Time May be Short for the "Jimmer"

I started to look a bit farther into the Jimmer Fredette thing we’ve all been hearing about, and still can’t definitively find out what "jimmer" means as a slang word, in any American vernacular.

Jimmer above the rim

There’s a part of me that finds the word vaguely pornographic, but at my age, and in my twisted mind I find a lot of words vaguely pornographic, or will find a way to make them so. Do I need to stretch very far with this one?

"Fredette" absolutely sounds like either something a guy from France wears, or something folks at French Restaurants order from a menu, ala carte.  Maybe they ask for extra "jimmer" on their Fredette.

I also think "Jimmer" would be pronounced more like "Zeemer," and the guy saying it will be chain-smoking unfiltered cigarettes, have a 4 day growth of beard, and be emitting an aroma that seemingly melds the bouquet of a 2005 Bordeaux with the rankness of week old underwear.

Still…"Jimmer?" My son says it sounds like slang for a condom, instead of the name of a guard from BYU that is leading the NCAA is scoring this season.

Maybe we can ask Jimmer’s brother TJ Fredette? TJ is known as "The Gangsta Rapper," and looks remarkably like Ben Affleck, at first glance. Let me get this straight, a Mormon Gangsta Rapper?
 

TJ GANGSTA

 How about sister Lindsay Fredette? She was Miss Teen New York as a 16-year old, back in 1998. 16 huh?  If you told me that she was just 17, I'd know what you mean.

Mom is Catholic, and after dad converted to Mormon, the three Fredette kids were given an option of which religion they wanted to convert to when they reached 18. It would seem that when mom nicknamed her youngest son (James Taft Fredette) "Jimmer," and it just stuck. I guess James didn’t have an option there?



I LUV NEW YORK!

We have a kid with a nickname that we’d ordinarily associate with some good ole boy from the deep south, and then mix in a little Catholic or Mormon decision, and how bizarre is this bio? And how does one family from Glens Falls, New York come up with these three kids? The whole thing sound’s made up, doesn’t it? Yeah, but check it all out, and you’ll see that truth is once again stranger than fiction.  Lindsay doesn't look to be fiction, at least not in this photograph to the right?  Looks pretty real to me.

Take on all that, but it’s not as strange as the following story about a probable college basketball star come the 2012 season :

I’ve been reading about a 6’3" high school sophomore guard named DeSean "Jizz" Schtupper, who is very highly ranked by most colleges, and should get a huge amount of attention by the fall. He is the son of an American Air Force couple stationed in Turkey. His dad (Hod Schtupper) is white and Jewish, and mom (Dinah-Belle Howard) is African-American. His mom’s  father was Charlie "Jazz" (or Jazz ‘em) Howard, who was a schoolboy hoop phenom from the Winston-Salem area in the late 1940’s. Howard later became a well-known tenor sax session man on a number of jazz recordings in the early 50’s, and that’s how he acquired his nickname. Apparently Jazz ‘em inspired and coached his grandson Jizz ‘em, from a very young age.

The word is that Jizz is lighting it up playing for the Incirlik AFB High School team. Incirlik is just outside of Adana, Turkey. Schtupper’s coach, Major David Hampton has said the that Allen Iverson and Jizz Schtupper haven’t crossed paths yet, but apparently Diana Taurasi has put in a good word for UConn.

Could we someday have Jizz and Jimmer in the same NBA backcourt?

Jimmer Fredette,
say it loud and it’s a Frenchman swearing,
say it soft, and it’s what Lindsay’s not wearing.

Mormon Gangsta Rapper…I swear I am not making that up.
　

Zebra's unite, throw yellow flags, and drink beer

I was a part of the 4-man football officiating crew that drove from Tucson (AZ) to Willcox (AZ) one early evening, back around 1995 or 1996. We were on our way to a game between Willcox and Benson – a huge rivalry game between neighboring towns along Interstate 10. Almost all of the veteran officials in our branch of the Arizona Interscholastic Association preferred road trips on Friday nights, as we were always treated very well. In Tucson, it seemed like we were barely tolerated.

Dean was the referee that night, and he was driving and telling stories about years past in the business of officiating high school sports in southern Arizona. Dean was a legend in Arizona among officials, and had a deep pool of friends, state wide. When Dean brought a crew into town, they always got a great reception from the hosting school’s administration, as Dean was a wonderful guy, and an enormously respected former science and math teacher and coach, who was then an administrator at a Tucson high school.

Ladies young an old would greet him with hugs and kisses, and school athletic directors and principals would arrange after game parties, where all the officials would be fed and beered up to their hearts content, and Dean loved his after game beers as much as any of us.

Dean was a bear of a man, about 6’5" and maybe 280 pounds. He had hands the size of catcher’s mitts, and a booming voice. As we made the 80 or so mile drive down the Interstate that night, Dean told some old stories and new stories about the life of a high school sports official back in the 1960’s and 1970’s.


5 man crew.  Can you spot me?


The classic, oft-repeated story was that back in the day some officials would tell their wives and girlfriends that doing a football game at Benson was an "over-night trip," even though Benson was only about 50 miles from Tucson. The idea was to plant a seed that you may not be home that night, as it was way too far to drive. There are (or at least used to be) hundreds of vehicles in the Tucson area that had "Where the hell is Benson?" bumper stickers.

I was never sure where that all came from, but it wouldn’t surprise me if one or more old high school sports officials came up with the idea? If a guy’s lady actually believed him, it set up a way to cat around, or at least get drunk, without having to answer any questions. I know that any idiot can look at a map, but I was told a few women really believed this story.

Where the hell is Benson?

Once, however, a guy who had "sold" the over-night trip story to his wife happened to take his spouse on a long drive one day which took them past the Benson exit.

"Dear, I though you told me that Benson was a long ways away, and that’s why you needed to spend the night?" his wife quizzed as they motored past the exit.

"Oh, well, no honey, I am talking about the other Benson," and he shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh," his wife answered, "I see."

Dean recounted another story, of how he and another crew were driving back from a game one time years ago when everyone in the car was extremely drunk, including the driver. It was a gentler time regarding drinking and driving back then, as stupid as that may have been.

The guys got lost repeatedly on some really bad roads, and there are hundreds of them out in the Arizona boondocks, but they kept drinking, and kept on driving. The combination finally won out, and the driver slid the car hard into a big, wet ditch. No one was hurt, and it took hours for someone to eventually come by and haul the car out.

Dean sighed and wistfully said, "Those were fun times, even if we were really stupid. I’m just glad in all those trips we never had an accident."

"Uh, Dean," I broke in, "doesn’t driving a car into a ditch count as an accident?"

"Huh? Yeah, yeah…well, yeah, okay, but you need to be thinking about the game, and your mechanics as the Field Judge. What’s your most important responsibility…you and the Head Linesman?"

"Forward progress," both of us answered. We knew the drill.

