1934. After his playing career ended, Art went into coaching. In 1945 he became one of the few Uticans to win a World Series ring when he was a coach on the Detroit Tigers championship team.

 

The third generation of this baseball family was Art’s son, Billy. Billy also played amateur and semi-pro ball. In 1947, Billy did his first comic baseball routine to raise money to get himself and his teammates home from a game in Delhi, NY. The following season he took his new act on the road and it was a success from the start. For eight years he toured the country, playing ballparks, conventions and banquets. His Babe Ruth impersonation was especially good. The New York Times wrote, “An imitation of the late Babe Ruth by baseball comedian Billy Mills was the outstanding performance of the pre-game show”.

In 1953, the National Baseball Congress honored Billy for his contributions in increasing fan interest in baseball. Previously, NBC had recognized Connie Mack, Dizzy Dean and Joe E. Brown. Billy met or worked with some of the biggest names from the era, including Joe DiMaggio, Kate Smith, Lefty Gomez, Whitey Ford, Joe Garagiola and Max Patkin. In 1993, Billy was inducted into the Greater Utica Sports Hall of Fame and will joined by Art when he is posthumously inducted in May. I plan to share some of the Billy’s great stories (like the time he caused his father to be thrown out of a game) at a later date.

[With Scott’s permission, so do I. — TFC]

* * * * *

CLETE BOYER ? RESTAURANTEUR

By Robert Palazzo

The last week in September I attended a conference held in Cooperstown. On the last day of the conference, I skipped out on the “good-bye” lunch and instead decided to check out Clete Boyer’s Hamburger Hall of Fame. Located about three miles South of Cooperstown, it sits back off the road, and one would miss it if the location wasn’t known. It doesn’t look like much from the outside, — it’s your typical rural wooden structure that says to you, “Come on in for some good home-style cooking, nothing fancy but you won’t go broke either.”

Next door was a miniature golf course (I don’t know if it was part of the restaurant). I pulled into the empty parking lot, expecting it to be closed. I turned the knob on the door, and it opened. I had gone there hoping to find a memento of some kind (matches, napkin, whatever) and then planned to leave. As I walked inside, the waitress behind the counter asked me if I was interested in lunch, so I thought, What the heck, I haven’t eaten; I might as well stay.

As I sat down at the counter, I looked around. There were four other people in the place: the waitress, an old guy drinking coffee next to me at the counter, a cook in the back, and some mysterious woman who was wearing sunglasses. There was baseball memorabilia, mostly Yankee, all around. The drapes were white and blue, with Yankee logos and pinstripes; there were six booths around the perimeter and four small tables in the center of the room. The counter could seat six and there were simple Halloween decorations on the wall behind it. Each table and booth had its own number; I think they may have corresponded with retired Yankee player numbers.

There were many pictures of his teammates on the walls: Mickey, Whitey, Yogi, etc. One frame contained three photos ? one of Clete, one of his brother Ken and one of another brother, Cloyd. Off to one corner in the back was a display of “Home-Made Italian Cookies” for sale. How odd, I thought. Who’s home did they come from? Did Clete make them? This was a nice family-style place, but believe me, it had a weirdness to it. It was quirky, like that TV show Twin Peaks. I don’t know if it was the time of day, the fact there were no customers other than me and that old guy (who had disappeared from the premises by the time I swiveled back in my counter seat to face the front) or the woman who was wearing the sunglasses and sitting at the opposite end of the counter.

I asked if Clete stopped in the restaurant at all, and was surprised when the waitress responded, “Oh, every day. He was here for five hours yesterday.” While I had been taking a scenic boat ride yesterday afternoon, Clete was right here at his restaurant! My face showed both surprise and disappointment. She continued, “He hasn’t been here yet today, but it’s still early. You may get to see him.”

I learned that Clete Boyer lives only about thirty minutes away from the restaurant, in the little town of Worcester, NY. I had no idea that he lived anywhere near here, or even in Upstate NY.

I checked out the menu and it was what you would expect from this kind of place in this kind of setting -? good solid breakfasts, hot and cold sandwiches and dinner entrees, all reasonably priced. Some had names to hook fans of the Bronx Bombers: Yankee Blueberry pancakes, Rizzuto Pancakes (short stack), Yogi’s Special meatball sub, Pepitone’s All Beef Foot-Long Frankfurter (well, Clete and Joe shared a locker room; ’nuff said), Chili Davis Dog and Chicken Catcha Torre, with pasta.

