Richard Pryor and John Candy: comedic geniuses.
Richard Pryor and John Candy: not baseball players.
I just finished watching Brewster's Millions, the 1985 movie starring Pryor and Candy as buddies and baseball players. Pryor plays Montgomery Brewster, an over-the-hill pitcher for the Hackensack Bulls who inherits $30 million but has to spend it all in 30 days to inherit the full inheritance of $300 million. His best friend and battery mate - Candy - doesn't understand why Brewster keeps throwing his money away, not realizing that's part of the deal: Brewster can't tell anyone about his situation, or he loses it all. In the end, he succeeds and inherits the full $300 million.
But back to the baseball.
When the movie came out, Candy was 35 and Pryor 44. Candy's age fits the role of a decent semipro ballplayer who's holding on for a few more years in the backwoods of baseball, but his physique certainly doesn't. If David Wells and Greg Luzinski defied science and physics and produced a child together, the unfortunate result might look like John Candy in this uniform. We never see Candy swing a bat, and I have to believe he kept a roster spot because of his leadership with the Bulls' pitching staff. He taunts opposing hitters, throwing them out of their comfort zone, though it appears unlikely he's capable of throwing out any runners.
Then there's Pryor. In the few glimpses we get of Pryor in action, it appears his fastball tops out at about 76 miles per hour. If he was throwing at a dunk tank, he might not have enough velocity to activate the drop switch. Still, he apparently made it as far as Toledo in Triple-A ball and I can only assume that happened in his early 20s. He earns points for creativity: he strikes out a hitter with an always-entertaining Eephus pitch.
Jerry Orbach, or at least his character, manages the Bulls. He does a serviceable job, ably pulling off the cranky, vulgar, seen-it-all manager. At one point he tells one of his hitters he's not a farmer, "You don't have to swing at shit in the dirt." I bet Earl Weaver said that once. The problem, of course, is that Jerry Orbach is Lenny Briscoe, the beloved Law & Order detective. Brewster's Millions came out nearly a decade before Orbach joined the L&O cast, but he's now been retroactively typecast. It's jarring seeing him in other movies or shows, even if those appeared long before Lenny started patrolling New York's streets. While his manager has some good lines, you expect him to quip about a dead body, or threaten someone in an interrogation room, or worry about his drug-addicted daughter. Brewster doesn't help matters later in the film, when he purchases fancy new uniforms for the Bulls. They're blue and tight and when Orbach appears in his, it looks like he's worn a wetsuit to a ballgame.
Orbach's in-game skills as a manager also appear shaky. When the Bulls play a three-inning exhibition against the Yankees - hey, it could happen - Brewster surrenders four runs before Orbach yanks him from the game, telling him he's "gotta" take him out. A bit late, coach. The Yanks had been hitting him hard before he gave up the runs that effectively finished off the Bulls. You have to have the bullpen ready much earlier, though, to be fair, back in those days managers allowed starters to throw more innings, even if in this case a complete game would only be three innings.
The movie's not a comedy classic but it has its entertaining points. At one point Brewster bets on a field hockey game between Loyola and Notre Dame and wins big - much to his chagrin - when Loyola pulls off the stunning upset in a game that was actually previewed in a New York City newspaper. Odd story selection from the editors. He invests in a company featuring an iceberg and other bizarre businesses. The only thing missing is a contribution to the anti-cat-juggling fund that Steve Martin gave to in The Jerk.
Brewster spends and spends and in wasting $30 million in 30 days, he certainly does his best impression of way too many professional athletes. Later in the movie he runs for mayor and in an "unheard of move," spends his own money on his campaign. Unheard of at the time, perhaps. But maybe Bloomberg got an idea from the movie.
Brewster's Millions also forecast some of the populist rage - faux or otherwise - that influenced the recent election. He runs while proclaiming None of the Above, saying that the other candidates are so terrible, people should vote for None of the Above. Surely many people this year wished they had the choice.
I remember watching Brewster's Millions as a kid and being upset at the end that people didn't realize he pulled it off. Everyone thinks he's something of a loser, except for his lovely accountant. I wanted an epilogue as he walked back into the New York night. Did he sponsor another exhibition game, this time against the '86 Mets? Did he run for mayor again, this time on a campaign of All of the The Above? Did he buy the Hackensack Bulls and fire Orbach, or at least purchase better uniforms? And did he finally quit playing ball or did he stay on, firing that weak fastball and nonexistent curve to his overweight friend and catcher?
Showing posts with label Baseball. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Baseball. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Missing the first quarter of Lakers games, and other TV atrocities
If TNT broadcast every Lakers game against Western Conference opponents, chances are I would never see the team in the first six minutes of a game. I'd never get to see Kobe Bryant's first mid-range jumper or Derek Fisher's first missed layup and I'd certainly never see the gangly, graceful, bearded Pau Gasol jumping center on the opening tip. That's because anytime the Lakers play the late game on a TNT doubleheader, the early game always, inevitably, runs late. This bothered me when I watched Lakers games at Saint John's in 1997 and it bothers me today. Literally, today.
Tonight the Celtics defeated the Heat - again - in the opening game of TNT's Thursday doubleheader. The Lakers, unless they're on an East Coast road trip or playing in the Midwest, almost always play the second game. It's the overexposure of the Lakers. So be it. Yet tonight, like always, the first game went later than 10:30. And then past the 10:45 mark. Finally, at 11:04, the game mercifully ended and Kevin Harlan sent it to the "voice of the NBA" Marv Albert and to the Lakers game in Denver.
The game finally appeared on the screen with 4:56 left in the first quarter. Damn it. Denver led 13-12 at the time. Who cares, right? Forty-one minutes remain. Nothing happens in the NBA until the fourth quarter anyway. The NBA's boring, etc., etc., etc., etc. I care. Laker fans draped in Bob McAdoo throwback jerseys care. Laker bandwagon fans who think Earvin Johnson was a journeyman center who once played for the Timberwolves care. And TNT executives should care, because it's now been like this for decades and still no one has figured out what seems to be a rather simple solution for these situations: schedule the games for 11 EST. TNT does give a grace period. A 10:30 game usually doesn't start until 10:50 or so. But it often doesn't help, as, like tonight, the early game drags on through a series of LeBron James free throws and timeouts. Meanwhile, Ernie Johnson provides helpful updates about the happenings halfway across the country, but will they give us a split screen? No.
At least tonight's early game was sort of close. The worst is when the early game is a blowout, yet it somehow drags out longer than a Yankees-Red Sox game. As the 20-point contest concludes, they show the score of the late game on the bottom: Lakers 8, Thunder 4. Then it cuts to a commercial before finally popping in on the late game. Show us the game that now matters! Well, that's not actually the worst. There's always overtime.
It doesn't take until 10:30 for me to realize I don't have a chance of seeing the opening of the Lakers game. If halftime of the first game isn't over by 9:40, there's no hope. I'll listen to Charles and Kenny crack their jokes and know that TNT will again lie when they say it's a doubleheader. We're not getting a complete doubleheader. We're being robbed. By 10 p.m., when there are still 8 minutes left in the third quarter, I'll start loudly sighing to myself, a pleasant personal trait. I curse the East Coast, and its basketball teams. I curse the invention of the 20-second timeout.
The same thing happens on ESPN. But at least if they carry a doubleheader, they'll switch it over to one of their other 14 networks, usually ESPN Classic, so instead of seeing the 2002 World Series of Poker, we actually get to watch the first six minutes of a live NBA game.
It's always been like this, of course, and it's not like TNT invented this problem.
As I wrote about before, CBS missed the first four-and-a-half minutes of Game 1 of the 1983 NBA Finals. The Finals! For a golf tournament not named The Masters.
At least during basketball games fans get to see all of the on-court action. Directors don't cut away as Carmelo Anthony rises up for a jump shot to show an overweight, bespectacled man chewing his fingernails in the upper deck, only to return just as the ball's being released from his hands. Yet that's what fans witness on pretty much every baseball telecast, but especially during playoff games. My friends have heard me complain about this a dozen times. I sound like a bitter old man talking about the good ol' days. But still...
The overuse of crowd shots during a game has done more damage to baseball than steroids.*
* I'm sort of in a Skip Bayless-type mood tonight so hyperbole, moralizing and overreaction will fill this post.
Can TV producers and directors please stop showing the crowd and dugout after every single pitch. Stop with the reaction shots. Stop zooming in on the pitcher's face between every pitch, followed by a close-up of the hitter, followed by a shot of a nervous fan in an ill-fitting jersey stained with mustard holding a sign that reads "FOX AND THE RANGERS RULE!" Then a quick shot of the do-nothing manager sitting motionless in the dugout, doing his best impersonation of a human statue in a Times Square subway station. What has a manager ever done on the bench that needed to be shown live? At best we see him touching his cap, at worst we see him picking his nose. Occasionally, though not always, and only when really emotional, he blinks.
By the time the cameras scan back to the center field view, the pitcher's already in motion and they've missed the start of his windup. Stay with the center field camera, I implore you. Stop showing the crowd in the third inning. No one is nervous, no one is that excited. No one is doing something so outrageous that we have to see them. They're sitting, taking their left hand and slamming it into their right in a clapping motion. Show the game. Of course, when a fan actually does do something that is newsworthy - like, say, run on the field nude - the stations refuse to show it. I wish networks would take the same policy to every crowd shot. Show the masses at the end of the game or in the final inning when the home heroes are down to their final shot.
I get anxious, waiting for the cameras to get back in time. I'm convinced they'll actually miss the pitch, and occasionally they do miss the ball coming out of the guy's hand. If Luis Tiant pitched today, no one who watched him only on television would ever know about his bizarre deliveries, but they would know that Red Sox fans like to wear Wade Boggs jerseys and backward baseball caps.
I know, nothing on a baseball broadcast outside of a 20-minute lecture by Tim McCarver on the beauty of the infield fly rule should bother someone this much.
And I know it will never change, so I should resign myself to this TV reality. Each year brings more crowd shots, more dugout shots, more up-close shots that force viewers to miss the big picture. So what's more maddening: Not being able to see any of the game you want to watch because the network refuses to air it, or not being able to see any of the action you want to watch even when the network is airing it? I suppose most fans would say the latter. But since it's the Lakers, I'll have to say the former.
Tonight the Celtics defeated the Heat - again - in the opening game of TNT's Thursday doubleheader. The Lakers, unless they're on an East Coast road trip or playing in the Midwest, almost always play the second game. It's the overexposure of the Lakers. So be it. Yet tonight, like always, the first game went later than 10:30. And then past the 10:45 mark. Finally, at 11:04, the game mercifully ended and Kevin Harlan sent it to the "voice of the NBA" Marv Albert and to the Lakers game in Denver.
The game finally appeared on the screen with 4:56 left in the first quarter. Damn it. Denver led 13-12 at the time. Who cares, right? Forty-one minutes remain. Nothing happens in the NBA until the fourth quarter anyway. The NBA's boring, etc., etc., etc., etc. I care. Laker fans draped in Bob McAdoo throwback jerseys care. Laker bandwagon fans who think Earvin Johnson was a journeyman center who once played for the Timberwolves care. And TNT executives should care, because it's now been like this for decades and still no one has figured out what seems to be a rather simple solution for these situations: schedule the games for 11 EST. TNT does give a grace period. A 10:30 game usually doesn't start until 10:50 or so. But it often doesn't help, as, like tonight, the early game drags on through a series of LeBron James free throws and timeouts. Meanwhile, Ernie Johnson provides helpful updates about the happenings halfway across the country, but will they give us a split screen? No.
At least tonight's early game was sort of close. The worst is when the early game is a blowout, yet it somehow drags out longer than a Yankees-Red Sox game. As the 20-point contest concludes, they show the score of the late game on the bottom: Lakers 8, Thunder 4. Then it cuts to a commercial before finally popping in on the late game. Show us the game that now matters! Well, that's not actually the worst. There's always overtime.
It doesn't take until 10:30 for me to realize I don't have a chance of seeing the opening of the Lakers game. If halftime of the first game isn't over by 9:40, there's no hope. I'll listen to Charles and Kenny crack their jokes and know that TNT will again lie when they say it's a doubleheader. We're not getting a complete doubleheader. We're being robbed. By 10 p.m., when there are still 8 minutes left in the third quarter, I'll start loudly sighing to myself, a pleasant personal trait. I curse the East Coast, and its basketball teams. I curse the invention of the 20-second timeout.
The same thing happens on ESPN. But at least if they carry a doubleheader, they'll switch it over to one of their other 14 networks, usually ESPN Classic, so instead of seeing the 2002 World Series of Poker, we actually get to watch the first six minutes of a live NBA game.
It's always been like this, of course, and it's not like TNT invented this problem.
As I wrote about before, CBS missed the first four-and-a-half minutes of Game 1 of the 1983 NBA Finals. The Finals! For a golf tournament not named The Masters.
At least during basketball games fans get to see all of the on-court action. Directors don't cut away as Carmelo Anthony rises up for a jump shot to show an overweight, bespectacled man chewing his fingernails in the upper deck, only to return just as the ball's being released from his hands. Yet that's what fans witness on pretty much every baseball telecast, but especially during playoff games. My friends have heard me complain about this a dozen times. I sound like a bitter old man talking about the good ol' days. But still...
The overuse of crowd shots during a game has done more damage to baseball than steroids.*
* I'm sort of in a Skip Bayless-type mood tonight so hyperbole, moralizing and overreaction will fill this post.
Can TV producers and directors please stop showing the crowd and dugout after every single pitch. Stop with the reaction shots. Stop zooming in on the pitcher's face between every pitch, followed by a close-up of the hitter, followed by a shot of a nervous fan in an ill-fitting jersey stained with mustard holding a sign that reads "FOX AND THE RANGERS RULE!" Then a quick shot of the do-nothing manager sitting motionless in the dugout, doing his best impersonation of a human statue in a Times Square subway station. What has a manager ever done on the bench that needed to be shown live? At best we see him touching his cap, at worst we see him picking his nose. Occasionally, though not always, and only when really emotional, he blinks.
By the time the cameras scan back to the center field view, the pitcher's already in motion and they've missed the start of his windup. Stay with the center field camera, I implore you. Stop showing the crowd in the third inning. No one is nervous, no one is that excited. No one is doing something so outrageous that we have to see them. They're sitting, taking their left hand and slamming it into their right in a clapping motion. Show the game. Of course, when a fan actually does do something that is newsworthy - like, say, run on the field nude - the stations refuse to show it. I wish networks would take the same policy to every crowd shot. Show the masses at the end of the game or in the final inning when the home heroes are down to their final shot.
