NOTES #222

FIRESIDE & FILMSIDE

Once upon a time — it was after the 150th issue of NOTES, four years ago — I stopped writing and started editing. I mean really editing, organizing the tiny mountain of NOTES into a book — or perhaps a small library of books. The chapter where I collected book and film reviews, I called “Fireside and Filmside.”

”Fireside” in honor of my all-time favorite baseball readers, The Fireside Books, edited by Charles Einstein. I have quoted here from those four anthologies frequently, and often return to them just for ideas for my next baseball subject. They have never let me down.

This issue began with a book review. I Gave It My Best Shot, by Willie Fordham, follows directly below. You can obtain Willie’s book, autographed, I’m sure, by sending $15.90 plus $2 for shipping & postage, to Willie Fordham, 3608 Tudor Drive, Harrisburg, PA 17109-1235. Tell Willie you read about him in NOTES.

Many of the reviews that have appeared in NOTES over the years, also appeared in other publications. Currently, the places my reviews most often appear are The Diamond Angle (now on line), NINE (that scholarly Canadian thing), and A Red Sox Journal (back from its other self, The Buffalo Head Society.)

They have appeared elsewhere, too — The Cooperstown Review comes to mind. Edited by Paul Adomites, TCR had just two volumes (all book reviews) before it was deemed too expensive to continue. TCR had succeeded The SABR Review of Books — there were five volumes of that title. (I am still looking for Volume Five, if anyone out there can help. SABR is out of them. I’ll trade a premiere issue of TCR!)

NOTES ranges all over the country of baseball, and can never please all readers. But if the readers of NOTES have one thing in common, I am sure it is this: they love to read.

So I hope the long segment in this issue, excerpting some of the book reviews that appeared in the first 150 issues of NOTES, will be of some interest to you all. If you want to see the full review, go back to issue #220 (at the end) and see if it is in one of the back issues I am trying to unload … oops, I mean the back issues that I am offering to readers of NOTES. Most reviews are about a full page, some longer, some just a paragraph or two. In a future issue, I will excerpt the reviews in 151 to date.

 

I GAVE IT MY BEST SHOT

In NOTES 219, “The Negro League Conference Issue,” I mentioned meeting Willie Fordham, and swapping books with him. His has the title above, and I am delighted to review it here.

In NOTES 218, I reviewed Pat Jordan’s A FALSE SPRING, and described it as “the best baseball book that deals with failure in a candid way.” Jordan was a bonus baby for the Braves back in the fifties, who never pitched his way out of the minors. He has succeeded, however, as an author (his sequel is A NICE TUESDAY), so Mr Jordan is definitely not a total failure.

Willie Fordham is no Pat Jordan, his book no masterpiece of literature, but having read it, I must conclude Willie Fordham is also not at all a failure, not even in baseball. He never made it to the majors, either, but he gave it his best shot, that is as plain as Willie’s language. The trouble was, Willie had a huge uphill battle, and while he at least had a shot, it seems to me that even in the Dodgers’ organization, six years after Jackie opened the door for black players, the door was not open very wide.

Willie’s book is not really a baseball book, it is his life story. It is not clear that meeting Jackie Robinson and Campy and the other Boys of Summer at Vero Beach, where the Dodgers trained, was the highlight of that life. It might well have been his time coaching the Schwab Pee Wee Baseball team in Canada in 1951 (a year before his shot), or maybe the reunion with that team 43 years later. More likely, his highlights are family events having little or nothing to do with baseball.

Pat Jordan was given a huge signing bonus, was treated like royalty, and led a fairly pampered life — until his arm betrayed him and he was dumped. Willie Fordham was given a shot, and not much else. Weeks into that spring training camp, Willie was still patiently waiting for his first paycheck. His letters home, in his own hand, are included in his book, and are some of the most interesting pages for this man of letters.

Willie describes his last days with the Dodgers in a brief paragraph, without a trace of bitterness or regret. “As the training season was coming to a close, the team officials decided which of the players would be assigned to their farm teams and which players would be cut. Unfortunately, I was cut, so I packed my bags and headed back to Carlisle.” Willie apparently was one of the last players cut, and it comes as a surprise to readers because it seemed that he was pitching well enough to at least be offered a minor league contract. But Willie took satisfaction in coming close, “many are called but few are chosen.”

