The Awfulness of Suzyn Waldman

I haven’t heard all the great baseball radio and TV announcers, but I’ve heard many of them in over 50 years of tuning in.

Feel the weakness of his suckness

This Blog was started (in part) when I heard the fantastic news that Joe Morgan was fired, and not returning to ESPN for the 2011 season. 


I was also hoping that Rick Sutcliffe would similarly feel the ax – which hasn’t happened, but ESPN has mercifully cut his national exposure, and to Sutcliffe’s credit, he isn’t as much of the droning sycophant as he used to be.

I know, and you don't

Morgan was an imperious and smarmy boob. He was always right about everything, and if you didn’t believe him he’d tell you that he’d played the game, so therefore his opinion trumped all others. Facts didn’t matter to Joe (he never read "Moneyball," but knew it was all wrong, and persisted in stating Billy Beane wrote the book), but what did matter was telling you 4 or 5 times why he was correct in his opinions or observations.

There was a hilarious Blog called "Fire Joe Morgan" that stopped posting back in 2008, though you can still check out most of those classic posts here - http://www.firejoemorgan.com/

I can recall listening to Red Barber and Mel Allen as a kid, and there has never been a time in my life when Vin Scully wasn’t doing Dodger games. Scully is far and away the best I have ever heard on the radio, doing a local (Dodger) game.

Something happens to guys when they get to the National stage. I think they are told to dumb-it-down, as the school of thought is the national broadcast is for the casual fan, and the local ones for the hardcore.

Tim McCarver was one of the best "color" guys I’d ever heard when he was doing Met broadcast on TV in the 1980’s, but has since become painful to listen to – too many of the same old puns, and out of date sub-references. It reminds me of the TV shows M*A*S*H and Seinfeld, which were both as good as any sitcoms ever aired during their first 3 or 4 years, then slowly but steadily slid into mediocrity until they became unwatchable.

I despised Harry Caray too. Back in the early days of cable, I had baseball games on five cable channels, and we got all the Cubs games on WGN. Harry was an obnoxious drunk, an excruciating homer, and a tireless self-promoter. He honestly believed people came to the park, or tuned into games on TV because of him. Having been a Met fan back in the early ‘80’s, I had occasion to tune into WGN, when the Mets (WOR) were not airing games. I hated the Cubs in 1984 because they were the Mets big rival, but it was Harry that made me hate the Cubs to this day.

It was bad, even before he was drunk.

Two of Harry’s most annoying bits were pronouncing names backward – "So, the Mets first baseman’s name backwards would be Htiek Zednanreh," and singing a song about (Cubs catcher) Jody Davis, basically to the tune of "Davy, Davy Crockett…" He also always sounded like he was drooling.

Cute or even funny once or five times, but by the time you’ve heard either 30 times, you’re done, right?

The only line I can recall never growing tired of hearing, was Kenny Mayne on ESPN, referring to some crappy looking swing by a MLB hitter striking out as "he was choppin’ broccoli." I just laughed when I typed that.

The best color guy I have heard over the last few years is Jerry Remy, who does Red Sox games on NESN. Remy is invariably funny, insightful, and self-deprecating. Please don’t go national, Rem-dog.

Mr. & Mrs. Awful

So, why is Suzyn Waldman so awful? For me, it started well before her famous and wild scat the day Roger Clemens was announced as returning to the Yankees, but for many baseball fans, it was merely a glimpse.  If you haven't heard it, trust me, it's worth listening too just to appreciate how bad it can get sometimes, following a sport I love. You can find it all here at:  http://thesportshernia.typepad.com/blog/2007/05/suzyn_waldman_h.html

The only thing that saves her at all is her partner on the broadcasts, John Sterling, who would be annoying all the time, instead of just 75% of the time, when he has to cut Suzyn off. Sterling’s annoying habits include a song to Yankee center fielder Curtis Granderson, sung to the tune of the old Sammy Davis, Jr. hit "The Candy Man," with the lyric changing to "the Grandy Man." We also have had "An Aaaaaaaa bomb, from Aaaaaaaa Rod," and his style in calling a game when he elongates a word and gives us "thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa..pitch."

Among the many problems I have with Suzyn is her casual manner and cozy nicknames in describing Yankee players. It’s like she washes their socks and poo poo undies, packs them a healthy sack lunch, and hears their confessions before they go off to the park. Problem is, she really doesn’t know anything about baseball.

A couple of weeks ago, I was listening to a Yankee game in which (center fielder) Curtis Granderson lost a pop fly to shallow left-center in the sun, and (left fielder) Brett Gardner had to make the catch.

My God, you’d think Gardner had just won the pennant to hear Suzyn describe it:

Did you see it, John?

To Sterling: "Did you see that John, the way Brett catches the ball at an angle? Did you see it? I was watching him in practice the other day, and every ball he was catching at an angle – he practices that…did you see it?"