I was a part of a number of crews that took road trips to places like Thatcher, Safford, Clifton and Morenci – all of them well over 100 miles away. Once, returning from a game at Eastern Arizona College where Thatcher High School played their home games, the driver wasn’t drinking, but my two other crewmates were slamming beers down like water. They’d showered, changed, and hopped into the car in record time so they could begin pounding all the icy cold beer in the coolers. It was an unwritten rule that the crew chief was required to buy enough beer to see the crew back to Tucson, but these two buddies downed a six-pack each before we got off campus.

Our 4-man crews consisted of a referee, umpire, head linesman, and field judge. The umpire that evening was a guy who was an excellent official, even though his primary sport was baseball. In 1995, he was one of the replacement umpires that worked a number of games when the MLB umpires were on strike. I can’t recall his name, so I’ll call him Ken.

As good as Ken was at football, he’d had an awful moment in our football game that night, probably the worst moment an official can have – an inadvertent whistle. He had been suckered on a fake run into the line, and hit his whistle, which immediately stopped the play. I was working a wing spot, and the actual play was coming right at me. A running back heading for the sideline, with only one man to beat to go 90 yards for a touchdown in a very tough, low scoring game.

I don’t know if the back would’ve turned the corner and gone all the way or not, but I think he would have. When the whistle sounded he just stopped and looked at me. This wasn’t a minor error, where the play was of no consequence, plus an umpire in a football game should almost never blow his whistle, so it made it about as bad a blown call as one could have.

Ken was drinking the game off his mind, and before long on the drive back, two things occurred almost simultaneously – we ran out of beer, and Ken really needed to take a leak.

By the time we got to Willcox and a convenience store, Ken couldn’t take any more – he had to go! Our driver hopped out to buy more beer, and Ken headed for the rear of the store. My other mate drunkenly popped into the driver’s seat, and drove the car towards the back of the store, head lights off.

10 yards for illegal urination

There was Ken by the dumpster, shooting a strong, sudsy, yellow stream against the rear wall of the store. Our driver rejoined us, and at a critical moment, the headlights were turned on high beams, and Ken was caught in the act. His panic overwhelmed him, and he peed all over himself as he staggered and stumbled around trying to finish what he had started, while also trying to get out of the spot light, and not get arrested for indecent exposure and/or public urination.  At the least, he deserved a penalty flag.

 As we howled with laughter, our driver Jim remarked, " Ah, I wonder what MLB would think of Ken if they had a video of this?"

We got to Willcox that evening, and as we readied for the game, I saw some familiar faces of the men that would serve as the chain crew. A few years earlier when I had first met one of them, he’d told me a story about the Willcox versus Benson rivalry from almost 20 years earlier.

For a number of years, the two towns had played twice a year. They were in the same conference back then, but they would play one another in the first game of their respective seasons in a non-conference game along with their regular league game.



Willcox Cowboys -- go figure.

The first game was always a big deal, and it inspired any number of dirty tricks along the line of Army kidnapping the Navy goat, or Navy taking the Army mule – that sort of thing.
This guy was a (Willcox) high school student at the time, and he and a few friends thought of the ultimate prank one night while drinking too much beer and tequila. They would outline a huge "W" in the middle of the Benson football field, and then soak the inside portion of the W with gasoline, and set it on fire! They’d burn a W into the Benson field.

Things went well for the five of them, though my friend told me that the field smelled bad – "Crappy" was the word that was used, but none of the guys were deterred. Someone joked about Benson players shitting their pants in fear about having to play Willcox in another 5 days, and that’s why the turf smelled like dirty underwear.

The moment was reached when the boys spread out, and all matches were all struck.



Magnificent!

 It was magnificent, and the W burned beautifully. Problem was, suddenly, the rest of the field caught on fire, and the realization that Benson had put a whole bunch of fertilizer on the entire turf cracked the 5 drunken boy’s consciousness, big time.

Their sneakers and legs (all were in shorts – it’s very warm in southern AZ in September) started to get really hot, and they howled in pain as their leg hairs began to singe and burn off by the dozens, but they got away, at least for a time.

 A day later and both towns were all aware of what had happened, and a search began for the vandals. It wasn’t hard to find them once one boy was noticed with burned off leg hairs. Willcox is a small town.

Some 18 years later, the storyteller was very proud of his and his friends inspired idiocy that night, even if the field was burned so badly, they couldn’t play the game on that big burned W.

That night’s game began, and at some point early pretty early on a kid returning a punt got hurt, and we had to stop the clock while the player was attended to.

Whenever a kid would get hurt, which was often, it reminded me of another official named Chris, who would always play a joke on an unsuspecting rookie official in one of the rookie’s first games. Chris would sidle up to the rookie (as he did to me years before) and ask him "Why did you let that kid get hurt like that?"

Invariably, the rookie would begin to feel awful, and start apologizing, and the rest of us would have a laugh.

Once in a while an official would get hurt, which could be pretty funny too, as I found out when my chain crew forgot a cardinal rule, and did not drop the chains on a play right towards us one night. As I back-pedaled out of bounds watching the play come at me, I tripped over the chain and landed hard on my butt. I was fine if a little sore, and we started to get ready for the next play.

During the entire game, I had three very lovely young ladies following along the sidelines, watching the game. They were all very pretty, and about 15 or 16 years old.

As I looked out at the field readying for the next play, one of them said "Mister Referee, are you all right, did you hurt yourself?"

Without turning around I said, "I’m fine, thanks for asking."



It's good!

The young lady responded saying, "Well, if your butt hurts, let me know if you would like me to rub it for you?" 　

Back to the Willcox game, and when play was again ready to resume, Dean chopped down with his right hand while blowing his whistle, meaning the play clock should begin. In error, he also started winding his right arm to start the game clock. The prior play was an exchange of possession, and the game clock should not have begun until the next snap of the ball. Not a big deal, but an error.

Things moved along for a while before another stoppage of play, at which point Dean came over to me and said I’d made some sort of minor error in my mechanics – nothing to do with the actual game.

Dean was talking loudly and a mile a minute, and told me "That’s two picchers you owe me after the game!"

"Two pictures?" I asked.

"Yeah, yeah, two picchers…yeah, one for criticizing my story in the car, and the second for your mechanics on that play earlier…two picchers!"

Dean was about twice my size, and was all about having fun, but I had no idea what the hell he was talking about.

"Pictures of what, Dean?" I asked him.

"Huh…pictures, no, no…no no no not PICTURES…pitchers! PITCHERS of beer! That’s what you owe me for your two mistakes. After the game, tonight, after the game you owe me two pitchers of beer."

I laughed, and Dean laughed. The other two guys in our crew laughed along.

I said, "Hey Dean, since we’re talking about mistakes, I have one that you made tonight."

"Huh, no, no no whaddya mean…what mistake," and I told him his error in winding the clock after the injury.

He was silent, and thought about it, and realized that I was correct.

"Well, okay…I mean all right…but we don’t have off-setting pitchers!"



We need one more, please.