Because the book includes chapters on Willie’s teenage years, his military duty in WWII, his college days, his stint in AAA for the Harrisburg Senators, as well as his life after baseball — readers get a sense of Willie Fordham’s character.

 

I couldn’t help making one comparison. Because I met Willie Fordham, the tone of the book reminded me greatly of the tone of Buck O’Neil, the star of Ken Burns’ old (!) film epic. I wonder if Buck could do the book tape version of I Gave It My Best Shot. There is a reverence in the tone, not just for baseball but for people, for family and country. Buck, of course, felt that he came along at just the right time, he wastes no words wondering “What if the color line was broken ten years before my prime?” And Willie Fordham seems quite satisfied with the way things turned out for him, too, before and after baseball.

And I couldn’t help making one observation. The Harrisburg Conference was still on my mind — there, almost all of the guests who were players (and black) paid tribute to Jackie Robinson. We have heard it so often — “Jackie was the one, all right” — “Not the best player, but the best choice to go first” — “Jackie sure had the right stuff.”

Without taking anything away from Jackie (and all of those praises come after his success), it seems to me that there were probably others who might have had the right stuff to knock down the color line. Maybe many others. And if Jackie had failed, it was still just a matter of time. I think Buck O’Neil had that right stuff. And I think Willie Fordham did, too. Does.

In other words, Jackie was hardly the only black ballplayer with a military record, a college degree, and character. To believe that is to overlook others who would have made fine pioneers.

Toward the end of the book, Willie tucks in an encounter he had with Major League Baseball back in 1990-91. Willie was, like many fans in those days and before and since, annoyed with the length of games, and he came up with an idea to save some time. It was simple enough that it could be implemented overnight. He suggested have the bat boy stand near the pitcher when he warms up before the game and between innings. After each pitch, instead of the catcher toss the ball back, the bat boy hands the pitcher a new ball. The catcher just discards the balls he catches into a basket.

Willie not only sent his idea to MLB, he patented it. The exchange of letters between Willie and the then-Commish, Fay Vincent, is in the book. Willie is direct, respectful, and hopeful. Fay Vincent is not interested. Willie gave it his best shot. Major League Baseball said, “thanks, but not now.” Which is pretty much what MLB said to every black player who knocked on MLB’s door, before Jackie.

The encounter seemed symbolic. Long after his shot, Willie Fordham offers MLB a small suggestion. But he also patents his idea. He is determined to get full credit for this contribution to the game he loves so much. He will not be overlooked again. When he is turned down, he does not attack the Commish, he waits. Willie remains full of patience and hope. The right stuff.

 

 

NOTES was born in March 1993, and as you can tell from the dates of each excerpt below, book reviews were always part of NOTES. I do not review every book I read, but I try to give a mention to the ones I enjoy.

 

VOICES OF THE GAME by Curt Smith, in NFSC #2, 3/16/93.

I started reading it straight through, but found it easier going if I just used the index and picked out people I was interested in (Red Barber, Bob Prince, Harry Caray.)

THE GLORY OF THEIR TIMES by Lawrence Ritter, in NFSC #2.

This is a book I wanted to go on forever.

A DONALD HONIG READER, in NFSC #7, 4/3/93.

No photos — the pictures are all drawn by the men Honig interviews. Thirty or fifty years later, their memories seem fresh, and infinitely precious.

THE ‘OL BALL GAME in NFSC #16. 5/30/93.

It’s the kind of book I devoured as a kid, full of short, true stories. Babe Ruth playing in a Philadelphia sandlot game, as a favor for a fund-raising priest … a vivid recount of Joe Wilhoit’s 69-game hitting streak for Wichita (Class A, Western League, but it got national attention, even in 1919) … a piece on old Hod Eller by one Gary Eller (no relationship noted), that asks why the shine ball (a little dab of paraffin on the pant leg) was not OK, while the spitter was, for designated pitchers, after those doctored tosses were banned in 1921 … a 3-pager (“Bats and Bayonets”) describing the popularity of baseball among Civil War soldiers … and on and on.

ONE SHINING SEASON by Michael Fedo, in NFSC #24, 7/18/93.

A few weeks ago I picked up a copy of the book with this title, a phrase which must send shudders down the spines of the ML owners who commit to multi-year contracts. How many players have had All Star seasons — but just once?

THE IOWA BASEBALL CONFEDERACY by W.P. Kinsella, in #32, 9/12/93.

