Notes #231 — Play Ball

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

#231                                                                                                                         APRIL 1, 2001
                                                                   PLAY BALL
 

            My poem “Opening Day” ends with this challenge: Name words more magical than / Play ball.  When I wrote that one (you can find it in Romancing the Horsehide — I have a few copies left), I thought Tom Boswell had it right with his famous title Why Time Begins on Opening Day, but lately, I’ve reconsidered that, and you can read on and decide for yourself.
 

            As this issue comes together, the snowbanks here in the shadows of Cooperstown are still piled high, making it harder to get into the spirit of O-Day (or spring.)  A couple of funerals since our return from Florida have not helped, either. The Pirates lost a lifelong fan in my Aunt Mary, and my father-in-law a lifelong friend, his wife Beverly. Ordinarily, the loss of a mother-in-law is not such a sad event, but in this case, for me, it surely was. Bev had a knack for great gifts, and she was duly acknowledged in Romancing the Horsehide. Both women were 80, and I will miss them both.
 

            Time stops for deaths in the family, too, but not like it does for baseball.
 

            Reminding readers that this stuff I write really does come from where I am, and that includes geographically, I reprint here a poem (not in RTH!) that certainly fits the weather this year.
 

HOME OPENER
 

Never mind the patches of snow / Out in right field / So what if the ground’s still frozen? / It’ll thaw and green soon enough /
We can see our breath / Rise ’round the peaks of our caps / But it’s spring / And we can’t wait any longer!
 

All winter our gloves hung / Our best balls strapped inside / After rubdowns with neat’s foot oil / Hung like Christmas stockings / Hung like bats asleep in a cave
 

Now they’re open again / And let’s toss one HERE, Jack
 

We’re bulky with sweaters / That make for protection / From the bad hops / We’re chilled to the bone / But having too much fun to quit / The first swings of spring / Stretch muscles somehow bypassed / In our touch football games / Played on this same field / When it was white and deep
 

No calisthenics in our camp / Some pepper and fungoes / Decent number of warm-up tosses / Then the game is afoot
 

School will be over in June / Then nothing can stop us / Without homework / We’ll play til it’s dark / Or until the last ball / Is lost / Or loses it cover
 

It’s April in Pennsylvania / And it’s Florida in our hearts
 

 

            Ignoring Satchel Paige’s advice, this issue looks back — at Opening Days past, as seen in Notes. While rummaging thru the attic of old issues, I noticed that I took a year off (1997), something I had forgotten. I survived The Strike of 1994-95 (sort of), then tried doing Notes on line in 1996, but I cannot think of a good reason for halting production in 1997. My Pirates were actually not that bad that summer, so that can’t be it. I was still writing baseball, but mostly fiction or in e-mail conversations on the SABR-L and Pirate List. Anyway, you will notice that gap in my O-Day celebrations as you read on, and I wanted you to know it was not a typo.
 

            But before we put on our party hats for the festival of O-Day, let’s revisit the Hot Stove one more time, in a poem (not in RTH) … last one out, flick the switch, please….
 

HOT STOVE
 

Before television
People talked
 

And when the snows came
People talked near the hot stove
 

Smell the bread baking
And wonder if the Babe
Really did call that homer
 

Pull off your wet boots
Prop up your feet so your soles
Are toasting
And wonder how Cobb would do
Against Carl Hubbell
Or how your favorite team
Of the past
Might fare next spring
If they could be resurrected
Or coaxed out of that Iowa cornfield
 

Sip some hot cocoa with marshmallows
Invite the kids to join in
Was it better when the gloves were small
Or is that just nostalgia?
For your own youth?
Could Canseco have started
For the ’27 Yankees
And should games in which
The first hit is yielded in the 10th
Count as a no-hitter?
 

Steer clear of religion and politics
And players’ salaries
And the afternoon can go on
Until sundown
 

Was the best-pitched game
The double no-no by Vaughn and Toney
Or Walsh’s 1-0 loss to Joss’ perfecto / Or the iron man duel between Burdette and Haddix?
And how come no one hits .400 any more?
 