Seriously, this is what Suzyn ranted about, even after coming back out of a commercial break. "You see John, Brett catches everything at an angle…he practices that…"

He ran the bases backwards

I have no idea what she’s talking about, unless Gardner is running a zigzag or button-hook pattern to every fly ball, in which case he may be the second coming of Jimmy Piersall, with the Mets,  running out his 100th lifetime homer?

I wonder what Joe Morgan would have to say about this? I am thinking if the movie "Moneyball" is successful, we could have:

An awful movie.

Brett Gardner

starring in...

"Fear Strikes Out, at an Angle"

The incredible and hard to believe true story of a baseball player that was incapable of waiting for the fly ball or line drive to come directly to him each time, and the woman who dedicated her life to chewing the stains out of his underwear!

Joe will set everyone straight, over and over again.

Good night Irene.

A Padre baseball game, and a Rob Roy

This was originally an email to my lovely daughter-in-law, Shannon, after my son (and her husband) Matt had told her about the first major league baseball game that he’d ever been to. It was during one of many summer trips we took to San Diego – myself, Matt, and Ruth, my ex-wife, and Matt’s mom.

My sense is that Matt told you about taking the drive from our hotel on Mission Beach to the game, one that I had gotten tickets for way in advance and mailed to me in Tucson. My dream was to see the Mets play, but they weren’t in town during the time we were going to be in San Diego, so I got tickets to a Padre and Phillie game, I think? The Phils were pretty good at the time – this was probably about 1992 or 1993, as I can’t imagine that Matt was more than 8 or 9.

We would rent a car for these trips from Tucson (AZ) to San Diego because I wanted to make certain I had a car that would get us through the desert and over the mountains without crapping out. I probably rented a Mercury Sable, Ford Taurus, or a Chrysler Intrepid, something full-size, white, and (you know) really generic.

The Walrus

The car is critical to the story, after what happened, which was that we had barely gotten into our seats, and I had gone down to a food concession to grab some drinks and snacks. As I approached the snack bar I saw the PGA golfer Craig "The Walrus" Stadler walking away with this jumbo draft beer. I thought about asking The Walrus what time he had, in the hope he’d turn the wrist of his hand holding the brew and spill it all over himself in order to look at his watch, but I was trying to act my age, so I didn’t. Instead I just returned to find Matt was being really crabby and pouty about everything. He wasn’t sick, at least he wasn’t saying he was sick, he was just not happy for some reason, so he was being a little bit of a brat.

My feeling was ‘he’ll get over it,’ and I settled in to watch the game, but Ruth started saying that maybe we should go because Matt was sick? By this time though, Matt wasn’t saying that, nor did we have any tangible evidence that he was really sick. I resisted in no small part because I had spent a fair amount of money for the tickets, we’d driven (no short distance) out to Jack Murphy Stadium from Mission Beach, and I had just purchased food. I also hadn’t been to a Major League baseball game in a long, long time.

Well, but, "uh uh" and "no."

But Matt had stoked the mommy fire in Ruth more and more, and she back-fed the same fire by being completely sympathetic and basically creating a scenario in which I was beginning to look like some bad-ass child abuser to the patrons sitting nearby.

I was pissed, but knowing I could win the battle (staying for the game) but couldn’t do anything other than get hammered in the war I ceded and said "Screw it, let’s go!"

At this point Matt knew that I was very angry. He also knew that he was the first and primary cause of my anger, but not (yet) intuitive enough to know that it was really mommy that created the battle. Ruth had subverted the one big thing I wanted to do while we were in San Diego ‘cause little Matty felt a little icky.

I know it's white, and...somewhere...

So, I start storming out of the ballpark into the vast parking lot, and suddenly realized that I had no damn clue on where the hell the stinkin’ car was parked. You know how all huge parking lots always have those signs that have "N3" or "V9" or some such code that allows people with functioning brains to actually find their vehicles? Sure, as long as they remember to take note of which one their car is near after they park it. (This is well before the "Seinfeld" episode about trying to find a car in a mall parking lot, but I don’t think he stole the idea from me.)

Now, of course you’ll recall that we have the rental car – a very generic rental car. If we’d rented a Sable or Taurus or something like that (which I am certain we did), there were probably only 63 to 180 or so of those within a infield fly of where we were walking at any given time during our lengthy stroll around the Stadium lot.

Ah, but our car is white! Yeah, and so are 76% of all the cars in the lot in sunny So Cal.

I think we trooped around the lot for 30 minutes…seriously. This was well before the days of always having a remote car lock/unlock button on a key chain, so no help there, pressing the button, and getting that helpful "Beep!"