The Iowa B.C. is filled with characters, imaginary and real; filled with baseball, mostly imaginary; and filled with damn good writing. I’m sorry I waited so long to get to this one, and glad I own it, so I can pick it up again, some winter or spring.

MY LIFE IN BASEBALL by Ty Cobb (Al Stump), in #33, 9/19/93.

They’ve been trying to fix things that are wrong with my game ever since I can remember, and I fear they’ll never succeed. Commercialism, television, a breakdown of the old order of procedure in trading players and maintaining long-established franchises, the wrecking of traditional league lines by adding new clubs willy-nilly and failure to resolve the reserve-clause problem have put the grand old game in jeopardy …. Wild things are happening. The fabric of baseball is crumbling.”

Ty Cobb’s words, 1961. I recently finished My Life in Baseball, a book Cobb wrote with Al Stump, and so Tyrus’ views on the grand old game were fresh in mind when I read of the owners’ latest plan to improve the major-league brand, adding a level of playoffs, for the winners of three divisions and a wild card team. Roll over, Georgia Peach!

FOR THE LOVE OF THE GAME by Cindy Wilbur, in NFSC #40, 11/1/93.

Two strong impressions are made by the players interviewed: one is that the competition then was much stiffer — even stars could lose their jobs overnight, if they failed to produce, or got hurt — almost nobody went on the DL (for that reason), and players ignored major injuries. The other impression is that the love for the game was sincere, that these guys had a sense that they were fortunate to be paid to play a boy’s game.

Ignorance is bliss. These players had no idea that what they were doing, was worth a whole lot more in entertainment value, than they ever dreamed. They had no idea that they could organize and defeat the reserve clause and cause free agency. It shows you how feeble lawyers were in those days, too, I guess! But bliss: these were happy days for them, and that comes through strongly.

SANDLOT (film), in NFSC #43, 11/20/93.

When the movie Sandlot came out last summer, my 11-year-old son had to see it, and loved it. Now that it’s on tape, we rented it, and I finally saw it, too. First fields was one of my reactions. It was fun, and it was nostalgic, watching kids play ball with no adults nearby. Playing all day, not keeping score, occasionally taking on kids from another neighborhood. And didn’t all of our first fields have a Beast of some kind, a cranky garden-keeping ball-collecting witch, or maybe just a steep down-sloping hill that took our balls out of sight, out of reach, out of play?

THE JOE WILLIAMS READER in NFSC #43.

… it’s the kind of book you can pick up and read in bits and pieces. Not only do we get eyewitness accounts, from Cobb to the Mets, but we also get a feel for how the game was for reporters.

A BASEBALL WINTER (author?) in NFSC #43.

A Baseball Winter (Macmillan, 1986), I highly recommend — only for baseball owners! And not to all of them, but only that intelligent sub-group who might learn from the mistakes of the past, the mistakes of others. Because this book, read from the distance of eight seasons, underlines how fragile athletes are, these boy millionaires, who can self-destruct so quickly. The book focuses on the events between the last Series out in ’84, and the first pitch of ’85, focuses further on five teams (the Indians, Angels, Phillies, Braves and Mets — fans of those teams might enjoy the book, too.) It’s a book you can skim, and feel no guilt.

MAZ AND THE ’60 BUCS by Jim O’Brien, in NFSC #44, 11/27/93.

Jim O’Brien’s book, self-published and still warm from the printing, is no Boys of Summer. Its 511 pages could easily be edited to a crisp 250, and should be. But to paraphrase the famous Barzun quote, anyone who would understand the heart and soul of a Pirates’ fan, needs to read this book. It’s for Pittsburghers, first, then for those who enjoyed Maz’ HR, then for fans who remember how close players and fans used to be, once upon a time.

FAN Magazine edited by Mike Schacht, in #51, 1/29/94.

FAN 14 is quintessential FAN, touching a wide variety of themes — edited as usual for conciseness, and graced with the usual fine and subtle artwork. Its writers pepper its readers , from the world that happens while just two pitches are thrown at Dodger Stadium … to memories of how Dad had his own way of listening to radio games (my Dad had his own way) … from games of catch, to foul balls at the park. It tickles your memories of first gloves, first bats, first fields, first games with the big kids (remember being stuck in deep center?), and first row seats.