I get anxious, waiting for the cameras to get back in time. I'm convinced they'll actually miss the pitch, and occasionally they do miss the ball coming out of the guy's hand. If Luis Tiant pitched today, no one who watched him only on television would ever know about his bizarre deliveries, but they would know that Red Sox fans like to wear Wade Boggs jerseys and backward baseball caps.
I know, nothing on a baseball broadcast outside of a 20-minute lecture by Tim McCarver on the beauty of the infield fly rule should bother someone this much.
And I know it will never change, so I should resign myself to this TV reality. Each year brings more crowd shots, more dugout shots, more up-close shots that force viewers to miss the big picture. So what's more maddening: Not being able to see any of the game you want to watch because the network refuses to air it, or not being able to see any of the action you want to watch even when the network is airing it? I suppose most fans would say the latter. But since it's the Lakers, I'll have to say the former.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Yankees, Twins. You know how this ends
So odd. The Twins have transformed from being perhaps the most dominant home team in baseball postseason history to one of the worst the game's ever seen. In 1987 and 1991 the Twins went 11-1 in the Metrodome during the postseason, including 8-0 in the World Series. People waved Homer Hankies in celebration, but now use them to wipe away the tears from their distraught child's face. After tonight's game, the Twins have now lost an absurd 10 games in a row at home, eight in the Dome and two at Target Field. The old Met Stadium is spinning in its mall grave.
Inside and outside, under a teflon roof and natural skies, against Angels, Athletics and Yankees, in close games and routs, the Twins have lost in every possible manner. They've lost with Pierzynski behind the plate and with Mauer, with Santana on the mound and Pavano. A battalion of relief pitchers have squandered leads and a horde of hitters have left men in scoring position. They've had injured pitchers - Liriano in 2006 - and injured hitters: Morneau last season and this year. Ron Gardenhire remains the one constant. Poor Gardy. At this point it might be a good idea if he just decides before each game to get tossed in the sixth or seventh inning, because nothing good ever happens after that. They're a hell of a playoff team for five innings. If they played Little League, the Twins would be the Chinese Taipei of Major League Baseball.
At this point, my friends in New York take pity on the Twins. No one hates the Twins. What's the point? If they could, these Yankee fans would pin purple "I tried" ribbons on the chests of Twins players and give them a kindly pat on the head while telling them how they "play the game the right way." They'd follow it with a gentle kick to the ass before breaking out into a "Red Sox suck" chant.
Last night I didn't get home until 10 p.m. When I turned on the TV, I was a bit surprised to see the Twins leading 3-0 as the top of the sixth inning began. About an hour later it'd all gone horribly wrong. By the end of tonight's fiasco, I began to wonder if the Twins might be in another new park - say, in 2030, when Target Field is obsolete and the team needs a dome stadium - before they ever win another home playoff game.
It's even possible the impossible has happened: Twins fans might be just as pessimistic and fatalistic about their team's playoff hopes as Vikings fans.
Every Viking fan expects tragedy to strike in the playoffs. Anyone who had a shred of optimism finally learned after last season's NFC title game that to love the purple is to love pain. You could call it masochistic, but no one loves this pain, the torment that comes with Hank Stram's taunts, Larry Csonka's facemask, Old Man Willie's run, Drew Pearson's pushoff, Darrin Nelson's drop, 41-0, Gary Anderson's miss, taking a knee, and 12 men on the field. These moments leave scars. If Randy Moss ignites the team and they storm into the playoffs with a 12-4 record, fans will again go crazy for their favorite helmeted warriors. Yet nearly all of them will look toward the playoffs thinking, What in the hell will go wrong this year? Will it be a Favre interception or a Peterson fumble? Will it be a key holding call or a defensive pass interference? Will Childress screw up or a referee?
Twins fans have reached that point. Perhaps some talked themselves into dreaming of a Twins victory in four games.
"Well, the Yanks' pitching after Sabathia is a bit shaky. And Jeter's struggled all year. And Christ, Lance Berkman? He's done nothing."
But even if they thought those things, they probably didn't verbalize the feelings, for fear that a wiser friend would remind them that the Twins never beat the Yankees in a series and, now, it appears, can never even beat them in a single game. No, now Twins fans watch these games waiting for disaster, in the field or at the plate. Or, as happened tonight, behind the plate. The details change but the story remains the same.
Now the Twins come to New York. Like last year, I'll probably again hear my neighbor cheer as the Yankees end Minnesota's season. Maybe they'll drill Brian Duensing in the first inning or maybe they'll rally against Matt Capps in the ninth.
But perhaps the Twins can pull off the improbable, if not the impossible. Win two in Yankee Stadium. Make the Yankees and their Jeter-jersey-wearing fans think of their own bad memories: the 2004 ALCS. Even this series back at 2. Yeah. It could happen. All they have to do then is win a home playoff game.
Oh.
Inside and outside, under a teflon roof and natural skies, against Angels, Athletics and Yankees, in close games and routs, the Twins have lost in every possible manner. They've lost with Pierzynski behind the plate and with Mauer, with Santana on the mound and Pavano. A battalion of relief pitchers have squandered leads and a horde of hitters have left men in scoring position. They've had injured pitchers - Liriano in 2006 - and injured hitters: Morneau last season and this year. Ron Gardenhire remains the one constant. Poor Gardy. At this point it might be a good idea if he just decides before each game to get tossed in the sixth or seventh inning, because nothing good ever happens after that. They're a hell of a playoff team for five innings. If they played Little League, the Twins would be the Chinese Taipei of Major League Baseball.
At this point, my friends in New York take pity on the Twins. No one hates the Twins. What's the point? If they could, these Yankee fans would pin purple "I tried" ribbons on the chests of Twins players and give them a kindly pat on the head while telling them how they "play the game the right way." They'd follow it with a gentle kick to the ass before breaking out into a "Red Sox suck" chant.
Last night I didn't get home until 10 p.m. When I turned on the TV, I was a bit surprised to see the Twins leading 3-0 as the top of the sixth inning began. About an hour later it'd all gone horribly wrong. By the end of tonight's fiasco, I began to wonder if the Twins might be in another new park - say, in 2030, when Target Field is obsolete and the team needs a dome stadium - before they ever win another home playoff game.
It's even possible the impossible has happened: Twins fans might be just as pessimistic and fatalistic about their team's playoff hopes as Vikings fans.
Every Viking fan expects tragedy to strike in the playoffs. Anyone who had a shred of optimism finally learned after last season's NFC title game that to love the purple is to love pain. You could call it masochistic, but no one loves this pain, the torment that comes with Hank Stram's taunts, Larry Csonka's facemask, Old Man Willie's run, Drew Pearson's pushoff, Darrin Nelson's drop, 41-0, Gary Anderson's miss, taking a knee, and 12 men on the field. These moments leave scars. If Randy Moss ignites the team and they storm into the playoffs with a 12-4 record, fans will again go crazy for their favorite helmeted warriors. Yet nearly all of them will look toward the playoffs thinking, What in the hell will go wrong this year? Will it be a Favre interception or a Peterson fumble? Will it be a key holding call or a defensive pass interference? Will Childress screw up or a referee?
Twins fans have reached that point. Perhaps some talked themselves into dreaming of a Twins victory in four games.
"Well, the Yanks' pitching after Sabathia is a bit shaky. And Jeter's struggled all year. And Christ, Lance Berkman? He's done nothing."
But even if they thought those things, they probably didn't verbalize the feelings, for fear that a wiser friend would remind them that the Twins never beat the Yankees in a series and, now, it appears, can never even beat them in a single game. No, now Twins fans watch these games waiting for disaster, in the field or at the plate. Or, as happened tonight, behind the plate. The details change but the story remains the same.
Now the Twins come to New York. Like last year, I'll probably again hear my neighbor cheer as the Yankees end Minnesota's season. Maybe they'll drill Brian Duensing in the first inning or maybe they'll rally against Matt Capps in the ninth.
But perhaps the Twins can pull off the improbable, if not the impossible. Win two in Yankee Stadium. Make the Yankees and their Jeter-jersey-wearing fans think of their own bad memories: the 2004 ALCS. Even this series back at 2. Yeah. It could happen. All they have to do then is win a home playoff game.
Oh.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
The Twins, the 1987 World Series and the Berenguer Boogie
The Minnesota Twins will win the AL Central. In the first round of the playoffs they'll face either Tampa or the Yankees. They might beat the Rays in the first round and then lose to the Yankees in the ALCS. Or they'll play the Yankees in the first round and lose there, once again doomed by a heartbreaking rally or a terrible call or some other misfortune that always seems to happen when baseball's peasants face the game's royalty.
But maybe this year will finally be different. Maybe this is the year when the Twins don't blow a ninth-inning lead in Yankee Stadium. Joe Nathan is sidelined, after all. Maybe this is the year a Rally Monkey doesn't infuriate Twins fans. Maybe this is the year homefield advantage doesn't disappear in Game 1, leading to an embarrassing sweep. It's been a decade of regular-season success for the Twins, and a decade of postseason frustration. Since taking a 1-0 lead over the Angels in the 2002 ALCS, the Twins are 2-16 in the playoffs. Maybe this year is different.
It could all come together for the Twins and their fans, like it did in 1991. Most baseball fans remember the 1991 World Series, which people routinely call one of the best ever and would have already been immortalized on film or in a book if it had involved Boston or New York.
That was the team's second World Series title in five seasons. But to many Twins fans - including me - the 1987 title remains the most memorable. It was the first and came out of nowhere. While the 1991 Twins did famously go from last to first, they at least had a world championship in their recent past. The 1987 Twins only had failure and, at best, mediocrity. They won 71 games in 1986, 77 in 1985, 81 in 1984, and 70 in 1983.
But maybe this year will finally be different. Maybe this is the year when the Twins don't blow a ninth-inning lead in Yankee Stadium. Joe Nathan is sidelined, after all. Maybe this is the year a Rally Monkey doesn't infuriate Twins fans. Maybe this is the year homefield advantage doesn't disappear in Game 1, leading to an embarrassing sweep. It's been a decade of regular-season success for the Twins, and a decade of postseason frustration. Since taking a 1-0 lead over the Angels in the 2002 ALCS, the Twins are 2-16 in the playoffs. Maybe this year is different.
It could all come together for the Twins and their fans, like it did in 1991. Most baseball fans remember the 1991 World Series, which people routinely call one of the best ever and would have already been immortalized on film or in a book if it had involved Boston or New York.
That was the team's second World Series title in five seasons. But to many Twins fans - including me - the 1987 title remains the most memorable. It was the first and came out of nowhere. While the 1991 Twins did famously go from last to first, they at least had a world championship in their recent past. The 1987 Twins only had failure and, at best, mediocrity. They won 71 games in 1986, 77 in 1985, 81 in 1984, and 70 in 1983.
While the 1991 Twins played in one of the best World Series ever, the 1987 Twins are often named one of the worst teams to ever win a World Series. They finished 85-77, which included a horrific 29-52 road record. Fortunately, the team dominated at home, finishing 56-25 in the Metrodome, which would soon be re-christened the Thunderdome. Despite having fewer wins than both Detroit and St. Louis, the Twins possessed homefield advantage in the ALCS and World Series. They went 6-0 at home in the postseason.
The 1987 Twins had a roster filled with larger personalities and bigger guts. Kent Hrbek, Kirby Puckett, Tom Brunansky, Bert Blyleven, Frank Viola. My memories of the 1987 season include watching Joe Niekro toss out an emery board after umpires confronted him over a doctored baseball and Hrbek's "TCF" grand slam in Game 6 of the World Series. Before Game 7, I joined my friend Brandon in our basement, where we pelted a Whitey Herzog's baseball card with darts. By the end, there was nothing left of the White Rat's face. Homer Hankies made their first appearance, as did the decibel-readers that chronicled the ear-splitting nose inside the Dome.
That Twins team had it all and won it all. Same as in 1991. But the 1987 team had something no Twins team has had since: The Berenguer Boogie.
Berenguer was a revelation in 1987. He went 8-1 in the regular season, then starred in the ALCS against Detroit. He gave up one run in six innings, pitching in four of the five game. Even better - from Twins fans' perspective - he taunted hitters with an over-the-top celebration that included arm-pumping and glove-hitting. With his fastballs, strikeouts and antics, he became a mustached Minnesota folk hero, a Panamanian Paul Bunyan. He became El Gasolino or, if you prefer, Señor Smoke, a possibly politically incorrect nickname embraced by all. His behavior was so unlike Minnesotans. We're meek, nice, passive-aggressive. Berenguer was arrogant, a little mean and simply aggressive.
The Cardinals hammered Berenguer in the World Series. He finished with an ERA of 10.38 in his three appearances, surrendering 10 hits in only 4.1 innings. Didn't matter. His ALCS performance and his personality guaranteed his popularity in Minnesota.
And there was the Berenguer Boogie. Look at that video again. Who is the creative team behind the video? They're jammed into a conference room, brainstorming ideas like they're political operatives plotting a video about a rival candidate that will claim the man fathered a child with an illegal immigrant. They have $25,000 to work with. Fueled by copious amounts of Diet Pepsi and World Series fever, they toss out their dreams for the Boogie.
The intensity: "We're going to kick in six Minnesota Twins leaning in and shouting...something."
The musical genius: "Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duhduh...Senor Smoke."
The sex factor: "Sequined leotards."
Then the finished product. A cameo by Matt Blair, a former linebacker for the Minnesota Vikings whose connection to the 1987 Twins was...well, nothing. The set looks like something leftover from "Thriller," except instead of zombies we have girls with big hair in leotards and Twins in trench coats and blue jeans. And the guy in charge of the smoke machine possessed an overeager trigger finger.
Some of the lyrics prove confusing. "It was the spring of '87 and baseball couldn't know, this was the year of destiny for a team down from the snow." Aren't they a Northern team?
The intensity: "We're going to kick in six Minnesota Twins leaning in and shouting...something."
The musical genius: "Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duhduh...Senor Smoke."
The sex factor: "Sequined leotards."
Then the finished product. A cameo by Matt Blair, a former linebacker for the Minnesota Vikings whose connection to the 1987 Twins was...well, nothing. The set looks like something leftover from "Thriller," except instead of zombies we have girls with big hair in leotards and Twins in trench coats and blue jeans. And the guy in charge of the smoke machine possessed an overeager trigger finger.
