“It’s a wonderful feeling to be a bridge to the past and to unite generations. The sport of baseball does that, and I am just a part of it.” ~ Vin Scully, Dodgers Broadcaster since 1950
I think we all have squishy memories.
The squishy ones are the memories that have no specific moment or event to make them distinct. They remember no special day or place. No exact time. Instead of one particular thing, a bunch of routine moments from the past squish together to make one single thought.
I have a lot of squishy memories.
Here’s one.
When I was a kid we lived in California. And, on Saturdays, after the lawn was mowed and the Saturday chores were done, my dad would stretch out on his green hammock (a hammock supported by a metal frame, rather than trees, with white fringe along its sides, and with a matching green pillow attached at the top.)
The Googler, which is a frightening tool, took “vintage green hammock with white fringe” and gave me this photo of my dad’s hammock.
This is the exact one. The very same one that I haven’t seen in 40 years. I was so surprised to see it, I did a double-take. And, then I patted myself on the back for remembering it perfectly, right down to the pillow.
I can see my dad on that hammock on Saturday afternoons in California, drinking a Coors beer, with a blue portable radio that he brought out onto the patio with him. Listening to a ballgame.
Almost always, listening to Vin Scully call a Dodgers game.
This is something Vin Scully still does. Something he has done for 67 years. Something that he will only do for two more weeks before he retires at age 88.
To hear Vin Scully’s voice is to bring me back to Saturdays with my dad in his hammock. Sunny, warm days, when the most important choice I had to make was deciding whether to roller skate first, then go swimming, or to go swimming first, then roller skate.
To hear Vin’s voice is to have that Saturday back. A day in California a long time ago, when I was small and my dad was in his hammock.
And, when Vin retires at the end of this season, that memory will fade just a little, become just a little bit blurrier, a little bit squishier.
A lovely interview on National Public Radio this morning with Vin Scully. Listen here.
You know what’s a great baseball movie? The Bad News Bears. That’s a pretty great baseball movie.
The original one.
Field of Dreams is an ok baseball movie.
So what if it made you cry? That doesn’t make it a great movie.
Lots of lousy things can make you cry. Fussy contact lenses, broken legs, dropping your ice cream.
This one-minute home video is as good as any movie. Cute characters. Drama. Tragedy. Loss. Heartbreak. Happy ending. (Plus, the kid’s hair swirls just like his ice cream.)
But, back for just a sec’ to Field of Dreams. As the movie winds down, Kevin Costner’s character, picks up his baseball glove, turns to his ghost father, and says, “Hey … dad? Wanna have a catch?”
Wanna have a catch?
If I asked my dad if he wanted to have a catch, he would have looked at me funny and said, “Play catch. It’s play catch, not have a catch. What the hell are they teaching you in school?”
I figured “have a catch” was just some insipid, affected phrase that the movie came up with.
Until I looked around.
Bet you weren’t expecting Shakespeare.
In Twelfth Night, which is Shakespeare (and, no, I did not know this, but the Internet can make you seem way smarter than you actually are), Sir Toby Belch says, “Welcome, ass. Now, let’s have a catch.”
“Welcome, ass,” sounds way more Bad News Bears than Field of Dreams and has encouraged me to rethink my Shakespeare.
Smart people will explain that Shakespeare’s “Welcome, ass. Now, let’s have a catch.” means “Hey stupid. Sing us a song.” Seriously? That makes no sense.
Never mind. I’m not rethinking Shakespeare.
But, Sir Toby Belch is an awesome name. Like a baseball mascot. So, credit for that.
At first, I couldn’t find a pre-Field of Dreams reference to “have a catch” except for Shakespeare. I was ready to say, “Yup, Field of Dreams just made it up.”
But, then I found this.
In May 1953, Washington Post sportswriter Shirley Povich was profiling Willie Mays.
In that piece he wrote: “Willie didn’t bother to learn the names of his Giants’ teammates. ‘Say, Hey,’ was his favorite salutation. ‘Say, Hey, wanna have a catch,’ ‘Say, Hey, we gonna beat ‘em good to-day.’ They in turn called him ‘Say, Hey Willie.’”
Say, Hey, wanna have a catch?