But the place was named Hamburger Hall of Fame for a good reason. There were eleven ‘burger choices, including the Reggie Veggie Burger, the Clete Boyer Burger, the Bobby Richardson Cheeseburger, the Roger Maris Hamburger Deluxe, the Mickey Mantle Cheeseburger Deluxe, the Jeter Burger Supreme, the Tony Kubek Bacon Burger, the Andy Pettitte Pizza Burger and the Whitey Ford Blue Cheese Burger. I asked what the Clete Burger had on it, and the waitress laughed, telling me, “Nothing. It’s just a plain burger.” I said something about that not being right and she said that he was lucky to have THAT named after him, and then she and the mysterious woman in sunglasses began to laugh. I ordered the Mickey Mantle instead.

While waiting for my order, I mentioned to the waitress that I had a photo of me and Clete that was taken this past summer during HOF weekend, and how I’d like to have it autographed, and I was wondering if I mailed it to him c/o the restaurant, if it would get to him. She said, looking to the woman in sunglasses, “Sure, give it to her and she’ll be sure he gets it.” AHA! — a clue to this woman’s identity; could she be Clete’s wife, sister, girlfriend, business partner? I now directed my conversation to her, as I felt she was a better contact than the waitress.

I explained to her how I had written several articles about Clete for The Diamond Angle, and that I had been at the Yankees’ Old Timer’s game on Labor Day weekend, and saw Clete manage one of the teams. “Oh yes, we were there that weekend.” I told her I had the photo in my car and asked if she could hand- deliver it to him for an autograph. She said that she would. Afraid that she might leave early, I ran out to my car to get it. As I handed it to her, I mentioned that I’d like to send Clete copies of the articles I had written. She took a piece of paper, wrote something on it and handed it to me saying to send them to her, not the restaurant. I put the paper in my pocket without looking at it and sat down to my lunch, which had been delivered by now.

I mentioned, to no one in particular, that the hamburger was excellent (and it was — a full half pound of what appeared to be, and tasted like, sirloin). I also noted that the steak fries were just like my mother used to make. That brought a “What did I tell him; these are good fries” from the waitress, once again directed to the woman in sunglasses, who by now was stretched out on one of the booths, trying to nap, I guessed.

I finished my lunch, received my bill — the Guest Check, referring to my hamburger, said “Mick Mantel” (sic) — and left a ten dollar bill on the counter. I reached into my pocket and looked at the piece of paper; an address but no name. I was determined to find out just who this woman with sunglasses was (she was now once again seated at the far end of the counter). First I offered to send money for postage for the return of the (I hoped) soon-to-be-autographed photo. She told me not to be ridiculous. I asked to whose attention should I address the envelope containing the articles I was going to send, since she had neglected to give me her name. She said, “Just put Clete’s name; he’ll get it.”

When I got home, I still wasn’t sure what the mysterious woman’s relationship to Clete Boyer was (although I have an idea.) I wondered if I would ever get my photo back (I did, with a real nice silver autograph); and I discovered that the reverse of a Bill Robinson Rookie card I had bought earlier in the day noted that Robinson had been traded from the Braves to the Yankees for — Clete Boyer!

Several months ago, when I sent copies of the articles to Clete, I enclosed a letter asking to interview him. There hasn’t been a response. I drove to Cooperstown this weekend for a HOF event, stopping by the restaurant before going into town. It was closed for the season.

PUNISH PETE ROSE: VOTE HIM IN

[In the winter of 1992-93, I was researching Addie Joss, while “the Pete Rose Question” was just starting to heat up.]

Like many baseball fans, I have spent considerable time debating whether Pete Rose should or should not be admitted to the Hall of Fame, all things considered. After much Hot Stove meditation, I have come at last to a conclusion that I think will satisfy everybody. Let’s punish Pete, by voting him in.

Huh? That’s right. Admission as punishment. As it stands, Pete is standing on the Hall’s doorstep, right? Cap in hand, he hunches over like a common homeless American, as year after year, others knock and are admitted. But before we pity the old Red Rose, let’s take another look at what’s going on.

As long as Pete stands on the edge, along with Shoeless Joe, he is more famous than many ‘Famers inside. Count the column inches devoted to the Rose question, each year. Everything written about the fresh elections, who’s eligible or not, who was written-in — they all mention Pete Rose. Next year, Reggie Jackson’s name (this year’s only admission from the regular balloting) will come up here and there, but soon, it will be relegated to the record books. But as long as Pete is outside, we cannot ignore him.