Some of the lyrics prove confusing. "It was the spring of '87 and baseball couldn't know, this was the year of destiny for a team down from the snow." Aren't they a Northern team?
Minnesota shared a connection with the 1987 team that wasn't quite there other years, even during the 1991 title or the success of the past 10 seasons. They were a goofy team that played in a goofier stadium. And they were the first pro team in the state to break through with a title, after four heartbreaks with the Vikings and a World Series defeat.
When the Twins finished off Detroit in Game 5 of the ALCS, they returned to Minneapolis for a welcome home. Organizers expected a few hundred people to show up. Instead, when the Twins pulled into the Metrodome, 60,000 fans with nothing better to do greeted them. Doug Grow recalls that night here. Berenguer played a starring role in the impromptu celebration, sporting a Berenguer Boogie trench coat, fedora and briefcase.
This Twins team will have a better record than the 1987 squad. They're fun to watch. Maybe they'll duplicate the success and bring home a title. Or at least win a game in the ALDS. But no matter what happens, they won't be as fun - on the field or off. They have Blyleven in the booth but not on the mound. There's no Kirby or Herbie. No Bruno or The G-Man. There's no Berenguer and certainly no Berenguer Boogie.
But maybe there will be The Thome Two-Step.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Joe Mauer is no Jake Taylor
A six degrees of separation type thing happening tonight. Or something.
Four days ago, character actor James Gammon died at the age of 70. Gammon might have been best known as playing the grouchy Lou Brown, the hard-scrabbled manager who improbably leads the Cleveland Indians to a division title in the classic movie Major League.
Tonight I saw Inception. Tom Berenger has a role in it. Berenger, of course, played grouchy catcher Jake Taylor, the veteran, over-the-hill tough guy whose guts and grittiness help the Indians to the title in Major League.
Tonight the Twins played the hapless Indians.
In the movie, Jake Taylor wins the one-game playoff against the hated Yankees with a surprise bunt down the third-base line. The winning run comes around from second to score.
Tonight, Joe Mauer stepped up to the plate with the score tied and runners on first and second. To the surprise of, well, everyone but the Major League screenwriter, Mauer bunted. He failed. The Indians got out of the inning a batter later. The Indians won the game. The Twins mourned. Their fans cursed. Writers wailed.
If Mauer was indeed inspired by a movie, couldn't it have been The Natural instead?
Now, if the Twins follow the plot to Major League II, next season Mauer will take over as interim manager for an ill Ron Gardenhire and lead the team to the AL pennant. And that really doesn't sound any more improbable than Mauer's bunt.
Four days ago, character actor James Gammon died at the age of 70. Gammon might have been best known as playing the grouchy Lou Brown, the hard-scrabbled manager who improbably leads the Cleveland Indians to a division title in the classic movie Major League.
Tonight I saw Inception. Tom Berenger has a role in it. Berenger, of course, played grouchy catcher Jake Taylor, the veteran, over-the-hill tough guy whose guts and grittiness help the Indians to the title in Major League.
Tonight the Twins played the hapless Indians.
In the movie, Jake Taylor wins the one-game playoff against the hated Yankees with a surprise bunt down the third-base line. The winning run comes around from second to score.
Tonight, Joe Mauer stepped up to the plate with the score tied and runners on first and second. To the surprise of, well, everyone but the Major League screenwriter, Mauer bunted. He failed. The Indians got out of the inning a batter later. The Indians won the game. The Twins mourned. Their fans cursed. Writers wailed.
If Mauer was indeed inspired by a movie, couldn't it have been The Natural instead?
Now, if the Twins follow the plot to Major League II, next season Mauer will take over as interim manager for an ill Ron Gardenhire and lead the team to the AL pennant. And that really doesn't sound any more improbable than Mauer's bunt.
Monday, July 5, 2010
Mantle vs. Mays...in Home Run Derby
Has there ever been a more earnest show than the original, black-and-white Home Run Derby?
Each week a pair of Major League Baseball stars battled it out in a nine-inning slugfest in an empty stadium, and they did it all for a winner's share of $2,000. Host Mark Scott made Mr. Rogers look cynical. The show, thankfully, was completely void of irony. The banter between Scott and each hitter contained more awkward silences than a blind date.
Yet it still manages to entertain today, primarily because the stars of 1960 are today's legends. Mantle, Mays, Aaron, Banks, Killebrew - they all competed during the show's brief run. Home Run Derby only appeared for one season. The weekly event took place in Wrigley Field - the LA one, the one no one really cared about. The rules were simple: the hitters played an actual nine-inning game, three outs per inning. Anything not over the fence was an out. And the batters had to get the lumber off their shoulders - any pitch in the strike zone they didn't swing at was an out. Today, during the upcoming Home Run Derby at the All-Star Game, you might see a hitter take five straight pitches down the middle, simply because he didn't think he could yank it 400 feet.
Not when Mark Scott was in charge.
The winner received his $2,000 and the loser a grand. If a guy slammed three straight homers, that was another check, for $500. Back then, that was real money for pros, cash that could be used for boozin' or bills. Mantle - who made $5,000 his rookie year - hauled in $60,000 in 1960.
And so here's Mickey Mantle vs. Willie Mays. Who was better? Not in real-life, in Home Run Derby? (It was put on youtube by a guy who filmed it off of his TV; so any awkward heavy breathing you hear is him, not Mays).
Mickey chooses to hit right-handed. According to him, most of his long homers come from that side. As Scott points out to Willie, Mays can only hit from one side (that's about as deep as the analysis goes on the show). Mays hits first and comes out firing, drilling four homers in the top of the first inning. He does this despite the fact producers apparently picked the worst time of day to hold a home run derby in Los Angeles. The pitcher is bathed in sunlight while the hitters stand in the shadows. During the early banter between Mantle and Scott, the Yankees slugger sounds tentative, almost scared, as if he needs some liquid courage before he can start bragging about tape-measure shots and being DiMaggio's heir in center field.
Throughout, Scott guides the proceedings with ease, throwing in an occasional corny joke while always speaking enthusiastically about the players' accomplishments. Scott sounds like a guy calling out Bingo numbers in a small-town Catholic church. A typical exchange goes, "He hit that a long ways, Mickey."
"Yes he did, Mark."
Simple. Maybe boring. But a lot less grating than hearing "back-back-back-back-back-back" for three hours.
Mays surged to a 8-2 lead after five innings, twice missing out on the $500 check when he failed to hit a third straight homer, a fact Scott reminded him with a certain amount of glee and pity. After another homerless inning, Mantle says it's getting embarrassing, and he's right. But after hitting four in the first inning, Mays slowed down and transformed into Willie Mays with the Mets. The Mick rallies. Three homers in the seventh. Two more in the eighth, including an opposite-field blast. Mays, meanwhile, goes homerless over the last four innings, setting the stage for Mantle's heroics in the bottom of the ninth. Somewhere, as Mantle hit the homer that gave him a 9-8 victory in the bottom of the ninth on Home Run Derby, a young Baby Boomer swooned and penned a poem about his idol.
Mickey picks up the winner's check.
Unfortunately, Home Run Derby only lasted the one season. Scott died from a heart attack in 1960 at the age of 45. Without the vocal leader, the show was canceled.
This Mays-Mantle showdown was the first episode. Mantle went on to beat Ernie Banks and Jackie Jensen, before losing to Harmon Killebrew. Fittingly, Hank Aaron ruled Home Run Derby, winning six straight times. According to Wikipedia, Jackie Jensen - who hit only 199 career homers - had the best single-game total, drilling 14 in a victory over Banks. Later in the series, Willie Mays returned and hit 13.
But he probably still regrets losing that first one to Mantle.
Each week a pair of Major League Baseball stars battled it out in a nine-inning slugfest in an empty stadium, and they did it all for a winner's share of $2,000. Host Mark Scott made Mr. Rogers look cynical. The show, thankfully, was completely void of irony. The banter between Scott and each hitter contained more awkward silences than a blind date.
Yet it still manages to entertain today, primarily because the stars of 1960 are today's legends. Mantle, Mays, Aaron, Banks, Killebrew - they all competed during the show's brief run. Home Run Derby only appeared for one season. The weekly event took place in Wrigley Field - the LA one, the one no one really cared about. The rules were simple: the hitters played an actual nine-inning game, three outs per inning. Anything not over the fence was an out. And the batters had to get the lumber off their shoulders - any pitch in the strike zone they didn't swing at was an out. Today, during the upcoming Home Run Derby at the All-Star Game, you might see a hitter take five straight pitches down the middle, simply because he didn't think he could yank it 400 feet.
Not when Mark Scott was in charge.
The winner received his $2,000 and the loser a grand. If a guy slammed three straight homers, that was another check, for $500. Back then, that was real money for pros, cash that could be used for boozin' or bills. Mantle - who made $5,000 his rookie year - hauled in $60,000 in 1960.
And so here's Mickey Mantle vs. Willie Mays. Who was better? Not in real-life, in Home Run Derby? (It was put on youtube by a guy who filmed it off of his TV; so any awkward heavy breathing you hear is him, not Mays).
Mickey chooses to hit right-handed. According to him, most of his long homers come from that side. As Scott points out to Willie, Mays can only hit from one side (that's about as deep as the analysis goes on the show). Mays hits first and comes out firing, drilling four homers in the top of the first inning. He does this despite the fact producers apparently picked the worst time of day to hold a home run derby in Los Angeles. The pitcher is bathed in sunlight while the hitters stand in the shadows. During the early banter between Mantle and Scott, the Yankees slugger sounds tentative, almost scared, as if he needs some liquid courage before he can start bragging about tape-measure shots and being DiMaggio's heir in center field.
Throughout, Scott guides the proceedings with ease, throwing in an occasional corny joke while always speaking enthusiastically about the players' accomplishments. Scott sounds like a guy calling out Bingo numbers in a small-town Catholic church. A typical exchange goes, "He hit that a long ways, Mickey."
"Yes he did, Mark."
Simple. Maybe boring. But a lot less grating than hearing "back-back-back-back-back-back" for three hours.
Mays surged to a 8-2 lead after five innings, twice missing out on the $500 check when he failed to hit a third straight homer, a fact Scott reminded him with a certain amount of glee and pity. After another homerless inning, Mantle says it's getting embarrassing, and he's right. But after hitting four in the first inning, Mays slowed down and transformed into Willie Mays with the Mets. The Mick rallies. Three homers in the seventh. Two more in the eighth, including an opposite-field blast. Mays, meanwhile, goes homerless over the last four innings, setting the stage for Mantle's heroics in the bottom of the ninth. Somewhere, as Mantle hit the homer that gave him a 9-8 victory in the bottom of the ninth on Home Run Derby, a young Baby Boomer swooned and penned a poem about his idol.
Mickey picks up the winner's check.
Unfortunately, Home Run Derby only lasted the one season. Scott died from a heart attack in 1960 at the age of 45. Without the vocal leader, the show was canceled.
This Mays-Mantle showdown was the first episode. Mantle went on to beat Ernie Banks and Jackie Jensen, before losing to Harmon Killebrew. Fittingly, Hank Aaron ruled Home Run Derby, winning six straight times. According to Wikipedia, Jackie Jensen - who hit only 199 career homers - had the best single-game total, drilling 14 in a victory over Banks. Later in the series, Willie Mays returned and hit 13.
But he probably still regrets losing that first one to Mantle.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The time David West threw a no-hitter in Strato
The cover story in the new Sports Illustrated - which arrives here on Wednesdays, a perk of living in New York - is about the dominant pitching performances this season. It's the year of the pitcher, just like in 1968, only without the ridiculously high pitching mound.
There have already been four no-hitters. When a real-life baseball accomplishment makes the news, I often think back to make-believe baseball. Specifically, Strato.
I wrote about my obsession with the game here. Most of the time, we used cards from the 1987 season. But one year, my friend Brandon bought cards from the strike-shortened 1994 campaign. Like 1987, that year had some absurd numbers, from Matt Williams to Frank Thomas to Tony Gwynn. It was one of the years of the steroid.
But those cards also produced the only no-hitter we ever witnessed in Strat-O-Matic baseball. It's gotta be even harder in fantasy baseball to throw a no-hitter than it is in the real thing. In Strato, you're utterly dependent on the roll of the dice. No matter how good a pitcher's card, if it lands on 1-5 and you're facing a power hitter, the ball is being launched an imaginary 400 feet over the wall of whatever stadium you and your equally in-need-of-a-girlfriend friend are playing in.
In all the hundreds (thousands?) of games we played, there was only one no-hitter. And the man who threw it had a better career as a trivia answer than he did on the mound.
David West was an underachieving left-hander who at one time was supposed to be a star of the future for the Mets. Like so many Mets products, he failed to live up to the hype. In 1989, the Twins acquired West in the Frank Viola trade. He toiled in Minnesota for a few years. In 1994, the year of our Strato cards, he went 4-10 with the Phillies, although he had a respectable 3.55 ERA. Still, there were hundreds of pitchers who were better candidates to throw a no-hitter in Strato. He didn't have a bad card, but no one would call it good. He probably only made my Strato team that year because it was one of those ludicrous seasons when we decided to play with 50-man rosters.
One Saturday afternoon, I sent West out to face Brandon, in a game that took place, as always, in my parents' basement. From the beginning, both of us sensed something in the air - and not just dangerous levels of Radon. West cruised through the early innings, though he gave up a couple of walks. But for some reason, Brandon kept rolling the dice and it'd go in West's "good column," or in the bad column for each of his hitters. I scraped together a few runs in the middle innings, giving West all the support he needed. By the fifth, I began needling Brandon about the history taking place, though I didn't really think we'd see a no-hitter. By the time we played this game, we'd been playing Strato for several years. We'd seen everything in Strato, from three-homer games to a disgraceful performance by Team Brandon when he kept Frank Viola on the mound for a 14-inning affair, simply out of spite and against our unwritten rule that we adhered to reality with game situations. But never had there been a no-hitter. As far as we remembered, no one had even taken a no-no into the seventh.
But West did. He kept walking hitters; I think he ended up with seven walks. But Brandon kept hitting into lazy fly balls or weak grounders. Breaking all baseball tradition, I openly talked about the no-hitter, but only to remind Brandon of the humiliation being inflicted on his squad.
West struck out about eight and by the eighth inning, Brandon screamed with every out. His team always seemed to have a black cloud hanging over it, but it seemed impossible that his franchise would suffer a no-hitter at the hands of the too-tall West.
