“Games, you remember, go by a kind of immutable rotation – as much a law of childhood as gravitation of the universe. Marbles belong to spring, to the first weeks after the frost is out of the ground. They are a kind of celebration of the season, of the return to bare earth. Tops belong to autumn, hockey to the ice, base-ball to the spring and summer, football to the cold, snappy fall. … If you played ‘em out of time, they didn’t seem right; there was no zest to them.” ~ Walter Prichard Eaton in Scribner’s, 1911.
(Spinning your tops in the spring? Unzesty.)
There wasn’t much snow in Central Virginia yesterday. Just a splatter. Or, maybe someone just emptied a bag of cotton balls out in the yard.
Some people argue that baseball season goes on too long, that games are too long, that everything should just be shortened up, speeded up, and wrapped up quickly.
They are wrong. Who wants more baseball-less winter?
In the 1860s, “Ice Base-Ball” was invented to keep the season going longer.
“Base Ball On Skates” by C.J. Taylor in Harper’s, 1884
A few teams in Brooklyn – and later in Chicago and Philadelphia – gave it a go and you can find reports of it through the early 1880s or so.
Some games had 15,000 fans out in the cold watching players skate around the bases.
(Imagine this … Billy Butler. Stealing second. On skates.)
(You’ll be thinking about it all day, won’t you? Maybe this baseball on ice thing isn’t such a bad idea.)
Following a game between the New York Mutuals and Atlantics in January 1871, The New York Sun noted that the bases were drawn on the ice with paint and ashes, the ice “was in fine condition” and “[t]he play was good.”
The Mutuals lost, although the reporter neglected to give a final score.
The game’s highlight? “In the second innings, [sic] one of the Mutuals, Shreeves, took the bat and struck at the first ball pitched to him. The next that was seen of him he was lying in a heap on the ice, while his bat was flying over the heads of the spectators.”
Fun.
Just 21 days until pitchers and catchers report to warm places where the only ice is in drinks and wrapped around sore muscles.
In the meantime, here’s a hardy women’s team in Toronto playing baseball on ice in 1924.
The “latest in Winter sports – demands skill, speed and strong clothes.”
(Don’t forget your strong clothes … there’s still a bit of winter left out there.)
Well, it snowed enough that lots of things around me closed for the day.
While this smattering of snowlets has closed things in Virginia, it’s the kind of snow that someone in North Dakota wouldn’t even notice. “It snowed last night? Really? I didn’t notice the dusting on top of the other 20 inches that have been here since September.”
I lived in North Dakota for awhile, I should know.
So, this may not seem like anything to you.
But, sometimes things are not as they seem … and this dusting has upended Central Virginia.
And, as a result, hundreds and hundreds of schoolchildren around here got to sleep in, blissfully unaware for one more day of important things like Algebra, adverbs, and Chester Alan Arthur.
Today in “Free Baseball,” three other things that are not quite what they seem.
10th Inning: Tommy Hunter, Retail Dude
Tommy Hunter is one of the Baltimore Orioles longest-tenured and pretty steady (mostly steady, often steady … or, at least, more-often-steady-than-not steady, 2.97-ERA-in-2014 steady) bullpen relievers. I’m soft on the boys of the bullpen. It’s a thankless job being a reliever. Even when you’re great – or at least steady more often than not – you’re unheralded. You’re probably never going to win a Cy Young (although occasionally relievers do), you’re probably not going to be an MVP of anything, and, apparently, unless it’s the 8th or 9th inning, you’re not going to be recognized, even by your own fans.
Tommy went “undercover” to work at the Orioles Fan Store in nearby York, Pennsylvania last summer.
“The Hunter jerseys just came in, man. I’ve got a couple of them, too.”
Watching him hawk Tommy Hunter jerseys is why I believe bullpens – and the boys who live there – are one of the best parts of the game. Watch here.
We (heart) Tommy.
11th Inning: Baseball in Japan
“It’s not just baseball. It’s something else. It’s something more.”
Each spring dozens of high school teams from around Japan come together at Koshien for a nine-day tournament that captivates the country. Like “the Super Bowl and World Series rolled into one,” it is one of Japan’s biggest sporting events.
