Why Beat the Rush?

When I was a kid, my Dad would take us, usually once a year, to Shea Stadium for a Mets game. It was thrilling to be at the ballpark and, regardless of what was happening on the field, it was completely joyful. Even when I got pelted by a half-grapefruit thrown from the upper deck smack into the stomach area of my new Mets’ shirt, leaving pinkish citrus ooze, I was happy (once I got back the wind that had been knocked out of me).

Except if we went to Shea on a weekday. Then, no matter the score, we would leave. “It’s a work night,” my father would pronounce. Or, “It’s a school night.” Or both. It was eminently more important to out-exit the hordes and get home at a reasonable time. My collection of scorecards is marred by games that were left voluntarily, the results of the Mets-Astros game, at 2-2 going into the ninth, suspended by our departure. I’ve never forgotten that crushing, sinking feeling of being outside the park, the halo of lights behind and above me, hearing the roar of the crowd who either didn’t work, didn’t go to school, or had the proper sense of priority to realize that the rare game they got to see was worth a little less sleep. When I got older and had season tickets at Wrigley Field, I watched each game to its conclusion, and still managed to be a productive person the next day. It was false that beating the rush was important.

I swore I’d never do that to my kids, whether it was at a sports event, a concert, whatever. Joey wanted to see The Avett Brothers on Tuesday night. It was pouring. I mean buckets, but I wasn’t going to tell him no. Even my recent back surgery was no excuse, though Joey was sweetly solicitous. I had spent Monday night undergoing my first real test - an 8-hour Board of Trustees meeting. I was physically sore at the end, but, on the whole, in fine shape. Standing at a concert would be easier, I thought, and it was, though my feet hurt during the last hour.

Nicole Atkins was the first act and she was OK. Her lead guitarist, Irina Yalkowsky, was a stellar soloist. That girl knows the proper use of dynamics! Brandi Carlile was next. I don’t know. She’s pretty popular, but left me un-won over. There was something too stagy, too false, a bit overly enthusiastic for my taste. Atkins and Carlile share a vocal trait that I dislike, the sudden switch to upper register that always strikes me as affected and out of place. Anyway, the two lead-ins didn’t bother me. I was focused on the rain that never let up.

When Joey and I saw Wilco in June, he asked if we could be up front. I told him that nothing stops determined people from getting to the stage. The Avett crowd had scores of those types, healthy young college aged folks who strongly made their way wherever they wanted. It caused an occasional scene. Early in the Avett set, there was a lot of pushing. I held my ground for my own benefit, but also was keenly aware of where Joey was and what threats surrounded him. There was fun too, with much throwing of beer cups, one which ended up landing perfectly atop an umbrella

At one point, I overheard a guy yell “Joey Katz.” It turned out to be someone Joey worked with two years ago at The Hall of Fame. I listened in, especially when the guy’s girlfriend was talking to Joey. After a while, I heard Joey say to her, “I’m 15.” To that, the girl replied, “No way dude, I thought you were 21! I’m 21!”

I turned around at that point, and she said to me, “Are you his friend?” When I told her I was his father, she was dumbfounded and then began to heap praise upon the boy. It was pretty cool. By that time the crowd had settled into position, but there were some points of fun and violence to come.

In front of me stood a 20-something man who early on struck me as a douche, egging on a guy pissed off at someone trying to cut ahead of him. When the rain stopped for about 2 minutes, he began to elaborately disrobe, taking off his jacket, then his backpack. From his bag he brought out, and began to assemble, a pipe, a very long pipe. It was ridiculous. Pipe Guy grabbed some tobacco from a metallic pouch, bits sticking to his wet hand. He lit up, began puffing away like a 19th century burgomaster, and offered it around. I couldn’t believe Joey didn’t try some, and told him so, jokingly.

“What would you have done if I did?” I told him I probably wouldn’t have cared. Having shared a passed bottle of Jack Daniels at a Rolling Stones’ show in 1981, who was I to talk.

When a cowboy-hatted scruff-beard tried to make his way through the tightly packed audience, causing strife for some, Pipe Guy couldn’t quite get the negative vibes. I told him that perhaps not everyone had achieved the serenity he gained by taking up the pipe. He liked that.

The occasional rough stuff was a good thing for Joey to see. I told him that in packed concerts one had to be very vigilant and aware of what was happening around them. Soon after, a very out of it drunk or drugged dude came barreling through. The same person who had been taunted by Pipe Guy was not happy and viciously grabbed the intruder by the neck and literally threw him backward. Angry Guy was steaming, but Fucked Up Dude was unperturbed. He was so out of it that no signal would have been recognized.