So, if you’re Kevin Costner or Sir Toby Belch, go with ‘have a catch’ if you want. If Willie Mays said it, then I’m willing to concede it’s ok.
But, it still sounds a bit weird and la-dee-dah to me.
It’s play catch.
Dad. Not having a catch.
My dad and I didn’t play much catch when I was growing up anyway. Mostly we played basketball together because that was his thing.
And, we shot free throws. Lots and lots of free throws. Because, free throws are something you can get right. And, so he taught me the free throw he knew I could practice and get right.
The same free throw Rick Barry used. The same one Barry also taught his kids.
The embarrassing and ugly one. But, if you practiced, it was the one that would always go in.
It was better, my dad would say, to get the point regardless of how silly you looked doing it.
Don’t say stupid things. That was something else my dad taught me.
Like “have a catch.”
Or, “It’s 13-2, the Orioles are losing.”
If my dad were around today he would grumble about that.
“They’re not losing,” he would say, “they’re just behind.”
This was his rule and he would always correct me when I got it wrong.
As he would explain it, if the game isn’t over, your team hasn’t lost, so they’re not losing. As long as there’s hope, they’re not losing, they’re just behind.
And, don’t say your team is winning either. Your team hasn’t won yet, things can change. They’re just ahead.
“You’re not losing, because you haven’t lost yet.”
He wasn’t exactly correct about this, but he wasn’t wrong either. It was his rule and I stick to it today.
As for the Orioles on Friday night, he was right. They weren’t losing 13-2. They were just behind.
Because, they “rallied” in the bottom of the 9th to make it was 13-3 and that was how they lost.
Yup, things can change. (But, not enough when the pitchers desert you.)
My dad was fussy about things. Things should be just-so. And, even though he’s been gone nearly 10 years, I try to remember the rules he taught me.
And, I’ve become fussy, too, about things. Like serial commas. Proper punctuation. And, always running out ground balls because you never know when a little mistake by the other team might be all you need. Because, you haven’t lost yet.
When I was still pretty small, I had irritated my mom for something lousy I had done and, in her frustration, she snapped, “Don’t get me anything for Mother’s Day.”
A smarter kid might have recognized that what a mom sometimes says is not exactly what she means.
A smarter kid.
I was not that smarter kid. I took the money I was saving up for her gift, went to Woolworth’s, and bought myself a record. I can’t remember which one, but it’s entirely possible that it was this …
I was cold shouldered for days. I’m sure she was disappointed in me. It wouldn’t be the last time.
But, to my credit, I never missed another Mother’s Day – including this one, the ninth since she passed away.
I wish I could tell you that my mom and I were ever-warm and loving, like sisters really, and gardened together and cooked together and sewed together and did those things that moms and daughters often do.
We weren’t. We didn’t.
Sure, we got along. Sometimes.
We fought a lot and rolled our eyes at each other and slammed doors in frustration and disagreed on more things than we agreed on.
But, at the end of the day, we were satisfied that she was probably the only mother, and I was probably the only daughter, who could put up with the other.
“With the tail-end of that dreadful Northwestern blizzard rattling the windows and doors and the ground partly covered with snow and ice, it is rather difficult to compose an original article on baseball.” ~ The Washington Post, January 22, 1888
Before we get to my garden gnomes …
I wish I could tell you something about Jack Blizzard, who pitched nine games in the Texas minors in 1954. But, there’s nothing much to tell. No one knows much about Jack Blizzard. Or, if they do, they’re not talking.
He pitched nine games or so for the Plainview Ponies and the Abilene Blue Sox. These were Class C teams in the West Texas-New Mexico League. He was from Sulphur Springs, Texas. He was 19. He was a lefty.
Other than that, there’s not much to tell; just a few mentions in The Abilene Reporter News in the spring of 1954.
He first appears on April 28, playing with Plainview. He came into a game as a reliever and pitched part of the 8th. No runs.
On May 8, now with Abilene, he was one of four Blue Sox relievers who struggled through the 4th inning versus the Pampa Oilers; together the four relievers gave up seven runs in that inning. The Sox lost 12-4.
On May 20, another loss, this one to the Clovis Pioneers 9-3, and Blizzard came in to eat up the last 4.1 innings, holding the Oilers to just 3 hits, no runs.