   There are dozens of other stories I have heard or had a part in, and even now, I can’t believe I really got paid for having all the fun I had while dressed in a pair of knickers, and a black and white striped shirt 'zebra shirt.' I used to tell people that officiating high school football games was the most fun I ever had as an adult male with my clothes on.

And if you’re wondering, my butt’s not sore any more either.

You say potato, I say...

My close and long time friend Carl originally sent me this story on August 16, 1998. It’s about a trip he and his father Leo took. I knew Carl’s dad (Leo) pretty well 40 years ago. He was a great guy. He passed away in 2008. A family member is putting together some video, photos, and stories about Leo, and Carl found this one to add. Then, he remembered how much we laughed, and sent it to me again. With some minor editing by both of us, here is Carl’s story:

Well, I did the camp thing yesterday. I drove my son and his buddy to Space Camp in Atwater, California, 260 miles north of Santa Clarita, just north of the raisin Capitol of the world and my birthplace, Fresno. I brought my Dad along for company on the ride back. During our drive he remembered eating the greatest potatoes in his life at a restaurant in Shafter. Apparently, he and my Mom discovered this treasure back in the late 1940’s when they were living in Fresno. Fifty-nine years later, Dad could still taste those potatoes.

Sure enough, right after Bakersfield, we drove past Shafter. We saw trucks stuffed to the top with Shafter potatoes. For the rest of the journey up to space camp, the boys and I heard every conceivable story about Shafter potatoes. It hadn’t been the first time I had heard those stories.

What an excellent gift idea!

After dropping the boys off at Space Camp in Atwater, near Merced, Dad started "hinting" about picking up some of those Shafter potatoes.

As we drove back home, Dad started getting more excited. He began rattling off all the potatoes he could buy for friends and family so they too, could experience the joy of a potato from Shafter. Hundreds of pounds of potatoes were accounted for in Dad’s thoughtful gifts as the miles decreased to Shafter.

When we finally got to the Shafter exit off the freeway, we were only ten miles away, and Dad insisted we find a place that sold potatoes. I was game. Stupid me.

We followed the trucks the into the town of Shafter. Tijuana has more Anglos. I was driving my wife’s Navigator and felt like Clint Eastwood getting ready for a showdown in one of his Spaghetti westerns.

We drove up and down the streets. There wasn’t a store sign in English. Siete-Once (7-11) was the closest. That wasn’t our only problem. There wasn’t a place to be found selling anything resembling a potato, but Dad was determined. He wanted to pull over a couple of truck drivers and see if he could negotiate for a couple hundred pounds of potatoes. Luckily I was driving.

After a great deal of searching, we finally found one store that sold produce. It was a little Mexican Mom and Pop grocery store. Everything in it was Mexican. Our Mexican grocery stores in Oxnard, Palmdale and Santa Clarita have a combination of Anglo and Mexican. Chef Boy-R-Dee is right next to the salsa. But here, there was nothing even close to Anglo.

It was already 6:00 P.M. on a Sunday, but the store was filled with old Spanish woman pushing old-fashioned hand carts.

We located the potatoes. They were from Oregon. Dad was beside himself.

Back in the car, we followed the trucks loaded with the potatoes out of town and back toward Highway 99. They approached some railroad tracks. There were about 100 train cars, just sitting there all stuffed to the top with Shafter potatoes, millions of them and more coming by the truck-load. Dad couldn’t contain himself. He was ready to jump out of the car and stuff his pockets with as many potatoes as he could snatch!

Luckily, I had been on enough missions in my younger years to know our little adventure would have a funnier ending (and probably happier) if we left without any potatoes and without any police citations. We headed down the highway with nothing but fond memories of potatoes from a different era.

When I returned home, my father-in-law was at our house visiting. He’s a produce expert, having worked in the industry his entire career. I relayed the story of our journey. He informed me all the California potatoes from the Shafter area are used for potato chips.

Smackin' Fresh! That says it all for me!

California imports most of the whole potatoes we actually eat. So the next time you nibble on a Laura Scudder’s, think of my dad.

Death Rays?

Is anyone crying for the Tampa Bay Rays?

The rumors of their death have been slightly exaggerated.  You don’t have to worry about them at all, as they are merely reloading for 2012 and beyond.

Desmond Jennings is the new Carl Crawford – 5 years younger and millions less expensive. He is s superb defensive outfielder and will be in the mix for leading the American League in stolen bases soon enough.

Dan Johnson is the new Carlos Pena, albeit with much better contact. Saying a hitter will have better contact than Carlos Pena is like saying it’s going to be cold in Vermont mid-January. Johnson’s defense wont be as good, but he’ll hit .240 and a few less homers than Pena, but not many.

I said "many," not Manny. I think Ramirez slots in to DH in the evening, and stay in his bat cave by day. Johnny Damon will get a lot of at bats, as the Rays aren’t going to pay him $5 MM plus to platoon, so he’ll DH and play a little outfield – more if Tampa trades BJ Upton.

Jason Bartlett moves to the left coast, but Reid Brignac stands by to take over at short. It may be his last shot, and if he stumbles, the former second round pick in the ’04 draft could be replaced by Ben Zobrist. I expect that anyway, as Brignac has shown little ability to hit lefties so far. That would open up more at bats for Manny and Johnny.

Matt Garza goes to the Cubs, which on the surface looks like a bad trade for Tampa, but how can that be so if they traded him to the Cubs? The Cubs never get any of these trades right, do they? Seriously, Garza has been on the cusp of super stardom, and I look for him to put up very nice numbers in the National League this year. Compared to the AL East, it’s going to have to feel like he’s pitching against AAA hitters.

The poor and bereft Rays rotation has David Price, James Shields, Wade Davis, Jeremy Hellickson, and Jeff Niemann! Arguably, a top 5 group in all of MLB, and there are stud arms waiting in the wings named Matt Moore, Jake McGee, Alex Torres, and Chris Archer, the lone righty of the group, who was one of 4 prospects acquired from the Cubs in the Garza deal.

The bullpen was definitely decimated, with 4 guys leaving through free agency. The Yanks gave Rafael Soriano, Tampa’s 2010 closer, an obscene amount of cash to back up Mariano Rivera – I’m now hearing more than $33 MM for 3-years…unbelievable, even for New York. Dan Wheeler is giving up Corona for Sam Adams and taking his thing to Boston. Billy Beane is playing a more expensive version of Moneyball these days, giving Grant Balfour some big bucks, and Joaquin Benoit, a non-roster invitee last season with the Rays, is going to Detroit for 3-years, and more than $16 MM.

All of those guys in the prior paragraph will have a shot to help out, and expect one or two to emerge. It’s also probable that Tampa will pick up a veteran arm or two to help out Kyle Farnsworth, who right now sits as the closer on their depth chart. That’s a bit scary.

For better or worse the Rays play in the AL East, and going into 2011 it’s not a good bet that they make the playoffs. If they were in any other division in baseball, I would seriously consider them as favorite, or co-favorite with the Phillies, to win. The Rays are still that good.