This struck me as I completed working on a play featuring Addie Joss. “Addie Who?” is a fairly typical reaction when I bring up his name today. Why? Because Addie suffered two great misfortunes: the first was to have died suddenly (of tubercular meningitis) just after Opening Day 1911. The second was to have been voted into the Hall of Fame. Look it up, he’s in there.

Adrian Joss pitched for Cleveland, 1902-1910. His rookie ERA of 2.77 (when he won 17 games) was the highest in his nine seasons. Lifetime, his 1.88 ERA is second only to Ed Walsh’s 1.82. Addie won 160 games (in eight full summers; he went 5-5 when he injured his arm in 1910), tossed 46 shutouts, completed 9 of every ten starts, yielded just 16 homers (8,261 batters faced), and authored any number of low-hit gems. His perfect game in October 1908, a 1-0 victory over Ed Walsh in the heat of a tight pennant race (Walsh was going for his 40th win), ranks as one of the best-pitched games ever.

But throw all the numbers away: Addie Joss was one of the best-liked players in the game, respected by his entire league for his character as well as his pitching skill. Here’s how high in regard Joss was held: after his death, the league played what some call the first All Star game, as a benefit for Addie’s wife and kids. Ty Cobb was among the first to volunteer to play, and donated $100 besides (as much as the whole New York team) — even though Ty managed just two scratch hits off Joss in 18 at bats when the two met in combat!

What kept Joss out of the Hall until 1978? Those nine summers. The Hall’s 10-year rule allowed for no exceptions. Had Addie tossed just one pitch in 1911, or had a cup of coffee in 1901, he likely would have been voted in right along with Mathewson and Johnson.

But Addie became famous anyway, for a while, by standing on the doorstep — the one Pete Rose occupies today. Sure as the buzzards returning to Hinckley (that’s for Clevelanders), every year someone, somewhere would write an article or a column about Addie Joss, and the injustice done by leaving him outside, while so many less deserving walked past and into the Hall. The light turned out to be much brighter on the doorstep. Once the rule was changed, and Addie was admitted, he became obscure almost at once.

So I say, let’s remove the spotlight from Pete Rose, and Shoeless Joe, too. Vote them in! Deny them the annual mentions in the Hall of Fame publicity, deny them a place in the endless debating. Vote them in — it will serve them right!

O.K., let’s not do the right thing for the wrong reason. Let’s pull a Ford Frick on them, and make their plaques carry asterisks. The stars would be explained by a sign below: * Admitted for their accomplishments on the field only.

No need to detail the cases. These fellows earned a niche, all right, and had they behaved themselves off the diamond, who would doubt they’d be securely inside by now? The asterisks are the real penalties, you see. I know, eventually folks paid no attention to the one by Maris’ 61 homers, and it was later officially erased. But it’s harder to erase bronze.

If someone complains that singling out Rose and Joe Jackson for asterisks, while others in the Hall “rate” the same penalty, then form a Veterans’ Committee to deal with it.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the idea of the Hall of Fame, and the controversy every election stirs up. But it’s there to recognize ball players, it’s not supposed to be for saints. If there weren’t already some all-too-human folks in there already, I might consider holding the door closed on Pete and Shoeless.

Vote them both in. They’re not worthy enough to stand on Addie’s doorstep.

 

OPENING DAY, 1939 [June 27, 1993]

Hall of Fame Weekend is to central NY is like Mardi Gras to New Orleans, or Superbowl Week to whichever city draws that short straw. We get to be the center of attention in the World of Baseball, ESPN comes, and tourists overflow C-town all the way to Utica. Not only do the living HOFers congregate as their elite grows (by one, this summer), but two major league teams fly in and out of Utica — they bus from here south to the Capitol.

I was curious about that very first HOF weekend, in 1939, when the Hall opened its doors. So I checked out the Utica newspapers of the day. Headlines went to other arriving royalty — King George VI and Queen Elizabeth de-boated in NY City. Coverage of the HOF on the sports pages was a fraction of what it is today, and seemed to be wire service stuff, not from local reporters. Upstate cities can be pretty parochial.

Two future ‘Famers who did not attend were Lou Gehrig and Tony Lazzeri. The latter was just cut loose, and was trying to catch on, to stay in the game, and Tony was signed to manage the Toronto Maple Leafs in the International League.

Gehrig, whose Iron Horse streak ended earlier that spring, was off to the Mayo Clinic for “a check up” — and reading this brought to mind Bang the Drum Slowly and Bruce Pearson.