In “When 772 Pitches Isn’t Enough,”writer Chris Jones tells the story of Tomohiro Anraku, a 16-year-old pitching phenom from Saibi High School and one of the top baseball prospects in the world, and his appearance at Koshien.
The culture of youth baseball in Japan – the dedication to perfection at any physical or emotional cost – is fascinating. And, when you read of how Anraku throws 772 pitches over five games in nine days, it’s also frightening.
The article first appeared in ESPN: The Magazine, and, most recently, in the 2014 Edition of The Best American Sports Writing. Read here.
12th Inning: The Birth Of A Twins Fan
Because I am a loyal (some would say annoying) Orioles fan, people assume I live in Baltimore. Not true. Although I lived in nearby Northern Virginia for a number of years, I’ve never lived in Baltimore. To get to Camden Yards today takes us a good three hours, usually in terrible I-95 traffic. When we’re about halfway to Baltimore, I will thumb my nose at much-closer Nationals Stadium as we pass by it. I’m a loyal Birdland Girl.
This week Verdun – who writes the fabulous Verdun2’s Blog – explained how he, a lifelong Dodgers fan, inadvertently turned his son into a Minnesota Twins fan simply because of one seemingly innocuous act when his son was small.
(Although, had he handed a Yankees card to his son on that fateful day, it would have been a tragic and sad story. Whew!)
Pitchers and Catchers Report in just 35 Days!
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Free Baseball refers to the extra innings that occur after a nine-inning game ends in a tie. For me, “Free Baseball” are the extra things that don’t quite fit into my regular-sized posts.
It is, indeed, a dark winter day when a forecaster on the radio says the “wind chill will get wind chillier” and the biggest move of 2015 in Orioles baseball is yesterday’s minor league signing of J.P. Arencibia.
“We signed J.P. Arencibia! We signed J.P. Arencibia!”
Now the Orioles have five catchers.
To go with their six starting pitchers.
(Who needs three outfielders when you have five catchers and six starting pitchers?)
For that first decade, we pretty much settled into the Two-Thousand model.
But, for the past few years, it’s back to the back-and-forth. Here it is the dawn of 2015, shouldn’t this be cleared up by now?
Is it nearly Twenty-Fifteen? Or, Two-Thousand-Fifteen?
Did they have this problem 100 years ago? Or, was Nineteen-Whatever always the unassailable, easy winner?
Will we ever decide?
So Happy Twenty-Fifteen.
If that’s what you call it.
Here’s some of what I learned in 2014.
(Twenty-Fourteen? Two-Thousand-Fourteen? Your choice.)
** Things Change.
I don’t like change … just to change. It should serve a purpose.
Strangely though, things often have a way of changing on their own without asking my approval.
Like this year.
Nick Markakis, the Ever-Oriole, goes to the Atlanta Braves.
I’m forced to find a new home for my Yoga studio.
I didn’t approve either change. But, I’m stuck with them.
But, my new Yoga studio is now twice as large so people won’t have to press themselves together like ship stowaways anymore, huddled and smacking into each other whenever they twist.
But, if Orioles GM Dan Duquette has an amazing January Surprise in store that will fill the outfield corners and bullpen, I might forgive him.
** Some Things Aren’t What They Seem.
I really like this photo I took in Charlottesville during the NCAA Super Regionals last June. It was the deciding Game 3, University of Maryland vs. University of Virginia.
That’s UVa closer Nick Howard (currently on the fast track with the Cincinnati Reds) on the mound looking a little harried. And, in the dugout, is a Maryland Terp, not troubled at all.
Which is funny, because it was the ninth inning and the score was 11-2, UVa.
Nick had it in the bag. And, that Terp’s season was two outs away from over.
But, you don’t get that from the picture.
In any event, I mostly like it because both players appear to be tipping their caps. Even though, that’s also not what it seems.
Other things that aren’t quite what they seem that I’ve written about this year?
And, Buttercup Dickerson, who’s credited with being the first Italian American to play major league baseball – except that I discovered he wasn’t Italian American at all.
Public Domain
** Be Prepared.
A photographer friend reminds me that a good photographer must anticipate where and when the spontaneous moment – and perfect picture – will occur.
I have yet to get my anticipation right at a game. Stolen base, breathtaking play in the outfield, close play at the plate? I’ve seen ‘em all and every single photo is just a little late. Never in the nick of time.