May 25. Double-header, two losses, and two relief appearances from Blizzard who gave up one run in his second game of the day.
June 1. Another Blue Sox loss. Blizzard comes in in the 9th and walks two. On June 21, the Blue Sox send him to Oklahoma City.
And, he disappears. Leastways, I can’t find him.
He could very well be Jack Blizzard of Nederland, Texas, a former salesman, who passed away in 2009. His obituary doesn’t mention the spring of 1954 or baseball, but all the other details fit.
Today would be a good day to talk about Jack Blizzard, when there’s nearly two feet of snow outside here in Virginia.
To fall in love with baseball is to fall into the past, as far back as you can remember it when you were a child, and even further than that if you can.
To fall in love with baseball is to fall in love with people and places and games that are from times that are much older than you, places you’ve never been to, and games that are now just box scores on paper.
Baltimore Orioles beat the NY Giants 10-4. August 5, 1896.
To fall in love with baseball is to be in love with a game that has a history and a culture that is nearly 200 years old. It has changed and evolved and changed back again, but, it’s still pretty close to what it was right from the start.
(When the main thing that people still argue about is the designated hitter rule, you know that things really haven’t changed all that much.)
I boycott football because it is barbaric and causes lasting brain damage in many players from the relentless thump-thump-thumping of heads into each other and against the ground. Go ahead, thump your forehead against your best friend’s to see what it feels like. (See, you won’t even try because you know it’s bad for you).
I may not watch football, but I do know this – there have been a zillion college bowl games on television and most of them were not played on “New” Year’s Day.
Fireworks, stray celebratory gunfire (seriously?), and drunk drivers make “New” Year’s a deadly night.
But, it’s not the deadliest. That honor goes to the Fourth of July, which is the most deadly holiday of the year, thanks to even more fireworks, more drinking, more car accidents, as well as drowning, and other accidents that come from being outdoors when you’re drunk in the summer.
Which is not to say that Auld Lang Syne – or at least a form of it – isn’t sung on other days.
The University of Virginia celebrates its sporting victories with The Good Old Song, a song that dates to the 1890s. It sounds remarkably like Auld Lang Syne because … it is. Just with different lyrics.
You can sing along if you like. Here’s what you do.
First, find a UVA game and wait for the Virginia Cavaliers to win.
Oh, look they just did!
January 2, 2016. UVA – 77 Notre Dame – 66
Now, stand up and put your arms around whomever is standing next to you (if you don’t know them, all the better, Wahoos are a friendly bunch). Sway side to side. And, sing …
That good old song of Wah-hoo-wah—
we’ll sing it o’er and o’er
It cheers our hearts and warms our blood
to hear them shout and roar
We come from old Virginia,
where all is bright and gay
Let’s all join hands and give a yell
for dear old U.Va.
What’s so new about December 32? It’s wintertime and I can look outside and there’s nothing new growing out in our yard. (With the exception of the confused – and kinda-sorta blooming – forsythia which is saying in its own yellow-flowered way, “Why the hell is it 50 degrees out?”)
The forsythia, blooming inappropriately, blows my theory that there’s nothing new about this New Year’s Day. But, for lots of us in the Northern Hemisphere, January 1 is really just looking out at empty trees and the remnants of last summer lying in the yard. Pretty barren.
(This is especially obvious here in our yard where we don’t rake up leaves. We will tell you that we do this as an environmentally conscious effort to re-compost the leaves’ nutrients to the earth. Really, we’re just lazy.)
(Next time you think you ought to spend your weekend doing yard work or household chores that require power tools or overalls, just kick back and don’t bother. You can think, “Sure, I’m a layabout, but The Baseball Bloggess is way lazier than me.” You’re welcome.)
New Year’s Resolutions are as stupid as this made-up holiday.
Why can’t you make a resolution on November 17? Or, if your plan is to exercise more or lose weight, why not in summer, when opportunities for working out outside and eating more leanly and cleanly are easier to find?
Happy New Year, Jarrett Parker, one-time Richmond Squirrel and current San Francisco Giant, who turns 27 today!
Why isn’t New Year’s Day on Opening Day? That’s my new year. And, it’s just 92 days away.
