La Vie En Robe

Memoirs of a Reluctant Catcher, Part Three

The last time I was at Randy Hundley's Cubs Fantasy Camp, I led the camp in nicknames: "Eppy," "Pepi," "Juan," "Dynamite," "Samardizja" and "Haircut" were among the things I was called, but the one that stuck was "Wheels," which — in the time-honored tradition of calling a big player "Tiny" — derived from the fact that I was painfully, comically slow on the basepaths. Bobby Dernier, my coach in 2010, even claimed that he timed me going from second to home on a play, and that it took me over a minute; if he was exaggerating, it admittedly wasn't by much.

This time, however, the nickname is "Theo" — which, given the fact that the Cubs' new president of baseball operations is by far the most high-profile (and possibly the only) Epstein in franchise history, makes perfect sense. Theo Epstein and new manager Dale Sveum visited the camp earlier in the week, but are gone by the time I arrive.

"So, are you any relation...?" Rick "Big Daddy" Reuschel asks me, early in my first game with his team.

"Yeah, he's my Dad," I wisecrack.

"Really?"

"No."

"Oh, so you're funnin' me," says Big Daddy, shooting me an annoyed look. Even though Theo Epstein is seven years younger than me, and we look nothing alike, I feel like kind of a jerk for funnin' Big Daddy. Mr. Reuschel is a man of few words, but let's just say that he has no problem communicating...

In any case, I am now "Theo" to one and all. "Wheels" wouldn't be appropriate anymore, anyway; having dropped around 15 pounds since my last time in camp, I can actually get around the bases at a pretty fair clip these days. And since I'm the only one in camp with fresh legs at this point, I can probably out-run about half the folks here.

After making a quick drive-thru run to Aliberto's for some killer burritos, Miss Howerton and I return to Fitch Field, and make a bee-line to the diamond where my team will be playing the Ron Coomer-Keith Moreland squad for the camp championship.

"As your punishment for showing up to camp late, you're going to catch for BOTH teams," jokes Coomer, giving me a hug as I step onto the field. All of the former players at camp are pretty approachable, but Coom is far and away one of the coolest, friendliest and most down-to-earth people I've ever met — so much so, in fact, that when we ran into him at the camp BBQ on Thursday night, Miss Howerton figured he was just one of the campers.

In further testament to his utter righteousness, Coom volunteers to give me additional instruction regarding my newfound backstop duties. "You're crouching too far back from the plate," he says. (This surprises me, though later examination of Miss Howerton's photos will prove him correct.) "Move up about another foot, foot and a half; that way, the pitches from the machine will come in to you at chest-high, rather than drop in on your legs."

"C'mon, Coom — whose team are you on?" cracks someone from his squad.

Coom laughs, then continues with our impromptu catching workshop. "Don't worry — you won't be close enough for the bat to hit you. Trust me, I wouldn't steer you wrong."

True to his word, Coom's instruction leads to a far easier catching experience, though early on in our game I get lazy or space out and forget to pull my right hand behind my back, and immediately receive a foul tip off my thumb for my insolence. "Gotta get that hand back," shouts Keith Moreland, who caught more than a few games during his time in the majors. Luckily, my thumb is just bruised, not broken or split; in any case, that's the kind of mistake you only need to make once.

"You never caught before? You look like Yogi Berra back there," Big Daddy tells me.

"I kinda feel like him, too," I reply.

"What, 90 years old?" he laughs.

My counterpart on the Coomer-Morelands, Len DiGati, is catching his first game of the week, filling in for their regular catcher who's out with a bad leg. He's also gracious enough to catch a few plays for our team while I'm busy struggling with my shinguards. When I thank him later, he says he's been wanting to meet me.

"I read all your blogs about the last time you were here," he tells me. "I was trying to decide whether or not to come here, but your blogs totally pushed me over the edge."

"So, did it live up to your expectations?" I ask.

"It's been even better than I imagined," he says.

I know the feeling.

It'll take a few more games behind the plate to get the hang of catching pop fouls, however. "Theo!" Big Daddy shouts from first, after a batter pops one up behind the plate, but I have absolutely no idea where the hell the damn thing is; I frantically whip my head around in both directions, trying to spot the ball, but only succeed in making myself dizzy. Not that I could have gotten to it in time, mind you...

Still, pop fouls are the least of our team's worries. Both squads are running on fumes at this point, but we're even more out of gas than they are. There's one inning early on where everyone on the field (even Big Daddy, who's once again playing first base) seems to make an error, mental or otherwise, and the Coomer-Morelands pull away to a quick lead. And then our bats start to go cold, mine included; I get on base via an error at one point, and smack a sweetly sizzling grounder up the middle in the fifth as we attempt to mount a rally, but I never make it past second base.

All of a sudden, it's 14-6 with two out in the last inning, nobody on, and I'm up. I take a deep breath and try to savor the moment; I don't know yet if I'll be allowed to play in the campers-vs.-coaches "Big Game" tomorrow, so this might be my last chance to swing a bat at camp. Unfortunately, for the first time all day, I find myself thinking about the mechanics of my swing; instead of just "see ball, hit ball," I try to put more weight on my back foot while simultaneously swinging harder...and as a result, I pop an easy fly to the first baseman. The game's over, and we've lost the championship. I feel bad for my teammates; an eight-run deficit would've been hard to make up, but I wish I could have gotten on base and given at least one or two of our guys a chance to take a few more cuts. There's also the brief bitter flashback to making the last out in Little League games, something I did more times than I care to count "back in the day"...

But once I hurl my batting helmet away in frustration, that's all behind me. I just got to "play two," as Ernie Banks would say, and had a total blast doing it. My new teammates, especially Don Carlson, Jim Angell, Joe Fath and brothers Adam and Paul Ferguson, have made me feel really welcome, and the guys who beat us all seem like good guys, as well. And hey, we did beat the hell out of the "Celebrity Team" this morning. Just another life-affirming day at the ol' ballpark, then.

