Best-Selling Humorist.
The veteran White Sox broadcaster, with a wide repertoire of strange turns of phrase, retired as of this year.
A hero on the Sout’ Side of town
Hawk was a homer renowned
For phrases he’d rain
But he never explained:
What the hell was I s’posed to “strap down”?
and if you aren’t reading Bardball every day for your up-to-the-minute baseball doggerel, what’s your excuse?
Mickey Lolich
Sure knew how to pitch
And after mowing down opponents
He retired to make the donuts.
Mickey Stanley
Really came in handy.
Move to shortstop from center field?
Hey, Mayo, no big deal!
Stormin’ Norman Cash
All muscle, no flash
A steady squint, a Texas drawl
And a hunk of chaw to finish it all.
Bill Freehan
Was quite the he-man
Proud to stand up and block
The plate from Lou Brock.
Denny McLain
Was a royal pain–
A rip-off artist, a fraud, a sumbitch–
But in ’68, the bastard knew how to pitch.
Al Kaline
Hit .379
Drove in eight runs
And deserved every bit of his fun.
1B Johnny Mize
2B Joey Cora
SS Didi Gregorious
3B Ramon Castro
LF Tommy Davis
CF Johnny Damon
RF Johnny Callison
RHP Ramon Martinez, Tommy Hunter, Joey Hamilton, Mark Fidrych (honorary)
LHP Tommy John, Ramon de los Santos, Johnny Vander Meer
Mgr. Tommy Lasorda
One of the things I love about baseball players, especially Latin American players, is their creative names. Gleyber, Yoan, Avisail–nothing stretches the palate and the tongue like reading the rosters out loud.
So, inspired by a list I found of the 100 most interesting names of 2018 minor league players, I concocted some baseball doggerel for Bardball. The list can be found here, and with another go at it, I could probably write a completely new poem. So, while I lament the loss of player nicknames like Pee-Wee, Soapy and Suds, there are always new riches if you just look for them.
Don’t get cheeky with Dalton Geekie
Or throw a lot of derp on Franklin Van Gurp
We’ll soon know the warth of Shea Spitzbarth
Ain’t that the truth, oh, Maverik Buffo
Yezz, we will see about Yeffersson Yannuzzi
But I hope things sizzle for Austin Bizzle
“Can’t stop, won’t stop”–the motto of Zach Pop
Best make room for Makesiondon KelkboomSure, poke fun at the name of Blake Pflughaupt,
But he’s playing ball, sucker, and you’re naupt.
And aren’t you just waiting for Franklin Van Gurp to be called up?
Did you ever wonder about your life choices? The feeling that, when faced with the fork in the road, you took the path only an idiot would prefer? That feeling that the world continues to crumble in its own merry way, and all you want is that special someone to share a cup of cocoa with?
Hey, superheroes feel it too.
Single White Vigilante is my stab at a continuing webcomic, one that asks the question, “Why does Justice have to be so lonely?” It’s designed and drawn by my pally Airan Wright, who also designs my Rex Koko book covers and website. New comics will be rolling out every two weeks now, so I hope you will tune in and enjoy some.
Being at comic cons probably got the idea gestating in my head. That, and the fact that my kids are regular readers of so many hilarious online comics. So what would happen if the Punisher felt the need to speed date? How does Batman keep up with the latest music, and how much does everyone talk behind his back? Which superhero would do best/worst on Tinder? These and other questions will be answered in the months to come, albeit indirectly.
And we have an entire Rogue’s Gallery to introduce: The Skink. Multi-Maniac. Muscleena. Virginia Creeper. And the mysterious Nadshot!
Hope to see you soon, out on patrol.
A little while ago, I received news of the death of my publisher in Britain, Ernest Hecht. The news hit hard, even though I was always worried about his health. When I first met him, back when Souvenir Press released PC Bedtime Stories in the UK, he was overweight, in his late 60s, almost addicted to ice cream, and had that air of a man who thought he was immortal. Over time, I began to have the feeling he would outlive ME! Then, news came that he suffered a fall and never recovered from it.
Ernest was a fascinating man. Read his Times of London obit here to get a taste of his life. (Also here, the obit from The Guardian.) He had a ferocious wit and kept conversations moving at such a pace that I felt like a clod next to him. When my wife and I visited London, he took us to his favorite restaurant, the White Castle, and pontificated and charmed in great amounts, with potato chip crumbs down the front of his shirt. It is one of my fondest memories.
He was a great publisher for me, managing to keep PC Bedtime Stories in print long, long after it had gone on the remainder piles in America. He also talked me up with many publishers on the continent, which led to contracts. What’s more, he would call me regularly to say that they had had steady sales all year, a few good article placements, new press runs, etc. That’s the kind of thing that’s good to hear in the long, lonely life of putting words on paper. My American publishers? Deposed, out of the business, burned out, deranged. Ernest was a rara avis in the UK as well, last of the dying breed of independent publishers, but he reveled in that. He knew no other way to be. His motto was that the publisher’s main responsibility to the writer was to make enough money to stay in business. He declined to publish many of my books, which was wise of him I guess, but he knew how to ride one of my winners for a long time. And his faith in me was always unshaken. I have huge regrets now that I didn’t make time to visit him in recent years. Good lord, the time does fly.
From a trade journalist in the UK, quoted in The Bookseller: “No one would say he was easy, but being difficult was for Hecht a sport. Being with him, even in the last couple of tricky years, was never dull. He was truly unique, a Technicolor figure in a now-monochrome world. Publishing will never see his like again.”
Goodbye to a devoted fan of Arsenal football, ice cream, Brazil, and doing everything his own way. Ernest, you were an inspiration.