MY LIFE AS A FAN by Wilfrid Sheed, in #55, 3/5/94.

Sheed’s literary swing through his “attic” of fandom (where dusty memories rest, until stirred by visitors, when they take on vivid colors and bubble like a fountain of youth) is compact, but touches all the important bases. It can be enjoyed on several levels: by Brooklyn Dodger fans still buoyed by the forties and fifties, and still furious enough to organize a lynching, should Walter O’Malley ever appear near “his roots”; and by all baseball fans, who will be sent climbing into their own attics, for parallel and echoed remembrances.

THE BLOOPER MAN by Elson Smith, in #73, 7/2/94.

In the prologue to the book (J. Pohl Associates, 1981) of this title, Elson Smith begins with this story from the Tampa Tribune in 1972: “They cut Rip Sewell’s right leg off just below the knee this week. And Rip said by telephone from his Birmingham hospital bed: ‘Tell ’em I’m fine. I’m grateful for what I’ve had and what I have left. Heck, about the only thing I can’t do anymore is pitch in the oldtimers’ games.’

THE LORDS OF THE REALM by John Helyar, in #78, 8/10/94.

There are a hundred reasons to pick up Lords of the Realm, however, for those who have the stomach. For the history of Baseball’s dealings with television, from Game of the Week right up to The Baseball Nyetwork (actually, even before Game — many owners resisted televising games, fearing that would cut into gate receipts.) For the story of cable TV and superstations, no small factors in the gap between large/small-market teams. For the Game’s slowness to grasp the value of promotions (Bill Veeck went down as a maverick, because he was a genius at pleasing fans). George Weiss on having a Cap Day at Yankee Stadium: “Do you think I want every kid in this city walking around with a Yankee cap?” There are so many wonderful, incredible, exasperating quotes in Lords — that’s another reason to read it.

Lords suggests a different picture of Charlie O. Finley than the one in my memory, and it’s convincingly documented — the whole book is. Finley was very prophetic. (One irony: Charlie argued long and loudly for night World Series games — so kids could see them! “Today’s children are tomorrow’s fans, and the kids can’t see the games in the afternoons.” Yeah, but not at midnight, either. The decision to go to all night games was, of course, made for the TV bucks, not for kids. Proving that T.S. Eliot maxim, “the greatest treason / is to do the right thing / for the wrong reason.”)

THE POLITICS OF GLORY by Bill James, in NFSC #82, 9/6/94.

I found just one fault with the book, and none of the reviewers I’ve read have pointed it out. Somehow, James completely overlooks THE NICKNAME FACTOR. Maybe because it’s irrational, and James argues logically. Maybe because it’s too obvious. Nicknames are extremely important in baseball, especially when it comes to FAME, which is what the Hall is of. Lloyd Waner never makes it on his own as Lloyd, but as Little Poison, he’s linked to Big Poison, who’s in there, and so in goes LP.

[I returned to “Mr James’ Opus” in #83, 9/12/94.]

I have one other complaint about The Politics of Glory — nowhere does James really delve into the politics of the voting, by analyzing the membership of the BBWAA. Exactly how large a voting bloc do the New Yorkers have, anyway? That question has been on my mind for some time now, and I’ve tried to pry the info loose from the BBWAA, but ran into a brick wall that would impress the Pentagon. The “team bias” factor may not be that significant, I don’t know, but why not at least have a balance — one vote by the writers (which means lots more by NY writers, than, say Seattle or Pittsburgh writers), and another by two designated writers from each franchise — the equivalent of a HOF Senate.

Actually, when it comes to reform, Bill James has plenty of good ideas (another reason to get this book), and someone ought to clip them and send them to the Powers That Be who are looking into a better structure for ML Baseball itself.

SUMMER OF ’49 by David Halberstam, in #90, 10/31/94.

My highest compliment for any publication, books included, is that I read it “cover to cover.” Since I finish most books I pick up, I must add a corollary: the compliment is heightened in direct proportion to the time that the distance between covers takes. In plain English, if I can’t put a book down, and finish it in a few days, that’s some book. Well, Summer of ’49, by David Halberstam, five years old now, is some book.

I was surprised that I enjoyed it so much, given my prejudice against the inordinate attention things Yankee and Red Sox have been given over the years, particularly in the world of books. But I knew going in, that’s what this book was all about.