So, when the summer begins to roll in, and the Rays are languishing in third place 10 games behind Boston, and 5 behind NY, don’t shed any tears for Tampa Bay. In June of this year they’ll have 12 picks in the first two rounds of a ‘talent loaded’ amateur class of ball players, and all the money they’ll need to sign each one.

Flavor of the Weak

Aaron Rodgers is the greatest quarterback in history!

That’s what I have been hearing all week on TV and radio. Is there anything goofier about the NFL than how ‘experts’ change their opinions about players and teams after a game or two? How weak is that?

Last Saturday during the telecast of the Packer – Falcon game, Joe Buck and Troy Aikman anointed Rodgers as the one guy they would take with the first over all pick, if they were starting a NFL team at that moment.

Really???

It’s apparent that a huge segment of the media buys into things just as easily as the American public does. That said, I know that TV media influences people’s perceptions about football to the point where all of the Las Vegas lines on the Green Bay at Chicago game are floating around 3 to 4 points, with the Packers the favorite on the road in a conference championship game.

Vegas is also counting on the betting public to believe this game will be relatively high scoring, with the over/under number at 43.

Vegas knows that a majority of bettors will give the points and take Green Bay. Most doing that are also thinking the game will be high scoring – at least in the 50’s, for total points. The smart lads in Vegas are counting on a bulk of the money coming in on Green Bay until late, when the smart players will take the points and put up the big money.

The game will be played on Soldier Field in crappy, cold and windy weather – not inside a nice warm dome in Atlanta. Green Bay’s offensive line is average, and the Bears pass rush is very good.

I like Aaron Rodgers, and he may yet become an elite NFL QB, but right now he’s a good QB with a target on him from a Bear defense that’s spent all week hearing how fabulous he is. Maybe he throws darts in the wind tunnel, but his running will be negated on that awful playing field, and players will be slipping and sliding all over the place.

If the Bears win or tie the turnover battle, put up a few points on offense and play their usual excellent defense, their great special teams will carry the day.

I like Green Bay too, and of the 4 teams left they may just be the best, but they are on the road in a place where they had 18 penalties the last time they played there. Last week in Sports Illustrated there was a compelling article stating that officials are absolutely influenced by screaming crowds in the favor of the home team in any game. I believe it.

Give me the 4 points and I’ll take Bears, as I already like them to win straight up. I like the Under (43) in this game as well. I’ll be rooting for a slog through the muck at mid field.

As an added treat, I’ll take the Jets too, and the 3.5 points, though I like the Steelers to win the game by a point or 3. I’ll also take the Under, with the total at 38.

For the record, last week I had 3 right and 9 wrong, so you all know this is not coming from a meeting of the Algonquin Round Table of Football Expertise. I don’t think Dorothy Parker knew squat about football, but she knew a weak suck when she saw one.

Florida’s Curse on the Yankees

When Carl Pavano re-signed with the Twins a few days ago it pretty much took all top free agents off the board, so to speak. When I emailed my long-time friend Bill about this he came back with a classic rhetorical question in which he wondered if anyone had ever considered using Carl Pavano and the words "top free agent" in the same sentence…for a second time?

Any baseball fan worth snot knows that the Yankees had their fling with Pavano after he had a nice season for the Florida Marlins in 2004 in which he won 18 games. He was also a major part of the staff that beat the Yankees in the World Series in 2003. He got big dollars to sign with NY and almost immediately got hurt. He won 9 games for New York in three years, with each of those wins costing the Yankees about a million dollars in salary.

Of course, a much bigger part of why the Yanks lost the '03 Series to the Marlins was a kid named Josh Beckett.  I hear he's been spotted in New York over the years since, once while on his way to a World Series title.

Pavano also had some strange episode in which he "lost" his car down in Florida, where he was supposedly rehabbing. It was very vague, but the rumors are that the lad may have ingested a variety of adult beverages, and merely lost his way? I have written before that once New York lost out on the Cliff Lee sweepstakes, they should signed Pavano again, just for the laughs.

But no, it looks like the Yanks will go forward with A.J. Burnett as a key component to their rotation – like the #3 guy behind Sabathia and Hughes? Andy Pettitte has not given any sign of wanting to come back other than to say he wouldn’t be ready to start the season in April. That implies he’d consider a (say) late May/early June return? The other potential starting pitcher names being tossed around for consideration are Sergio Mitre and Ivan Nova.

Whoa! Our family had a 1963 Chevy Nova, which was a great car, but an Ivan Nova? Can I get some extras on that, like GPS and a DVD player?

Yankee fans must be counting their blessings that they have Sergio Mitre!  Before coming to New York in 2009, who did Mitre pitch for?

Uh, the Florida Marlins of course.  Why even ask?

So, going back to AJ Burnett, it’s my understanding that he went through some nasty times with his wife, and showed up at Yankee Stadium late last season with a black eye.

The story was under reported, and left to us surmise about what had really happened? Rumors were it was domestic situation in which perhaps his wife’s dancer pole had smashed Carl in the face, making him even more homely. Go figure that some dorky looking guy that’s making millions of dollars as a MLB pitcher would marry a beautiful stripper – and then have a problem?

That aside, baseball fans know that AJ was a Florida Marlin too, back in the day. He had some good years and signed a nice 3-year deal with Toronto, winning 18 in his final year. Maybe 18 wins is some magic number for New York? They sign AJ, and we all know the rest.

Lets move on to Javier Vazquez, who the Yanks let slink out of town after his second disastrous stint with the team. Remember NY getting him from the Expos after they’d lost the ’03 World Series to Florida? They had to do something, so they grabbed one of the best pitchers in the National League and paid him 9 MM, before sending him to Arizona for Randy Johnson, which worked out well, didn’t it?

(That reminds me…has any superstar in MLB been any uglier than the Big Unit? Seriously all you baseball historians, show me an uglier SOB than Randy -- really.)
So, continuing with Vazquez, who after one so-so year in AZ goes on to be a workhorse (if .500) pitcher for the White Sox for three seasons, then has this great season for the Braves in 2009. He re-establishes himself as a top pitcher in the National League (again), and the Yankees give him 11.5 MM, to (again) have another ugly season for them in 2010.

So where does Vazquez vamoose to?

Well, Florida, of course.  I will go on the record right now that if he’s healthy enough to make 30 starts (and he’s an innings-eater), Javier will have a very nice year for the Marlins. If he wins 18, please remember you read it here first.

So, is that it for the Florida curse?

Not quite, as we have Rafael Soriano, most recently the closer for Tampa Bay, a different team from Florida that has out performed New York in the last two seasons.

NY is giving Soriano 7.25 MM this year to caddy for Mariano Rivera. Soriano has been healthy 4 of the last 5 years, but he still has 2004-05 and 2008 on his resume. He pitched a total of 24.2 ugly innings in those three seasons.

Why do I have this sense that Soriano will under-perform in New York, or get hurt?

I am not wishing any player bad luck here, but being a confirmed Yankee hater, I feel I am obligated to make jokes and point out all the nasty and funny things about the club.