On the way back to the clubhouse, I run into Skates, my older brother from another mother. He's got a whole cheering section with him this year — his wife and two sisters, all of whom are attired in custom-made shirts reading "Skates" and emblazoned with a charicature of him trying to catch a ball while wearing rollerskates on his cleats. We didn't get to play together or against each other this year, which bums us both out a bit; but hopefully, we'll get the chance next year.

Back in the clubhouse, I sign and pass out a few copies of Big Hair & Plastic Grass — including one to Ed Lynch, who'd been so supportive of the project when I was here in 2010, and one to Eddie Vedder. In return, Eddie gives me a commemorative Pearl Jam notebook, filled with pictures and lyrics. "It's just a little something," he shrugs. He signs it, "All Hail The 'Fro — Eddie Vedder." Right on, Eddie.

Jose Cardenal — whose own 'fro has long departed — is sitting next to Eddie's locker. Lynch takes my book and shows it to him. "Hey, Jose," he says, pointing to the 'fro-tastic photo of Oscar Gamble on the cover, "I don't have my glasses — is that you?" "Aww, fushyoumang," grunts Jose, while Lynchie dissolves in a fit of laughter.

A few minutes later, I spy Billy Williams leafing through my book. I'm too awestruck to even introduce myself, but he looks up and gives me a nod and a Buddha-like smile. Pete LaCock comes over to look at the book, as well. "Big Hair?" he crows, "I had the BEST hair in the 70s!"

"Yeah, man, you were looking good!" I reply.

"Am I in your book?"

Oh, shit. I start to tell him that he's mentioned with the Royals in a chapter or two, but he goes straight for the index and starts looking for his name.

"Lerrin LaGrow... I'm not in there. Wait, Bill Lee's in there like ten times? You put that asshole in, and not me?"

Er, sorry, Pete. It feels like a good time to leave the clubhouse. But as I slink out the door, Jose Cardenal taps me on the elbow. "Joo did good today," he says, nodding solemnly.

Out in the parking lot, Miss Howerton greets me with a kiss. "Hey, get a room!" hollers a voice from the other side of the lot. I already know that, when I turn to look, I'll see Ron Coomer laughing his ass off. And I do.

 

 

Memoirs of a Reluctant Catcher, Part Two

 

(Above: Me catching, with Eddie Vedder at the plate.)

Back in the mid-1970s, when I first fell in love with baseball, I dreamed of playing catcher for a big league team. Not only did some of the best and most colorful players of the era squat behind the plate — guys like Johnny Bench, Thurman Munson, Carlton Fisk, Ted Simmons and Manny Sanguillen, to name a few — but the idea of the catcher as the "captain of the defense" really appealed to my inner Napoleon. And then there was the gear that came with the position — not just the special glove, but the whole bad-ass body armor ensemble, which could make even a relative scrub like Biff Pocoroba look like a man to be reckoned with.

My Little League catching career was short-lived, however; like, "one game" short-lived. The dream started to unravel before our 1977 season even began, when my coach had me warm up a pitcher on the sidelines — but without a mask, since our team's budget only afforded us one of those, and it was currently in use by our starting catcher. Failing to get my glove on an 11 year-old's attempt at a curveball, I took it squarely in the side of the noggin, triggering an expletive-laden tantrum that was a deep shade of blue even by my youthful standards. It also triggered a fear of the ball that stood me in lousy stead once I actually donned "the tools of ignorance" and caught a few innings in a real game; I think I caught most of the pitches that were thrown to me in that game...but only after they bounced off the screen behind me and ricocheted back towards the plate.

From then on — with the exception of a brief but equally unsuccessful attempt at becoming a 12 year-old junkballer — it was strictly IF/OF for me. During my previous visit to Randy Hundley's Cubs Fantasy Camp in 2010, I spent most of the games at second base (a position I can handle pretty well) and far right field (a position that, given our four-man outfield setup, adequately hides my lack of speed). So I figure that, this time around, I'll just tell my new teammates and coach that they'd be best off putting me at second or in right.

Of course, as I quickly realize, you can't just appear in camp on the last day of the season and decide where you'd like to play. When I show up at the Fitch Field clubhouse at 8:45 on Friday morning, my coach — Rick "Big Daddy" Reuschel — reiterates that I'll be catching today...in both games.

"Big Daddy, I've never caught a game in my life," I protest, lying only slightly.

"Then this is a great time for you to learn," he chuckles. He also mentions that we're in contention for the camp championship, and we'll most likely need to win both games in order to take home the trophy. So, you know, no pressure.

My stomach is beginning to churn audibly at the prospect, but I feel a little better once I don my blue Cubs road jersey (emblazoned with #8, in honor of Joe Pepitone) take a stool in the meeting room next to my pals Paul Malek, Beth Chaplin, and Bobby "Skates" Farinelli. Paul was my double-play partner in 2010, and though both Beth and Skates played on another team that year, they're dear pals of mine as well — Skates even made the four-hour drive from Iowa to come to one of my Big Hair & Plastic Grass Chicago events in 2010, and I hung out with him and Beth in Minneapolis last summer at a Twins game, followed by a legendarily festive evening with Ron Coomer, his wife Paula, and several other Cubs campers.

The morning clubhouse meeting is exactly like how I remembered it. The coaches take turns running down the games from yesterday, alternately praising their players and fining them for a variety of comical infractions. This year's crop of coaches include former players Bobby Dernier, Ed Lynch, Pete LaCock, Jose Cardenal, Lee Smith, Todd Hundley, Willie Wilson, Larry Biittner, Carmen Fanzone, Ron Coomer, Keith Moreland, Glenn Beckert and Rick Reuschel — all of whom were here in 2010 — and Hall of Famer Billy Williams, who arrived late in the week to fill in for a now-departed Fergie Jenkins. Joe Pepitone, who was supposed to participate in 2010 and didn't, apparently showed up for two days this year and then disappeared. Thus, my treasured copy of Joe, You Coulda Made Us Proud remains sadly unautographed...