As we went into the ninth, Brandon seemed resigned to his fate, like a man on death row who hasn't heard officially that the governor's turned him down but knows what is coming. I taunted Brandon, and his hitters. The first man struck out, the second hit into a ground ball.
The game ended with a strikeout, the 10th of the game for West. I threw West's card in the air, the same way the imaginary lefty threw his glove sky-high after making baseball history. To this day, it remains one of the more improbable sporting experiences I've ever witnessed. It wasn't like a scrub throwing a no-hitter in baseball. Any pitcher can get hot in real-life and throw one. No, this was more improbable. For comparison, you almost have to look at a different sport. This was like that night Willie Burton scored 53 points in an NBA game.
David West! The man who had an ERA of infinity in the 1991 World Series - he never recorded an out while giving up four runs on two hits and four walks. That David West. It was all too much for Brandon, who simply said, in a quiet voice, "I hate my team."
And he did. But a decade later he still remembers that game. He might have hated his team - and David West - but he loved Strato. And he was part of Strato history.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Playing tour guide in New York City
My aunt and uncle spent the past weekend visiting New York for the first time. They live on a farm in southwestern Minnesota, near a town whose entire population could probably squeeze onto a pair of subway cars. They arrived Thursday afternoon, left Monday morning and in between walked about 19.8765 miles, give or take .0023 miles - at least according to the gadget on my uncle's cell phone.
I love having friends and family members visit the city but it hasn't happened often the last six years. When they do come east I go into full tour guide mode. If it's someone's first visit, they certainly want to see the most famous tourist spots - Times Square, Empire State Building, Central Park. On subsequent visits you might hit a few more museums, or a few more out-of-the-way spots. After that, they're showing me new parts of the city.
I love playing tour guide because I love living here and want to show people just some of the reasons I do savor every day in this city. I love playing tour guide because it helps keep me from becoming complacent about where we live. It helps me appreciate the fact I live in a city that's often at the top of people's desired destinations. Perhaps most of all, I love playing tour guide because when you visit a landmark or a building or a park with someone who is seeing it for the first time, it helps you see it through their eyes. In a way, it's like seeing it for the first time yourself, as you notice different things about sites you might otherwise look at without a second glance, even though most people in the world spend countless hours thinking about seeing them just once.
Mary and Steve came out for her 50th birthday, which was on Friday. Steve bought her tickets to the Twins-Mets game that night at Citi Field. The seats were down the third-base line, just past the Twins dugout and the section where photographers sit. They were basically on the field. If I had decided to run out onto the field, I'd have been twenty feet out before a security guard could have reacted. Great seats. We watched both teams take batting practice and before the game we wandered up to the Delta Club, where we bought overpriced beer but only after being asked to prove we were of legal drinking age. But we wanted to be near the action.
The worst part about the seats - the only negative - was the possibility of dangerous foul balls rocketing toward our faces. The security guards and usher warned us multiple times to be aware at all times. One guy told the tale of a woman who had her face smashed after her boyfriend ducked out of the way. During previous times to a stadium, I've probably ridiculed people who brought their gloves to the game. What were the chances they'd need to snare a ball while sitting in the upper deck in right field? Now I wished I had my old Fred Lynn-signed special. I debated the chances of catching one with my bare hands. I thought about whether I'd throw myself in front of my aunt. It was her birthday, after all. Hopefully Steve would be doing the same thing, so maybe my sacrifice wouldn't be necessary. On Monday, I talked with a friend at work about these internal discussions. He said my courage reminded him of Martin Sheen's character in the movie The Dead Zone. Specifically, the final scene.
Come on, I'd never put an infant in harm's way like that. In the end it didn't matter. Foul balls did rocket down the third-base line, but they stayed away from our little area.
We met a great group of characters who mingled with us, from fellow fans to the workers. Mr. Met even showed up.
One of the ushers was a man named Gil, an elderly fellow with a quick wit and an endless library of anecdotes. Gil first worked as an usher at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn in 1946, a year before Jackie Robinson made his Dodger debut. He hated the Yankees during his days at Ebbets and disliked them to this day. Even after the Dodgers left the city, he refused to cheer for the Pinstripes, and he's now a fixture with the Mets, who started play in 1962. When Citi Field becomes obsolete in about 2035 and they build another new stadium, Gil will probably still be wearing the same green shirt, still serving as an usher.
My aunt's favorite player is Minnesota's Michael Cuddyer. She has the type of ballplayer crush that's cute and endearing, until the restraining orders come into play and everyone - including her children - becomes a bit creeped out. But Friday night she wore her Cuddyer jersey and entered the stadium hoping to secure his autograph. Shortly before first pitch, Steve finally got Cuddyer's attention. The big lug wandered over. He signed her autograph and also took a picture with her. Mary's never washing the shirt she was wearing again. At the end of the first inning, Denard Span fired the ball into our section as he jogged off the field. Steve caught it and they had yet another souvenir.
We saw everything and we saw it up close, except for a Twins victory. Unfortunately, I don't think Mary made it on TV back home. She came with a Circle Me Bert sign, a placard she spent 30 minutes creating back home and hauled halfway across the country, in hopes that Twins broadcaster Bert Blyleven would circle her with a telestrator during the Twins telecast (I know. It's a Minnesota thing).
If anyone in Minnesota saw us let me know. It would have been a (just turned) 50-year-old woman holding up a bright yellow sign while two men cowered next to her out of embarrassment. To her credit, she stood up after every half inning, held the sign and turned toward a camera, any camera. Some Mets fans probably thought she was one of those criminals who's sentenced to a bizarre penalty by a wacky judge, like the guys who have to stand on a street corner with a sign that reads I BOUGHT BEER INSTEAD OF PAYING CHILD SUPPORT. To the fans' credit, they never threw hot dogs or a baseball at us, though that might have changed if the Twins had ever done anything on the field. In the later innings, a group of kids even broke out into song, serenading Mary with "Happy Birthday."
After the game we hit a bar near the Hotel Pennsylvania, where Mary and Steve stayed. We sipped on our drinks in peace until a pair of blowhards dressed in Mets jerseys stumbled in, freshly ousted from a nearby establishment. They were drunk, loud, obnoxious, fun (for three minutes), graceless, tactless, and annoying. When most people think Loudmouth New Yorker, these guys' voices are what they hear. When they call into talk radio to complain about Jerry Manuel or A-Rod, they're Vinnie from the Bronx or Billy from Brooklyn. They claimed to hold important jobs with "Fortune 500 companies," though that was impossible to confirm and I still have my doubts. Boasts about careers have as much credibility in bars as tales of bedroom conquests.
The bouncer at the previous joint kicked them out because one buddy convinced a total stranger to punch his friend in the face, which the guy did. The friend, taking exception to the blow, punched back. Mayhem ensued. Very funny, according to them. I'm guessing you had to be there. Like all drunks, they kept telling the same story over and over, getting sidetracked from baseball talk by another retelling of the hilarious punching tale. I began to see why that complete stranger found the idea of punching one of these men so damn appealing. We left shortly after their arrival. My guess is they were still telling the story three hours later.
On Sunday afternoon, following a visit to the Intrepid, we took a three-hour tour around Manhattan on a Circle Line cruise. Four women sat in front of us. After one overheard Steve talking about hog barns, they started talking and it turned out they were from Amboy, Minnesota, a small town in southern Minnesota that's maybe a half hour from Janesville. It's a big city, but still a small world.
We all enjoyed the cruise, a relaxing three hours that go by quickly as you coast south down the Hudson before going north up the East River. We saw the Statue of Liberty and all the bridges and even our neighborhood Target. Our tour guide provided a running commentary, though some of his information was wrong, leaving me to wonder how much other incorrect information he delivered. To be fair, he was probably delusional from the oppressive heat. And after delivering the same lines while wearing the same white shirt day after day, a slipup has to be expected. But he had a few. He told us the Intrepid fought in the Korean War (it didn't). He pointed out Governor's Island (it was Roosevelt Island). He told us the Statue of Liberty's index finger was 2-feet long (it's 8 feet).
At one point, near the end of the adventure, numerous people on Jet-Skis came flying past the boat, splashing waves near the people on the lower level. Some passengers (like Louise) even got soaked. The guide told us the cruise has previously called the Coast Guard on the "hooligans" and while he chuckled as the crowd enjoyed the show, it seemed obvious he was just waiting for an excuse to call in the machine guns and air support to take out the miscreants. It must be an ongoing war, the cruise lines versus the Jet Skis. On the 4:30 cruise on June 27, the personal watercraft prevailed. But Bill the guide will again have his day.
Throughout the cruise - and again at the end - he reminded us that if we wanted to thank him "personally" that would be very much appreciated. He said this while clutching a roll of dollar bills, evidence of the thanks he had already received. He repeated the refrain four or five times, as persistent as any subway panhandler. As we walked off, it looked like people gave him plenty of thanks, despite the fact they'll be spouting off several wrong facts about New York to their friends.
Mary and Steve hopped back onto a taxi Monday morning and were back in Minnesota by late in the afternoon.
They saw a lot on their trip, from Ground Zero to St. Patrick's. They discovered several little Irish pubs in the neighborhood and even adopted one as their own. We took them to a couple of cool New York City restaurants during their stay, both on the Upper West Side: Flor de Mayo and Carmine's. They walked countless blocks and rode on a horse-drawn carriage. They effortlessly swiped their MetroCards. They drank plenty of beer and ate some new food. They bought a mug at Mickey Mantle's restaurant and some shorts at Macy's. They spoke with lifelong locals and fellow tourists, with Muslim taxi drivers and folks from a bible camp.
They had a fun time. They probably appreciated the return to the farm and a bit of silence, but I think they'd love to return again for another visit.
If they do I'll be here ready to again play tour guide, anxious to show them the city I now call home, a city I never stop appreciating. A city I love seeing for the first time, time and time again.
I love having friends and family members visit the city but it hasn't happened often the last six years. When they do come east I go into full tour guide mode. If it's someone's first visit, they certainly want to see the most famous tourist spots - Times Square, Empire State Building, Central Park. On subsequent visits you might hit a few more museums, or a few more out-of-the-way spots. After that, they're showing me new parts of the city.
I love playing tour guide because I love living here and want to show people just some of the reasons I do savor every day in this city. I love playing tour guide because it helps keep me from becoming complacent about where we live. It helps me appreciate the fact I live in a city that's often at the top of people's desired destinations. Perhaps most of all, I love playing tour guide because when you visit a landmark or a building or a park with someone who is seeing it for the first time, it helps you see it through their eyes. In a way, it's like seeing it for the first time yourself, as you notice different things about sites you might otherwise look at without a second glance, even though most people in the world spend countless hours thinking about seeing them just once.
Mary and Steve came out for her 50th birthday, which was on Friday. Steve bought her tickets to the Twins-Mets game that night at Citi Field. The seats were down the third-base line, just past the Twins dugout and the section where photographers sit. They were basically on the field. If I had decided to run out onto the field, I'd have been twenty feet out before a security guard could have reacted. Great seats. We watched both teams take batting practice and before the game we wandered up to the Delta Club, where we bought overpriced beer but only after being asked to prove we were of legal drinking age. But we wanted to be near the action.
The worst part about the seats - the only negative - was the possibility of dangerous foul balls rocketing toward our faces. The security guards and usher warned us multiple times to be aware at all times. One guy told the tale of a woman who had her face smashed after her boyfriend ducked out of the way. During previous times to a stadium, I've probably ridiculed people who brought their gloves to the game. What were the chances they'd need to snare a ball while sitting in the upper deck in right field? Now I wished I had my old Fred Lynn-signed special. I debated the chances of catching one with my bare hands. I thought about whether I'd throw myself in front of my aunt. It was her birthday, after all. Hopefully Steve would be doing the same thing, so maybe my sacrifice wouldn't be necessary. On Monday, I talked with a friend at work about these internal discussions. He said my courage reminded him of Martin Sheen's character in the movie The Dead Zone. Specifically, the final scene.
Come on, I'd never put an infant in harm's way like that. In the end it didn't matter. Foul balls did rocket down the third-base line, but they stayed away from our little area.
We met a great group of characters who mingled with us, from fellow fans to the workers. Mr. Met even showed up.
One of the ushers was a man named Gil, an elderly fellow with a quick wit and an endless library of anecdotes. Gil first worked as an usher at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn in 1946, a year before Jackie Robinson made his Dodger debut. He hated the Yankees during his days at Ebbets and disliked them to this day. Even after the Dodgers left the city, he refused to cheer for the Pinstripes, and he's now a fixture with the Mets, who started play in 1962. When Citi Field becomes obsolete in about 2035 and they build another new stadium, Gil will probably still be wearing the same green shirt, still serving as an usher.
My aunt's favorite player is Minnesota's Michael Cuddyer. She has the type of ballplayer crush that's cute and endearing, until the restraining orders come into play and everyone - including her children - becomes a bit creeped out. But Friday night she wore her Cuddyer jersey and entered the stadium hoping to secure his autograph. Shortly before first pitch, Steve finally got Cuddyer's attention. The big lug wandered over. He signed her autograph and also took a picture with her. Mary's never washing the shirt she was wearing again. At the end of the first inning, Denard Span fired the ball into our section as he jogged off the field. Steve caught it and they had yet another souvenir.
We saw everything and we saw it up close, except for a Twins victory. Unfortunately, I don't think Mary made it on TV back home. She came with a Circle Me Bert sign, a placard she spent 30 minutes creating back home and hauled halfway across the country, in hopes that Twins broadcaster Bert Blyleven would circle her with a telestrator during the Twins telecast (I know. It's a Minnesota thing).
If anyone in Minnesota saw us let me know. It would have been a (just turned) 50-year-old woman holding up a bright yellow sign while two men cowered next to her out of embarrassment. To her credit, she stood up after every half inning, held the sign and turned toward a camera, any camera. Some Mets fans probably thought she was one of those criminals who's sentenced to a bizarre penalty by a wacky judge, like the guys who have to stand on a street corner with a sign that reads I BOUGHT BEER INSTEAD OF PAYING CHILD SUPPORT. To the fans' credit, they never threw hot dogs or a baseball at us, though that might have changed if the Twins had ever done anything on the field. In the later innings, a group of kids even broke out into song, serenading Mary with "Happy Birthday."