The stoves are in junk yards or museums now, forever cool
But the questions live on
Talking baseball
Beats most things on TV
That is
When there’s no game to watch
 

 

SNAPSHOTS FROM OPENING DAYS PAST  
 

HAPPY NEW YEAR   [from NOTES #7, April 3, 1993]
 

            As Opening Day 1993 approaches, I find myself wanting this unique (for me) “off-season” to continue. I enjoy the time I have in winter, to write. Soon I’ll be glued to my TV and radio and the Little League field, and in June, going to Blue Sox games. Also, as long as the ’93 season hasn’t started, my Pirates are NL East Champions!  Four straight “half-pennants” seems like too much to hope for, but of course, I’m hoping.
 

            As much as I tell myself that Opening Day is just one of 162 games, not particularly symbolic — there remains something special about the first pitches and at-bats. I’ll want to see them, or hear them. Certainly, to read all about them.
 

            No midnight countdown, but sure enough it’s like New Year’s Eve. Something to celebrate. The cold winter is officially over, any further snow is out of order. Time to adjust to the new time. The war’s been going on over a century, and we love it.
 

AND … THEY’RE OFF!   [from NOTES #59, March 30, 1994]
 

            As I look back a year (nothing seems to be gaining on me), I notice that I am approaching 1994 with very different feelings, than ’93. Last spring, I actually wanted the “off-season” to continue (I was enjoying the time it afforded me to write) … and as long as the season wasn’t underway, my Pirates were still NL East Champs!
 

            … A few years ago, I met a fellow fan who told me that every year, on Opening Day he re-reads that fine essay by Tom Boswell [Time Begins on Opening Day], which also happens to be the title of the book in which it appears. I’ve gotten into that habit myself, and recommend it.
 

            We all knew ’93 was going to be a strange year when Charlie Brown led it off with a game-winning home run. History offers consolation, and the Peanuts at left [Charlie’s team lost, 123 to 0] is for all of us whose teams begin ’94 with an L. Wait’ll tomorrow! If we instead earn a W, then it’s 161 to go. If we are lucky, that is. A cloud hangs over ’94 [Selig’s Strike], and we start this season with one eye on the “weather” — hoping to get the whole thing in. With no rain check for a safety net.
 

 

AN AFFAIR TO FORGET   [from NOTES #101, April 27, 1995]
 

            It’s spring, the snowblower is back in the basement (the lawn mower is ready for its first run), and Opening Day 1995 is just days away.  Yet it feels like winter, when my thoughts turn to baseball.  Like the thaw is still to come.
 

            On April 21, I was vacationing in Toronto, and toured Skydome with my family.  We battled our way there on foot from our hotel, through driving winds and rain that froze our fingers and tested our umbrellas.  The Jays have not yet flown north, so we got to visit the locker rooms and dugouts, sites dropped from my first tour, last July, when the home team was in town.  It’s a nice tour, worth doing even out of season.
 

            Naturally, this recent tour recalled for me the mood of last July, before the curtain fell.  It was sunny — the dark cloud on the horizon was still just threatening — fans were upbeat, the season was unfolding with astonishing individual and team performances, the lines were long and no one minded.  This time around — it felt like winter.
 

            It’s been nearly four months since I’ve written under this old familiar masthead.  I think I’m doing this to see if I can rouse myself out of the hibernation I chose. “Picked a good time to suspend NOTES,” as one friend put it.  Yes, a very good time.  When even the announcement that THE STRIKE IS OVER is regarded with suspicion (is it GOOD news?) — you know it’s been a rough off-season for the fans.
 

            What seems plainer and plainer to me, as I talk and listen to my fan-friends, is that we all had a relationship to baseball, and that the 232-day event called, in the end, only “The Strike,” has changed that relationship.  For some, forever. For some, just for the moment.  But for many, I think — myself included — for a good long while.  And I’m forgiving by nature!
 

            It’s as if ML Baseball has cheated on its fans — had a fling with a very wealthy person, a 232-day affair — then came back home, saying, “I’m sorry” — but keeping the phone number of The Other Person handy.  To which fans have replied, “Sorry, but Yogi had it right: IT ain’t over til it’s OVER.”
 

 

GONE FISHING   [from NOTES #126, MARCH 23, 1996]
 

            “‘I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing,’ the old man said. ‘They say his father was a fisherman. Maybe he was as poor as we are and would understand.'”
 