With Randy Hundley acting as MC, some of the coaches also offer up a few war stories from their playing days. Hundley Sr. tries to get Cardenal to re-tell his famous "Ham and Eggs" story (about how he ordered that dish virtually ever day during his first season in the minors, because he didn't know enough English to order anything else); but Jose has been suffering from a bad cold and can barely speak, so he calls upon Eddie Vedder to serve as his "interpreter". Vedder, a close friend of the Cuban outfielder, proceeds to tell the whole story in a hilariously note-perfect approximation of Cardenal's Chico Esquela-esque patois.

On my way out of the clubhouse after the meeting, someone stops me and lets me know that Robert Hegyes, aka "Epstein" of Welcome Back, Kotter fame, has passed away at the too-young age of 60. Though I had no love for the Epstein character — or for the amount of times I got called "Juan" in school because of him — I inwardly decide to dedicate my first game to my pop-culture namesake.

We're scheduled to face Vedder's team (coached by Cardenal and LaCock) in the Friday morning game. As anyone who knows me (or has ever read this blog) can probably tell you, I am not a Pearl Jam fan, to say the least. But I've gotta give it up for Eddie — not only can the guy cover some serious ground in centerfield, but he also turns out to be a genuinely sweet and open guy. His teammate, my friend Bryan Redington, introduces us in the dugout before the game, and tells Eddie about Big Hair & Plastic Grass; we immediately begin to riff on Oscar Gamble, Bake McBride, and the fact that we both have the best hair in camp. He then proceeds to take a hit away from me during my first at-bat of the game, spearing a sinking liner to dead center, but I can't really hold it against him. Is it possible to recognize a kindred spirit in someone, even if you can't stand their art?

Having taken the precaution of visiting a batting cage right before the trip to Mesa, I'm already swinging the bat as well or better than I ever did in 2010. It's one frozen rope after another for me, two of which drop for hits and kick off big innings for us. "Larry told me you couldn't hit a lick," chuckles Big Daddy, after I make it safely to first for the second time in the game. While we're laughing, Vedder's bodyguard nails me lounging off of first with the "hidden ball" trick. But Big Daddy claims that he called time out, and thankfully the umpire buys it.

Two plays later, I cross home plate for the second time today, and we're well on our way to a 20-10 hammering of the "Celebrity Team". Everyone on our team contributes, but it's Joe Fath, our stellar left fielder and cleanup hitter, who leads the way with a single, two triples, and an inside-the-park home run. We have qualified for a spot in the one-game championship playoff!

Unlike the three other games happening in camp, ours is fairly well-attended, mostly by curious fans who want to see Vedder, John Cusack and Chris Chelios play. For the record, Vedder's a very good player, and Chelios was reportedly playing great until he busted his ankle; Cusack (pictured below) hit some ropes in our game, but the consensus seems to be that he's, er, much less of a natural ballplayer than Vedder or Chelios.

I've gotta say — it's really nice to play a winning game in front of a crowd, but it's even better to play a winning game with your girlfriend cheering you on and blowing you kisses from the stands, which is something I've truly never experienced before. (Thanks for the support, Miss Howerton, and thank you as well for taking these awesome action shots.)

Oh yeah — this catching thing, while not easy, is a lot more fun than I thought it would be. It helps that we're not allowed to steal in our games, of course, and that I'm catching balls thrown by a (relatively) accurate pitching machine, but it's still a fairly rigorous position. You're literally involved in every play, every pitch, and catching keeps you on your toes (and on your knees) in a way that no other position does. The other team's leadoff hitter fouls one off my mask on the third pitch of the game...but much to my surprise, it doesn't hurt at all. Much more painful are the sinking pitches that land on my right thigh; my weak knees won't allow me to do a full catcher's squat, so I'm essaying a combination Manny Sanguillen/Randy Hundley stance, with my right knee down and my right hand behind my back. This leaves my upper right thigh relatively unprotected, though, and by the end of the day I'll have a bruise on my thigh running from knee to groin, looking like a sideways map of Great Britain fashioned from corned beef. But the satisfying "Thwhomp!" I hear everytime the ball lands in the mitt's sweet spot more than compensates for the pain.

The only drag about catching that I hadn't anticipated is that, with all the putting on and taking off of the shinguards and chest protector, you wind up missing a lot of the actual game — and you spend a lot of time anticipating when your next at-bat will be, so that you'll have all the equipment off in time to head to the plate. By the same token, you don't wanna "take it all off" and have the inning end before you get up to bat, and then have to put it all back on again. Thanks mucho to Rob Skinner, our opponent's impressively bearded catcher (pictured below), who not only gave me several helpful hints about donning the "tools of ignorance," but also volunteered on a couple of occasions to fill in for me on the field while I got my shit together in the dugout. That same spirit of friendliness and cooperation seems pretty widespread in camp this year, and that's truly a beautiful thing.

 

Memoirs of a Reluctant Catcher, Part One

The original plan was just to spend a long, relaxing weekend in Mesa, AZ, cheering on my pals as they played out their final games at Randy Hundley's Cubs Fantasy Camp, and enjoying dinner and drinks with them afterwards. And then, two days before I was planning to hit the road, the injury reports started piling up in my inbox. "Wheels, bring your uniform," was the basic gist. "Everybody's getting hurt. We might need you to fill in!"

And so it is that Miss Howerton and I set off across the desert on Thursday morning, Boston and the Bee Gees blasting from my iPod (with some Flying Burrito Brothers on deck for the Joshua Tree-adjacent section of our trip), and my regulation Cubs home and road jerseys hanging in the window. The drive from LA to Mesa is, for the most part, a total pleasure. I think, with the right company and proper soundtrack, I could probably drive across the desert forever. The passing mountains, rock formations, and (in Arizona, at least) silent armies of saguaro cacti never fail to put my heart and mind in a state of peaceful contentment.

Other than a brief detour outside of Cabezon for gas and snacks, and a couple of bathroom breaks, our only real driving break comes in Blythe, CA, where we stop for lunch at the Courtesy Coffee Shop, which was highly recommended by my friends Gerry & Ante. (Thanks, Wendels!) A down-at-the-heels Googie-style diner, the place was probably a real knockout in its day, but still retains plenty of faded period charm...