So, do you think Florida has a curse on the Yankees?

Me?  I am still hoping that someday the Yanks sign a guy that left Florida for Atlanta.

Dan Uglla.

Please…
　

NFL Awfulness

When was the last time we had a chance to see a worse football game than yesterday afternoon…I mean, aside from the game last night?

The Baltimore Ravens jump all over the Pittsburgh bumblers yesterday and at half time I said to (my wife) Susan, "You know, the Ravens seem to have a habit of taking leads in games and then slowly giving them up in the second half."

I think it was one of the few things I had right on Saturday. Another one was that I knew on that third and ten in the fourth quarter that Ben Roethlisberger was going to hit Hines Ward on a slant for a first down. That’s about all I had right.  I have to ask (how in the name of Ed Reed) does Antonio Brown beat the nickel back on that fly pattern down the sideline for 58 yards? Isn’t Baltimore supposed to be a fantastic defensive football team? Isn’t the basic rule that no one beats you deep at that point in the game? Did you really need to drop 9 guys into coverage -- 8 was not enough to stop a third and 19 huh?

Have you looked at the numbers from this game? The two teams combined for 389 yards in offense. 389 yards combined…yeah, and Aaron Rodgers had 379 yards all by himself versus that JV team from Atlanta in the late game.

Five turnovers by teams that got into the positions they were in by not turning it over. For good measure, they combined for 167 yards in penalties too.

Was the game entertaining, well yes, but don’t tell me it wasn’t awful football.

I couldn’t even bother watching the second game after Tramon Williams intercepted a horrible pass from Matt Ryan and raced 70 yards for a TD to end the first half. I mean were the Falcons really the top seed in the NFC? Four turnovers made them look like some scrub team from the NFC West, and all the props Matt Ryan has been getting for being so cool and mature, well maybe he’s not that good…yet. He was sure awful yesterday.

Good for Rodgers though, for a second enormous playoff win on the road as an underdog, and the fabulous game he had. It really did look like a video game when he had the ball in his hands, didn’t it? Brett Who?

Today we get to see the Bears chew up the Seahawks – well, we better see that, as I pretty much struck out looking with my picks yesterday. The only "bet" I had right yesterday was the Packers covering the 2.5 points spread. I took the under in that game, and you know it’s a really bad pick when one team goes over the number (45) by themselves.

I felt the best bet of the weekend was the under (37 points) in the Ravens/Steelers game, and of course that went away quickly, even if both offenses really sucked. One bomb to Brown accounted for about 15% of the total offensive yards gained in that game.

For the record, I really like Chicago to win the early game today, but I wouldn’t be able to resist taking 10 points and Seattle, and betting on the spread too. I’m taking the under for the third time, which I pegged at 40.5. I am hoping for a slog match at midfield for about 55 minutes, and a 19-12 Bear’s win. (Yes, I am predicting 8 field goals by the two teams, and a Devin Hester punt return for the one TD)

In the other game, what percentage of viewers aside from myopic and diehard Jet fans think New York is going to beat New England? I sure don’t think New York will win, and I am a Jet fan, though I would take the Jets and 8.5 points and a puncher’s chance against the line, but I’d back it with a straight bet on the Pats, even if I had to lay the bookies 4-1 odds.

I have the under (44.5) in this one too. Of course I do! Last week I won 3 of those, and if I’d only bet it the fourth time in the Packers and Eagles game, I would have swept the totals.

Last week I won 10 out of 12, but only "won" $180, because just like the rest of the sane people in this world I figured New Orleans to be a lock to win in Seattle. Yeah, sure they were, and that bet cost a lot of big rollers big time at 6-1. I am 1-5 right now and "down" $470 this week, so far.

What if I could offer you all one more bet to get even, or a chance to add to your winnings?

How about five rounds of boxing between

"Belligerent" Bill Belichick and Rex "R-rated" Ryan?

Seriously, and I mean real pugilism, with 16-ounce gloves, ‘cause we really don’t want to see either of those wonderful men bloodied -- just bruised and sucking wind. Let someone like Mike Ditka ref the thing, and of course Wes "Twinkle Toes" Welker can add commentary.

There’s Bill, jabbing and pecking away like some annoying gnat, then flitting off, while flicking his nose with the thumb of his left glove like Alfalfa in an old Our Gang comedy.

Then there’s Rex, soaking wet from sweat and his pants falling down taking wild swings at Bill, I can see Ryan huffing and puffing around the ring chasing Belichick.

Kind of like one of those old-fashioned black & white films from the early 1920’s, where everything is all speeded up? You know, the movies before sound, where they’d have someone playing that jittery piano to the action on the screen?

Doodly do,

doodly do,

doodly doodly doodly,

doodly do…

And, as an added attraction, on piano, Harry Truman!

　

Tucson, Arizona

I lived in Tucson for over 26 years, and in many ways, it is 'home' to me, as much as anywhere else I have lived.  My son, daughter-in-law, and her parents reside there.  My son's father-in-law was called to a local hospital to serve as a grief counsellor in the aftermath of the horrific shooting on Saturday.  I have as many friends and family in Tucson, as I do anywhere.

I have felt awful since hearing the news of what happened on Saturday.  In part, I think a large part of me felt this so terribly because it was "my" home, where it happened, and I have no small amount of guilt about being selfish?  I mean, horrible things happen every single day all over the world, don't they?  Do I only feel this badly because of my direct connection to Tucson?

I don't know the answer to that.  Maybe I will know, in time?

Lisa, the author of what follows below is both a friend, and a part of my family.

Gordon and I were having a good weekend. Friday night we went to dinner with our friends Fred and Elyn to celebrate Elyn's birthday. Saturday morning we headed up to Mt. Lemmon with the dogs to enjoy the snow and outdoors. That is where we learned from a former patient of Gordon's about the shooting in Tucson.

We immediately called Fred who worked on Gabrielle's campaign and knew her personally. He was very upset. I had spoken to her at a U of Arizona football game tailgate party in October and told her I was alarmed, and disgusted by the hostility in politics in this state. She agreed that this was a very bad election year. I told her that Tucson would come through for her in the election.

Funny how you can pray for peace, but it doesn't necessarily come to us straightforward?

Last Monday night I had taken part in a meditation for peace and global healing. The event, not affiliated with any religious organization, occurs monthly at a local hotel. It was so well attended that the parking lot was full, and I had to park at a nearby business and walk there. There were people from all over southern Arizona, and many transplants from other states. One thing mentioned, pray for peace and healing, but also, act for it, too.

Expanding outward to the other victims of the shooting, our neighbor, a judge, and our friend Linda, an attorney, knew Judge Roll. Gordon knew and had worked with the MD who helped subdue the shooter and performed CPR. Gordon knew at least 2 other victims, who lived, both very good people dedicated to helping the community.