OCTOBER 1964 by David Halberstam, in NFSC #95, 12/5/94.

… I found the digressive style that I liked in ’49, to be less satisfying in ’64. The profiles of Bob Gibson, Lou Brock, Barney Schultz, Joe Pepitone, and Mickey Mantle (to cite just a few) are well done, and not at all boring — it’s just that I wanted to get on with the games.

I couldn’t believe it — there was that Buck O’Neil guy again, showing up in these pages as the scout who discovered Lou Brock and steered him to Chicago. Evidently, Halberstam had found Buck a great interview, too.

COBB (the Tommy Lee Jones movie), in #108, 7/22/95.

Al Stump has had the last word in the portrayal of Cobb, but Shelton has it in the portrayal of Stump. The film is based on Stump’s new book, not the 1961 ghosted auto-bio. Viewers are asked to darken their shining hero Cobb of the book Cobb commissioned, with the devilish Cobb that Stump has kept hidden all these years, the one who leaked out in True magazine.

About Cobb, there’s not much new, unless you’re meeting him for the first time in this film, and it’s not a good place to do that. Tommy Lee Jones plays Cobb like a porcupine in a nudist colony, wearing sharpened spikes and sliding in high. I loved the flashbacks best — Cobb’s charges around the basepaths in slo-mo (wisely, so we could focus on the eyes of the hurricane and not its speed.) Roger Clemens has a small role, acting like a pitcher, something he is trying hard to re-create this summer on the mound, and we don’t need to strain to read his lips.

But the film also gives us a choice of Stumps, and that is the heart of it, I think. Without giving away the ending, Stump seems, at least in contrast to Cobb, a pretty moral fellow, throughout most of the film. But he ultimately fails to set the truth free, and so his own portrait, aged over thirty-some years, may not have grown better, like fine wine, but more suspect. Because now we have just Stump’s word about his time with Cobb, and fewer people and ways left to verify anything.

WALTER JOHNSON: A LIFE by Jack Kavanagh, in #114, 10/7/95.

It seems like I’ve been reading Jack Kavanagh’s Walter Johnson: A Life all summer. It’s not a dull book, just one that kind of ambles on, friendly-like, taking its good old time to move on to the next page or chapter. Some chapters summarize seasons in Walter’s life, others focus on particular games. Baseball is like that: you can write forever about a pitch, if you want to, or wrap up a World Series in a single sentence.

HUSTLE: THE MYTH, LIFE AND LIES OF PETE ROSE by Michael Y. Sokolove, in NFSC #116, 10.20/95.

HUSTLE is so well-documented that it is hard to put it down and retain any shred of hope that Pete didn’t bet on baseball. It’s a disturbing book in a lot of ways. Pete had the problem a long time, and it’s hard to believe the Reds’ organization, if not the Commissioner’s office, didn’t know sooner. And had they or someone, a teammate, friend, relative, acted sooner to help Pete, 1989 might have never been necessary.

I wonder if those who feel Rose should be banned from Cooperstown, would change their minds if Pete had been addicted to something besides gambling? To drugs or alcohol?

Rose seems to have been hooked on betting for many years, and into heavy denial all the while. Sokolove’s book, its last words from 1990, questions if Rose really understands just what his problem is, even though he’s admitted the gambling habit.

I’m not saying that because the gambling was an addiction, that controlled Pete, that that explains and somehow excuses all. It doesn’t. But if the focus is on the addiction, the question about whether his betting was limited to horses, dogs and other sports — stopping short of the one he knew best — is not as important. It’s like looking at an alcoholic and saying, Yeah, but does he drink Scotch? That’s all I want to know.

PETE ROSE: MY STORY by Pete Rose & Roger Kahn, in #117, 10/30/95.

I remember one of my college teachers telling her theology class that interpreting certain parts of the Pentateuch was easy, as long as you only consulted one source. But the fact is (and these are the saddest of possible words for those who prefer life to be simple, black-and-white): experts disagree. So scholars are almost constantly arguing over what certain words, phrases, or whole books mean, and how they ought to be taken (literally or symbolically.) The more sources you consult, the more shades of meaning you see, the more choices you have, and no matter how you finally interpret things yourself, you’re a bit more tentative.

So when I picked up Roger Kahn’s Pete Rose: My Story, after Sokolove, Reston and Bill James, I knew I’d find a much different portrait of Pete. Mostly a self-portrait, but I’ve met Roger Kahn and I was curious to see how the “collaboration” turned out.