After the game we hit a bar near the Hotel Pennsylvania, where Mary and Steve stayed. We sipped on our drinks in peace until a pair of blowhards dressed in Mets jerseys stumbled in, freshly ousted from a nearby establishment. They were drunk, loud, obnoxious, fun (for three minutes), graceless, tactless, and annoying. When most people think Loudmouth New Yorker, these guys' voices are what they hear. When they call into talk radio to complain about Jerry Manuel or A-Rod, they're Vinnie from the Bronx or Billy from Brooklyn. They claimed to hold important jobs with "Fortune 500 companies," though that was impossible to confirm and I still have my doubts. Boasts about careers have as much credibility in bars as tales of bedroom conquests.
The bouncer at the previous joint kicked them out because one buddy convinced a total stranger to punch his friend in the face, which the guy did. The friend, taking exception to the blow, punched back. Mayhem ensued. Very funny, according to them. I'm guessing you had to be there. Like all drunks, they kept telling the same story over and over, getting sidetracked from baseball talk by another retelling of the hilarious punching tale. I began to see why that complete stranger found the idea of punching one of these men so damn appealing. We left shortly after their arrival. My guess is they were still telling the story three hours later.
On Sunday afternoon, following a visit to the Intrepid, we took a three-hour tour around Manhattan on a Circle Line cruise. Four women sat in front of us. After one overheard Steve talking about hog barns, they started talking and it turned out they were from Amboy, Minnesota, a small town in southern Minnesota that's maybe a half hour from Janesville. It's a big city, but still a small world.
We all enjoyed the cruise, a relaxing three hours that go by quickly as you coast south down the Hudson before going north up the East River. We saw the Statue of Liberty and all the bridges and even our neighborhood Target. Our tour guide provided a running commentary, though some of his information was wrong, leaving me to wonder how much other incorrect information he delivered. To be fair, he was probably delusional from the oppressive heat. And after delivering the same lines while wearing the same white shirt day after day, a slipup has to be expected. But he had a few. He told us the Intrepid fought in the Korean War (it didn't). He pointed out Governor's Island (it was Roosevelt Island). He told us the Statue of Liberty's index finger was 2-feet long (it's 8 feet).
At one point, near the end of the adventure, numerous people on Jet-Skis came flying past the boat, splashing waves near the people on the lower level. Some passengers (like Louise) even got soaked. The guide told us the cruise has previously called the Coast Guard on the "hooligans" and while he chuckled as the crowd enjoyed the show, it seemed obvious he was just waiting for an excuse to call in the machine guns and air support to take out the miscreants. It must be an ongoing war, the cruise lines versus the Jet Skis. On the 4:30 cruise on June 27, the personal watercraft prevailed. But Bill the guide will again have his day.
Throughout the cruise - and again at the end - he reminded us that if we wanted to thank him "personally" that would be very much appreciated. He said this while clutching a roll of dollar bills, evidence of the thanks he had already received. He repeated the refrain four or five times, as persistent as any subway panhandler. As we walked off, it looked like people gave him plenty of thanks, despite the fact they'll be spouting off several wrong facts about New York to their friends.
Mary and Steve hopped back onto a taxi Monday morning and were back in Minnesota by late in the afternoon.
They saw a lot on their trip, from Ground Zero to St. Patrick's. They discovered several little Irish pubs in the neighborhood and even adopted one as their own. We took them to a couple of cool New York City restaurants during their stay, both on the Upper West Side: Flor de Mayo and Carmine's. They walked countless blocks and rode on a horse-drawn carriage. They effortlessly swiped their MetroCards. They drank plenty of beer and ate some new food. They bought a mug at Mickey Mantle's restaurant and some shorts at Macy's. They spoke with lifelong locals and fellow tourists, with Muslim taxi drivers and folks from a bible camp.
They had a fun time. They probably appreciated the return to the farm and a bit of silence, but I think they'd love to return again for another visit.
If they do I'll be here ready to again play tour guide, anxious to show them the city I now call home, a city I never stop appreciating. A city I love seeing for the first time, time and time again.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Strat-O-Matic Baseball: Best game ever? Yes
Come on, kids, it's Action Baseball!
By all accounts, Roger Maris was a humble, nice, down-to-earth superstar. The qualities served him well on the field, if not with the New York media. Those aren't necessarily the traits that translate into a great pitchman - he's no Billy Mays. I've never seen an actual version of Action Baseball, though there's probably still one buried in a box somewhere, either in my parents's basement or the old family farm. This game actually looks like a lot of fun. Unlike many board games, in this one you actually control a bat, in a version of pinball as your opponent fires "fastball," a "slowball," and a curve. Fake crowd noise not supplied.
When it comes to baseball games, though, there remains only one king: Strat-O-Matic. My cousin Matt Fury owned a Strato game. Between 1993 and 1997, we must have played hundreds of games, scheming, plotting, and swearing at each other and our other friends who were Strato regulars: Mike and Brandon. On an unrelated note, only one of us had a girlfriend during this time. The ladies of Janesville, Waldorf, Pemberton and the surrounding villages did not go for spending eight straight hours in a radon-infested basement, rolling dice, cursing the fates of the cards and berating the surprisingly lackluster fielding skills of Paul Molitor. Matt owned the 1987 season cards, a great year to play as the season provided a nice prelude to the homer-crazed '90s. George Bell, Andre Dawson and a skinny Mark McGwire all enjoyed dominant years. Wade Boggs, Molitor and Tony Gwynn put together superb seasons at the plate.
One of the more overused sports cliches - and I do realize that's saying something in the "we're taking it one game at a time and giving 100 percent and anything can happen world" - is that [insert sport] doesn't build character, it reveals it. I've heard it said about basketball, golf, football, baseball, soccer, swimming and once about jai alai.
Same thing for Strato. It doesn't build character, it reveals it. And when we played Strato, it revealed that all of us were romantically challenged sore losers with superiority complexes.
Same thing for Strato. It doesn't build character, it reveals it. And when we played Strato, it revealed that all of us were romantically challenged sore losers with superiority complexes.
Some Strato memories, first of a multipart, potentially neverending series:
* The highlight of any Strato night/weekend/month/year was the draft. It usually took place in our basement, a marathon session fueled by Coke as we prayed for access to the top players, many of whom were also fans of coke, though with a small "c." We threw every players' card into a pile - hundreds of cards - then scattered them and brought them together again. We didn't want one team's players congregating together, and we didn't want all the bad players in one pile. The draft usually lasted about 50 rounds. Each player randomly grabbed a card and was stuck with it. But that's why we employed flexible draft rules. It was scheduled to be 50 rounds but could be stretched to 60, 70, or more, depending on if we had grabbed too many subpar players. Accusations of cheating occasionally flew, as some of the more well-used cards stood out, their worn edges giving them away.
* Here's a Strato hitter's card. This is Barry Bonds from his insane 2001 season, when he hit 73 homers. A player rolls the dice. If, in this case, they come up 1-4, it's an automatic homer. The player with Bonds is morally obligated to simply say, "Gone." In the 1987 game, many of the greats had 1-5 as a homer, including McGwire. Some, like Mike Schmidt, were dominant in the three column. So a 3-6 would simply be "Gone." 2-3 means a flyball to centerfield. The A next to it indicates what happens to the runners on the play, whether they tag up, stay, etc. Roll a 3-4 and that means you draw a card, which were 1-20. If it's a number between 1-8 it's a single and the runners advance one base (which is what the Ford Frick honorary asterisk means). See those diamonds in the 1 column? That indicates you go to the cards and bring the stadium into play. All the stadiums had different standards. It was easier to hit homers in Atlanta than, say, San Francisco. Or it might be easier to get triples in Kansas City. Now, Bonds's card is not typical. In fact, it's ludicrous. It would be nearly impossible to get him out if the dice sent the play to his card, so a player had to hope he got it on his pitcher's card.
* The highlight of any Strato night/weekend/month/year was the draft. It usually took place in our basement, a marathon session fueled by Coke as we prayed for access to the top players, many of whom were also fans of coke, though with a small "c." We threw every players' card into a pile - hundreds of cards - then scattered them and brought them together again. We didn't want one team's players congregating together, and we didn't want all the bad players in one pile. The draft usually lasted about 50 rounds. Each player randomly grabbed a card and was stuck with it. But that's why we employed flexible draft rules. It was scheduled to be 50 rounds but could be stretched to 60, 70, or more, depending on if we had grabbed too many subpar players. Accusations of cheating occasionally flew, as some of the more well-used cards stood out, their worn edges giving them away.
* Shortly after each draft, we sliced our rosters down to a 30-man squad. Some cuts were easy. With others, we struggled more than Truman debating about use of the atom bomb. A man could spend 25 minutes debating between Ron Kittle and Jim Rice. Inevitably, we began dealing our guys. In a four-team league, there aren't a lot of trade partners. The most enthusiastic trader was always Brandon, who as a Strato owner was a combination of Branch Rickey, Ted Stepien, the lady owner from Major League, George Steinbrenner, and Mark Cuban. He never met a deal he didn't like. The second he drafted a player, he began contemplating how he could trade him. It bordered on maniacal. One night over hushpuppies and batter cooked to look something like chicken and fish, we sat in Long John Silvers and put together a trade that eventually involved more than a dozen players. The grease made us delirious, especially Brandon, as he sold his entire team just so he could land his favorite player, the man whose home runs he fantasized about: Mark McGwire. It was unnerving. He'd do anything in his power to own Big Mac, who hammered 49 home runs in 1987, his rookie season. Brandon infuriated us after games if he won. He pored over his scoresheet - yes, all the players keep book - with the concentration of a prosecutor looking at Enron's books. He wore a smirk, but was usually silent. Eventually he's softly say, sort of to himself but loud enough so his vanquished foe could hear, "McGwire, 3-for-4, 2 dingers, 6 RBIs. I don't know. Not a bad game." More than once I threw a pencil at him after such a proclamation.
* Numerous players had two cards. If they were traded during the season, Strato created a card for his performance with each team. This often led to Good Card and Bad Card syndrome. For example, journeyman pitcher Dennis Rasmussen was a below average pitcher with the Yankees. But he finished with the Reds, where he went 4-1. The Dennis Rasmussen Good Card made him an extremely effective starting pitcher, a solid No. 2 man, maybe even a No. 1 guy. Dennis Rasmussen Bad Card was putrid, a slug you threw out on the fifth day if you ran out of options. Another guy was Bill "Gully" Gullickson, another journeyman who shared the name of a bizarrely popular Mankato radio host.
But the king of Good Card, Bad Card was Doyle Alexander. Remember Doyle? No. Don't worry, most people don't. Except for Tiger fans from 1987 and the four of us who played 7,678 games of Strato with that season's cards. In 1987, Alexander and his ridiculous mustache started the year with Atlanta. He went 5-10 with the Braves with a 4.13 ERA. Bad Doyle. Very Bad Doyle. Then they sent him to Detroit in a deal involving John Smoltz. With Detroit, Doyle went 9-0 with a 1.53 ERA! He transformed into a combination of Bob Gibson and Sandy Koufax. That was Very Very Good Doyle. If you got that card, you had a No. 1 starter. In real life he sparked the Tigers to the ALCS - where the Twins slapped them around while Kirk Gibson took out his frustrations on the dugout - but in Strato he was nothing short of a god. When someone pulled a card and announced he drafted Doyle Alexander, three other voices simultaneously asked, "Good Doyle or Bad Doyle?"
* Each owner always "named" a manager (again, no girlfriends, active imaginations, time on our hands). Matt always hired Gene Mauch, or, as he called him, Gene Mauch IV. Fake Gene Mauch won much more than the real one. Brandon had an infatuation with Billy Gardner. Mike, strangely, liked Chuck Tanner, one of least charismatic managers to ever wear an ill-fitting jersey. Bizarrely, each of their teams somehow took on the personality of their imaginary manager. My guy was Earl Weaver. The fiery genius. One day I dug through my overwhelming collection of books and found one from my childhood. It was about "Baseball's Greatest Managers." And the chapter on Weaver was called "The Bantam Rooster." What? Guess that was his nickname. I also dug out an old toy of mine, a contraption that made animal sounds when you pulled a string. Dog, cow, sheep. And a rooster. So for a few weeks, whenever one of my guys hit a homer, I'd pull the string and taunt my foe with the voice saying, "The Rooster says, 'Cock-a-doooodle-do.'" I was incredibly proud of finding that toy and converting it into a Strato psychological weapon.
* Each of us had our obsessions. Brandon had McGwire, Mike had Devon White (?). Mine was Nolan Ryan. The Express had a bizarre 1987. Led the league in ERA at 2.76, yet was only 8-16 with Houston. And, of course, he struck out a ridiculous number of players. It seemed like I always drafted him. I loved his strikeouts, I could mentally picture the leg kick, the powerful stride, the little grunt, and the explosive fastball. He had a better strikeout rate than Danny Almonte at the 2001 Little League World Series. Strato pitcher cards have four, five and six columns. Ryan's dominant area was the five spot. My opponent would roll a 5-6 and I'd simply say "sit down," "go away," or "goodbye." Sadly, I never threw a no-hitter with the man who tossed seven of them in his noncard life. He could be hurt by the long ball and always seemed to give them up in a crucial situation. So, just like in real life, he'd go nine innings, strike out 13 and lose 3-1. Damn it.
* Matt's obsession was Eric Davis, the former Reds star who never quite lived up to his potential. Somehow Matt always got Davis in the draft - I'm convinced he knew the feel of Davis's card in the same way a husband knows the feel of his wife's back. He'd pretend to be upset. "I don't even want him. He strikes out way too much." No one bought it. During the Strato season he whined constantly about Davis's strikeouts, and always said Mauch IV would bench him. But he never did. And every time Davis did hit a homer - which was often - Matt complained, "Why doesn't he do that more?" Like everyone he played for in his career, Davis's untapped potential tormented Matt.
* A few of our favorite Strato phrases, which we repeated constantly and drove into the ground faster than Fletch and Airplane quotes.
"Dot?" No, he can go 8." - Each pitcher's card indicated how many innings they could go before theoretically tiring (today, they'd probably let each starter go five innings). There would be random dots on some of the numbers. So if it said flyball, but had a dot on it, the play was actually a hit, because of the pitcher's fatigue. We often accused Brandon of not admitting when his pitchers had reached dot phase. He'd call a strikeout and someone would ask, "Dot?" Brandon always got angry, that his pitcher and integrity were being questioned, and would say, "No, he can go 8." I still think he fibbed a few times.