Good sandwiches, too, though their fries have clearly fallen prey to the same "coated and seasoned" plague that has afflicted so many restaurants, great and small, from coast to coast. Should've ordered the onion rings instead. Ah, well... The other great thing about the Courtesy is their "Cocktail Lounge" sign, which is missing an "o" — I take it as a good omen, since we'll probably be doing a fair amount of cocktail lunges before the weekend is over.

The last 90 minutes of the drive — which involves fighting our way inch-by-inch through Phoenix-area rush hour traffic — just intensifies the need for one of those aforementioned cocktails. Happily, we arrive at the Dobson Ranch Inn just in time for the annual camp BBQ, that time of the week when the coaches man the grills and cook up a mountain of burgers, brats, Italian sausage, chicken breasts and veggie patties for the hungry campers...and there's always plenty of liquid refreshment on hand, as well. 

We say hello to quite a number of my old pals from 2010 (including coaches Bobby Dernier, Ron Coomer and Pete LaCock), and all the conversations pretty much hit on the same two points: The list of casualties from the week thus far, and how this year's "Celebrity Team" — whose roster includes Pearl Jam frontman Eddie Vedder, actor John Cusack and retired hockey star Chris Chelios — held a massive karaoke blowout at the hotel bar last night, in honor of Chelios' 50th birthday. Other guests included Cubs hurler Ryan Dempster and actors DB Sweeney and John C. McGinley; by all accounts we missed the party of the year, or at very least the surreal spectacle of Chelios (who looks like he's about 30, btw) and Dempster serenading Vedder with his own songs...

It isn't too surprising to hear the litany of injuries currently afflicting the campers; as I discovered during my week-long baseball fantasy camp foray in 2010, the fantasy camp experience will definitely blow your mind — but it may quite possibly blow your hamstring, as well. You play hard, at least 14 innings a day; and even if you're in decent shape and/or lucky enough make it through the week relatively unharmed, you may still find your body increasingly refusing to co-operate with your desire to play. ("Dive for that ground ball? Fuck YOU, pal.")

This year, however, two of my favorite teammates from 2010 are already relegated to the DL. Scotty Marks, always one of the fastest guys in camp, took a tumble on Tuesday while trying to beat out a groundball, and wound up having to have extensive surgery on his hand; by the time I make it to camp, he's already gone home. Jerry Cook, who anchored us at third base in 2010, has locked up his back so badly, he's decided to head home Friday morning to see his doctor. Larry Malcolmson, our catcher and team leader, isn't hurt, but he also has to leave on Friday due to some pressing business appointments.

With Jerry and Larry splitting town, their team is now down to eight players — and since the camp games are played with a four-man outfield, this leaves them at a one-man disadvantage, even with team coach Rick "Big Daddy" Reuschel taking over in the field at first base. (Glenn Beckert, the team's other coach, is in no shape to play.) Jerry, Larry and Big Daddy have arranged for me to fill in as a "late-season call-up," playing the last two games of the camp session for the Reuschel-Beckert squad. However, there's a slight, er, catch:

"I hope you brought your cup," says Big Daddy, "Because you're catching tomorrow."

Oh, shit.

A Face In The Crowd

October is one of my favorite months of the year, as it's always pretty much a non-stop cavalcade of horror movies and post-season baseball 'round here. Catching Hell, the new documentary currently showing on ESPN2, is both things — a horror movie set in the baseball post-season.

Catching Hell discusses and dissects the phenomenon of the sports scapegoat, as exemplified by Boston Red Sox first baseman Bill Buckner (who was vilified for letting an easy grounder go through his legs during Game 6 of the '86 World Series), and Steve Bartman, whose life was changed forever (and possibly even ruined) by his impulsive grab for a foul ball during Game 6 of the 2003 National League Championship Series. It's a good film, but it's also a bummer on a number of levels — as a Cubs fan, I'm relieved that I won't have to see "the Bartman play" replayed ad nauseam as part of the perpetual "festival of failure" montage that accompanies any Cubs foray into the playoffs, even though I know it was actually Alex Gonzalez (and Mark Prior, and Dusty Baker, and Paul fucking Bako) who blew the Cubs' best chance in my lifetime to make the World Series, and not some hapless fan. Catching Hell definitely lays the blame for the Cubs' 2003 collapse at the feet of the team, and makes judicious use of several clips from Games 6 and 7 to do so; but seeing the filmic evidence laid out again brought the pain of October '03 back for me in an unexpectedly gut-churning way.

I was back in Chicago during the 2003 NLCS, not to attend the games (they were actually playing in Florida during the weekend I was back) but to attend the memorial service for Bernie Markwell, my dear friend, high school history teacher, and one of the most profound influences upon my life. Returning to the city of my youth to pay my respects to my dear mentor was a heavy experience, but it was mitigated somewhat by the sheer joy that was pulsing through Wrigleyville that weekend. I vividly remember listening to the Cubs' exciting extra-innings victory in Game 3 on the radio with my Mom; equally vivid is the memory of being at the post-memorial dinner gathering the next day, and the waiters coming in to tell us that the Cubs were kicking the shit out of the Marlins in Game 4. I led a bunch of my friends and fellow diners out on a drinking expedition that night, toasting Bernie's memory with one round of red wine after another, finally closing down our bar at 4 am. In the wee drunken hours of the morning, I remember talking with a fellow Cubs fan about the team's chances, now that they were up three games to one. "We've got Zambrano going in Game 5," he said, "and then there's Prior and Wood in Game 6 and 7 if we need 'em. There's no way we're gonna lose!" But even in my liquored-up state, I knew it was too early to start celebrating. I don't believe in sports curses, but still...

Anyway, we all know what happened next — though if you don't, Catching Hell will certainly fill you in. The one frustrating aspect of the doc is that the man at the center of the storm, Steve Bartman, declined to take part in it, so we never really get to understand his take on the whole thing beyond the public statement he made shortly after the incident. It is, however, pretty fascinating (and in some cases infuriating) to hear the reflections of several of the fans who were sitting near Bartman at the time; they range from one who tried to reassure him that he'd done nothing wrong, to another who tried to pick a fight with him, to another who (in retrospect) missed becoming the game's scapegoat by a matter of inches. There's also a fairly harrowing account from the security guard who snuck Bartman out of Wrigley Field, and had to sequester him in her apartment until the Wrigleyville foot traffic abated.