… Rose denies betting on baseball. Kahn takes the Dowd report to task (as Bill James did), raising doubts even about the “hard evidence,” the betting slips, quoting experts on handwriting, gambling and fingerprinting, so that even Johnny Cochrane would be impressed.

It’s not a total whitewash, Pete admits gambling, anyway, though he denies that he has a problem. Pete and Roger spend several pages on the point: if he was a compulsive gambler, he’d be in financial ruin, right? (Well, gee, Pete, your habit sure didn’t screw up your job, now, did it?) He’s not, of course, he still has that Midas touch that enables his autograph to turn paper to currency. But the argument suggests that millionaires can never be alcoholics, because there is simply no way they can drink themselves broke.

RHUBARB (an old movie that shows up on TV), in #123, 2/15/96.

I wonder if Marge Schott has seen Rhubarb lately? Because Rhubarb is a cat, who inherits a baseball team. At first, the players refuse to be owned by a cat — what? Players refusing to play for someone they don’t know or respect? But Rhubarb wins them over, turning out to be a good luck charm, and soon the boys won’t play without Rhubarb at the ballpark, within easy rubbing distance of the on deck circle.

Rhubarb has a lot of qualities we like to see in owners. He is quiet, never quoted by the media. He lets baseball people make all the decisions — and his guardian, Ray Milland, is no meddler, either. The fans love to see Rhubarb at the park, and cheer him for accepting his proper role as an owner. Unlike Art Modell, who skipped the final Browns’ games in Cleveland, Rhubarb is sorely missed when absent.

… Rhubarb had the right idea. Find a nice vantage point at the park, pull up your litterbox, and enjoy the games. Don’t sleep, Ted. Purr.

THE BROTHERS K by David James Duncan, in #124, March 4, 1996.

The Brothers K, by David James Duncan (Bantam, 1992) spent too many months in my on deck pile of books and articles. I can say that, now that I’m on the other side. Duncan hooked me, too, and I’m so glad that I had a week off this February to enjoy it. It was hard to put down, the last 500 (of 700) pages. I know not everybody will pick up a novel this long and complex, and not all who do will get hooked — but for those who would — try it.

Duncan’s work can hardly be called “a baseball book” — although there is a lot of baseball to enjoy. The Brothers K are the four sons of a baseball fan father who also pitches some; the family includes their mother, two sisters, and an assortment of other relatives and in-laws — all of whom are well drawn (as opposed to sketched.) Many other characters come and go, as the book fairly Gumps through the sixties (visiting the jungles of Vietnam, the heat and poverty of India, and the northern exposure of Canada, like a barnstorming bus.) But there is as much touring of the mind and spirit, of the range of human emotions beyond the reach of TV and most films, as there is geographical exploration. The book should carry one of those little Surgeon General warning boxes: can be hazardous to the unthinking, unquestioning.

HONUS WAGNER by Dennis and Jeanne DeValeria, in #126, 3/36/96.

I noticed that one of the recent Emmies, I think, went to a group selected as “Best Cast.” What a great idea — after all, when we recall M*A*S*H and The Bob Newhart Show (and the list could fill a page), we talk about the cast, how they interacted and played off each other. Sure, the characters were unique, and they all “starred” from time to time. But the cast is a team, and it struck me that baseball really has no special awards for teams, except those who win pennants. And they may not be the “Most Exciting to Watch,” or “Most Hustling,” or “Best at Last-Ditch Rallies” — fans’ teams.

Reading Honus Wagner, by Dennis and Jeanne DeValeria (Henry Holt & Co, 1996) is like watching a Best Cast ensemble perform, within the familiar flow of the seasons of baseball. Sure, Honus is the main actor, his legs bowed, his enormous hands choking dead balls and heavy bats, his personality winning the respect of players and the lasting admiration of fans. But his times provided Honus with a great cast, too, and we get to know them as Hans comes to life. And the plot is thick with events, some famous, some not so well known, from the days when the country was infatuated with the game.

BB’S BEST SHORT STORIES ed. by Paul Staudohar, in #127, 4/6/96.