            I enjoyed reading that famous Hemingway fish story The Old Man and the Sea, and several others of Mr H’s novels. One of my college profs worshipped Hemingway, virtually forcing me into the Devil’s Advocate role in class — no Hall of Fame should have a capacity of one, especially a Literary one. I became a Yogi Berra of sorts, who once asked Hemingway, “What paper do you write for, Ernie?” And would you like my autograph?
 

            “You always get a special kick on opening day, no matter how many you go through. You look forward to it like a birthday party when you’re a kid. You think something wonderful is going to happen.”  — Joe DiMaggio     
 

            It’s Opening Day 1996, and we are all boarding the fishing boat of Baseball once again. Fishing can be honest work, and it can be pure fun. In the ocean that Baseball sails, we are certain that there will be some terrific catches in the months ahead. But we have no idea where or when. Like the kid headed off to the party, clutching his gift-wrapped something, we look forward to the games, to seeing other kids, to the singing and cheering.
 

            Hell, sometimes the best catch at a game is made by a fan like us, or a vendor. You never know.
 

            But it’s Opening Day, we launch out, mentally dressed for the long haul. Today’s catch is something, but we will be sailing into October, and we can’t react to every nibble as if we’ve landed a Marlin.
 

            I would like to take the great DiMaggio fishing. I’m getting some help this O-Day from that son of a fisherman Joe D. (and David Nathan’s little McFarland book of Baseball Quotations) in getting this issue into the water, for a couple of reasons. One is that I like the spirit of his quote, above. Yeah, a birthday party. Same time next year.
 

            So grab your rods and gear, take a light jacket for the spring and fall and the night games, don’t forget your scorebook (to record what we haul in), and fill your rootin’ mugs with hope. It’s O-Day, anything can happen, spin the bottle, light the candles, make a wish, the snows of winter are as doomed as   frosting on the cake, may you have many more.
 

[The “Joe DiMaggio Issue” of NOTES, #126, is no longer available in the NOTES Archive, something I did not know when I recommended it last issue. Sorry.]
 

 

SPRING TRAINING IMAGES   [from Spring 1996]
 

            I reported along with pitchers and catchers, but departed Florida before the first exhibition games started up. However, I did visit a few camps, absorbing the sounds and sights of baseball, starting my summer tan.
 

            The players get younger every year, of course. When the fan is older than just a few players, this phenomenon is hardly remarkable. But once the fan is older than most, then all of the players — and even of some coaches — it is hard not to comment. It helps that this was Florida, where fifty feels young. But it is still hard to escape the impression that these guys belong on some college campus.
 

            At McKechnie Field in Bradenton, where my Pirates play their grapefruit league games, I observed some workouts from a distance — no fans admitted, and the fences effectively screened out onlookers. A young black man, wearing a staff t-shirt from the Boy’s Club adjacent to McKechnie, peered with me toward home plate at batting practice, through a space between the bleachers in left and the outfield fence. He had one ball in hand, and while I stood leaning on the cyclone fence, he scaled it, gingerly stepping on the barbed wire with his sneakers, and flopping down on the other side to pick up a second ball.
 

            Taking his time — no one noticed him, he was too well- shielded — he slowly but nimbly retraced his steps, and took up his space on the concrete walkway again. After a few more minutes, he offered to sell me both balls, for five dollars. The second ball was from some Mexican league; he said the other was American League. But I politely refused his offer, and continued watching. After another minute passed, he offered me both, for a dollar. I asked how many balls he expected to get today.
 

            “No one else around, maybe twelve.”  Indeed, he had the day to himself, so far. “Look, that might be one.”  He listened like a robin stalking worms, one ear cocked up. “Nope, it’s going back in, never made it.”  A fielder’s throw skidded in front of the shortstop, who was pretending to be the cutoff man.
 

            Later on, just south, gloved fans of all ages surrounded the several fields named for Ed Smith, in Sarasota. Here, the White Sox were working out. Reinsdorf will take the Sox to Arizona next year, so the signs honoring Nellie Fox and Minnie Minoso will likely change. But this day, the atmosphere was festive, with Sox programs and more selling briskly.
 