"Reggie, Reggie, Reggie, Reggie!" - Reggie Jackson was one of the greatest power hitters ever. But not in 1987. He finished his Hall of Fame career with the Athletics. He hit 15 homers in part-time duty. One year Matt drafted him and kept him on the roster, purely as a bench player and for a bit of nostalgia. Who didn't love Reggie? He rarely used him. But one game against Mike - whose team often transformed into the Washington Generals - Reggie brought back memories of his blast in Tiger Stadium at the All-Star game and the 1977 World Series. With his team trailing by a run and a man on base, Matt brought Reggie in with two outs in the ninth. Matt started the chant, trying to rattle Mike. "Reggie, Reggie, Reggie, Reggie." Eventually I picked it up. I could picture Reggie at the plate, wearing his glasses, bat cocked, waiting for the pitch. Matt rolled the dice. Incredibly, improbably, it came up as a "home run thing," the aforementioned diamond that meant you drew a card for the stadium homer. Matt pulled the little pink card and it qualified. Homer. Dinger. Game over. The chants escalated as Mike held his head in his hands. It wasn't quite as exciting as three homers in three swings, but it was close.
"How many more picks should we have?" - Heard on draft night. As I wrote, drafts went on and on and on and on. Someone asked this, others answered, "Five," or "Ten." And then we'd have 20 more.
"I'm stealing." Perhaps the two most-hated words in our Strato league. And only one man, Mike, ever said them. As a high school player, Mike prided himself on being a "quick" guy on the bases and apparently thought that carried over into Strato. No one ever tried stealing in Strato. It wasn't done. Like in slow-pitch softball, it was basically illegal. It involved looking at a catcher's throwing arm strength, the player's speed, the pitcher's ability to hold runners, and a mathematical formula involving pi. It was pointless. Except for Mike and Zombie Chuck Tanner, who believed in a Whitey Herzog version of smallball that had no place in the Fury Strato League. With those two words, we'd grow enraged. We belittled Mike, trying to break down his defenses and bully him into giving up the speed game. To his credit, he persisted. Mike's a purist - he probably hates the DH, astroturf and night baseball - and in real baseball it still has a place in the game, though obviously not like it used to. But there was no place for it in Strato. He usually succeeded with the attempt, but on the rare times when a catcher gunned his man out, nothing felt more satisfying.
* The most dominant Strato player from 1987? McGwire? Clemens? Strawberry? Molitor? Not even close. Tim Burke. Tim Burke, the man who was also the subject of more arguments in Strato history than any other player. Burke was a good reliever with a career ERA of 2.72. But in 1987 he was better than Mariano Rivera. Hell, he was better than Good Doyle Alexander. Burke went 7-0 with a 1.19 ERA. Dominant in real life, literally impossible to score upon in Strato. His card did not allow a hit. Or a walk. In other words, if the dice put the game on his card, you couldn't get on base. Ridiculous. We accused Matt of overuse. It seemed like Burke pitched every game (we liked to keep some reality in our fantasy games; five-man rotations, couldn't use same relievers every single day, etc.). Burke never blew a save. Mauch IV turned the games into seven-inning contests because, under Matt's ownership, they encouraged two-inning saves, the way Gossage and Fingers used to collect them. I hated Tim Burke, who was apparently a tremendous humanitarian who adopted several children. No matter. Tim Burke, unhittable, but highly hateable. At least in Strato.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Baseball in NYC
Last week I attended the Yankees home opener. The fans packed Yankee Stadium to watch the defending World Series champions receive their rings. After that ceremony, they dispatched the Angels. On Thursday night, I went to Queens to watch the Mets defeat the Cubs. The announced attendance was 28,535, though it seems they reached that number by counting some people twice. Despite this difference in atmosphere, the Mets game was as enjoyable as the Yankees one, even if the commute was twice as long.
It's not necessarily about the majesty of outdoor baseball. I was probably one of the few people who didn't mind watching baseball in the Metrodome. Or at least I was one of the few people who didn't despise it. And it's really not about tradition anymore, now that the ruins of the old Yankee Stadium sit across the street from the newest palace while Shea Stadium bears a striking resemblance to a well-paved parking lot.
It's everything: Riding the subway to the game in cars filled with old guys in throwback jerseys and young kids with with tiny Yankees helmets. It's gladly handing over 10 bucks for bad beer and eight dollars for "chicken tenders" that are neither fowl nor tender. It's watching the subway go by while sitting in the upper deck at Yankee Stadium and watching the planes fly overhead at Citi Field. It's about reveling in the East Coast bias that wants people to believe any game that is played in New York City has to be the most important sporting event of the day and should be the top story on ESPN. Twins? Indians? Cardinals? Padres? Dodgers? Who? Going to games in New York isn't better than games in other parks. But it's a unique experience, even if the play on the field is the same as in every other city.
On Thursday I went with my friend John Rosengren, a Minnesota author (and fellow Johnnie) who is in town for a conference. As we stood in line 10 minutes before first pitch, a guy who looked to be about 40 approached us and said, "Looking for a deal? Follow me." He looked like he had a terrible secret, maybe the location of a dead body he wanted to show us. But we had to listen to the deal. A few years ago, when I went to a Yankees game with John, a similar offer led to a pair of free tickets down the first base line. Our guy in Queens offered his "company's" suite for 50 bucks each. All the food and drinking would be on the house. We turned it down; neither of us is an alcoholic and on a nice spring night, we wanted to sit out in the stands instead of mingling with the high-rollers.
The seats we bought, from a reputable ticket agent with a goofy hat and a green uniform, were in left field. A group of Cubs fans sat four rows in front of us. They exchanged insults with the Mets fans in the section. Their girlfriends looked on in disgust, except when their boyfriends landed a really good zinger. Then they looked like they wanted to return to the hotel room right then and there to reward their hero for the clever retort.
Alcohol fueled the debates, which was helpful, because logic certainly didn't. I'm always leery of sitting next to fans from the road team. At my first Yankee Stadium game in 2004, a member of Red Sox Nation who possessed below-average intelligence and worse looks sat behind us, screaming at every one he saw in pinstripes. In his own beer-addled mind, he owned the comedic chops of a young Eddie Murphy. Eventually, sometime in the seventh inning, another patron fired a beer at the man's large head. It connected with the back of his skull. But I suffered collateral damage as the splash went all over my shirt. I couldn't really blame the thrower. Red Sox Fan with his ridiculous haircut scuffled with some fans. Security tossed all of them. I wanted to hit the guy with something, too. Not because he was a Red Sox fan, but because he was so unoriginal. Modern English has been around since the 16th century. Lots of words to choose from. The Yankees and Red Sox have played for more than a hundred years. Yet the best insult he could come up with was "Yankees suck."
Thankfully on Thursday there were no projectile liquids. Johan Santana picked up the win for the Mets. I'd never seen Santana pitch in person; by the time he became a dominant pitcher with the Twins, I was already in New York, and this was my first time seeing him as a Met. One thing that seemingly has never changed for Santana is that he struggled to find run support. He didn't get any in his last start - which came during the 20-inning marathon last Saturday - and it took some time Thursday for the feeble Mets to strike. But they did, Santana pitched out of trouble like he always does and the Mets fans among the "28,000" in attendance went home happy.
A note for Minnesota Twins fans. The newest Met is youngster Ike Davis. He's a hot prospect with a cool name who might be overhyped simply because he now plays in New York but might also be a really good ballplayer. Yesterday I learned his dad is Ron Davis, the former Yankee pitcher who became infamous as a closer for the Twins during the 1980s. This was before the World Series team in 1987. It was in the mid-80s, when the Twins and their core of future champions - Puckett, Hrbek, Viola, Gaetti - had respectable records but were not true contenders. And every time it appeared the Twins might be on the verge of making a big step, the bespectacled and befuddled Ron Davis appeared in the final innings to blow a lead. Twins fans hated poor RD. Minnesotans hated him more than Drew Pearson. My friend's brother from next door did a superb Ron Davis impression when we were 10 years old, which involved him miming a pitch and then violently turning his head to watch another ball fly out of the park. Very entertaining stuff for youngsters. By all accounts Davis was an outstanding man but it was his role as an ineffective closer that Twins fans remember. And that's unfortunate.
According to this article, Davis thrived as a setup man with the Yankees before coming to the Twins. He might have been the only player in baseball history who handled pressure well in New York but wilted in Minnesota. The story notes that during the 1981 players strike, Davis took a job as a waiter at a Kansas City hotel. Wait...he took a job as a waiter at a hotel in Kansas City. Yes, times have changed. While working, Davis helped with rescue efforts after a collapse at the hotel killed more than 100 people. Again, great guy. Feel bad for loathing him as a child. In my defense, many adults shared those feelings. In reality, Davis wasn't as bad as Twins fans remember, it's just that the games he did blow were particularly scarring. In particular, a home run by Jamie Quirk continues to haunt the state.
The Twins come to New York to play the Mets in June. I don't know if it'd be irony or justice if Ike Davis ends up winning one of those games for the Mets with a big home run in the bottom of the ninth.
For 15 years, the anti-RD has ruled in the Bronx. I've now been to six Yankee games in New York. The Yankees are 6-0. And in every one of those games, Mariano Rivera has earned the save. Rivera's entrance into a game is one of the coolest moments in sports, as the unemotional closer jogs in from the outfield while Metallica blares and the crowd rises. He fires his one pitch and always gets his man, at least when I'm in attendance. Last week it seemed like Rivera wouldn't be needed, as the Yankees led 7-1 in the ninth. A grand slam later, Joe Girardi wandered out to call in Rivera. As Rivera arrived on the mound, the crowd continued to cheer. Louise - not a baseball fan - asked, "Why are they so excited? Is it because they think the game is over with him in the game?"
Yes, a perfect way to describe the reaction.
A highlight of my trip to the new Yankee Stadium occurred during a long wait in a concessions line. Two women behind me complained the entire 10-minute wait, whining about poorly trained staff. They kept watching one of the workers fill beer cups and grew enraged with her technique. Every cup she filled was half-filled with foam.
"Look at that! How can she not know how to pour a beer? How do they not train them?"
Each beer brought a new complaint. Finally I ordered my food and stood off to the side to wait for it. One of the women behind me gave her order. She then reached across the counter to grab a beer cup out of the worker's hand.
"If you tilt it like this, you won't get as much foam. Come on, like this!"
Everyone just watched the crazy woman give a beer lesson to an underpaid, frightened worker, who looked like she wanted to take flight instead of fight.
"I am not paying 10 dollars for foam," the customer screamed.
I walked away with my soda and tenders as the beer-pouring lesson continued. I'm assuming the foamy, overpriced beer ended up drenching someone's head - the employee's or a fan's. That's a part of baseball in New York. But just a small part.
It's not necessarily about the majesty of outdoor baseball. I was probably one of the few people who didn't mind watching baseball in the Metrodome. Or at least I was one of the few people who didn't despise it. And it's really not about tradition anymore, now that the ruins of the old Yankee Stadium sit across the street from the newest palace while Shea Stadium bears a striking resemblance to a well-paved parking lot.
It's everything: Riding the subway to the game in cars filled with old guys in throwback jerseys and young kids with with tiny Yankees helmets. It's gladly handing over 10 bucks for bad beer and eight dollars for "chicken tenders" that are neither fowl nor tender. It's watching the subway go by while sitting in the upper deck at Yankee Stadium and watching the planes fly overhead at Citi Field. It's about reveling in the East Coast bias that wants people to believe any game that is played in New York City has to be the most important sporting event of the day and should be the top story on ESPN. Twins? Indians? Cardinals? Padres? Dodgers? Who? Going to games in New York isn't better than games in other parks. But it's a unique experience, even if the play on the field is the same as in every other city.
On Thursday I went with my friend John Rosengren, a Minnesota author (and fellow Johnnie) who is in town for a conference. As we stood in line 10 minutes before first pitch, a guy who looked to be about 40 approached us and said, "Looking for a deal? Follow me." He looked like he had a terrible secret, maybe the location of a dead body he wanted to show us. But we had to listen to the deal. A few years ago, when I went to a Yankees game with John, a similar offer led to a pair of free tickets down the first base line. Our guy in Queens offered his "company's" suite for 50 bucks each. All the food and drinking would be on the house. We turned it down; neither of us is an alcoholic and on a nice spring night, we wanted to sit out in the stands instead of mingling with the high-rollers.
The seats we bought, from a reputable ticket agent with a goofy hat and a green uniform, were in left field. A group of Cubs fans sat four rows in front of us. They exchanged insults with the Mets fans in the section. Their girlfriends looked on in disgust, except when their boyfriends landed a really good zinger. Then they looked like they wanted to return to the hotel room right then and there to reward their hero for the clever retort.
Alcohol fueled the debates, which was helpful, because logic certainly didn't. I'm always leery of sitting next to fans from the road team. At my first Yankee Stadium game in 2004, a member of Red Sox Nation who possessed below-average intelligence and worse looks sat behind us, screaming at every one he saw in pinstripes. In his own beer-addled mind, he owned the comedic chops of a young Eddie Murphy. Eventually, sometime in the seventh inning, another patron fired a beer at the man's large head. It connected with the back of his skull. But I suffered collateral damage as the splash went all over my shirt. I couldn't really blame the thrower. Red Sox Fan with his ridiculous haircut scuffled with some fans. Security tossed all of them. I wanted to hit the guy with something, too. Not because he was a Red Sox fan, but because he was so unoriginal. Modern English has been around since the 16th century. Lots of words to choose from. The Yankees and Red Sox have played for more than a hundred years. Yet the best insult he could come up with was "Yankees suck."
Thankfully on Thursday there were no projectile liquids. Johan Santana picked up the win for the Mets. I'd never seen Santana pitch in person; by the time he became a dominant pitcher with the Twins, I was already in New York, and this was my first time seeing him as a Met. One thing that seemingly has never changed for Santana is that he struggled to find run support. He didn't get any in his last start - which came during the 20-inning marathon last Saturday - and it took some time Thursday for the feeble Mets to strike. But they did, Santana pitched out of trouble like he always does and the Mets fans among the "28,000" in attendance went home happy.