The media gushed over Babe Ruth, who had left the game in ’35. They reported his quip, after his arm grew tired signing his name: “I didn’t know there were so many people who didn’t have my autograph!” The day was summed up for one reporter by a 10-year-old’s “Gee, ain’t the Babe wonderful?” Ruth popped up in the clambake pick-up game they played — the fans called out for the catcher to drop it, so they could see a homer. Honus Wagner’s gang topped Eddie Collins’, 4-2. The box score made the paper.

 

HALL OF FAME WEEKEND [July 25, 1993]

Suddenly, it’s that time of year again, when the ESPN crews that just left Utica (after filming our annual Boilermaker Race), return to central NY and venture the thin roads of Leatherstocking Country.

Cooperstown. This is the week that it really is the axis mundi, the center of the baseball cosmos. There will be a flood of traffic from Downstate, to see Reggie Jackson one more time. I’ll visit after the flood is reduced to a trickle, Sunday PM, for a regional SABR meeting. Two years ago, the grandson of Walter Johnson showed up, full of stories; last year, a former reporter from St Louis, with tall tales of Dizzy & the Gang. Wonder who will dazzle us this time?

Last summer, I visited on the day before the flood, with my son Pat along. I decided to stop in at the old Otesaga Hotel, to see if anyone famous might have checked in early. As Pat and I passed the basement elevator, the doors opened, and out walked Ralph Kiner.

Pat elbowed me and asked if he was anyone famous. “Is that Ted Williams?” As Ralph wandered away toward the golf course, I told Pat who Ralph was. I mentioned that Ralph had seen the poem I’d done of him, and I knew (via Tim McCarver) that he liked it very much. Finally, Pat convinced me that I should introduce myself, but it was too late, Ralph had disappeared.

Later last summer, I dropped Ralph a note, mentioning we’d passed in the Otesaga hallway. And I asked him to drop a note to my mother, who was battling cancer. My folks were big Kiner fans, and if I’d have been born a few years later, I’d probably be named Ralph.

He did. His note read: “Dear Marie, Sorry to hear of your illness, but as the recovery gets better, the prognosis is a whole lot better than the Mets.” That was Hall of Fame.

 

A WEEKEND IN THE SUN [August 8, 1993]

Kids have big day with Famers was the headline on my Sunday sports page August 1, Hall of Fame Weekend. 275 kids got to meet Warren Spahn or Rollie Fingers or Brooks Robinson, at Table A or B. Pee Wee and Catfish and Brooksie were there, too. So was ESPN.

That was Saturday. Not far away, Doubleday Field was jammed with fans watching the Oneonta Yankees (who were 1? game up on the Utica Blue Sox) get pounded 14-2 by Jamestown.

Sunday was Reggie’s Day. Roger Angell, in The New Yorker: “From first to last, he was excessive; he excelled at excess…. He talked of ‘the magnitude of me,’ and also declared, ‘I represent the underdog and the overdog in our society…. His ego, like his swing, took your breath away.” Reggie swelled all week, in every magazine and newspaper, swelled to the full-blown size we recall he was when he left the game, swelled to the perfect size to talk to America, like a president-elect or a talk-show host, from baseball’s grandest platform. It’s perched in upstate NY, far from the madding crowds of the Bronx. It’s the only stage greater than Yankee Stadium, for former Yanks to say their thanks.

Monday, the Indians and Dodgers will fly in and out of Utica, bussing down to C-town for an exhibition game between flights. They will sign autographs, like the Famers that hang over. (Whitey Ford charges $18 per, $45 for a bat, evidently a tougher chore. Right.)

For a third straight summer (a streak alive, intact), I ventured into baseball’s Center City on Sunday evening, for the annual SABR meeting. I come in fresh, but plainly, most attendees are winding down from an exhausting day — listening to speeches can wear you out. This year, not so many folks, just a few presentations. But we have a superstar, like the old Cubs had Ernie and the Phils had Richie Ashburn. Our drawing card is David Pietrusza, from Scotia, recently elected president of SABR. This year, he delivered again, a presentation he gave (but I missed) in San Diego, on Night Baseball.

The idea has been around over a century — it was tried with kerosene and gas lamps, before electricity worked better (imagine spotlights trying to follow fly balls!) Of course, we know it caught on in the late 1930s, but teams were limited to just seven night games, until WW II came along. It is reassuring to recall that baseball is older than electricity. And that Reggie Jackson just might have been a superstar, without television.