            No scorecard needed to recognize Albert Belle, as he took his first cuts in a Sox uniform. Fans clustered behind the wire fences, on either side of the batting cage, watching Albert do what he does best: focus on the pitch coming his way, then line it somewhere. We were as quiet as we’d have been in a library or church, as if the slightest sound might draw a scowl, or worse. I suspect it will he rougher on Albert up north, in Cleveland, for example. Wanna bet where this next pitch will be, Albert? 
 

            But today, Albert swung in peace. Somewhere out west, Barry Bonds was leapfrogging over Albert’s staggering salary. Somewhere else, Albert’s gambling habit was the subject of scrutiny. But today, Albert could just focus on hitting liners.
 

            When I put these two images of spring side by side, they are disconcerting. One young black man is selling baseballs, for whatever he can get, while another, on the other side of the fence that separates fans and players, starts earning eleven million dollars a year.
 

            In the days that followed, many other images flowed my way, from the sports pages, TV, radio. Injuries, controversies real or conjured up, forecasts. The first box scores will stir up even more images, of fresh rookie-of-the-year candidates, of comeback players, of comeback teams.  We’re all in first place, til Opening Day — don’t pinch us, don’t wake us up.
 

            But somehow, I think I’ll always recall this spring for those two images that flew north from Florida with me, back to the shadows of Cooperstown, where they remain side by side, haunting me a little bit, like the economics of the game itself.
 

 

VERNAL VARSITY   [from NOTES #156, March 20, 1998]
 

            This issue is coming together as we all prepare to leave behind “the dark side of the calendar,” which we entered when the cheering ended for victory-lapping Jim Leyland last October. I know life goes on in the world of baseball from November to Opening Day, but it’s not the same thing.
 

(Spring’s) fruits are unripened:
Florida grapefruit leagues and oranges
Palm balls and trees
Farm phenoms dueling
Yesterspring’s aces
For the limited lines
In the boxes of summer
 

(from “The Dark Side of the Calendar” in Romancing the Horsehide)
 

            Even spring training — it’s baseball, all right, but the winning and losing that is significant concerns roster spots, niches in the rotation or the pen, roles on this team. Something in us roots more for the “phenom” who knocks the coconuts off the trees in right center, than for a “W” in the linescore. Or maybe we root for a veteran pitcher trying to squeeze one more summer out of his aging arm, that once made him “yestersping’s ace.”  Where have you gone, Zane Smith?
 

            Last spring, this Pirate fan was fascinated by the scramble of no less than seventy players for the twenty-five roster spots on the Pittsburgh team. This time around, it’s more like fifty fighting it out, with a couple of positions wide open. There is something reassuring about knowing who’s on first, second, third and so on … but something in us also likes to see performance rewarded. I never understood, as a novice fan, why the team would send down the kid hitting .550, and keep the familiar name who was struggling to reach .200. Today I know, but still….
 

            By the time this issue is completed and in the mail, we will all know who made the vernal varsity for our favorite teams. The rotation will be set, and probably the lineup for Opening Day. We leave Florida or Arizona (most of us) on a kind of safari into the unchartered land of The Season of 1998. We know about how long we’ll be gone, but no one can predict the adventures we will discover on the trail: hiding behind a rock in the first week might be a triple play, a no-hitter in a tree further down the path, a sweep of an arch-rival (an oasis in the desert of a month strewn with one-run losses), the quicksand of the dreaded DL, or the excitement of being on the road to October’s Game.
 

 

WHY TIME ENDS ON OPENING DAY   [from NOTES #185, March 1, 1999]
 

            I like Tom Boswell, and three of his paperbacks are within my reach as I process these words in my home office. Well, I call it my office. My wife Barb calls it a baseball shrine, but that’s just because she’s never seen a real baseball shrine. Anyway, Tom Boswell is a fine writer, even if he occasionally strays from baseball.
 

            In 1984, he wrote an essay Why Time Begins on Opening Day, and it has become famous. For some, it is mandatory springtime reading. My title here (my essay comes later on) is in no way intended to pick a fight with Mr Boswell, who, understand, is just a click of the mouse away. No, I just want to borrow most of his famous title, and take another look at the same phenomenon, from a different angle. From the shadows of Cooperstown.
 