A note for Minnesota Twins fans. The newest Met is youngster Ike Davis. He's a hot prospect with a cool name who might be overhyped simply because he now plays in New York but might also be a really good ballplayer. Yesterday I learned his dad is Ron Davis, the former Yankee pitcher who became infamous as a closer for the Twins during the 1980s. This was before the World Series team in 1987. It was in the mid-80s, when the Twins and their core of future champions - Puckett, Hrbek, Viola, Gaetti - had respectable records but were not true contenders. And every time it appeared the Twins might be on the verge of making a big step, the bespectacled and befuddled Ron Davis appeared in the final innings to blow a lead. Twins fans hated poor RD. Minnesotans hated him more than Drew Pearson. My friend's brother from next door did a superb Ron Davis impression when we were 10 years old, which involved him miming a pitch and then violently turning his head to watch another ball fly out of the park. Very entertaining stuff for youngsters. By all accounts Davis was an outstanding man but it was his role as an ineffective closer that Twins fans remember. And that's unfortunate.
According to this article, Davis thrived as a setup man with the Yankees before coming to the Twins. He might have been the only player in baseball history who handled pressure well in New York but wilted in Minnesota. The story notes that during the 1981 players strike, Davis took a job as a waiter at a Kansas City hotel. Wait...he took a job as a waiter at a hotel in Kansas City. Yes, times have changed. While working, Davis helped with rescue efforts after a collapse at the hotel killed more than 100 people. Again, great guy. Feel bad for loathing him as a child. In my defense, many adults shared those feelings. In reality, Davis wasn't as bad as Twins fans remember, it's just that the games he did blow were particularly scarring. In particular, a home run by Jamie Quirk continues to haunt the state.
The Twins come to New York to play the Mets in June. I don't know if it'd be irony or justice if Ike Davis ends up winning one of those games for the Mets with a big home run in the bottom of the ninth.
For 15 years, the anti-RD has ruled in the Bronx. I've now been to six Yankee games in New York. The Yankees are 6-0. And in every one of those games, Mariano Rivera has earned the save. Rivera's entrance into a game is one of the coolest moments in sports, as the unemotional closer jogs in from the outfield while Metallica blares and the crowd rises. He fires his one pitch and always gets his man, at least when I'm in attendance. Last week it seemed like Rivera wouldn't be needed, as the Yankees led 7-1 in the ninth. A grand slam later, Joe Girardi wandered out to call in Rivera. As Rivera arrived on the mound, the crowd continued to cheer. Louise - not a baseball fan - asked, "Why are they so excited? Is it because they think the game is over with him in the game?"
Yes, a perfect way to describe the reaction.
A highlight of my trip to the new Yankee Stadium occurred during a long wait in a concessions line. Two women behind me complained the entire 10-minute wait, whining about poorly trained staff. They kept watching one of the workers fill beer cups and grew enraged with her technique. Every cup she filled was half-filled with foam.
"Look at that! How can she not know how to pour a beer? How do they not train them?"
Each beer brought a new complaint. Finally I ordered my food and stood off to the side to wait for it. One of the women behind me gave her order. She then reached across the counter to grab a beer cup out of the worker's hand.
"If you tilt it like this, you won't get as much foam. Come on, like this!"
Everyone just watched the crazy woman give a beer lesson to an underpaid, frightened worker, who looked like she wanted to take flight instead of fight.
"I am not paying 10 dollars for foam," the customer screamed.
I walked away with my soda and tenders as the beer-pouring lesson continued. I'm assuming the foamy, overpriced beer ended up drenching someone's head - the employee's or a fan's. That's a part of baseball in New York. But just a small part.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Walking into the SI vault
I never need an excuse to look through old issues of Sports Illustrated. My dad has every issue dating back to the early 1970s. Before anyone accuses him of being a hoarder and organizes an intervention or calls a reality TV producer, it should be noted that even if he did ever want to get rid of them, I've made it clear since about, oh, 1984, that he is not allowed to throw them away. I still regret that in 1986 I removed the covers off of dozens of magazines and used them as bedroom wallpaper. As comforting as it was to sit underneath the cover that ran after the Lakers won the 1985 NBA title, I now regret that all of those magazines look like they were vandalized. All of the magazines - the ones with covers and without - sit in their little cardboard magazine holders, waiting for me to page through them once or twice a year. One day we'll move them east, whenever they officially become my magazines.
About two years ago, SI put its entire collection online. It's surely one of the great inventions of the Internet era, although it might give people the idea that it's okay to throw away the actual old issues of the magazine. And that is still not okay.
But it has made it easier to walk through the past. For the last week I've been reading old issues for a baseball project. One of the stories was "written" by longtime Yankees general manager George Weiss, after he left the team following the 1960 season. He recaps his career with the team. He also talks about the future of the game and potential trouble spots for the sport. He laments that "there just aren't the number of 154-game players around that there used to be."
That sounds like the long-heard cries from people who say the game wasn't what it used to be, complaints that have been heard pretty much every decade since 1900. What makes Weiss's comment a bit odder is that he had a reputation for being a racist, an executive who was extremely reluctant to sign black ballplayers. The point being, in 1960 there were hundreds more "154-game players" available than there were in 1945. But you had to look past skin color to find them.
But Weiss had another reason for this supposed talent shortage, and it's one of those lines that drives home just how different the sport was 50 years ago. Weiss wrote, "For one thing, baseball gets a lot of competition from industry for a young man's abilities, and when a kid is offered a business job at a good starting salary, he thinks twice about gambling on taking three or four years to develop himself for a major league baseball career that is apt to be over at 35 anyway. All of this makes it harder for a ball club to line up good young players."
Competition from "industry." All those young ballplayers turning their backs on the Yankees to pursue a life in the coal mine, or a career with an accounting firm. Better salary, more stability, kick-ass benefits. Modern GMs don't realize how lucky they have it, not having to worry about killer competition from the business world.
I could look through old SI's all day, and I have on many occasions. One of the most enjoyable things is seeing how the magazine itself changed, nearly as dramatically as the salary demands of players. Today, and for the last two or three decades, the magazine focuses on the major sports. But in its early years, it had a broad definition of "sports," and actually focused on leisure (maybe old issues of SI influenced the creators of Trivial Pursuit; what else would explain all of those maddening questions on backgammon and cribbage under the sports and leisure category?). The old covers were barren. A single picture often ran with just a handful of words providing decoration. For instance, this cover from March 20, 1961. More leisure? The May 13, 1963 cover. A drawing. A girl, a bikini, a boat, and...dolphins?
But they've always focused on baseball.
Here's the cover for the 1961 baseball preview issue. It's a cool little picture and not quite as dull as many of the covers from that era. A look inside the issue reveals how the magazine's changed. There's a story on the Florida Derby. There's a story on the International Automobile Show in New York. There's a swimming story. And for god's sake, there's a story on bridge. It's actually a delightfully eclectic group of stories, although it's also perfectly understandable why the magazine's focus has shifted in the past decades. In a mainstream magazine in 2010, there might not be room for this type of writing:
"I suppose the reason why so many lawyers are good bridge players is that logic is the basis of their practice and, also, they are in close contact with people and are good judges of what behavior to expect."
Damn lawyers, and their bridge skills.
Finally in that issue there are the team previews, thorough accounts of each squad's strengths and weaknesses, info on management and the stadiums. Minnesota welcomed the Twins, freshly arrived after a move from Washington.
"Minnesota farmers and businessmen await the first home run of Minnesota's Harmon Killebrew. Minnesota housewives and schoolboys are ready to ooh when Minnesota's Jim Lemon strikes out and aah when he hits one over the wall." There was more oohing than aahing that year, unfortunately, as the state's lonely housewives and rambunctious schoolboys saw Lemon hit a mere 14 homers, a year after he awed the Washington fans with 38.
Every baseball preview since the magazine's inception is online, in the vault. And if you're dying to see a hard copy version of those stories, call my folks. Just don't be angry if the issue you're looking for is missing its cover.
About two years ago, SI put its entire collection online. It's surely one of the great inventions of the Internet era, although it might give people the idea that it's okay to throw away the actual old issues of the magazine. And that is still not okay.
But it has made it easier to walk through the past. For the last week I've been reading old issues for a baseball project. One of the stories was "written" by longtime Yankees general manager George Weiss, after he left the team following the 1960 season. He recaps his career with the team. He also talks about the future of the game and potential trouble spots for the sport. He laments that "there just aren't the number of 154-game players around that there used to be."
That sounds like the long-heard cries from people who say the game wasn't what it used to be, complaints that have been heard pretty much every decade since 1900. What makes Weiss's comment a bit odder is that he had a reputation for being a racist, an executive who was extremely reluctant to sign black ballplayers. The point being, in 1960 there were hundreds more "154-game players" available than there were in 1945. But you had to look past skin color to find them.
But Weiss had another reason for this supposed talent shortage, and it's one of those lines that drives home just how different the sport was 50 years ago. Weiss wrote, "For one thing, baseball gets a lot of competition from industry for a young man's abilities, and when a kid is offered a business job at a good starting salary, he thinks twice about gambling on taking three or four years to develop himself for a major league baseball career that is apt to be over at 35 anyway. All of this makes it harder for a ball club to line up good young players."
Competition from "industry." All those young ballplayers turning their backs on the Yankees to pursue a life in the coal mine, or a career with an accounting firm. Better salary, more stability, kick-ass benefits. Modern GMs don't realize how lucky they have it, not having to worry about killer competition from the business world.
I could look through old SI's all day, and I have on many occasions. One of the most enjoyable things is seeing how the magazine itself changed, nearly as dramatically as the salary demands of players. Today, and for the last two or three decades, the magazine focuses on the major sports. But in its early years, it had a broad definition of "sports," and actually focused on leisure (maybe old issues of SI influenced the creators of Trivial Pursuit; what else would explain all of those maddening questions on backgammon and cribbage under the sports and leisure category?). The old covers were barren. A single picture often ran with just a handful of words providing decoration. For instance, this cover from March 20, 1961. More leisure? The May 13, 1963 cover. A drawing. A girl, a bikini, a boat, and...dolphins?
But they've always focused on baseball.
Here's the cover for the 1961 baseball preview issue. It's a cool little picture and not quite as dull as many of the covers from that era. A look inside the issue reveals how the magazine's changed. There's a story on the Florida Derby. There's a story on the International Automobile Show in New York. There's a swimming story. And for god's sake, there's a story on bridge. It's actually a delightfully eclectic group of stories, although it's also perfectly understandable why the magazine's focus has shifted in the past decades. In a mainstream magazine in 2010, there might not be room for this type of writing:
"I suppose the reason why so many lawyers are good bridge players is that logic is the basis of their practice and, also, they are in close contact with people and are good judges of what behavior to expect."
Damn lawyers, and their bridge skills.
Finally in that issue there are the team previews, thorough accounts of each squad's strengths and weaknesses, info on management and the stadiums. Minnesota welcomed the Twins, freshly arrived after a move from Washington.
"Minnesota farmers and businessmen await the first home run of Minnesota's Harmon Killebrew. Minnesota housewives and schoolboys are ready to ooh when Minnesota's Jim Lemon strikes out and aah when he hits one over the wall." There was more oohing than aahing that year, unfortunately, as the state's lonely housewives and rambunctious schoolboys saw Lemon hit a mere 14 homers, a year after he awed the Washington fans with 38.
Every baseball preview since the magazine's inception is online, in the vault. And if you're dying to see a hard copy version of those stories, call my folks. Just don't be angry if the issue you're looking for is missing its cover.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
The only thing worse than the Pro Bowl
Two days ago, while killing time before dinner, my brother-in-law Anthony turned the channel to a replay of the NFL Pro Bowl. Sensing my need for a dose of American sports in the sea of cricket, rugby and soccer, he stopped on the game for about 10 minutes. He asked if it was an All-Star type game and I said it was, though I then added three minutes of qualifiers relating to injuries, dropouts, players being kicked out and teams who play in fear of an injury in a meaningless contest that could ruin the games that count in 2010. It's tough explaining the ludicrousness of the Pro Bowl in a hundred words or less. It's more difficult than explaining the electoral college to a foreigner.
Anthony watched one play - a run by Chris Johnson that ended with the defensive players standing as motionless as a sculpture at the Met - and said, "That was the slowest play I've ever seen." Anthony's probably seen 50 American football plays in his life, but even he could spot an inferior product.
I then explained that in addition to everything else I had mentioned, the game's often played at half-speed, as teams display the intensity they usually reserve for a flag football game with the relatives at Easter. We watched the AFC score the winning points in their thrilling 41-34 victory, a result that was erased from everyone's mind about three seconds after it entered the official record book.
The Pro Bowl's wretchedness is nothing new, even if the NFL somehow managed to make it even more irrelevant by playing it the week before the Super Bowl, ensuring that even more stars than normal will be missing. At least those players sport a legitimate excuse that doesn't require a handwritten note from a doctor that talks about a nagging hamstring injury or a lingering ankle problem that recently flared up. High school seniors with a week left of classes are the only people with worse attendance marks than stars picked for the Pro Bowl.
Despite all that, I still don't think the Pro Bowl is the worst of the Big Three's all-star games. That designation belongs to baseball. While the Pro Bowl suffers because of what happens on the field, MLB's All-Star game earns its spot at the bottom because of what's at stake on the field. Namely, way too much. Baseball's insistence on using the All-Star Game to determine homefield advantage for the World Series is much more absurd than watching the seventh-best quarterback in the NFC play in the Pro Bowl in front of a stadium that's filled with bored paying customers and prisoners shipped in to stock the remaining seats. All-Star games should be meaningless exhibitions where the top players show off, or at least show up.
Homefield advantage in baseball certainly isn't as crucial as it is in basketball and football, but it does mean quite a bit. And the previous method of deciding homefield - alternating it every year between AL and NL - didn't make much more sense. However, that system receives 86 percent of the credit for the Twins's World Series titles in 1987 and 1991, so no one from Minnesota will ever badmouth the way things were done before.
Baseball's All-Star game provides memorable moments, whether it's Pete Rose's psychotic collison with Ray Fosse or Reggie Jackson's blast at Tiger Stadium. In comparison, the only thing I remember about any Pro Bowl game was when Barry Switzer ate a hot dog on the sidelines in 1995, which somehow led to criticism from those who thought the good old boy wasn't taking the game seriously enough.
The NBA All-Star game remains my favorite. There's no defense, of course, but who cares? The Jeff Van Gundy's of the world can get their fill of weak-side rotations every other day of the season. The NBA's exhibition at least welcomes the top players. It lets them do things that make them great, namely dunk, throw no-look passes and shoot 25-foot three-pointers. The points come in bunches. And at the end of the 48-minute affair, everyone forgets the game and moves on, just like with the Pro Bowl.