Someone put up a Gifford campaign sign on the road by our house, people started hanging beads on the sign and placing candles near it. As therapy, last night, I made a white cardboard peace sign and took some beads, found a cholla cactus branch and placed it near the sign. While I was doing this, a kid, about age 14, road up on his bike and we were talking about the events of the day, speculating that perhaps the shooter was mentally ill and had acted alone. He said his tutor's mother had been present and was shot in the arm. He thanked me for putting up the peace sign and talking to him.

We had a small gathering of friends at our house Saturday night to debrief, but it still all seems surreal.

Personally, I was very proud of Sheriff Dupnik for saying the exact truth about the hostility perpetuated in the media.

There's plenty more to say about how messed up this state is -- strangely, it is also the exact opposite too. There are large factions of enlightened people, and many wonderful people who have dedicated their lives to helping others, and creating stability in our society. I was always proud that Tucson is more liberal and tolerant.

- Lisa

Robbie Alomar & Bert Blyleven Elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame



I know this is relatively old news already, but I do have a few comments on these two players being elected to the Baseball Hall of Fame (HOF).

The first is that Alomar absolutely deserves to be in.

An Oriole, or a hawk?

I’m positive he was not elected his first time on the ballot (last year) because of the incident when he spit on umpire John Hirschbeck, in September of 1996. (The fact that Met fans despise him was probably not a factor.)

The second is that Blyleven does not deserve to be in.



I’m positive he was elected in year 14 of his eligibility because he pitched for 22 years, won 287 games, struck out a ton of (3701) guys, and was and has always been a very friendly and fun loving guy. For quite some time know, HOF voters have been lowering the earlier standards for election, from the truly great, to the very good, and Blyleven is absolutely a guy that would never have been close to being elected before (say) 1970.

Alomar ranks as one of the best second baseman of all time, almost assuredly in the top 10 at the position. He was a 12-time All Star, an excellent fielder, a huge base stealer early on, hit with good power, and batted an even .300 in his career. He also apologized to Hirschbeck publicly, and privately – the two became good friends after the incident.

Also (and I am not making this up), in 2001, while with Cleveland, he won the Indians GORDON COBBLEDICK GOLDEN TOMAHAWK AWARD! Interested readers can Google this or take my word that Cobbledick was a long time baseball writer and editor for the Cleveland Plain Dealer. In large part, Alomar received this award for all the charity work he did – work he continues to do today. As an aside, do your think Gordon was ever kidded about his last name? Kind of sounds like S&M porn to me, but perhaps that’s just the way my warped mind works?

Great curve!

Anyway, Blyleven makes no one’s all time team – serious fans of the game could assemble dozens of pitching staffs from baseball history, and never consider Bert Blyleven. He was very good any number of years in his long career, but never really great. He only made 2 All Star teams in his 22 years, which even I found remarkable. Ordinarily, I am not a huge believer in All Star appearances counting for much as a measure of how good a player is or was because fans vote for the starters, but they don’t vote for pitchers. The manager of the team selects those, and Bert only got recognized twice. I give Bert props though on one thing – he had a wicked-ass curve ball, one of the best 12 to 6 yakkers I have ever seen, and I saw Sandy Koufax pitch, and Doc Gooden’s 1985 season.

I have to add a couple of other things about Blyleven. The first is that even though I haven’t been able to tolerate ESPN’s Chris Berman for close to 20 years now, back when he (and ESPN) were starting out, his nickname for Rik Aalbert Blyleven was the classic Bert "Be Home" Blyleven.

It’s still funny to us older fans, especially if we recall the Richard Pryor comedy album with the "father" telling his son to "Be home by ‘leven a clock…hear me? You doooo know how to tell time, don’t you nigger?" 

The other unique thing about Bert was he was born in the Netherlands, and the only other big time athlete I can think of that was born in Holland is Rik Smits. Makes me wonder if only dudes from Holland named Rik can become pro sport stars?

If nothing else, it’s a given that Blyleven’s HOF induction speech will be a good one!

Farve's New Wrangler Ad

Not only the new ad, but he's throwing lefty now too!  NOTHING stops this American Hero!

http://www.nbc.com/saturday-night-live/video/brett_favre_wrangler_commercial/1255771




Brett and John, in an earlier, happier time...




Love and many thanks to my wonderful daughter-in-law for passing this bit of Madison Avenue commercial art along.

Rich Rod out at Michigan?

Coach O(fer)SU - in Hawaii

He finally makes a bowl game, and this is the thanks he gets? I know his team got blown off the field, but look at The Ohio State University -- they have become a Division II team to the SEC, and no one in Columbus is screaming about Jim Tressel.  Well, at least not until later tonight?

Michigan took three years to come up with an excellent offense because that’s how long it took Rodriguez to recruit the players to run it. Now, if it’s true, they scrap that for the next guy. Even if the next coach really is Jim Harbaugh, well, it’ll be another 5 years of sub .500 teams and getting punked by the Buckeyes, the Spartans, and in any bowl games the Wolverines are lucky enough to make.

Good luck with your Michigan guy, Michigan.

Favre and Jets Sued Again

I have two questions right away, the first being that in the one season that Brett Favre spent with the Jets, how many massage therapists did they employ? (I want to know when this entire story will finally be done?  I mean, doesn't Brett need to channel his inner Tiger Wooods here, or what?)  The second question is, did Brett just text, or did he send along snapshots too?


Nothing to say here


I ask that one because I was speaking with a male friend and co-worker today about the allegations that Favre sent pictures of little brett to Jen Sterger. My friend said it was his understanding that "Women are not excited by seeing those kinds of pictures, and that only an idiot would do something like that."  I am going to ask him to conduct a poll for the blog.  (If I do ask him, please send "Speedy Recovery Cards" and flowers to the Fletcher Allen Hospital in Burlington, Vermont.)

Last question is aren’t all of us hoping that Brett really does go back to Mississippi, and stays there for a good, long while?

Texas Rangers Signing Adrian Beltre?
Being the last good-sized fish in a shallow, and mostly (big) fished out market counts for a lot – like $96 MM over 6 years, apparently.

Many baseball fans can recall the fabulous year Beltre had with the Dodgers in 2004.  It got him a huge contract from Seattle. He never came close to that 48 homer, 121 RBI, and .334 average '04 season with the Mariners, but the 25/90/.270 version wasn’t awful. When Boston signed him, it was a good signing. I have to think Beltre has managed to parlay another above average year into another way above average contract. I like Texas, so I hope it works out, but I suspect they’ll get the ’05 through ’09 Beltre. And you know, that may be enough?

NFL Bloody Monday


Another one lost, Norv?

 I know that some NFL Head Coaches kept their jobs because of the pending new agreement between the owners and players, but how does Norv Turner keep his job? Is it all because he’s (GM) A. J. Smith’s boy? Sounds like an ownership problem, doesn’t it?



NY Mets Sign Buchholz
I wonder if any aged Red Sox fans saw that headline and went into cardiac arrest before finding out it was Taylor Buchholz, not Clay Buchholz? Of course those that didn’t ‘have the big’ one with that news may have felt some heart palpitations when they found out about the Chris Capuano signing?