                                                                        * * * * *
 

            Because baseball permits us to escape time, that’s why. Once the last out of the World Series is recorded — or when the October duel ends with a Mazeroskian clout — we no longer live inside games, inside innings, inside rallies. We are dumped unceremoniously and suddenly into Time — and we can only start counting the days, weeks and months till Opening Day.
 

            Opening Day turns us fans into sliders, we slip through its shimmering portal into another dimension. As another book title puts it, Time Stops. We are inside a world where clocks are useless and superfluous. Once The Game is afoot, all we need pay attention to is the season in progress, the series, the game. The feeling is what made us fans in the first place, we are hooked on the freedom and enjoying our temporary wings.
 

            In the first seasons of Notes, I asked my readers to share their Opening Day stories or rituals. Some fans read a famous essay by Tom Boswell, for example, while others anticipate the subway ride to Yankee Stadium. Just going to the first game, no matter how cold it is, is a must for many.
 

            I would like to again ask Notes readers (and I’m hoping there are many new ones by now) to e-mail me your stories. I don’t know if I will have space for them all, but let’s see what happens. Let’s say, 75 words or less.
 

            A couple of years back, I launched into the new season in Notes aboard a fishing boat, steered by Joe DiMaggio. That was 1996, and by October we had made some terrific catches … it was hard work and pure fun, and we completed the voyage intact (the previous two seasons were shipwrecked and shortened respectively, you may recall.)
 

            Last spring, I used the safari image, and by the time we had reached the All Star oasis, we knew we were hunting big game indeed. But remember O-Day ’98? Junior Griffey and Mark McGwire both homered, and were both expected to make a run at Maris’ mark. After all, lots of things happen in expansion years.
 

            I haven’t decided yet on an image to carry us thru ’99, but I am struck by how many choices I have. There must be fifty — no, make that fifty thousand ways to look at baseball. Which is why, I think, it is so attractive for writers. Like Mr Boswell.
 

            Looking back, I note that my Pirates won their ’98 Opener, by a 4-0 score. Not an omen, however. That’s the problem with O-Day, of course, there is no way to know what’s a fluke.
 

            That’s the only problem, however. I would not mind O-Day becoming a national holiday — it would save some of us a vacation day. Let’s see now, we replace Columbus Day with National Baseball Day … maybe exchange President’s Day for….
 

 

THROW AWAY THE CLOCKS   [from NOTES #211, April 9, 2000]
 

            Opening Day this time around came just after we were admonished to turn our clocks ahead, to gain that extra hour of playing time for evening games. At least, I think that’s why we do it. In any case, the slogan that fits Opening Day best is “Throw Away the Clocks,” and if you want to know why, re-read the little essay “Why Time Ends on Opening Day.” I decided a while back that Tom Boswell’s famous book title had it all wrong,
and I decided to elaborate on it some…
 

            We woke on the first Sunday of the season here in the Shadows of Cooperstown, to a significant accumulation of wet, heavy, sticks-to-your-shovel snow. This is precisely why teams used to stay in Florida till mid or even late April.  And I was reminded of something I wrote in 1993, in Notes #11, when the white stuff visited us in late April. My Pirates had gotten off to a good start that spring, their first without Barry Bonds, and were five games over .500 — when they lost five straight. The day after the fifth loss, I wrote: “Thursday morning, the ground was white here in Utica, and wet, heavy flakes were falling. It was winter again, the Bucs’ +5 was gone, gone with the spring. Time to start over.”
 

 

NOTES FROM A LEAGUE OF MY OWN  
 

[This is the fifth in a series of eight. If you missed your favorite team, check the Notes Archive: Yankees & Braves in 223; Red Sox & Giants in 225; Indians & Pirates in 227; Orioles and Dodgers in 229. It is now mid-June in my third simulated APBA season pitting the best against the best; the Pirates lead the NL by four games, while the Orioles and Indians battle for the AL lead. Hack Wilson is having a terrific year for the Cubs.]
 

THE PHILLIES
 

            The Phils led most of the way in my first simulation, and then caught the Reds and beat them in a best-of-three playoff the second time around. This time, they are struggling to get back to .500.
            Their lineup is solid at the top: Sliding Billy Hamilton is a super lead-off man and base-stealer; Big Ed Delahanty has .400 potential, as does RBI king Sam Thompson. Big Ed used to play a lot of infield, so there was room for cleanup hitter Chuck Klein in the OF, but this season he is my steady DH.
 