(There’s nothing new in Baltimore, by the way. Catchers and pitchers report February 18 and the Orioles still don’t have a full starting pitching rotation. Do not joke with me and say, “You didn’t really have one last season either.” I don’t need your lip.)
(I’m not even sure the Orioles could cobble together a full outfield if they had to – unless you can play right field. Can you? Really, I’m serious, because if you can, I bet we can work something out. You play cheap, right?).
Smart people will tell you that, with the winter solstice a few weeks ago, the days are getting longer so we really are in a growing period.
New Years in Tibet will come on February 8. The date of Tibet’s New Year, Losar, changes from year to year as it roams around with the moons, but at least it tries to be close to spring.
February 8 marks the start of the Tibetan year of the Fire Monkey.
There really ought to be a minor league team called the Fire Monkeys.
I wanted to show you a video of a monkey to illustrate this.
But, then I found this. This is why the Internet is amazing. I’m going to stop now so you can watch it. Happy December 32.
It is of interest only because people like milestones and milestones come in round numbers.
Two-hundred blog posts is no big thing. I follow people who have twittered 48,000 times. (As Truman Capote once said, “That’s not writing, that’s typing.”)
For Mario Mendoza, whose lifetime .215 batting average led to calling a woeful .200 or under average “The Mendoza Line,” .200 was just a lousy break, because statistics will tell you that plenty of guys never cracked .200, but Mendoza was the poor shmoo who got singled out. (Thanks, George Brett. I’m blaming you for this.)
For me, 200 posts is a nice milestone and with milestones come the responsibility of writing something worthwhile or memorable … or, really, just something.
There are wonderfully talented people with much to say who can post on their blogs with daily, sometimes twice- and thrice-daily regularity. If you are one of them, please know that I find you admirable, role-model worthy, and, to be honest, a little annoying.
Most of what I write never gets posted. It is too weird, fractured, stupid, unfunny, baffling, or confusing (even to me and I wrote it).
Here are a few scraps that I tinkered with over the years that never became post-worthy. Well-intentioned, sure. But, like Mario Mendoza, not quite good enough to get on base:
“Minnesota Twins: You play outside now. Good for you.” (2012. From an abandoned effort to say one nice thing about every major league team.)
“Do you think a guinea pig is jealous of a rabbit’s ears?” (2013)
“Try throwing a basketball 100 miles per hour.” (2014)
“It has been brought to my attention that my blog is frivolous. This came from someone who is of the belief that Supreme Court rulings are important and baseball is not.” (2013)
“Giraffes have the biggest hearts of all land mammals.” (2015)
“I’m so glad that there is something that Bill Ripken does better than Cal.” (2012, Playoffs. Following Cal’s atrocious time in the broadcast booth.)
“While living in Paris, Hemingway would bring mandarins to his writing garret each day. Eating mandarins as you write will not turn you into Hemingway. Trust me.” (2012)
“Craptastic. That should be a word.” (2013)
“I was hopeful that the Montgomery Biscuits’ mascot would be someone dressed as a warm, buttery biscuit. But, this is not a perfect world. And, baseball, for all its perfection, often disappoints. (2015)
Big Mo. Not a biscuit.
“Dear Gentlemen: One day you will thank the Bloggess for this advice – never suggest to your wife that the smell coming from the hard-to-reach dead mouse under the fridge will go away ‘in a few days.’ Here’s a tip, use a vacuum cleaner and stick the hose right under there and suck that stinker out. Don’t make your wife do it. She will only be annoyed and write about it in an effort to shame you.” (2013)
“Oh my god, I’m getting soft on A-Rod.” (2015, World Series)
“Dear Tampa Bay Rays, Great idea for 2013: make the roof girders light up when balls hit them and turn the entire stadium into a giant pinball machine. Moving girders become flippers, bumpers throughout the outfield, flashing lights, a whirling disco ball, and a “tilt” that will shake the stadium at random times. I’m just trying to help.” (2012)
“We wandered through exhibits in and around the ‘Downtown Mall,’ Charlottesville’s hipster outdoor space where much of this Photography Festival thing was going on. Photographers were shooting like they were Annie Liebovitz in Tiananmen Square on revolution day. I’m pretty sure I ended up part of someone’s Street Art Portfolio.” (2015)
“Does that Brewer guy still slide into a pool after home runs? I hope so.” (2012)
“I’m not an expert on baseball, but I feel like I’m not destroying a thoughtful national conversation by weighing in on it from time to time.” (2013)
“I have been cold since I was 12.” (2014)
“I saw that Cincinnati just signed Jair Jurrgens. My take on that … if your team is signing the Orioles’ pitching castoffs, you probably have a bigger problem than you realize.” (2014)
“I’ll write what she’s writing.” (2015. The headline from a discarded draft in praise of Nora Ephron.)