Catching Hell also makes several interesting points about the concept of scapegoats, and why sports fans (and, by extension, society in general) still seem to require them. But there's one thing that kept occuring to me as I watched the doc, a point that no one in Catching Hell ever really explores: How Bartman's reaction — or rather, the lack thereof — seems to have been part of what inflamed the fans around him (and, of course, the millions who watched the whole sorry scenario on TV). I firmly believe that if Steve Bartman had been a big, fat, Belushi-esque slob who made a big show of slapping his forehead and making other "What the fuck did I just do?" gesticulations, Cubs fans would have been quick to forgive and forget. Unfortunately for Bartman, he looked like the know-it-all nebbish from everyone's high school math class; coupled with the fact that he didn't appear to acknowledge his faux pas (or even react outwardly at all), his "please give me a swirly" mien brought out the collective bully/lynch mob attitude in Cubs fans at Wrigley and elsewhere.

If there is an upside to this ugly tale, it's that Steve Bartman — despite having to live more or less incognito to this day — seems to have handled the incident and its outcome with an impressive amount of personal grace and dignity. He's never cashed in on his infamy, despite being offered hundreds of thousands of dollars to do card shows, endorsements and the like. Nor did he give in to the deluge of anger and hatred baselessly directed at him by countless Cubs fans; under the circumstances, a less balanced person might well have given in to thoughts of suicide. Maybe "Well, at least he didn't kill himself" isn't the most cheerful message you could take away from a documentary, but Catching Hell isn't a feel-good film. It is, however, an absolute must-watch for any baseball fan.

Matzo Balls, the San Diego Chicken & Bon Jovi: Memories of Grandma Rae

Rachel Epstein, my beloved grandmother, passed away Monday afternoon at the assisted-living facility in the Bronx where she'd lived for several years. While my family and I are all profoundly saddened by Grandma Rae's passing, it came as more of a blessing than a tragedy: She slipped away painlessly and peacefully in the comfort of her own apartment, knowing how much she was loved by the people in her life. She made it to 100 — and she may have been older than that — without any debilitating medical issues, and was very much her feisty self up 'til the end, and we are truly grateful for all of that.

Tiny, round, and cute as a button, my Grandma Rae had the most amazing smile — you can kind of see it in the photo above — where her entire face seemed to be grinning; it was almost a Buddha-like image of contentment. I saw this smile most often when she was feeding us; she was very much the classic Jewish grandmother, never happier than when she was surrounded by her family at the dinner table. And good lord, this woman could seriously throw down in the "Jewish Soul Food" department — the best matzo ball soup and latkes I've ever had (and believe me, I've had plenty), stuffed cabbage to die for, chopped liver, roast beef, brisket, etc., all whipped up in a kitchen so tiny it could barely fit two people. Even during her later years, when she found cooking more difficult (and when her health required her to go easy on the red meat and chicken fat), she would lay out even the smallest spread with such love that it felt like a feast. "It's made with my special ingredient," she would say whenever I complimented her on a dish. "T.L.C.!"

(Clearly her cooking made an early impression upon me. One of her favorite stories to tell was of the time she and my grandfather found me sitting on the walk outside my house — I was 4 or 5 at the time — putting pebbles down the barrel of my cap pistol. "What are you doing, Dan?" they asked. "I'm loading my gun with kasha varnishkes," I matter-of-factly replied.)

But for all the sweetness and love she radiated, Grandma Rae was no pushover. She had an inner toughness that was forged over the course of a very difficult life, one that began in a village near the Polish city of Łódź. Times were hard for her family, and her father and uncle left to find work in America when she was still a little girl. (That's her in the center of the above family photo.) After a couple of years, her dad amassed enough savings to send for the rest of the family, and Rae, her mother, sister and brother endured the long voyage over the Atlantic that so many other immigrants of the era took. But when they arrived at Ellis Island, her father was nowhere to be seen. Their uncle was there in his stead, and with a few whispered words, he communicated that they should pretend he was their father; my grandma's real father had died of influenza while their journey was taking place, and her uncle was justifiably afraid that the immigration officials might put them on the next boat back to the Ukraine, once they discovered that the head of the family was no longer alive to support them. I can only imagine the soul-crushing pain and trauma of that moment; but somehow, Rae and her family found the inner strength to push forward and begin a new life for themselves in their adopted country.

Rae's family initially settled on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, later moving to the Brownsville section of Brooklyn — both of which were rather rough enclaves of European Jews at the time. Brownsville, in fact, was the birthplace of the notorious Murder Incorporated syndicate; Rae's older sister Goldie even married a bootlegger named Abe Wagner, who was whacked in 1932 by gunmen employed by Murder, Inc. honchos Meyer Lansky and Bugsy Seigel. Rae didn't share her sister's taste for bad boys — her husband, my Grandpa Joe, was a diamond-setter — but there was always a tinge of classic NYC toughness to the way she talked. Irwin, my father, was always "Oi-win"; Deepak Chopra, who she'd seen on talk shows and found interesting, became "Deepa Copa" in her parlance. ("Are you talking about Deepak Chopra?" my Aunt Carole once asked her. "Yeah," she replied, somewhat impatiently. "Deepa Copa!") "Hello, Doll," she would say to me every time I saw her. "You look beautiful. Just bee-YOO-tea-ful."

Grandma Rae was a masterful story-teller (a gift we didn't even realize she had until after my grandfather died in 1982, thus leaving her to take on the role of dinner-table raconteur), a veritable shark at mahjong, and a big baseball fan. Maybe it's because I would typically see her during the summer, but I realize now that a large percentage of my memories of her have to do with baseball. When the Mets won the World Series in 1969, she and my grandfather sent me a full child-sized Mets uniform. They retired to San Diego for most of the 1970s, and they took my sister and I to several Padres games — though Grandma once took me aside beforehand to warn me that the experience of watching the hapless Padres might be a difficult one for my temperamental Grandpa Joe. "The Padres players pull such boners," she shrugged, "and your grandfather, he gets so upset." (Of course, my mental image of Padres players "pulling boners" was not the same thing she had in mind, but I kept it to myself.) I was also with her the one time I met the Padres' legendary San Diego Chicken mascot, who was shaking hands and handing out autographed postcards of himself at the park near my grandparents' apartment. I was a little nervous and shy about interacting with such a major celebrity, but Grandma Rae urged me on. "Go on, Dan," she said. "Shake hands with the Chicken." I sure wish I could find that postcard now...