            Dick Allen and Mike Schmidt own the infield corners, and bat 5-6. Few teams (the Yankees are one) have a more reliable and steady 1-6 batting order. The Phils went into the Negro League draft looking for middle infielders that could send Larry Bowa, Tony Taylor and Granny Hamner to the bench or the minors, and they came up with two winners. “King Richard” Lundy is a gold glove at short, has speed and cat hit some; Curtis “Popeye” Harris earns his spinach money at 2B (but can play anywhere), and should hit over .300.
 

            Darren Daulton won’t hit .300 in this league, but has good power and some defense; Virgil “Spud” Davis is a solid backup C.
 

            On the bench is Richie Ashburn, Fresco Thompson (draftee Mike Lansing is on the DL), Juan Samuel (good hit, no field), and two new faces, John Kruk and Scott Rolen.
 

            The Phils’ starting rotation, like most teams, is deep. Pitchers than cannot maintain a certain high rating find themselves in the minors. The four starters that have stuck this time around are Robin Roberts, Lefty Carlton, Jim Bunning, and Old Pete Alexander. A Negro League draftee has also pitched well enough to stay in there — that would be William “Dizzy” Dismukes.
 

            The Phils’ bullpen is currently recovering from an assault by the Dodgers (20 runs, 25 hits). In danger of losing their spots on the roster are “Frosty Bill” Duggleby (of Utica, NY), Steve Bedrosian, and Tully Sparks. Jim Konstanty has been steady, and Tug McGraw has emerged as the Phils’ closer.
 

            Too early to count the Phils out, but they need a W streak.
 

 

THE WHITE SOX   
 

            The White Sox struggled mightily in my first season, their all-time franchise stars having less power than any other franchise. The addition of Frank Thomas, the second time around, helped (they also picked up George Brett in a draft.) But this time, the Sox are genuine contenders, thanx to the addition of “the black Lou Gehrig,”  Buck Leonard.
 

            All of the stars from the Negro Leagues have high injury factors, so I try to protect Buck by using him at DH, despite his gold glove (versus Frank Thomas’ tin.) When Buck was injured in May, the Sox lost every one of nine or ten games; when he returned to the lineup, they streaked back into the race.
 

            So now you know who’s on first. Eddie Collins bats leadoff and flashes more gold at 2B. Could be on the All Stars again. At short, Luke Appling usually starts, then turns it over to Luis Aparicio — this has worked very well. At third, more gold leather with Brett. Edgar Martinez, the Sox’ DH till Buck took over, can spell George off at third and is good off the bench.
 

            The Sox outfielders generally bat 6-7-8, or maybe even 7-8-9 if I move up Negro League draftee C Biz Mackey. Ed Herrmann is the other catcher, and he’s hitting a lot of HRs this spring.
 

            So I rotate the outfielders off the bench freely (0-for-4 and you’re outta the lineup.)  Sharing this system are Harold Baines (good defense and power), draftee George Bell (power), Oscar “Happy” Felsch (almost a regular), Minnie Minoso (a very exciting player, and I only wish I had a younger version of Minnie), Johnny Mostil (good glove and can run), and Carl Reynolds, who used to bat cleanup!
 

            When the dice are hot, these guys score a lot of runs. But they can also finagle runs and beat you in close games.
 

            Their four-man rotation has been super lately. This includes knucklers Eddie Cicotte (all is forgiven) and Wilbur Wood, Gary Peters (who won 20 last season, I think), and rookie James “Death Valley” Scott.
 

            Red Faber and Hoyt Wilhelm can spot start or do long relief. Also in the pen are Doc White, Bobby Thigpen, Tom Henke, and the top closer this time around, Billy Pierce. As I’ve said before, pitching in this league is very hazardous to one’s ERA, but thanks to the Law of Averages, some pitchers dodge the bullets and go unscathed. Billy Pierce has been amazing.
 

            If Buck Leonard can stay in the lineup, I think this team will still be contending in September. They are fun to manage, partly because I also managed them when they were so awful (comparatively speaking.)  Revenge is sweet.