Except one.
It was right after that Nick Howard photo. One out, ninth inning, UVa is up 11-2.
What happens when a bunch of college boys are about to advance to the College World Series?
I knew.
So, with one out, I pointed my camera at the mound, fussed with the shutter, held it there, and waited.
True, it ain’t over ‘til it’s over.
Maryland singles. Man on first. Pop out. Two out. I kept checking the camera to make sure I still had it right. More waiting. And, then, strike three. Three out. Game Over.
Unlike baseball games which are not nearly as long as you think they are, War & Peaceis long. First there’s peace, then there’s war, then more peace, then back to war.
Look, I’m halfway through …
Stevie wishes she could read.
And, there is a central character named Nick. (Nikolai Rostov for you Tolstoy purists.)
Jeremy Brett as Nikolai in the 1956 film.
He’s an ordinary sort of fellow. Some pages ago he lost a bunch of money gambling. It was quite stupid of him and his ordinariness annoys me. When he shows up for a chapter or two, I find myself wondering what the more interesting characters are doing.
To be fair, Nikolai would agree with me. At one point, he tells his sister how tiresome and boring his life is.
But, there’s still a long way to go.
And, if there’s one thing I learned this year, things change and you gotta roll with it. Maybe things will change for Nikolai.
_______
That’s my 2014 wrap-up.
Done, just in the nick of time …
Now, I’m off to teach my first classes in my new Yoga studio.
The Internet regularly turns rumors, half-truths, and not-true-at-alls into “factishness” in a snap. One person sees something stupid online, believes it, and a thousand forwards later Jon Bon Jovi is dead and NASA is warning of a massive power failure due to solar flares. (He’s not and they didn’t. Stop sending me this crap.)
Which brings us to the “fact-ish” story of Lewis P. Dickerson, 19th-century baseball player. Known to baseball geeks as “Buttercup.”
In 1979, Dickerson was inducted into the National Italian American Sports Hall of Fame for this: “Lewis Pessano, better known as Buttercup Dickerson, was the first Italian American to play in the major leagues.”
And, that became Buttercup’s legacy. Except …
He wasn’t Lewis Pessano. And, he is probably not Italian American. I’m not sure why the Chicago-based Italian-American Sports Hall of Fame ever thought he was.
Dickerson was “better known” as Dickerson, because Dickerson was his name.
His middle name was Pessano, but he was always a Dickerson. And, so was his father.
In the book Sport and the Shaping of the Italian American Identity (2013), Gerald Gems says that the Anglicization of “Pessano’s” name was significant because it showed how athletes had to “obscure and cast doubt upon any Italian identity.”
The implication that “Lewis Pessano” was so traumatized by ethnic bigotry that he was forced to change his name to avoid the stigma of being a low-class Italian just isn’t true.
Take a look at these facts, culled from U.S. census and Maryland records.
Dickerson was born Lewis P. Dickerson in 1858 in Tyaskin, Maryland.
1860 Census
1880 Census. Now 22, Lewis Dickerson is still living at home in Tyaskin …
… and identifies himself as a “Professional Base Ball Player.”
His father was William P. Dickerson, an illiterate oysterman. (The elder Dickerson is listed at one point as William Porter Dickerson and is always listed as being born in Maryland.) William can be traced back to the 1840s on Maryland records. Lewis’s mother is Mary P. (Larmore) Dickerson, also born in Maryland. Both parents are buried in St. Mary’s Episcopal Cemetery in Tyaskin.
In 2001, historian Charles Weaver spoke to one of Buttercup Dickerson’s granddaughters who told him that both William and Mary were of English (or, perhaps, Scottish) descent. The granddaughter also told Weaver that the middle name Pessano was given in gratitude to the attending physician at Lewis’ birth, a common tradition at the time. (This conversation is mentioned briefly in a footnote in Beyond DiMaggio: Italian Americans in Baseball, by Lawrence Baldassaro, 2011.)
Buttercup Dickerson wasn’t the first Italian American baseball player, because he wasn’t Italian American.
Public Domain
But, he was a baseball player.
“L.P. Dickerson” joined the Cincinnati Reds as an outfielder in July 1878. He batted .309 in 29 games that season. In 1879, his 14 triples for Cinci over 81 games led the league.