But baseball's All-Star Game? Instead of being left in the past, baseball's premier exhibition haunts the rest of the season. Come October, everyone's again reminded that the reason the Series is beginning on a cold night in Yankee Stadium is because of what happened on a warm evening in July, in a game that should have been meaningless to everyone except wide-eyed children and degenerate gamblers.
Anthony watched one play - a run by Chris Johnson that ended with the defensive players standing as motionless as a sculpture at the Met - and said, "That was the slowest play I've ever seen." Anthony's probably seen 50 American football plays in his life, but even he could spot an inferior product.
I then explained that in addition to everything else I had mentioned, the game's often played at half-speed, as teams display the intensity they usually reserve for a flag football game with the relatives at Easter. We watched the AFC score the winning points in their thrilling 41-34 victory, a result that was erased from everyone's mind about three seconds after it entered the official record book.
The Pro Bowl's wretchedness is nothing new, even if the NFL somehow managed to make it even more irrelevant by playing it the week before the Super Bowl, ensuring that even more stars than normal will be missing. At least those players sport a legitimate excuse that doesn't require a handwritten note from a doctor that talks about a nagging hamstring injury or a lingering ankle problem that recently flared up. High school seniors with a week left of classes are the only people with worse attendance marks than stars picked for the Pro Bowl.
Despite all that, I still don't think the Pro Bowl is the worst of the Big Three's all-star games. That designation belongs to baseball. While the Pro Bowl suffers because of what happens on the field, MLB's All-Star game earns its spot at the bottom because of what's at stake on the field. Namely, way too much. Baseball's insistence on using the All-Star Game to determine homefield advantage for the World Series is much more absurd than watching the seventh-best quarterback in the NFC play in the Pro Bowl in front of a stadium that's filled with bored paying customers and prisoners shipped in to stock the remaining seats. All-Star games should be meaningless exhibitions where the top players show off, or at least show up.
Homefield advantage in baseball certainly isn't as crucial as it is in basketball and football, but it does mean quite a bit. And the previous method of deciding homefield - alternating it every year between AL and NL - didn't make much more sense. However, that system receives 86 percent of the credit for the Twins's World Series titles in 1987 and 1991, so no one from Minnesota will ever badmouth the way things were done before.
Baseball's All-Star game provides memorable moments, whether it's Pete Rose's psychotic collison with Ray Fosse or Reggie Jackson's blast at Tiger Stadium. In comparison, the only thing I remember about any Pro Bowl game was when Barry Switzer ate a hot dog on the sidelines in 1995, which somehow led to criticism from those who thought the good old boy wasn't taking the game seriously enough.
The NBA All-Star game remains my favorite. There's no defense, of course, but who cares? The Jeff Van Gundy's of the world can get their fill of weak-side rotations every other day of the season. The NBA's exhibition at least welcomes the top players. It lets them do things that make them great, namely dunk, throw no-look passes and shoot 25-foot three-pointers. The points come in bunches. And at the end of the 48-minute affair, everyone forgets the game and moves on, just like with the Pro Bowl.
But baseball's All-Star Game? Instead of being left in the past, baseball's premier exhibition haunts the rest of the season. Come October, everyone's again reminded that the reason the Series is beginning on a cold night in Yankee Stadium is because of what happened on a warm evening in July, in a game that should have been meaningless to everyone except wide-eyed children and degenerate gamblers.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Look, Mom, it's Tommy! He's running onto the field at the Yankees game!
One of the great things about YouTube is that it offers a glimpse at a world unknown to regular television viewers. For years now, stations instantly cut away from the on-field action if some attention-seeking idiot sprints onto the field and runs around in circles until security finally tackles him. They do this because showing it would apparently encourage others to do the same thing and they don't want to give attention to someone for committing a crime. Fortunately, the majority of these people are harmless. The only damage they do is to their family's sense of pride.
As security drags the drunken man or woman off in cuffs, the announcers will either ignore it completely, aside from a somber announcement that "security is escorting a gentleman off the field," or they'll ridicule the person, explaining, "Some moron has decided to show off for his friends and will now spend the night in jail. Good."
I have no problem with TV refusing to show these people. Attention-starved people with below-average intelligence already litter our televisions on reality shows; we don't need them polluting sporting events.
Still, there's something exhilarating about watching a fool run onto a baseball field or football field in an attempt to...what? Impress a girlfriend? Win a dare he made with his frat buddies? Prove his parents wrong when they told him he'd never amount to anything in his life? For a few seconds, these people must feel like Barry Sanders breaking free into the open field. They now know what it feels like to be cheered by 30,000 people. Sometimes they'll dodge overweight security guards, who must get some secret thrill out of the chase as well. Most of the time those workers simply watch the stands for drunken brawls.
Here's a chance to beat up a real-life hippie!
Baseball attracts most of these people. Rarely does it happen in basketball, despite the fact it'd seem to be an easier accomplishment. Perhaps baseball fans - who these days sit through games that last anywhere from three and a half hours to six hours - simply have a longer time frame in which to get drunk. I'd like to see a study that analyzes when people run onto a field. My guess is it'd be in the later innings of a game, or in the second half of a football game.
What's the thought process? Does the idea first spark in the fifth inning? Does the guy think about doing it, but fears telling his friend? Then, sometime in the bottom of the seventh, as he's chugged his seventh beer, he finally broaches the subject:
"Hey, wouldn't it be cool if I ran onto the field?"
"No."
"No, it would be. You remember, I was a pretty good running back in high school. Ran for 875 yards senior year. Made all-conference."
"That was 11 years ago. And 85 pounds ago."
"Dude, I'm just saying. I could do it and probably last a minute out there before they'd catch me. Look at those security guys."
The guy's friend forgets the conversation. He passes it off as one of those ideas drunk guys always come up with; it's the same thing he does when his friend openly dreams about opening a bar, a real "kick-ass joint, we can even have live music."
Then, in the bottom of the eighth, it happens. The guy jumps over the short wall down the right field line. As his friend breaks out the camera phone so he can document the carnage for the buddies back home, the guy's off to the races.
You know the drunk guy you hate sitting next to at a professional sporting event? The one who doesn't shut up or sit down and screams at every player? That's the type of guy who runs onto the field. The only good thing is he's no longer bothering you.
Here, then, are some of the finest examples of just how stupid humans can be.
Dodger Stadium. Who says LA fans don't get excited? Here, the crowd acts like Kirk Gibson just took Dennis Eckersley deep again, as they wildly cheer a man getting hammered on the field by security staff, presumably after he got hammered in his seat. Boy, do fans love when someone runs onto the field. It wakes them from their slumber. "Look, dad, someone's zig-zagging across the outfield while four people in jackets chase him! Who-whooooo!" It's the same type of reaction that happens when a beach ball gets tossed into a crowd. Inexplicably, it becomes the highlight of the game for many people as they bounce it to and fro. On the beach, the sight of a beach ball would elicit yawns. But in the stands at Camden Yards? Chaos! Excitement!
And would anyone blame the security staff or police officers if they took a few extra shots at these cretins? Especially when five or six of them gather around the sprinter. It'd be easy to toss in a few jabs to the ribs. Guy's drunk, he's not going to remember anything.
Wrigley Field. This one is labeled Drunk Cubs Fan Gets Tackled on Mother's Day. Again, pure joy from the crowd. Are they cheering the man or the security people who took him down? And would they be anymore excited if the Cubs finally made the World Series? I say no.
Here's one of New York's finest citizens, running around the old Yankee Stadium. The same grass Mickey Mantle used to patrol! The highlight is toward the end, when one of the fans can be heard saying, "He gets to go into the dugout too!" as if police are taking him there so he can give Joe Girardi some advice about whether to bring Rivera in during the 8th inning or save him for the 9th.
Here's the same guy...from a different angle. One known photo exists of Abraham Lincoln during the Gettysburg Address, and it came seconds after he completed the speech. Yet, at least two videos exist of this guy shedding his shirt and tacklers as he makes his way around the basepaths at baseball's most hallowed cathedral.
The one below is an old-school version. From 1989, at a Steelers game. Shirtless, pantsless, shoeless. Thankfully, the guy's wearing boxers, not briefs. He falls on the old, tough artificial turf at Three Rivers Stadium, the type of turf that's all but disappeared today because it was so brutal on players, and, most likely, fans.
Speaking of the Steelers, here's Pittsburgh linebacker James Harrison taking justice into his own hands with a fool from Cleveland. This might also be why more people run onto the field at baseball games. Who's more likely to take out a runaway fan? A right-fielder, or a middle linebacker?
It's not like this is just a problem on the coasts. Not even Minnesota - with its presumably nice security guards and nice fans - is immune. In this one a pair of fans, egged on by their testosterone and low IQs, venture out together. One even makes it to home plate - he's safe - before a Red Sox bat boy flattens him, finally ending the fiasco.
Every year Sports Illustrated publishes a Where are They Now issue. It's always one of the more fascinating issues, as the magazine tracks down athletes and coaches from the past who have fallen off the radar. For the next issue, I hope they track down some of these people, or their brethren. Did any of them go on to become a CEO? Did any of them get promoted to head of sales? Did their hometowns throw them a parade, or present a key to the city? Most importantly, did any of them father any children? And if so, are their children as dumb as their parents?
As security drags the drunken man or woman off in cuffs, the announcers will either ignore it completely, aside from a somber announcement that "security is escorting a gentleman off the field," or they'll ridicule the person, explaining, "Some moron has decided to show off for his friends and will now spend the night in jail. Good."
I have no problem with TV refusing to show these people. Attention-starved people with below-average intelligence already litter our televisions on reality shows; we don't need them polluting sporting events.
Still, there's something exhilarating about watching a fool run onto a baseball field or football field in an attempt to...what? Impress a girlfriend? Win a dare he made with his frat buddies? Prove his parents wrong when they told him he'd never amount to anything in his life? For a few seconds, these people must feel like Barry Sanders breaking free into the open field. They now know what it feels like to be cheered by 30,000 people. Sometimes they'll dodge overweight security guards, who must get some secret thrill out of the chase as well. Most of the time those workers simply watch the stands for drunken brawls.
Here's a chance to beat up a real-life hippie!
Baseball attracts most of these people. Rarely does it happen in basketball, despite the fact it'd seem to be an easier accomplishment. Perhaps baseball fans - who these days sit through games that last anywhere from three and a half hours to six hours - simply have a longer time frame in which to get drunk. I'd like to see a study that analyzes when people run onto a field. My guess is it'd be in the later innings of a game, or in the second half of a football game.
What's the thought process? Does the idea first spark in the fifth inning? Does the guy think about doing it, but fears telling his friend? Then, sometime in the bottom of the seventh, as he's chugged his seventh beer, he finally broaches the subject:
"Hey, wouldn't it be cool if I ran onto the field?"
"No."
"No, it would be. You remember, I was a pretty good running back in high school. Ran for 875 yards senior year. Made all-conference."
"That was 11 years ago. And 85 pounds ago."
"Dude, I'm just saying. I could do it and probably last a minute out there before they'd catch me. Look at those security guys."
The guy's friend forgets the conversation. He passes it off as one of those ideas drunk guys always come up with; it's the same thing he does when his friend openly dreams about opening a bar, a real "kick-ass joint, we can even have live music."
Then, in the bottom of the eighth, it happens. The guy jumps over the short wall down the right field line. As his friend breaks out the camera phone so he can document the carnage for the buddies back home, the guy's off to the races.
You know the drunk guy you hate sitting next to at a professional sporting event? The one who doesn't shut up or sit down and screams at every player? That's the type of guy who runs onto the field. The only good thing is he's no longer bothering you.
Here, then, are some of the finest examples of just how stupid humans can be.
Dodger Stadium. Who says LA fans don't get excited? Here, the crowd acts like Kirk Gibson just took Dennis Eckersley deep again, as they wildly cheer a man getting hammered on the field by security staff, presumably after he got hammered in his seat. Boy, do fans love when someone runs onto the field. It wakes them from their slumber. "Look, dad, someone's zig-zagging across the outfield while four people in jackets chase him! Who-whooooo!" It's the same type of reaction that happens when a beach ball gets tossed into a crowd. Inexplicably, it becomes the highlight of the game for many people as they bounce it to and fro. On the beach, the sight of a beach ball would elicit yawns. But in the stands at Camden Yards? Chaos! Excitement!
And would anyone blame the security staff or police officers if they took a few extra shots at these cretins? Especially when five or six of them gather around the sprinter. It'd be easy to toss in a few jabs to the ribs. Guy's drunk, he's not going to remember anything.
Wrigley Field. This one is labeled Drunk Cubs Fan Gets Tackled on Mother's Day. Again, pure joy from the crowd. Are they cheering the man or the security people who took him down? And would they be anymore excited if the Cubs finally made the World Series? I say no.
Here's one of New York's finest citizens, running around the old Yankee Stadium. The same grass Mickey Mantle used to patrol! The highlight is toward the end, when one of the fans can be heard saying, "He gets to go into the dugout too!" as if police are taking him there so he can give Joe Girardi some advice about whether to bring Rivera in during the 8th inning or save him for the 9th.
Here's the same guy...from a different angle. One known photo exists of Abraham Lincoln during the Gettysburg Address, and it came seconds after he completed the speech. Yet, at least two videos exist of this guy shedding his shirt and tacklers as he makes his way around the basepaths at baseball's most hallowed cathedral.
The one below is an old-school version. From 1989, at a Steelers game. Shirtless, pantsless, shoeless. Thankfully, the guy's wearing boxers, not briefs. He falls on the old, tough artificial turf at Three Rivers Stadium, the type of turf that's all but disappeared today because it was so brutal on players, and, most likely, fans.
Speaking of the Steelers, here's Pittsburgh linebacker James Harrison taking justice into his own hands with a fool from Cleveland. This might also be why more people run onto the field at baseball games. Who's more likely to take out a runaway fan? A right-fielder, or a middle linebacker?
It's not like this is just a problem on the coasts. Not even Minnesota - with its presumably nice security guards and nice fans - is immune. In this one a pair of fans, egged on by their testosterone and low IQs, venture out together. One even makes it to home plate - he's safe - before a Red Sox bat boy flattens him, finally ending the fiasco.
Every year Sports Illustrated publishes a Where are They Now issue. It's always one of the more fascinating issues, as the magazine tracks down athletes and coaches from the past who have fallen off the radar. For the next issue, I hope they track down some of these people, or their brethren. Did any of them go on to become a CEO? Did any of them get promoted to head of sales? Did their hometowns throw them a parade, or present a key to the city? Most importantly, did any of them father any children? And if so, are their children as dumb as their parents?
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