Category: Baseball

I’ve been catching up with some old episodes of that 1977 Yankees mini-series, The Bronx is Burning. It’s embarrassing to say that I enjoy it, at least for John Turturro’s gremlin-like prosthetic ears, the cop scenes that look so grittay, and the brass-and-wah-wah-pedal theme music that so effortlessly evokes that time of polyester, cologne and cocaine. A friend tells me that the movie leaves out much of the original racial tension in the book, which might certainly be the case, since most of the tension surrounds the players Commitment to Winning and Upholding The Yankee Tradition.

One completely unbelievable element of the series, however, is the ubiquity of music by the Ramones. One mulletted youth even switches off Joey and the gang on the car radio, seconds before he’s shot by Son of Sam, as if “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend” was a Top 40 hit. As hilarious as it’s been to watch certain scenes and listen for the appropriate Ramones song–“Beat on the Brat with a Baseball Bat” during Reggie Jackson’s initial struggles was especially inspired–using them so much in the soundtrack gives one the impression of the whole of NY being edgy and hip and ironic, “all revved and ready to go now.” Where’s the disco music, the “Saturday Night Fever” that those kids getting shot by Son of Sam were probably listening to? Where’s the hair metal? KISS and the “Grease” Soundtrack? The Fleetwood Mac and Gerry Rafferty music the players were probably listening to as they bedded their groupies? It’s a sure cure for 70s nostalgia (and maybe any era) to give a thought to the music that was actually popular then, and not the music the producers like to think was cool.

But that’s not even a quibble, just an observation. It’s been fine late-summer slush, although it’s disorienting to be sucked into the troubles of Billy Martin, Reggie Jackson and Thurman Munson, and actually pull for them to win the World Series. It’s such a relief, a recapture of equilibrium, to return to the evening scores on “Baseball Tonight” and cheer a little cheer when the Yankees lose.

Looking through a backed-up pile of mail today, I came across a postcard for BARDBALL. “So,” thinks I, “did one of the promo cards I mailed out come back for some reason? Does the Post Office even bother sending back postcards? What’s going on? What’s that ringing in my ears? Whatever happened to John Goodman?” Etc etc.

Then I turned the card over and saw the message, written in a hand so steady and consistent that the script looked like it was a computer typeface: “Thanks, James, for note. I appreciate your support–Enjoyed your verse. Ernie Harwell.”

Ah ah ah…what? Ernie Harwell actually took the time to answer me about BARDBALL? He read my letter and actually saw the site? Whoo-HOOOOO!

I say again, How’s that for cool? A Hall-of-Fame broadcaster read our poetry site, and sent me back a note about it. Man, that one’s going in the scrapbook. And I had just finished listening to a big audiobook of his career highlights on the drive back to Chicago, which had his reminiscences of Joe DiMaggio and Al Kaline and Denny McLain and growing up during the depression. I don’t have much more to say, except, How’s that for cool?

And if you want evidence, glom your peepers on this scrip, gee:

Top THAT one, Stu!

Spring is a time for impetuousness, so I took off in the dark yesterday morning, drove the five hours to Detroit, and met up with some friends for the Opening Day at Comerica Park. Of course, “impetuousness” also implies “last minute”, so I had to rely on the redoubtable Gary Gillette, through my buddy and fellow Hungerdunger Stu Shea, to get me a ticket. Gary didn’t disappoint, and neither did the weather, but the Tigers did, but who cares? It was Opening Day!

The area around Grand Circus Park was crowded and jumping by the time I got down there and tried to find parking. With the bead necklaces, plastic beer cups and drunken slags, it was a lot like Mardi Gras if they made you wear something/anything with an old English “D” on it. The morning was 60 degrees and sunny–not your average Opening Day. I finally met up with Stu’s pals in front of the stadium as they were giving away schedule magnets advertising the new book, Tigers Corner, which was edited by Gary and published by Maple Street Press. Maple Street’s owner, Tim Walsh, flew in from Boston to commemorate the season. Throughout the day, the baseball trivia these guys were spewing was mind-blowing. I felt like an idiot most of the time, since I didn’t have an opinion about some sportswriters I’d never heard of and I couldn’t identify a player who’d had a total of 8 at-bats for the Tigers during the 1968 campaign. Then again, these guys are all involved (or work for) SABR, the Society for American Baseball Research, so I didn’t feel too bad. They were the true believers. Here’s what the copy of Tigers Corner looks like. Go buy a copy and make Tim feel like the trip was worth it.

Maple Street Press also published Wrigley Season Ticket, edited by–who else?–Stu Shea. Go out and buy a copy so Stu will by everyone more drinks this summer.

Every time I go back, Detroit never seems to have changed. Sporting events are one of the few times that large groups of white people will ever venture into the city. During the opening ceremony, amidst all the goodwill generated by the Tigers’ World Series appearance (well, some of them showed up, anyway), the fans mustered a rousing chorus of boos for Detroit Mayor Kwame Kilpatrick. I know nothing about the local politics and whether or not Kilpatrick is doing any kind of good job, but it was pretty pathetic for all the fans from suburbs 20, 30 and 50 miles away to heckle a guy they never voted for. Hey, they’re die-hard Detroiters! Except that they never set foot in the city unless they can park their car in a secure lot and be sure the police presence is heavy. The only black faces I saw in the park, save two, were selling hot dogs or working security. Like I said, most things never change there. Thank God that WRIF keeps up with all the latest music!! Rawk on baby!!

But when you buy a sports ticket, you have to put up with the meatheads. It was a gorgeous day, the view from the upper deck was grand, and both teams played well until Fernando Rodney lost it for the Tigers in the 10th. After the game, the SABR posse headed up to a dive bar in Hamtramck called Whiskey in a Jar and tipped a few, then walked around the corner to the Polish Village Inn for galubkis and dill pickle soup. Ah, memories. Hamtramck was a great hangout back in the day when I was young and reckless. Most places never asked for ID, and old men would buy me and my friends beer and tell us filthy jokes. I remember eating pizza on my 21st birthday at Savina’s, then getting mighty polluted at some place called The Senate, as we partied with members of the Warren Polka Boosters Club. It gladdens my heart to know that there’s someplace in that bombed-out city where a person can go for a little fun.

Then, just to stay in the impetuous mood, I drove back to Chicago that night. Pulled in about 1 a.m., after spending the previous hour singing disco songs at the top of my lungs to stay awake as I drove. I’ll never do that again, at least until the mood strikes me.