(Dee Gordon’s 12 triples for the Dodgers over 162 games led the league in 2014, although comparing 1879 to 2014 isn’t quite fair since so many things were so very different then.)
And, he was Buttercup.
Buttercup!
Wasn’t he?
In 1879, the Cincinnati Daily Star reports in passing that Dickerson is now being called “Sweet Little Buttercup.”
Cincinnati Daily News, 6/28/1879
1879 Poster. Public Domain
(“Sweet Little Buttercup” was an amply-sized female character in the Gilbert and Sullivan comic opera H.M.S. Pinafore. It debuted in the United States in 1879 and was a pretty big deal.)
That’s it. That’s the first and last direct reference to Dickerson being called Buttercup that I can find.
News reports are spotty, but in most cases he’s called Lew, occasionally Lou, and most often, just Dickerson.
Never Pessano. And, never again Buttercup.
Dickerson kicks around from team to team – Binghamton, Cincinnati, Troy, Worcester, Pittsburgh, St. Louis, Baltimore, Louisville, Buffalo, Norfolk, Chattanooga – playing mostly in the outfield and getting suspended at least a couple times for carousing and being a drunk.
There’s plenty of mentions of Dickerson’s drinking. And, to be singled out for being a “lush” at a time when hard-drinking and hard-living was the common ballplayer trait is pretty telling.
“Lew Dickerson has been suspended from Chattanooga for lushing.” ~ The Sporting News 5/31/1886
“One day Ben told Billy Taylor then of the [Pittsburgh] Alleghenys that Lou Dickerson was sick. … Said Billy, ‘Has he got delirium tremens?’ ‘Oh no. He is never sober enough for that.’” ~ The Sporting News 10/4/1886
“Lew Dickerson still exists. It is a cold day when he gets left, as he knows the ingredient to keep him warm.” ~ National Police Gazette 5/7/1887
“I was hoping some great temperance agitator would bring Lew Dickerson along and show him up as a terrible example. I guess Lew is done for, but his many escapades in the past will live for some years to come.” The writer tells of a player named Brown’s efforts to reform Lew, who agrees to stop drinking. “‘When will the good work begin?’ [Brown asks.] ‘When the breweries stop running,’ was Dickerson’s reply and ever after that Mr. Brown had no earthly use for Dickerson.” ~ The Sporting Life, 11/1891
Buttercup wasn’t all that reliable either. He was playing for the St. Louis Maroons of the Union Association in 1884 when this happened …
“During the St. Louis Unions eastern trip, Lew Dickerson disappeared at Baltimore, and has not been heard from since. Meeting many old friends, he yielded to his inclination for strong drink and fell by the wayside.” ~ St. Louis Globe Democrat 7/25/1884
He reappears two days later. Playing for Baltimore.
“Dickerson played with the Baltimores yesterday at right field. He will be expelled by the Unions for drunkenness. Several days ago [St. Louis Team] President Lucas announced that he was only waiting to locate him before expelling him. He says there is now not a lusher on his nine and he will never have another.” ~ St. Louis Globe-Democrat, 7/27/1884
In April 1885, he signs with the Omaha Omahogs of the new Western League, pockets a $100 advance, and then quickly skips town to join the National League’s Buffalo Bison.
Dickerson’s recorded stats dwindle after 1885, but I’m pretty sure he played a good bit longer.
Through 1891, he is regularly listed as a “ballplayer” in the annual Baltimore City Directory.
1891
By the mid-1890s, he is reported to be a “salesman” and, in 1896, a “huckster,” which made me smile until I realized that back then a huckster was simply a door-to-door or street salesman.
1896
1898
In 1898, he is again listed as “ballplayer.” So, he continued to make some living at baseball far longer than the records show.
There you have it.
Things are never quite as simple as they seem. And, often the real story isn’t nearly as nice as the one we’ve come to know.
Buttercup Dickerson was probably not the first Italian-American ballplayer. And, “Buttercup” was likely a fleeting nickname.
But, we do know this. Dickerson was a heavy drinker, broke contracts and jumped teams, and didn’t seem like a particularly nice fella. He had a couple awfully good seasons playing baseball, and plenty more mediocre ones.