“I’ve bet on baseball and I don’t belong in the Hall of Fame either.” (2015)
At the start of every holiday I make a “to-do” list. Don’t get the wrong idea – thinking that I am a habitually organized person who makes to-do lists for everything. I don’t.
I really just make to-do lists to make sure my holidays are well used.
I don’t want to waste a minute of a day off, let alone an entire week of days off, since they don’t come around that often.
My list was three pages long. The “work stuff” page was longer than the “fun stuff” page, and one of the things on the “fun” page was “Do something fun” which shows how uninspiring my lists can be.
Mookie’s To-Do List: 1) Look for Squirrels.
Now, with the end of this holiday approaching much faster than it should, I have one last load of massage laundry left to do, which will give me one more satisfying check-off on my list.
Lest you get another wrong-headed idea – that I actually accomplish all those things that need doing – let me assure you, my list’s check-off rate, even with that last load of linens, was barely 46 percent. (Forty-six percent, however, puts me well ahead of Donald Trump in the polls!)
One of the things I did do … I worked my way through a year’s worth of magazines that had piled up by my bedside.
I love magazines. I love them so much that I don’t even mind the perfume samples, ads, and blow cards that fill them.
There was a time when I had as many magazine subscriptions as a small-town library.
Time was not enough. I had to have Newsweek, too, to catch the things that Time missed. (I had a fling with U.S. News, but it didn’t last.)
New Yorkers would sit, sometimes for years, because they were too precious to discard even though there was more inside a single issue than I could ever read. Old New Yorker covers and cartoons are still tacked up on my office walls … even though the subscription expired long ago.
My dad would, without fail, renew my Reader’s Digest each Christmas, and when he passed away, I let it go. But, when my mom died, I absorbed her beloved People subscription, and, although it is pricey and generally news-less, I still keep it, because it seems like something she would want me to do.
I’ve subscribed to Rolling Stone since high school and it hasn’t changed much in all that time, except to become much smaller, and Bob Dylan is still a comforting presence on at least one cover each year. I let Spin go years back. I long for the days of Trouser Press, which you have probably never even heard of.
Still to-do — Read all these Dylan articles.
Sport. Baseball Weekly. Elysian Fields Quarterly. I got ‘em all.
I’m told that Sport is still around.
And, Sports Illustrated.
At first, my dad would just mail me his old copies, and they would come stuffed three or four to an envelope, often months out of order. Except the swimsuit issue. He always kept that one.
Eventually, he got me my own subscription, but sadly, there were no dad comments written in the margins or big circles drawn in Sharpie around the stories my dad felt were most important. I let SI go for awhile. But, I came back, because it is, I swear, one of the best-written magazines ever.
Editor/Husband estimates that I read 25 pounds of magazines over the holiday.
“Read” is relative here.
One “reads” War & Peace. One “skimmalafies” a year-old Rolling Stone (oh, look, Bob Dylan!). In the case of People, “reading” may mean simply seeing how fast you can do the crossword or marveling that this week’s cover story on Adele contains not one single piece of original reporting, but is just a jumble of Adele’s previous quotes to Rolling Stone and the Today Show. (Which means that People did what any blogger could do.)
Zuzu is not one for celebrity gossip or, in the case of the new Adele cover story, lazy reporting.
Editor/Husband gets one magazine – Vanity Fair. He has three years of them stacked up on his side of the bed.
“I read them as frequently as there is a Common Redpoll irruption.”
Which means, almost never. Editor/Husband was very excited to see a Common Redpoll at our birdfeeder this morning. (If they’re so rare, why are they called “common”?)
