I wish I had a photo of Walter “Mother” Watson of the Cincinnati Red Stockings to show you, it being “Mother’s Day” weekend and all.
I know he was a pitcher. A three-game cup-of-coffee guy. But, righty? Lefty? No clue.
Over two games, just 14 innings, in May of 1887, the Red Stockings put Mother Watson on the mound.
Watson gave up 18 runs in those two games though, to his credit, only 9 of them were earned.
He played just one more game for the Reds, when they stuck him out in left field.
This week has not been the best for The Baseball Bloggess.
A flat tire on Tuesday resulted in four new tires on Wednesday. (Followed by a brand new flat in one of the brand new tires just a few hours ago. That’s not the way these things are supposed to work, you know.)
Tuesday morning.
Sunday morning.
On August 11, 2013, Arizona Diamondbacks outfielder Cody Ross fell while running to first. It was a routine ground out, but his spike caught in the dirt at a weird angle and he stumbled. Awkwardly. Then, he tumbled. He had dislocated and broken his hip.
It’s believed that Ross was the first – and only – major league player to ever break a hip while running the bases.
It was, they said, a freak injury.
Editor/Husband’s doctors and nurses assured him last week that he is the first – and only – person to ever break a hip while meditating. (They all got quite a chuckle out of that.)
It was, they said, a freak injury.
On May 25, 2011, in San Francisco, Florida Marlins outfielder Scott Cousins collided with Giants catcher Buster Posey in a play at the plate. Posey’s leg was broken. He was out for the rest of the season.
(You can watch it here, though I wouldn’t recommend it.)
On January 1, 2017, in Orange, Virginia, in what I think was some sort of weird performance art recreation, Editor/Husband played the role of Buster Posey. Scott Cousins was played by my Yoga Studio floor.
For those of you who were so quick to believe that 2017 couldn’t be suckier than 2016 … you are wrong.
Editor/Husband fell and “bustered” his leg on New Year’s Day.
That is, he fractured the neck of his femur which is the fancy pants way to say, he broke his hip. (But having a broken hip sounds like something a frail grandma would do, so we’re going with broken leg which sounds more “Posey-an.”)
Nope.
Well, not quite. But, close enough.
“Turn Etch-a-Sketch upside down and shake and everything disappears.”
When December 31 turns to January 1 on Saturday night, 2016, the good, the bad, the strange, the crazy won’t magically disappear.
No kicking the year to the curb, kids. It’ll still be there, hanging around in your mind with important thoughts like, “Did the cat get stuck in the closet again?”
Relax, kids. Mookie’s fine.
I was told I was a little too dour in my sum-up-2016 post from earlier this week, so let’s fix that with just five quick off-the-top-of-my-head things in 2016 that made me smile:
5. Boaty McBoatface. Even though things ultimately didn’t work out with the name.
Well, it was a really rough year, but at least it was a good year for sports! Right? Right!!
Penn State fans are very excited to be going to the Rose Bowl next week. Watch out for the tear gas, kids!
Sportswriters and pundits are wrapping up 2016 by telling you that even though the year sucked, it was still a great year for sports.
The year that …
Muhammed Ali died.
Miami Marlins Pitcher Jose Fernandez, 24, was killed in a boating accident.
Donny Everett, 19, a Vanderbilt freshman pitcher, drowned the day before his team played its first game of the college post-season.
The run up to the Summer Olympics in Rio — zika, crime, cost overruns, polluted water, more crime — was like a car chase scene out of Mad Max.
Oh, and the entire Russian Olympic team was doping.
I never got my taco.
During the World Series, Francisco Lindor of the Cleveland Indians stole a base, and, because of that, Taco Bell promised everyone in America – all 319 million of us – a free taco.
(That’s 54-billion delicious taco calories!)
But, you had to be at a Taco Bell at a specific time on a specific day and, well, my nearest Taco Bell is 25 miles away.
I never got my taco.
Rats.
Stevie, in 2012, illustrating how Performance Enhancing Drugs (PEDs) can come in different forms.
She was a stray, not-quite-feral cat who turned up in our barn five years ago and quickly moved in.
The second time my blog received national recognition, there was Stevie again. This time, in 2013, showing how cheaters have manipulated All-Star Game balloting.
I had not only a friend, but an excellent Baseball Bloggess co-pilot.
She came along as I read War & Peace a few off-seasons ago …
She wrongly picked the Atlanta Braves to win the 2015 World Series …
She complained about the very few cats featured in the annual Baltimore Orioles “Pet” calendar … 
And, sometimes she was plunked into a post for no reason, other than she was just so damn cute …
She was one of the sweetest, friendliest, purringest cats I’ve ever known. (And, I’ve known a lot of cats.)
She was my BFF.
She got along with the other cats in the house. She was a “no drama” kitty.
She didn’t mind people and wasn’t one of those run-and-hide-in-the-box-springs cats when strangers walked in.
She got sick a couple days ago, although it was hard to tell because she kept purring and carrying on with her regular routine. She slept every night right next to my head. Just like always. She purred.
But, her favorite thing in the world was a meal (she was pretty starved when she turned up at our house those years ago, so it was no wonder that she delighted in a bowl of food more than anything else). And, when she stopped eating we knew that something was wrong.
It was. And, yesterday we had to say goodbye.
Someone once commented on one of my posts that I should change the name of my blog from The Baseball Bloggess to something more general, so I could write about other things.
They didn’t understand. The Baseball Bloggess can write about whatever she wants.
And, today she wants to write about Stevie.
BFF.
These are the saddest of possible words:
“Tinker to Evers to Chance.”
Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,
Tinker and Evers and Chance.
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double –
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:
“Tinker to Evers to Chance.”
~ Franklin Pierce Adams, New York Evening Mail, 1910
In 1908, it was the infield of Joe Tinker, Johnny Evers, and Frank Chance – shortstop, second base, first base – who helped carry their Chicago Cubs to a World Series victory.
They weren’t the greatest double-play makers in history, but they sure make a good poem, don’t they?
And, they helped lead those 1908 Cubs to the Series.
You know what happens next. It takes 108 years before the Cubs win another World Series. Which they did just two weeks ago.
Which is what I should be writing about. Because Chicago put on a celebration that was beautiful and exciting and embraced us all.
Embed from Getty Images
But, that’s not what this is about.
I often tell my friends that part of my love of baseball is how it – and its long, rich history – reflect us. Both good and bad. Our society, our culture. Who we are. Baseball is us.
Until this week.
It was a prim and stern woman’s voice on my office voice mail yesterday.
“Yesssss. [pregnant pause] This is the Better Business Bureau. My name is [ ]. This message is for the owner of the company. Please return my call. My direct line is [ ]. I will be in my office until 4:30 p.m.” ((Click))
There was no “thank you.” No “goodbye.” No reason why this unfriendly person at the Better Business Bureau was calling me.
I’m just a one-person office. The “owner of the company” is me. The massage therapist and Yoga teacher is me. The bookkeeper and laundry washer and taxpayer and phone answerer and toilet paper buyer and Yoga mat roller and vacuum cleaner emptier and the one who carefully picks the ladybugs off of the office window and brings them outside to freedom? All me.
Did someone complain about me to the Better Business Bureau? Why else would they be calling?
Did I forget an appointment? Is someone upset that we did too many Down Dogs in class last week? (We didn’t, honest!)
Of course, I called them back. If someone was going to complain that the table warmer wasn’t warm enough during their last massage, I wanted the opportunity to explain.