You can look up Thurber’s story [You Could Look It Up] and find out the midget’s fate, in Baseball’s Best Short Stories, edited by Paul D. Staudohar (Chicago Review Press, 1995) — it’s in the first Fireside book, too, but that’s harder to find. But if you have BBSS handy, you can also check out Who’s On First? — no, not the Abbott and Costello routine, the short story by Lloyd Biggle, Jr. Biggle wrote his in 1960, but the setting is 1998. That’s just a fungo fly away now, so we can judge how accurate a baseball visionary Biggle was.

NO CHEERING IN THE PRESS BOX by Jerome Holtzman, #128, 4/15/96.

Almost by accident, I picked up a book with this title while rummaging in the local library. Its subtitle is “Recollections — personal and professional — by 18 veteran American sportswriters. Recorded and Edited by Jerome Holtzman.” Turns out this is like The Glory of Their Times, but the interviewees are not players, but writers, men (all men, of course) who traveled with the teams or sat in locker rooms or front offices or bars with players, managers, GMs, owners and commissioners. Actually, one writer went on to be commissioner (giving hope to us all), F*rd Fr*ck.

Dan Daniel, who scored twenty-some games in DiMaggio’s Streak: “Once in a while, during the streak, I got a very deep scowl from DiMaggio, but he never, not once, complained. Scoring during his streak was a precarious life. His fans would gather behind the press box in the stadium, and they raised Cain. They felt every time he hit the ball it should be a hit. You got something like fifteen dollars a game. The responsibility was heavy. I wouldn’t have done it over again for five thousand dollars. … I never favored him one iota.” [Not even when you found that horse’s head on your chair, Mr Daniel? — Questions we would like to ask.]

ONLY THE BALL WAS WHITE by Robert Peterson, in #134, 6/3/96.

Peterson examines all of the reasons advanced, before Jackie Robinson, for the color line: Southern players would refuse to play; black players would not be welcome in some hotels; the clubs trained in the south, where laws forbade integrated play; fans might riot, if there was a fight on the field between a black and a white player; and blacks weren’t good enough to play on a major league field anyway.

He then makes this observation: “Unspoken, but underlying all the stated objections, was the most compelling reason of all: baseball tradition. Organized baseball was steeped — perhaps a better word would be pickled — in tradition. Among the eternal verities were the sun’s rising in the east, the sanctity of motherhood, and baseball’s status as the National Pastime; and, since there had not been a Negro in the organized leagues in the memory of most baseball men, it must be part of God’s plan that there should be none. Tradition is the father of inertia and the balm of the don’t-rock-the-boat school.”

A WHOLE DIFFERENT BALL GAME by Marvin Miller, in #139, 7/8/96.

By coincidence, I finished reading A Whole Different Ball Game, by Marvin Miller (Birch Land Press, 1991), on Independence Day 1996, three days after the 30th anniversary of the founding of the MLBPA union, which went largely unnoticed and uncelebrated.

I was somewhat familiar with the main events that Miller details, but this book is a must for any fan who wishes a better insight into the basic issues that have divided players from owners — and owners from owners — since baseball entered the brave new world of labor relations. I plan to follow up Miller with Hardball — it’s only fair to Bowie Kuhn to hear his side.

… Miller writing about the period 1966-1990 (Fay Vincent is still Commish when the tale ends), is a lot like the winners writing the history books. He tries hard not to chortle. His style is extremely readable, with candor, humor, irony, and insight woven together with either marvelous recollections or damn good notes. This is a fascinating book to read in 1996, because so many of the folks in it — Steinbrenner, Reinsdorf, Selig, Fehr, Molitor — are still making history. There are portraits of Kuhn, Giamatti, Charlie O. Finley, and many of the players (even Mantle and Mays), too.

BASEBALL BETWEEN THE LIES by Bob Carroll, in #141, 7/21/96.

Bob’s forte seems to be de-mythologizing. I first heard that word in a theology classroom — maybe that’s why it’s never seemed really menacing to me. Some of baseball’s best stories are seasoned with myth, but they go down just as well with the spicy truth. And really, does anyone’s love of baseball actually hinge on Doubleday’s inventing it, or on Ruth calling his shot?

Carroll has the range of a shortstop on wheels, his topics ranging from the prehistoric curves of Candy Cummings — did he ever get shelled in a game? — to present-day issues, like Hall of Fame mistakes and the Cy Young jinx (tell Greg Maddux.) I recognized many of the pieces from Oldtyme BB News, but they are worth re-reading. Do catchers make the best managers? Be ready to have your mind altered by an overdose of stats.