Crime and riots and war and disasters and oppression and intolerance and Ebola and famine and corruption and apathy and terrorism and racism and, as John Lennon once said, this-ism and that-ism. Just a whole load of flat-out evil.
It makes my heart hurt.
I don’t write about that. So many people write about it much better than I could.
I just write about simple things. Like baseball.
I suppose you expect me to write today about how it sucks that Nick Markakis – old reliable, life-time Oriole, working man, no flash, do your job and do it well, Nick Markakis – signed last night with the Atlanta Braves.
Yup.
It sucks.
But, it’s just a game.
I sometimes use baseball like I use Yoga … as a little blanket fort to hide under.
Nothing bad ever really happens in Yoga either. Except for this damn groin pull that’s been going on four months now. But, really … not so bad.
When it comes to doing business deals with friends (rarely a good idea), a friend once said, “Buddies are buddies and business is business.”
And, in baseball, “Business is business.”
And, that part of the game sucks for fans who have enough difficult “business is business” in our own world and look to baseball to be somehow above that.
It’s not above that.
Nick Markakis was drafted by the Orioles in 2003.
And, depending on who you listen to this morning, the Orioles shoo’d Nick away because their persnickety medical team was antsy over a neck issue … or Nick jumped to make a few million more and a longer contract.
Were the Orioles disloyal and cheap? Was Nick disloyal and greedy?
Maybe. I dunno.
There was a time when Cal Ripken played every game … every single day. Year in and year out, he played. Drafted an Oriole. Played as an Oriole. Retired as an Oriole.
But, that doesn’t happen much any more.
For any of us, really.
I changed jobs and careers.
Who doesn’t change jobs or put on a new uniform from time to time?
Nick was with the Orioles 11 years. We’re much flightier than he is.
I change things from time to time.
But not everything.
These things won’t change for me:
1) Cheese should never be served as dessert.
2) R.E.M. is the greatest band of all time.
3) The Baltimore Orioles are, win or lose, Nick or no Nick, my team.
When Orioles pitcher Mike Mussina left in 2000 to sign with the Yankees, I was devastated. I’m still pretty steamed about the Orioles letting him walk, although not at “Moose” (who deserves to be in the Hall of Fame).
I’m pretty sore about this Markakis thing, too. I’m gonna miss Old Reliable in Right.
And, I wonder how Orioles center fielder Adam Jones is going to cover his position – plus the now-empty left and right fields – next season.
Sure, the Oriole Twitterers are apoplectic today. (Yay, I got to use “apoplectic”!) And, the Braves Twitterers seem resigned in a “Really? We signed who, why … wait, how much?” sort of way. (Relax, Braves Fans … he’ll be fine.)
There is so much more in the world to be truly sad about than a baseball guy changing teams.
The Baseball Bloggess: “Stevie wants you to know that the camera adds five pounds.”‘
Editor/Husband: “How many did she eat?”
May you have much to be grateful for this Thanksgiving. I’m grateful for all the people who swing by this blog from time to time … who pepper my posts with witty comments … and who love baseball (and cats) as much as me.
I’ve been sitting around for weeks waiting for the Baltimore Orioles to just get on with things and re-sign Nick Markakis.
How hard can it be? It’s not like he’s asking for $300 million. Or, 13 years.
Really, guys, sign someone. Anyone.
But, mostly Nick.
This happens every year. Thanksgiving comes. Thanksgiving goes. Christmas comes. Christmas goes. New Year’s …
Other teams spend money. The Orioles sit tight.
Patience is not my strong suit.
I was planning on a silent protest. Not saying a word on here until the Orioles did something.
(I know, that’d show ‘em.)
But, I miss you. So, I’m cancelling the boycott.
So, here’s the traitor thing. With no Orioles news to report, this post is about the Boston Red Sox.
As an Orioles fan, I’ve got no love for the Red Sox. Those are the rules.
That’s why I postthis video from 2011, the only highlight in a lousy Orioles season, on here from time to time.
Just to relive a moment when we weren’t supposed to, but we beat the Red Sox anyway.
This weekend, the Red Sox apparently spent nearly $200 million to sign free agents Hanley Ramirez and Pablo Sandoval. (Why, Panda, why?)
And, they’ve still got money to throw around.