Now, I am really steamed, because my plan was to get us all in the car, and then pout a lot worse than Matt did that evening, and punish both Matt and Ruth for ruining my evening. However, as I am finding that the more I walk around getting really pissed off and frustrated because I can’t find the damn car, the more I am starting to feel like an idiot. I mean, if I can’t find my own damn car, what right do I have to be pissed at anyone other than myself?

It began to get a little funny, really, and I knew that it really wasn’t Matt’s fault that I didn’t get to see the game, it was all on Ruth. Nothing new there. Matt was just a little kid, and I was able to recall a number of times I’d played the whining brat when I had been his age.

The Charlie story of being a whiny little brat probably took place when I was almost 10-years old.

My mom, dad, sister and I, along with my aunt (my mom’s older sister - Helen) and her son Donny drove to Philadelphia in my dad’s brand new 1963 (white) Chevy Nova to spend a week or so with my mom’s younger sister Stell (Aunt Stella) and her husband, my Uncle George.

One evening, the plan was that we were all going out to eat dinner at some nice restaurant, but I didn’t want to go. I wanted to stay at George and Stell’s with Donny, so we could play games and do stuff. Donny was 2 years older than I was, and we were like brothers, growing up.

Nope, we’re all going…and I erupted. Tears and whining, and even Donny wasn’t on my side, as he was looking forward to a steak and baked potato, and whatever.

So, I get dragged into our new Chevy Nova and we drive to the steak house, getting perhaps 53 of my snivels per mile? We get there and I am now a complete diva…I want this, don’t want that, I am "NOT HUNGRY" Wha, wha, whaaaaaa…

However, and this is the critical part of the tale, I didn’t know that prior to our leaving Stell and George’s the adults were imbibing in a highball or two!

Yes, and when George had asked my dad what he wanted, Charlie Senior said he’d like a Manhattan, which is made with bourbon and sweet vermouth, garnished with a Maraschino cherry!

George said he didn’t have any bourbon, but he did have scotch, and could make a Manhattan with scotch and sweet vermouth. My dad said that specific drink is actually called a "Rob Roy," but "Yes, that’d be good," so the whole gang tanked a bevy of Rob Roys before we piled into the cars to do some drunk driving. (Not really, my dad never got drunk, and my mom never drove, but the line is good, huh?)

So, now we’re at the restaurant and the waiter is filling drink orders. I get my Shirley Temple, my sister gets a Peach Blow Fizz or something, and Donny gets a Bat Masterson…or something?

And Uncle George orders a round of Manhattans for the 5 adults.

The drinks come and everyone is happy except me. I think at this point my dad is threatening to make me walk the 110 miles back to New York with two broken legs if I don’t straighten up and pull my act together.

Suddenly, George calls the waiter over and tells him "my drink is wrong, I ordered a Manhattan." The waiter kowtows and goes off to right the wrong, returning forthwith, Manhattan in hand. He waits while Uncle George sips…

"NO, you’ve got it wrong again!" George is more than a bit drunk and very tweaked by now, but it suddenly occurs to my dad that George thinks he should be drinking a Rob Roy…the drink he subbed for the Manhattan at the house, when he found he didn’t have any bourbon. (Trust me, the difference between scotch and bourbon is unmistakable.)

Beef and booze, perfect!

My dad explains that, but George is in too deep now. My Uncle George was one of the biggest bullshit artists I have ever known in my life, capable of telling more enormous lies than the world’s biggest con artist. He would brook no correction, this waiter was an imbecile, the bartender a clod, and when the manager came to the table, my Uncle was ready to rain devastation.

Meanwhile, I am whining, my mom and Aunt Stell are smashed, my sister is really embarrassed to be associated with any of us, and my Aunt Helen is threatening (her son) Donny with all kinds of things because now he is feeling really sick.

My dad is swearing constantly. It’s barely audible, but it’s there. One of his favorites was "Jesus Christ All Fucking Mighty," which is awful…really awful. He was probably saying that every 12 seconds or so, and we were all Catholics. I was positive that if we died before he confessed that stuff, we were all going down, big time. I started to eat more steak, thinking it may be my last supper?

Everyone is now ganging up on George telling him what (he had to have finally realized was) a dumb mistake he had made, but he had dug a huge trench, lined it with sandbags, and was machine-gunning anyone within range. He was not giving in, and it all became even worse than the awful time it had already been.

Get your kicks, on Route 66

I don’t exactly recall how everything ended other than I had a nice steak, baked potato, and multiple Shirley Temples, Uncle George further burnished his reputation as a complete dipshit. My mom and aunts got plowed, Donny got sick, and my dad steamed. My sister didn’t care, as at the time, she was falling in love with George Maharis and his TV show Route 66, along with an album of sexy ballads he’d recorded.

I also ended up with a life lesson I could apply 30 years later.

In ensuing years when the story was retold, my part in all of it grew dimmer and dimmer. Innocent Donny slid easily into second place as what became the coda for evening when all Uncle George wanted was a Rob Roy, but said he’d like a Manhattan, and got one…over and over and over again.