I planned to share three of the best articles I read with you.
But, as the days wore on and the pile by the bed got smaller, I thought maybe two articles would be enough.
Now, the pile’s gone and I have one magazine set aside. Just one article.
It’s from a 2014 Sports Illustrated and it’s about Roger Angell, who has written for the New Yorker since 1944, the last 53 years as its baseball writer.
Why should you read it? Because it is beautiful.
Because it includes the line, “Angell is the curator of our baseball souls.”
Because, as Angell points out, reading about baseball is somehow even more exciting, vibrant, and memorable than just watching a highlight replayed on video. Maybe because a play is just a play on film. But, when someone who loves the game writes about it, it takes on extra layers, extra meanings … maybe joy, maybe amazement, or maybe despair. It becomes personal, something a video is not.
And, you can find Angell’s New Yorker piece This Old Man about aging and getting by in your 90s, which won a National Magazine Award and has one of the world’s best jokes about death, here.
“Everybody was becomingly thankful.” ~ The Baltimore Sun, November 26, 1897
There’s not a lot of baseball on Thanksgiving.
It’s just turkey and football, isn’t it?
Sure, maybe there’s someone, somewhere having a catch before dinner. But, finding a game – a real game – is hard to do on Thanksgiving.
It was pretty much just turkey and football back in 1897, too. And, it’s been that way every Thanksgiving since.
But, I did find two bits of Thanksgiving baseball in 1897 …
On Thanksgiving Day, the boys of St. Mary’s Industrial School – the school for truants, miscreants, and wayward boys located on the outskirts of Baltimore – mostly played football. But, a few of them played baseball that day. It was a dull and cloudy day, but the rain held off until after dark, so the day was fine enough for outdoor games.
Thanksgiving 1897 was, for the 535 boys of St. Mary’s, “a delightful day,” The Baltimore Sun reported.
The school was still five years away from enrolling its most famous student – George (not-yet-Babe) Ruth who was committed to St. Mary’s by his parents for being incorrigible in 1902.
Public Domain image (1913)
In 1897, George “Baby” Ruth was just 2 years old and several years away from becoming a star player for St. Mary’s Industrial School. (Here he is in 1913 — back row, center, with his catcher’s gear.)
The Baltimore Orioles also played on Thanksgiving Day 1897.
They had just finished their season in second place and were out on the West Coast on one of those barn-storming “all-star” tours that travelled through warm-weather states in the off-season as a way to make the owners some dough and help players make ends meet.
The Orioles spent their Thanksgiving being beaten 4-3 by the Sacramento Gilt Edges, a California League team.
(The Gilt Edges, by the way, got their name from Sacramento’s Ruhstaller’s Brewery, maker of Gilt Edge beer. The brewery still exists and they still make Gilt Edge.)
But for most Americans, Thanksgiving Day 1897 was a day for church-going (“services were most elaborate affairs, and in their magnitude and importance, were only surpassed by the Easter Festivals,” The Washington Post explained) … college football (the University of Virginia beat Carolina in the “South’s Oldest Rivalry” game, 12-0, wahoowa!) … and serving roast turkey dinners with all the usual trimmings to the poor, the infirm, the elderly, and the imprisoned.
Thanksgiving Day back then, it seems, was less a day to count one’s own blessings, but instead was a day to help provide the less fortunate with a belly-filling meal for which they could be thankful.
The Humphrey House, a Jamestown, New York hotel and restaurant, reminded its diners of the blessings of sharing a meal with the poor on their Thanksgiving Day menu.
Public Domain, via University of Nevada, Las Vegas, University Libraries. (1897)
“They who divide the plenty, By a bounteous Father given, Shall multiply this day the thanks, That sweetly rise to Heaven.”
(You can see the Humphrey House’s full Thanksgiving menu here.)
As The Baltimore Sun explained, “Many generous-hearted people were anxious that others should find some rays of sunshine in their lives to be grateful for and devoted part of the remaining hours to aiding the poor, sick, or those confined in institutions.”
The Baltimore Sun, November 26, 1897
“Everybody was becomingly thankful.”
That’s how The Baltimore Sun described Thanksgiving Day 1897.