(Photo credit of his actual catastrophe of an office, The Time of London)
I probably didn’t post this link last year, when the event happened. I was pretty out-to-lunch last year for a lot of reasons, and many simple things and deadlines fell through the cracks.
Anyway, below is the link to a very good conversation I had with my friend Austin Tichenor, one of the brains behind the Reduced Shakespeare Company. We touch on political correctness, of course, and comedy and codpieces and everything that makes life worthwhile. Enjoy!
One of my favorite Chicago reading series is Louder Than a Mom. It’s hilarious, it hits my demographic sweet spot, it brings many of my old friends back together, and it takes place in a dark tavern that hosts rocknroll the rest of the week. The closest I will get to enjoying myself in a rock club at this stage of the game.
I’ve performed in the show 3-4 times, but in the March show, I finally had a performance I was proud of. The Link is below. If you are in or visiting Chicago, Louder Than a Mom happens every third Monday at Martyr’s, 3855 N. Lincoln. You should definitely check it out.
It was quite an honor to be asked to participate in the induction ceremony for Ring Lardner last night. Lardner was born in Niles, Michigan, and spent a good deal of his professional life in NYC, but his formative years were spent as a sportswriter at various papers around town, including the Chicago Tribune.
I spoke on and read from Lardner’s short stories (if you haven’t read any of these yet, grab yourself a copy of “Alibi Ike” or “Liberty Hall” pronto). Other speakers included journalist Ron Rappaport (whose new book is “The Lost Journalism of Ring Lardner”), author Don DeGrazia (“What Lardner Means to Me as a Writer”), ESPN’s and GLAAD’s Christina Kahrl (“How Lardner Changed Journalism”), Cubs historian Brian Bernardoni (“The Chicago Lardner Knew”) and Lardner’s grandson James Lardner, a fine writer himself, who accepted the award for the family.
There is something so satisfying about rereading favorite writers and discovering how much they speak to my life. I love Lardner almost as much as I love Damon Runyan.
Over the weekend, the Chicago White Sox manned an outfield with three players named Garcia. They aren’t related, nor even from the same country, but they have broken through the invisible barrier that kept guys with the same name from filling a complete outfield. Our hats are off to them. From Bardball, of course:
Three Matching Sox
The game’s been built of 3s
Since, like, eternity.
3 outs, 3 strikes,
3 bases and the like
Now add to these trios
Garcias who with brio
Manned the grass for the Hose.
Unlike the real bros
Matty, Felipe and Jesus–
The splendid Alous–
These Garcias don’t own
Similar chromosomes
But never in history
Has an outfield had 3
Confused when they hear
“Hey! Garcia! Get over here!”
Our favorite Nobel Laureate is back with another touching ode on Bardball. Maybe he should hang out with the guys in the Baseball Project and get some recording done! (This one was written with my friend, Jim Siergey.)
Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “I Shall Be Released”
They say ev’ryone can be replaced
Yet every lefty is still here
So I try to play second base
Or third or short or anywhere
. I only bat .190
. So my chances do decrease
. Any day now, any day now
. I shall be released
They say ev’ry man needs protection
They say you keep your eyes on that ball
The marketing guys aren’t my rooting section
My agent won’t return my calls
. I’m in the B-game lineup
. Starting to feel it’s just a tease
. Any day now, any day now,
. I shall be released
Standing next to me around the cage
Is a stud too young to buy a beer
He wants to gain the wisdom that comes with age
But I just want to play another year
. I see the rookies rise up
. Big potential, play for cheap
. Any day now, any day now,
. I shall be released
It’s tradition on Opening Day:
The Prez puts the first ball in play,
But with his miniscule mitts,
The Donald just quits
And tweets, “Baseball’s for losers anyway.”
All through spring training, it’s a Dylan Festival at Bardball. If you didn’t know the Nobel Laureate is a baseball fan — and I have no idea myself — you can believe it now, because how else could he have written so many songs that can be turned into forecasts for the upcoming season?
Bob Dylan’s 2017 Forecast: “Sucking in the Wind”
How many innings must Verlander pitch
to have them destroyed by the pen?
How many times must Miggy get on
to be left on the base by Upton?
How many weeks before Ausmus is canned–
that’s not an “if”, that’s a “when”
The answer, my friend, is 2017
When the Tigers will be sucking in the wind
How many balls will Martinez misjudge
and watch as they roll to the wall?
How many years will poor V-Mart DH
as his trot slows down to a crawl?
How many years must fans grumble and wince
before this team wins in the fall?
The answer, my friend, is 2017
When the Tigers will be sucking in the wind
The reclusive, petulant, intermittently-English-speaking Sammy Sosa gave an interview recently, lamenting that his crappy attitude with fans and teammates has made him a pariah in the Cubs organization. In addition to comparing himself (of course!) to a suffering Jesus, he also bragged that he put Chicago “on the map”. Which was news to a lot of us.
So when I get a fat slow pitch like that, I have to pen a reaction to it for Bardball:
Sammy Sosa, the Founder of Chicago
Leave aside the famed DuSable
Who thought he wore this feather in his cap.
We’ll forgive you this historical bobble,
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
Forget Jim Thompson and Hinky Dink Kenna
Who lay the town in corruption’s lap.
They came and went, but at the center,
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
Dion O’Banion and Al Capone
Made sure the suds were e’er on tap.
Those slobs can’t call this town their own–
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
Sure, Sandburg, Bellow, Studs could write,
Curtis Mayfield was a soulful chap,
Muddy Waters was a man, all right,
But Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.
I’ll admit MJ could play some hoops.
Hack, Ernie, Big Hurt and Pudge could slap
A few hits around, but no big whoops–
Twas Sammy Sosa put Chicago on the map.