The Orioles swept up a few minor leaguers last week, which is sweet and all, sort of like a hot night out at the Dollar Store. But, it’s always so sad to watch the free agent list scroll by … “nope” … “nope” … “can’t afford him” … “nope” … “nope” … “too expensive.”
I hate all this off-season money business. But, this post isn’t about money.
(Well, it’s not anymore.)
In September, my Red Sox-loving, baseball guru Jay arranged for us to go down on the field for batting practice when the Sox played the Orioles at Camden Yards.
So, while I wait for the Orioles to get Nick to sign on the dotted line, here are the Red Sox doing Yoga.
Second baseman Mookie Betts was so joyful in his stretch that this photo has become one of my favorites.
Eleven cats and one dog have lived with us here over the past 15 years or so.
They just keep showing up.
Living on a farm – even if it is a farm in name only – attracts all sorts of creatures.
I have loved each of the 11 cats and the one dog who showed up, moved in, and stayed.
(Sure, there have been others who have stopped by for a day or a week or a month and just moved on. I don’t count them.)
I do not like the groundhogs who dig bowling ball-sized burrows in our yard and waddle all smug and nasty and fearless when I yell at them to stop eating the tomatoes. (You can call them woodchucks or whistle pigs and I still will not like them.)
Over time the numbers of animals who live with us has dwindled. The cats and the dog came, grew old or ill, and then passed on.
I hate that part.
Because it breaks my heart every time I have to say “goodbye.”
Now there are only three.
This week the “goodbye” was for Lamar. He was only eight or so.
He was the most feral of the feral cats we’ve taken in. And, because there was so much wild in him to begin with, it was easy to grow very attached to the sweetness that seeped out around the feral edges.
I like that a cat’s love for a person is not unconditional. I like that there’s some wild independence in there. I like that we humans are always on probation with cats, and they can and will withdraw their affection at any moment.
I’ve always had an issue with dogs. I don’t like the unconditional love thing with dogs. I want to earn your friendship.
Groucho and Bingo. (1999-2000-ish)
Bingo, the Border Collie, loved me, but she also loved Tim, the UPS driver, and our neighbors, and the vet, and complete strangers, and anyone with food.
I’m also not a big fan of that dog-breath slobbery thing and I don’t understand why, if they’re so much smarter than cats, they can’t learn to use the litter box and cover up after themselves. Using the cat’s litter box like a salad bar really doesn’t make the case for “We’re smarter than cats.”
(I loved Bingo and she would want me to add that she never bothered the litter boxes.)
I’m pretty much a cat person.
When Lamar showed up seven years ago, he was so feral that it took me many months of sweet talk and food to soften him up enough just to touch him, and a few months more before he would let me lift him off the ground.
He was tough and built of muscle, but one day when he came out on the wrong side of a cat fight, his front paw was injured and he was hobbling just enough that we were able to catch him and get him into a pet carrier. Antibiotics and neutering followed.
Lamar became our farm protector. He protected Oscar, a very old cat that had left our neighbor’s house to live in our barn.
Oscar
Oscar was too old to fight or protect himself, but refused to come inside. It seems odd to say Lamar tended to him, but that’s what he did.
In the same way that cats will sometimes bring their people mice and moles and other “gifts”, Lamar brought a cat to us a couple years ago and let her eat out of his food bowl.
“Look. I brought you a cat.”
She followed him like a shadow.
She became Stevie and, when she discovered the warmth and creature comforts of being inside, she moved in.
Not long after, Lamar started losing more cat scuffles than he won, and then, much to his initial dismay, we decided that, feral or not, it was time for him to come in the house. And, feral or not, he quickly settled in, and he was the one cat in the house that every other cat in the house got along with.
We enclosed our front porch this year just so Lamar could enjoy the outdoors safely.
Lamar was fine on Thursday morning, he slept with us on the bed the night before. (He always slept wideways on the bed, taking up a lot of space and forcing me to curl my legs up tight so he could stretch out.) He was fine when we left for work.
His heart gave out that day – as cat hearts often do, quickly and without warning. And, that night we said goodbye.
The Baltimore Orioles have been awarded 70 Gold Gloves, recognizing defensive excellence, since 1957 – the most in the American League and second only to the St. Louis Cardinals.