A RED SMITH READER in NFSC #145, 8/30/96.

Red Smith seemed to be present for so many of baseball’s magic moments. On Hank Aaron’s 715th HR: “Thanks to Mrs Herbert Aaron’s muscular son, 2:40 PM, April 4, 1974, will stand until further notice as Bowie Kuhn’s finest hour.” Kuhn had more or less ordered the Braves to put Aaron in the lineup in two of their first three games in Cincinnati. “With one stroke, [Aaron] canceled schemes to cheapen his pursuit of the record by making it a carnival attraction staged for box office alone, and he rendered moot two months of wrangling between the money changers and the Protectors of the Faith…. As it turned out, there was nothing contrived about the locale or timing of the event…. The way Henry did it removed all taint of commercialism. For this day, at least, the business of baseball made way for sport.”

TWIN KILLING by John T. Bird, in #150, 10/19/96.

Twin Killing doesn’t need to convince those who saw Bill Mazeroski play — teammates, opponents, or fans — that he was simply the best glove man of his time. That All Stars from the American League stopped to watch Maz take infield practice at the July exhibitions, says so much. “Hit it to Maz” was not just a cheer, not just a prayer in a pinch, but a strategy for Pirate pitchers.

Would Twin Killing convince anyone who didn’t see Maz play? If they were swayed by the record, by statistics, most definitely yes. If they respected the testimony of the players, managers and coaches interviewed, I think so. Will Twin Killing help Bill Mazeroski get into Cooperstown? Probably not, and that is unfortunate.

GOOD ADVICE NEVER TAKEN

My own baseball library — books are all I collect — is hopelessly disorganized, but I can usually find books that I want fairly quickly. OK, sometimes they get lost.

Last summer, Mark Johnson in Minneapolis sent me his suggestion for organizing a library of baseball books. Here it is: “Separate the books, fiction from non-fiction. Arrange the books by authors. Put the books into a computer with as database with columns for Author and Title and Year of Publication. Then you can sort for an up-to-date list by author and title. I have about 600 books and am adding weekly. It can be overwhelming.”

I have a “build your library” suggestion from SABR, too, but I can’t seem to find it. I know it’s here somewhere. Oh, well, if I find it I’ll pass it along next time.

 

LAST UPS

I know what you are all thinking. “Hey, here we are in the stretch run of the 2000 season, and not a word about the races?”

My explanation: things are happening too quickly for me to keep up with them in a bi-weekly like NOTES. I usually deal with this by keeping a kind of diary, and I will likely do that for the final week of this season, too, continuing it on into October. I recommend it, for those of you who not only enjoy reading, but writing, too. Journals can be fun — doing them, and then reading them, years later. Great souvenirs.

As I process these words, the Cardinals have clinched in the NL Central, the division that was supposed to be owned by the Reds this time around. And the Cards did it without McGwire much of the time, and Griffey did not have an off year. I will likely root for the Cards to go all the way.

San Francisco has also clinched. The NL West looked like a gimme for Arizona, once upon a time — maybe when Schilling joined Randy Johnson in their rotation. I can root for these Giants, Bonds and Burks and Kent & Co.

I can root for ANYBODY BUT THE BRAVES, who seem to rise to the occasion with monotonous regularity — as they did this stretch run against the chasing Mets. It looks like the Mets will make October anyway, but it will be hard to root for them like I did last year. Except if they play the Braves again.

The Yankees? What I said above about the Braves goes for the Damn Yankees, too. Oddly, though, I kind of like the team — it’s their record that turns me off. Go figure.

The White Sox, I can relate to, as a small-income fan (I am referring to the Pirates, although I can use a raise at work, too.) I am looking forward to seeing these guys play.

Same with Seattle and Oakland. I like both of them, more than the Indians, who may not make October this fall. Boston and Toronto had their chances, too, but it looks like David Wells and Pedro Martinez, two of the best arms going, will rest early.

It looks like a great October lineup.

My Pirates seemed to be out of it all summer. Failed pitching, slumps and injuries — a lethal combination. They can take hope however, with their new park on deck for 2001 — see what a new park did for the Giants, Mariners & White Sox?

It will be a long winter for Pirate fans. And this will be good for this one. Because I have lots of good books to read.