Rae and Joe returned to the East Coast in 1979, settling in a cozy one-bedroom apartment in Freeport, Long Island. My sister and I spent a few weeks there with them in August of that year, and went with them on a local community center field trip to a Mets game at Shea Stadium. We saw Dock Ellis pitch that day, which was memorable in itself, but the other thing I remember most about that outing was a little Dennis the Menace-looking kid about my age — the grandson of one of the other attendees — who spent the entire trek up to our second-deck seats telling me about how he was gonna grab any ball that was hit to our section. "I'd hate to have to take a foul ball away from you, kid," he muttered, "but I will!" It was the weirdest thing, like he was an opposing player trying to psych me out. "Whatever, kid," I muttered back, but I was bugged — and I was even more bugged when a ball came flying towards us, bounced off the stairs, and the little fucker jumped up and snagged it on the hop in one fluid motion. Much fuss was made over the kid's catch, both at the game and on the bus ride home. "Your little grandson was the hero of the game," I heard some lady gush from the back of the bus, while I fumed silently in my seat. Grandma Rae, who was sitting next to me, patted my hand and whispered conspiratorially in my ear: "Biiiiig deal," she chuckled, and all was right in my world again.

One of Grandma Rae's amusing idiosyncracies was that, if you came in from the city for the day to have lunch or dinner with her, she'd ask you about your return train almost as soon as you finished eating. It wasn't that she didn't love the company, but the message was always clear: "Thank you for coming to see me, now go on and live your life." Of course, if there was a Yankees game on TV, you might be able to hang out in her apartment for a little while longer and watch a few innings with her. Though she'd lived much of her life in Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Mets territory, Grandma Rae became a born-again Yankees fan in the '80s, a conversion at least partly inspired by her crush on Lou Piniella. Looking back on it now, I think she had kind of a "thing" for Italian guys; I seem to remember her being pretty into Lee Mazzilli as well, and she briefly defected from the Yankees to the Mets when Mike Piazza set up shop at Shea Stadium. "I like the Yankees," I remember her telling me over the phone, "but I love that Piazza!"

Grandma Rae also had something of a fixation on Jon Bon Jovi, which began in 2002 when I was producing an episode on the making of Bon Jovi's Slippery When Wet for VH1's short-lived "Ultimate Albums" series. I had come out east several times to interview members of the band, their former colleagues, etc.; Grandma never entirely understood what it was that I did for a living — "Well, as long as you're happy," she would say — so I think she inferred from my visits that the band and I had some sort of close working relationship. From then on, every time I would see her or talk to her on the phone, she would always bring up Bon Jovi; and as her mind began to slip a bit, the Bon Jovi connection began to take on new dimensions — for instance, she would tell me that the residents of her assisted-living facility (all of whom had to be in their sixties or older) were taking a bus to see a Bon Jovi concert, and that if only she felt good enough to go along, she would be sure to say hi to Jon backstage and tell him that she was my grandmother.

Last week, my father — who was wonderfully, even heroically attentive to her, especially in her declining years — informed me that Grandma probably wasn't long for this world, and that I should give her a call as soon as possible. It was probably the hardest phone call I've ever had to make; what do you say when you know that someone you love dearly is dying, and this may well be the last time you ever speak to them? I decided that, if nothing else, I was going to tell her that I loved her, because ultimately that's all that really matters. But I was too preoccupied by this churning thought process to consider recording the call — which I deeply regret now, as it turned out to be probably the sweetest and most oddly profound three-minute conversation I've ever had...

Her voice sounded unusually gravelly, and for a few seconds there I was worried that she wouldn't be able to remember who I was. But something clicked in her brain and she was suddenly right there with me, asking me about my apartment in L.A., my girlfriend, my cat — and, of course, Bon Jovi. "You know, I was thinking a lot about when you used to manage Bon Jovi," she said. "And I was thinking... if I were to run into him and tell him that I was your grandmother, well, you know, it would probably be a very pleasant conversation."

"Yes," I said, laughing and crying at the same time. "I'm sure it would be."

"Do you ever talk to him anymore?" she asked.

"No, Grandma," I said. "Jon and I went our separate ways many years ago."

"Oh," she said. "Well, you know... things change."

They do indeed, Grandma, but my love for you will never change — it will always be there in my heart. Thank you for all the love, laughs, food, trinkets and wonderful memories. You were beautiful, just bee-YOO-tea-ful...

 

 

BIG HAIR & PLASTIC GRASS Book Signing — March 12 In West Covina, CA

Now that the baseball season is blessedly imminent, it's time once again to start pimpin' out Big Hair and Plastic Grass, and spread the gospel of '70s baseball. And while pimpin' ain't easy, as Biggie Smalls once said, it sure is fun — especially when I get to be part of something as cool as this upcoming event at the West Covina Public Library.

The event, held in conjunction with the Baseball Reliquary's awesome Baseball for the Fun of It!exhibition, will be held Saturday, March 12, from 3 pm to 5 pm at the West Covina Public Library (1601 West Covina Parkway, West Covina, CA). I will be signing and selling copies of BH&PG, as well as participating in a discussion about several of the more memorable baseball promotions of the 1970s, including "Ten-Cent Beer Night" in Cleveland, "Wet T-Shirt Night" in Atlanta, and of course the infamous"Disco Demolition Night" at Comiskey Park. The program will also feature a DVD screening of the 2004 documentary, Disco Demolition 25th Anniversary: The Real Story, which takes an in-depth look at the still-controversial promotion.