Love stinks

In all fairness, I think both are good signings. Experienced bullpen help (Taylor) is a good thing for 600K, and there were signs late last season that maybe Capuano was finally healthy again? He was a good pitcher in ’05 and ’06, and for the $1.5 MM guaranteed that NY is giving him, it’s worth the shot. After all, do Met Fans really want to see Sandy Alderson give Carl Pavano 3-years and $36 MM, or whatever it is he wants?

2011 PGA Season Begins Thursday

I love golf, but until we get to Augusta in mid-April…sssnnnzzz...

It is beautiful, isn't it?  Amen.

　
　
　

Rick Ankiel pitches to Eddie Gaedel...

Most of this story was written in on Christmas Eve of 2007, when I had been trading emails with my friend David.  We'd been writing about MLB pitchers who had just lost it – lost almost every shred of their ability to throw strikes after having at least some degree of success in their careers. David brought up Steve Stone.  I think he was confusing him with another pitcher. Stone had won the 1980 Cy Young Award for the Baltimore Orioles, and the following year went right down the tubes, but it was all injury related, and after 1981, he was done as a player at the age of 31. Not guys like that.

The most famous guy I could recall who suddenly couldn't find the plate was Steve Blass (photo - right), from the Pittsburgh Pirates, who had been a pitching hero in the 1971 World Series. He followed it up with a superb season in 1972, but in 1973 he couldn't find the plate at all. He pitched one game in 1974 (5-innings, 2-K's, 5-hits, 7 walks, 9.00 ERA) and was done. It was like he couldn’t hit the ocean from the beach. One of the many great Roger Angell pieces on baseball (in one of his many outstanding anthologies) is titled "Gone for Good." It chronicles how things went from so great to so horrible for Blass, seemingly without any rational explanation.

Other pitchers have experienced this -- certainly the St. Louis Cardinals (now Washington National outfielder) Rick Ankiel (photo - right) is the most recent and well-known case. A young pitcher who had been quite successful who then implodes in a playoff game, firing one incredibly wild pitch after another on national TV. There was also Mark Wohlers, who had been a pretty good relief pitcher for the ATL when he just lost it. Blass may have been the best in history to have suddenly and inexplicably experienced a complete loss of a skill he’d possessed and honed for years and years

Any situation like this reminds me of a very funny story from my own  experience playing baseball, a million years ago in my hometown of Hastings-on-Hudson, New York.  I was set to play in a Babe Ruth League game when I was about 14, but our team didn't have enough players to field a line up for the game, so we forfeited. We then decided to play a “practice” or scrimmage game.



Charlie, Sr. -- top left

 Our opponents were the Graham School (also located in Hastings), which had become a sort of huge foster home for poor (99% black) kids back then. It was always interesting to play at their field, because decades earlier my dad had played on the same field, and when he played there, it was a home game. He and his older brother lived at the Graham School while my grandmother worked there. This all happened after my grandfather was killed in a railroad accident when my dad was 5 years old in 1918. (It was no doubt 99% lily-white back then) My dad went on to become a pretty good high school and semi-pro pitcher in the 1930’s. He also had one helluva knuckleball. It was an amazing pitch, usually very hard to control, but not for him when he threw it to me when we played catch.

Anyway, the game was a scrimmage and didn't count at all, so for “fun,” I asked my coach if I could move in to pitch, from shortstop, and he said go for it. I had pitched in Little League, and actually was the winning pitcher in my final season's championship game. I think I only pitched about 8 innings all season, but only gave up two hits (and I can recall both of them, precisely as they happened), and zero walks, while striking out quite a few. Just like my dad, I had impeccable control of all my pitches, and never walked anyone.

Don't look back, something might be gaining

Being 12-years old and facing more than a few 9 and 10 year olds gave me an enormous psychological advantage when pitching to little kids. I had a devastating change-up, which was generally my adaptation of Satchel Paige's famous 'hesitation pitch.' The way I threw it would always be a balk if runners were on base, so I couldn't use it then. I would actually come out of my wind up, make a big stride with my left foot and then stop! Then, after what must have felt like a lifetime to the batter but what was only a moment later, I’d finish by throwing the ball. I think I made some younger and smaller kids cry with frustration because they looked so stupid?  They were basically swinging at a ball that hadn't even left my hand, and I drove one coach crazy with this, all the change ups.  He searched the rulebook for something that would point to it being illegal. When he couldn't find anything, he would yell at his players to "just wait on the pitch," but I guess that was easier said than done when you’re only 9 years old, with tears in your eyes, and your deep sobbing gulps of air are drowning out your coach’s plea?

I also used to throw a Ted Abernathy (or Chad Bradford, for you tykes) submarine-ball, getting so low on my follow-through that I'd come close to scraping the ground with my knuckles on delivering the pitch. I would also go straight side arm to right-handed batters, but always from as far to the right side of the rubber as possible -- then stretching it out to the right even more. The effect must have seemed like the ball was coming straight down the third base line at a right-handed batter’s left ear.

Can you imagine some 9 or 10-year old kid at bat with this stuff being fired at him?

I'd waste a conventional type of pitch for a ball -- like a fastball to the backstop ala Ryne Duren, the apparently blind (and often blind-drunk) flame-thrower for the Yankees back in the late 1950’s and early 1960’s. Duren (whose career ended early in part due to his raging alcoholism) would purposefully fire a warm up pitch or two into the screen behind home plate, just to shake up batters on the opposing team.

Then, I’d fire a submarine pitch on the up and inside corner for a strike – the kid bailing out all the way.

I'd follow that with a "hesitation pitch" floated down the middle for strike two. By now, some of the younger kids would be stifling a sniffling tear or two.

"The Whip"

Lastly, a screaming freight train of a Ewell "The Whip" Blackwell (a lightning- fast pitcher for Cincinnati from the 1940’s) side-arm fastball coming down the third baseline for a strike on the inside corner for strike three, and the kid would get razzed back to the bench.

The thing was that my stuff wasn't nearly effective enough to get anyone good out consistently, as in time, any good hitter would adjust, but as little as I was used (and I didn't want to pitch anyway) I was very effective, and had pin-point control.

I used to pitch endless batting practice for my teams, because I had the ability to throw the ball over the plate, pitch after pitch after pitch -- it was almost machine like. This seemingly rare ability carried over for me to Babe Ruth ball and the regulation playing field.

Okay, back to that day at the Graham School.

As we’d decided to play a game anyway, we used the two 15-year old guys who'd shown up to umpire the game as players for our team. The Graham School had somewhere between 25 and 250 kids ready to play, and it seemed like they had thousands more in the stands.

I started at short as I always did, batting clean up, which in retrospect is really scary. I was never a good hitter, and as small as I was I had zip for power too. How we ended up being a better than .500 team is beyond me, though we did have one good pitcher named Bobby Reilly, and our defense was great.

Where long flies went to die.