I hope he got Uncle George first

Oh yeah, the coda? Donny puked repeatedly out the car window on the drive back to Stell and George’s, flecks of prime rib and potato skin adhering to the white metallic-paint of our new (generic) 1963 Chevy Nova.

I can still here my dad mumbling "Jesus Christ All…"

“Taking my talents to Ankara,” and other short takes.

It’s been a while since I’ve done this. I can chalk up not writing to a number of things, with the primary culprit being very busy at my job -- and maybe too many Coronas afterwards?

All World Cups

SOCCER

The stories that interested me a month ago no longer do. The US Women managed to lose to Japan in the World Cup, and even though I watched the entire game, there really wasn’t any pain at the end, more like an "Oh well." Moms across the nation keep shuttling their kids to soccer practice in droves, but few bring them to MLS games. That’s all right, I will still watch the World Cup in Brazil, and isn’t Brazil going to get a lot of attention in the coming years by also hosting the Olympics?

GOLF

Beware 2011 PGA!

Darren Clarke won the British Open, which was a true feel good story for a short stretch, except for the Irish, who are still celebrating the glory these days, with 3 of the last 7 golf majors having been won by a Son of Eire. Tiger Woods finally played another tournament this weekend, and now that he’s back, and not the "old" Tiger, I find it interesting how he now just seems older and more arrogant.

NFL

The NFL finally figured out how to split up the billions of dollars that the league generates into more doable doses for all concerned. Wow, what geniuses.  That one made me think of a scenario like winning half of a mega-million dollar lottery, and having the other half won by my best friend. Yeah, it would really suck to have that happen.

The King's Ankara castle

NBA

It’s looking more and more like the NBA will lose a lot of games, if not the entire 2011-2012 season. I heard Kobe’s people were negotiating with a club team in Turkey, and wanted a guarantee of $1,000,000 per month for him to play. If that happens, Lebron has been heard to say "I’ll be taking my talents to Ankara."

MLB

Baseball has gone through the trading deadline with a few interesting player moves. The Phillies took advantage of Houston finally committing to a youth movement by picking up Hunter Pence, and their pursuers, Atlanta, getting Michael Bourn. Even with all the injuries the Braves have had, they still look like the Wild Card winner to me, and I’ll admit I had the Phillies wrong in predicting them to not make the playoffs. I did that more than anything else, to pick a long shot.

The Pittsburgh Pirates caught our attention, didn’t they? It was nice story for a while. I was watching a game on ESPN where some idiot said that the everyday players Pittsburgh had felt good knowing that one of the same 5 starting pitchers would be out there in rotation for each game. Yeah, the 1962 Mets basically trotted the same guys out there too. Their top five starters went 30-95 on the season. The Pirates need much better starting pitching in 2012, if they are to contend all season.

We look to have a few races. The AL Central may yet be a 3-team race? Cleveland mortgaged a bit of it’s future in trading for Ubaldo Jiminez, but with Shin-Soo Choo coming back in a week or so, and the kid second baseman Jason Kipnis, they may remain viable? Ozzie Guillen keeps plugging away, unfortunately the plugs he’s firing keep missing Adam Dunn and Alex Rios. It’s amazing to me the White Sox are still only 6.5 games behind Detroit, who look to have asserted themselves as the team to beat. Justin Verlander has been the best pitcher in MLB this year, and Jim Leyland plays all kinds of guys looking for an angle. Not sure how good the pitching is, but I like their chances in a short series with Max Scherzer as the number 2 guy.

In the NL West, we have the Giants and Diamondbacks, two extremely flawed teams, trying to not lose as many games as the other guy. Not sure that the same magic San Francisco had last season will be around this time? I mean superior starting pitching is nice, but you have to score at least one run to win a game, and the Phillies pitching is better anyway.

Hey Tony!  How about 8 more brews?

In the AL West, Texas looks like they are sleep-walking, and they struggle to score runs on the road, the same way Milwaukee can’t win on the road in the NL Central. I actually picked the Angels to win the AL West this year, so I am looking pretty smart right now. I do like Texas picking up two excellent relievers in Koji Uehara and Michael Adams at the trade deadline, and they really should win. I also picked the Brewers to win their division, but that was a consensus pick among the experts. Being that I despise Tony La Russa, I am really rooting for Milwaukee.

Leaves us with the Red Sox and Yankees, in a flat tie at 69-43, going into tonight’s game. 50 games left, but with the Wild Card almost assuredly going to one of them, how much drama do we have?

Well, having 4 tight divison races is pretty good, the PGA is coming up, and the corn in our garden is getting high.

Nice to see folks are still checking in.  You'll have to excuse me now while I grab another Corona.  

Tony, you buyin?