The program is is made possible, in part, by a grant to the Baseball Reliquary from the Los Angeles County Board of Supervisors through the Los Angeles County Arts Commission, and is FREE to all. If you're in the Los Angeles area, come on out and join the fun!

 

Bye Bye, Ronnie

 

It's been over a week since Ron Santo passed away, but I've been simply too saddened and shocked by his death to write anything about him until now. Shocked because, despite his many serious health issues, including the diabetes that forced the amputation of his legs and the bladder cancer that eventually killed him, Ronnie just seemed too damn stubborn to die. Saddened, because, well, as so many Cubs fans have already said, he really seemed like a member of the family.

I never got to see Ron Santo play; he was already retired by the time I started paying serious attention to what was going on in the major leagues. So the bulk of my experience (and connection) with him stemmed from many years of listening to Cubs radio broadcasts — in recent years via XM, where I could hear Santo and his play-by-play partner Pat Hughes calling the games from Wrigley, even while I was driving through the desert. Santo was by no means a masterful color commentator; like Harry Caray before him, he would often call players by the wrong name, or forget the particulars of what was happening on the field, and he was an obvious "homer" who audibly lived and died according to whether or not the Cubs won. And, of course, he was occasionally prone to going off on bizarre tangents, like the time in 2007 when he spent several whole innings of a broadcast obsessing on the origin of the peanut.

But while all of those things (and his impressive array of monosyllabic grunts and exultations — "Yes!" "Ah Jeez," etc.) could be annoying, they were also part of what made him so endearing. As I wrote in the 2007 Robe post about the peanut game, "When the Cubs are winning, his joy is a wonderful thing to (audibly) behold; when the Cubs are getting killed, his moans and groans are so hilarious, they almost take the edge off the loss." To me, listening to Ron Santo was like watching a ballgame with that eccentric uncle in the family who sometimes makes you cringe at the dinner table with his blunt commentary or inappropriate non-sequiturs, but who does it with such a good hearted, genuine manner that you can't help loving him anyway.

I'm thankful that I got to meet him this past January at Randy Hundley's Cubs Fantasy Camp in Arizona, because I got to see that the man in person was exactly the same guy I'd heard on the radio all these years. There was an undeniable touch of vanity about him — as exemplified by the toupeés he wore, and the fact that (according to several of the old-timers) he'd had his prosthetic legs made longer than his amputated ones, because he'd always wanted to be 6'2" — but there was a whole lot of gruff sweetness and humility, as well. Unlike some of the other august personages at the camp, he was extremely approachable, and clearly loved shooting the shit about the old days as well as what was happening with the current Cubs team.

Of course, without Pat Hughes there to reign him in, we were subjected to a couple of rambling and hilarious (in the "where is he going with this?" sense) monologues during the morning meetings. There was one particularly memorable one where he went on and on about the death threats he received in NYC in 1970; after ten minutes of build-up, he said, "So, I gave the threatening letters to the FBI, and after a long time they finally came back and told me that the guy who wrote 'em was probably gay." End of story. My friend Paul and I turned and looked at each other like, "Um, what the fuck did he just say?" But, well, that was Ronnie for ya...

The sadness I (and undoubtedly many others) felt over Ron Santo's passing was also wrapped up around the fact that he never got to see his two big dreams come to fruition: Induction into the Hall of Fame, and a World Series championship for the Cubs. There were several times this past decade where both of those things seemed realistically on the verge of happening, and then were cruelly snatched away by the HoF Veterans Committee (aka, the "Now that we've gotten into the Hall, let's keep everyone else out" committee) and some frustrating Cubs teams that curled up in a fetal position when the going got tough. (Yeah, I'm still pissed about 2008 — and I will never forget the almost animalistic cries of anguish and rage Santo uttered during Game 2 of the NLDS against the Dodgers, when the Cubs went down 5-0 in the second inning thanks in part to two dumb infield errors.)

Many others have made legitimate and compelling arguments for his inclusion in the Hall of Fame, so I'm not going to go into that here, except to say that I believe Santo belongs in there — but he probably didn't help his own case with his oft-stated desire for induction. It's a tricky line between promoting yourself for induction and acting sufficiently humble and "dignified" for the voters' tastes, and that's a line Santo never could have walked in a million years. Just like his love for the Cubs, he wore his belief that he was a rightful Hall of Famer on his sleeve, because that's the kind of "on his mind/on his tongue) guy he was. Still, it would have been so gratifying to see his joy at finally getting into the Hall, or the Cubs finally winning the World Series (or even just friggin' making it in there for the first time since 1945), that him dying before either of those things could happen somehow seemed exceptionally, arbitrarily cruel — not to mention a stark reminder that most of us will die before ever seeing our fondest dreams come true.

Then again, how much do those dreams mean in the long run? Sure, it would be nice to get your name and face on a plaque in Cooperstown for future generations to venerate; sure, it would be nice to see the team you've loved and been part of for most of your life go all the way. But ultimately, Ron Santo's life and legacy won't be measured by either of those things; rather, it will be measured (as it already is) by the countless people who were inspired by his courageous example, and by all the people who fell in love with the game of baseball while watching him play or listening to him call a game. The Cubs may be losers, but Ron Santo was never one, not by any metric you can trot out.

Rest in peace, Ronnie. You gave it your all while you were here, and I — and a whole lotta other folks — loved you for that. It may be too painful to listen to Cubs games without you around, but I'll be sure to say a few "Ah, Jeez"es for ya when the 2011 season starts.

 

 

Big Hair in the Bay Area

No, this is not a picture of me on the way to my next reading — it's John "The Count" Montefusco celebrating his new San Francisco Giants contract in March 1976 (on the heels of an impressive 1975 season in which he won the NL Rookie of the Year award and set a rookie strikeout record of 215 Ks) in the company of some of Hugh Hefner's finest.