Graham School had this big kid named Alan Fisher, a lefty all the way. I had played against him in Little League. He was big and strong and had some talent. One game against his team in Little League I was facing Jake Reilly, Bobby's older brother, who was the best pitcher in the league. In one game, I managed to hit a long foul pop down the right field line that Fisher (playing first base) snagged ala Willie Mays off of Vic Wertz in October of 1954 – a fabulous, over-the-shoulder basket catch. While Fisher celebrated like he'd just won a lottery, my teammate on first base tagged and went to third, and later scored the only run of the game. I remember ragging on Alan a bit that evening, as his bit of over exuberant bone-headedness might have cost his team the game? I also didn't like being shown up like that.

Well, after getting the okay from my coach that I would pitch the next inning, I really pushed the envelope by asking him if I could hit lefty in my next at bat, prior to taking the mound. Even though I always hit righty, I had dreams of batting from both sides of the plate, and my coach said sure, though he thought I was stupid for doing so.

Why?

Alan Fisher was pitching, and he threw really hard, was he was very wild, and was left-handed, as pointed out. A switch-hitter would bat righty against Fisher, plus, batting lefty, his fastball would seem like a 100-MPH freight train coming down the first base line at my right ear, just like a left-handed Ewell Blackwell. It’s also important to point out that Alan Fisher also clearly remembered me from a couple of years ago.

Yeah, stupid.

It was nasty for me, but at least my fiasco was only 3 pitches long. I think Alan may have been salivating, and I don't blame him, as in retrospect what I was doing was trying to show him up. In this ever more PC world is it all right to say that I looked like a little girl up there, chasing pretty butterflies with my 30-ounce wooden club?

But, my horror show wasn't complete.

To the mound!

The first two batters I faced were regular starting players, and they both went down on called third strikes, never lifting their bats from their shoulders.

Veeck, as in "wreck."

 At that point the Graham School's coach started to run up a series of pinch hitters, and as this was a meaningless game, he found kids that all looked to be about 3-feet tall. He sent them up to bat in exaggerated crouches that made me think of Bill Veeck (photo-left), the St. Louis Browns owner and General Manager, and his use of Eddie Gaedel as a pinch hitter in a game back in 1951. Hey, Eddie was a midget, but at least he was 3' 7" tall. The opposing pitcher for Detroit, Bob Cain, was laughing so hard he couldn’t do anything except walk Gaedel on 4 pitches. Right after Veeck pulled that fabulous strategic and promotional stunt, the commissioner banned Gaedel from ever appearing in another major league game under the "making a travesty of the game" rule. Eddie became a bitter guy after that, which is another story, but regardless, from a strategic and a promotional perspective, Veeck's move was pure genius.

So, I strike out the first two batters, but now I have a kid so small and crouched down that his strike zone appears to be about the size of an inch-wide band running horizontally across the plate. I may have managed to get one called strike before walking the kid, but I had also noticed at this point that none of the first 3 batters had swung the bat yet.

Eddie, draws the walk.

Now, from the stretch, I walk the next kid on 4 wildly-meandering pitches. Each pitch seemed to be wandering farther and farther from the plate, and as they did, the huge crowd of little black kids screamed, danced, and chanted in pure delight!

It was actually getting hard to see if a strike zone even existed with some of these kids. I mean, their shoulders appeared to be touching their knees for cryin’ out loud! I felt like a slice of white bread getting lowered into a toaster, right after all the bread crumbs had been cleaned out of it, and the dial set all the way to the right. It wasn’t warm yet, but it would be soon crispy.

I walked the next kid on 4 straight pitches and my friend Charlie Papelian wandered in from short to ask me "what the hell’s goin’ on Halstead?" I could barely hear him standing right next to me, my ears ringing with catcalls and yelps from the stands. Plus, my neck was getting a little warm and sweaty for some reason, and the sweat was trickling down my back and making it itch.



Bob Cain walked Eddie.



“Come on, come on, come on, wild thing!”

As the bases are now loaded, my coach yells from the sidelines to "just throw it over the plate and make them swing!"

I think I looked at him like he was the world's biggest imbecile. I mean, what the hell did he think I was doing out there? I must have looked a bit shell-shocked, having a goofy grin on my face, because he came out to the mound to tell me I could go back to the full wind up, though why he thought that would work I couldn’t begin to say? It’s probably good he didn’t give me the old baseball slap on the butt, or I might have had an accident, and perhaps discovered another use for the resin bag?

A part of me felt as though I was making a major mockery of the game – hell, it may have been a Colonel Mockery, it was so bad. I don’t know if our league had a Commissioner, but if we did have one, we really could have used him at that point.

Okay, next batter – a full bore screeching cacophony of jeers and a full bore wind up.

Manute was 7'7" tall

4 straight balls...none of them seriously near what Manute Bol's’s strike zone would be, let alone some minuscule squatting ball of a jeering-kid that looked like he was defecating in the batter's box.

I have now walked in a run, after four consecutive bases on balls.

Now, walking purposefully to the plate is (drum roll) Alan Fisher.

We are now at a key point in this story. It’s like DEFCON 5, and General Mockery has taken command.

It sounds as if there are 50,000 little kids in the crowd, all of them still screaming at me, still laughing at me, and still hooting at me each time another fastball would sail high and away, or over the batter's head.

I wish I could tell you that something really dramatic happened, like I struck Alan Fisher out on 3 pitches, or he hit a grand slam, but this isn't some bastardization of "The Natural," and I am not going to offer up exploding light towers. No, this was just my descent into an area of baseball hell in which the brain can completely screw up physical performance, ala Steve Blass, Mark Wohlers, Rick Ankiel, and any number of others.

Alan took one mighty swing at a pitch no where near the plate, and then after a verbal lambasting from his coach, took 4 straight wild ones for the walk and the RBI.

I yelled over the cosmic and comic din to my coach to bring in a reliever. I was forever done as a pitcher. My ERA for the game was a nifty 67.50. If you don’t know what ERA means, suffice my telling you that if I pitched a complete game with that ERA, my team would need to score at least 69 runs to win the game, but only if they made certain that I didn’t throw another pitch.

In (much) later years I did get back on the mound, but only to throw batting practice to the Little League teams I coached. The pin-point and machine-like accuracy returned, and periodically I would dust off the old hesitation pitch, just to see the look on a kid's face, or drop down to side-arm or under-handed, to show 'em all that the magic was still there.

I have to say that even at the time the whole episode happened that day at the Graham School, it was hilarious, and I do vividly recall laughing as it all happened. If it hadn’t been fun, I wouldn’t have been doing it, and after all, it was only practice.

Perhaps in another life we may all get to witness "Rick Ankiel pitches to Eddie Gaedel," and there could be more hooting, laughing, and razzing. Then, Manager Charlie would send up 8 more hitters, and all of them would be tiny crouching kids from the Graham School, and my team would go up 900-0 in the 1st inning.

Then, I’d be tempted to pitch again, but the Commissioner would surely show up and not let me make a mockery of the game. Not even my own private mockery.

Commissioners have no sense of humor.

Happy New Year.