But I've currently got San Francisco on the brain because, on top of it being one of my favorite cities in the world for eating, drinking and strolling, I'm gonna be up there next week to read at the truly awesome Litquake Festival. I'm going to be reading from Big Hair & Plastic Grass on Friday, October 8 as part of It's All Over But the Crying: A Night of Authors on Sports, which will also feature the august likes of Alan Black, Howard Bryant,  Dan Fost, David Henry Sterry, Jason Turbow, and Michael Zagaris holding forth on all things sport-related. It's happening at the Hemlock Tavern on 1131 Polk St; doors open at 6:30 pm, reading starts at 7 pm (no idea what the order of authors is, so please don't ask me), and admission for this thoroughly entertaining evening is 10 bucks. But if you think you wanna check it out, don't snail on it — the event will very likely sell out well before next Friday. Avoid disappointment by ordering your advance tix from Brown Paper Tickets. "The Count" would want it that way.

This is also something of a milestone event, in that it marks the last reading/BH&PG event I'm scheduled to do this year — and with baseball season winding down, I'm guessing that's gonna be it for 2010. It's been a helluva ride; thanks to the book, I've gotten to see a lot of old friends and make a lot of new ones. I'm still kinda processing it all, to be honest — I reckon I'll write a "post-season wrap-up" in the next coupla weeks — but I'd like to thank everyone who's bought, read, or otherwise supported this book for confirming that there is still a lot of love and appreciation out there for this amazing and complex period of baseball history. Mark Fidrych lives on, y'all...

Nothing Could Be Finer Than To Be In Carolina... On A Book Tour

I don't think it's too much of a stretch to say that Catfish Hunter was one of the best '70s ballplayers to hail from North Carolina — just as it's not too much of a stretch to say that you're gonna have one helluva good time if you make it out to Slim's Downtown Distillery in Raleigh this coming Friday night, or if you show up at the Regulator Bookshop in Durham this coming Saturday afternoon.

That's right, folks — the Big Hair & Plastic Grass groove line is pulling into Raleigh-Durham this weekend for the latest round of readings, shenanigans and general good times. The fun starts at 7 pm this Friday, July 23, when I'll be reading from and signing BH&PG at Slim's (227 S. Wilmington St., Raleigh). Copies of the book will be available for purchase courtesy of Quail Ridge Books & Music, and DJ Midnight Cowboy will be spinning some serious '70s soul and funk jams.

The event is FREE until 9 pm (and five bucks if you show up thereafter), whereupon things really kick into high gear: It's a birthday celebration for the bar's lovely Olivia, featuring live rock madness from The Infamous Sugar, The Royal Nites, and The Oscar Gambles — the latter being my boys The Static Minds and several pals in '70s drag, who will be kicking out a set full of '70s classics; I just may join them onstage for a couple of tunes, as well. It's going to be an epic night; if you live in the Raleigh era and dig baseball, rock, beer or all of the above, you really oughta join in the celebration.

The next day — Saturday, July 24 — we'll be behaving in a slightly more civilized manner over in Durham, where I'll be reading, signing and discussing BH&PG at the Regulator (720 9th St, Durham) from 2 pm to 4 pm. If daytime bookstore events are more your speed, or you can't make it to Slim's (or you just can't get enough '70s baseball... or me), come on out and say hello.

The End of Baseball

Much as I love baseball — and much as I love reading about it — I've never really enjoyed baseball fiction. I vividly remember how, at  the age of 12, after devouring Jim Bouton's Ball Four and Joe Pepitone's Joe, You Coulda Made Us Proud (the latter of which probably warped me for life), I received a paperback copy of Bernard Malamud's acclaimed The Natural as a gift from my Mom; I also vividly remember how, after reading about three chapters, I flung it across the room with an annoyed cry of, "What is this bullshit?!?"

Since then, my attitude towards baseball fiction has remained suspicious at best. (I think I maybe made it 20 pages into W.P. Kinsella's Field of Dreams before being overwhelmingly distracted by the desire to take a rifle and scope up onto my roof and start picking off every middle-aged male baseball fan in sight.) I just believe that baseball history is so endlessly fascinating, there's no need to make up stories about it; I'd rather read a story about some scrub who actually toiled (however briefly) for, say, the St. Louis Browns, than be subjected to a credibility-straining tale of some fictional hero.

But when author Peter Schilling, Jr. wrote me awhile back to tell me how much he loved my new book Big Hair & Plastic Grass (plug, plug, plug), and asked me if I would like to read the baseball novel he'd recently published, I graciously answered in the affirmative — after all, I'd be a real asshole to refuse a free copy of another author's work, right?

Well, as is often the case, I'm really glad I'm not a real asshole. Schilling's novel, The End of Baseball, is the best book I've read this year, baseball or otherwise. The novel's basic premise reads like something out of a WhatIfSports baseball league: What if, in 1943, Bill Veeck had bought the failing Philadelphia A's franchise from Connie Mack, and used it as a vehicle to integrate major league baseball with Negro League stars like Satchel Paige, Cool Papa Bell, Josh Gibson, Dave Barnhill and Buck Leonard?

What if, indeed. While you won't be shocked that baseball commissioner Kenesaw Mountain Landis is utterly appalled by the idea, and will try all manner of risible strategies to undermine Veeck's scheme, the story's (very believable) twists and turns will indeed come as quite a welcome surprise. But aside from Schilling's witty and propulsive manner of story-telling, what I loved most about The End of Baseball is how vividly he brings his characters to life. For instance, while he draws upon the well-documented quirks of historic personages like Veeck and Paige, they never lapse into mere charicature; Gibson, Barnhill, Roy Campanella, Oscar Charleston, Gibson and Barnhill likewise come across as complex and often conflicted individuals. Schilling also does a fairly nifty job of capturing what life was like in mid-WWII Philadelphia, Detroit, and several other American League cities, as well as what it was like to attend a game at their ballparks.

I'd like to tell you that I couldn't put The End of Baseball down, but in truth I've been so busy that I've had to put it down on several occasions, often for a week or more at a time; but every time I put it down, I couldn't wait to get back to it, and my recent plane trips to Chicago and Seattle afforded me time to finally sink my teeth into this tale like a steak dinner at Taylor's... and now I'm kind of bummed that I've finished it. The End of Baseball is a rich, moving, and thoroughly entertaining tale that anyone with an interest in the Negro Leagues, Bill Veeck or mid-century baseball in general will definitely dig. Go get it, y'all...