I understood Angry Guy’s reaction but not his follow-up assault. Fucked Up Dude tried to bash through again, far from Angry Guy. FUD succeeded and was well past our area, when Angry Guy went deep into the crowd after him and pulled him back. “Why are you looking for a fight?” asked Joey’s former co-worker. It was odd.

The Avetts were truly spectacular. They seem a little mentally challenged to me, with their quirks and tics and verbal outbursts. All to good effect. Joe Qwan, their cellist, looks like an evil Mongol extra from a bad Genghis Khan movie. I was happy to have seen the show. Afterwards, the parking lot was a muddy morass and, to add squelching insult to the soggy injury of the evening, we got stuck. We weren’t alone. Happily, college kids are young, strong and willing to do goofy things for fun; packs of them were gleefully pushing cars out. We took full advantage of their services. The road never felt so good.

Was it worth it? I don't know. The headliners were terrific but standing for four plus hours in a monsoon, with painful feet and a soaked 1970's Atlanta Braves cap that became as heavy as a space helmet, made it memorable and that may be the better. We hung tough in miserable weather, Joey learned how passionate crowds operate, and we had awesome sugar waffles. We’ll be talking about this one for a long time.

Howdy New Neighbors

Hall of Fame Election Day is the hands down best event of the post-season, with all due respect to the November issuance of the recent season’s hardware. Yesterday, Bert Blyleven and Robbie Alomar became my fellow Cooperstownians, to be enshrined this summer a few blocks away on Main St.

My feelings on the pointless selection of Pat Gillick were laid out in December (In Celebration of the Plantation Owners). A few words on Blyleven.

Was Bert ever seen as one of the best of his era? Nah, although if Candy Cummings can be inducted for “inventing” the curveball, surely Blyleven has earned his way to the Plaque Gallery with the best breaker of his time. That pitch was some nasty medicine and universally recognized as numero uno during Blyleven's pitching career.

Was Bert even the best on his staff? Definitely on the 1973 Twins, his only 20 win season. Absolutely for the 1984 Indians, when he won 18 games for a 75 win horror of a club. Quite often he played second fiddle to the Gaylord Perrys and John Candelarias. Sometimes even to the Jim Bibbys.

Blyleven is another version of “Sutton Syndrome.” I've always had trouble with Don Sutton as a Hall of Famer, though his numbers are indisputably worthy. It’s just that Sutton was never a #1 kinda guy, rarely the ace of his own staff. In Bert’s favor is his 287 wins for crap teams, much more remarkable than Don’s 324 for consistently solid teams. But I’m good with Blyleven’s election. See you in July.

Robbie Alomar. The best second baseman of the last 30 years, possibly the best of the last six decades when you throw Joe Morgan into the mix. Certainly in the top five of his position all-time. A sure first ballot HOFer last year.

But no. Enough writers’ delicate sensibility was shaken by Alomar’s spitting on an umpire John Hirschbeck in 1996. “Oh, my heavens, this ruffian must be handed a stern lesson.” Please. Would these same scribes have made Ted Williams wait a year for his spewing and bat tossing? Doubtful. It was a shock that Alomar didn’t get in last year. Jumping from just under the needed 75% to 90% is absurd, like the Republican Senators who fought "Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell" and wouldn’t allow it to come for a vote. Once it did, it got 65 votes, many from the same people who argued so hard against it. You think Alomar’s a bad actor a la Pete Rose? Keep him out then, but don’t give him some schoolmarmy punishment. It made the writers look silly.

As to Robbie the player, there was no one as fun to watch in the field. No one. He was a diving, spinning, laser throwing artist at the keystone and, when paired with Omar Vizquel (see you in Cooperstown down the road O.V.), it was Nijinksy and Nureyev with more speed and better bats.

Before the 1988 season, the spotlight was put on an Alomar, but it was Sandy Alomar Jr., Robbie’s catcher brother who was the more heralded rookie. In many ways, Roberto’s debut was a surprise. At the plate, Alomar was strong, powerful, a solid run producer. On the bases he was a blur. From 1988-2001, Roberto Alomar was not only the best at his position, but one of the top players in the game. At 34, of course beginning in his first season with the Mets, Alomar began a steep decline that resulted in a weak and sad end to a stellar career at the age of 36. It was sad to see him fall apart so quickly, but it didn’t dim the memory of how great he was.

Karen was pregnant for most of 1992, and as we neared the December due date, we had, for the second time in our married lives, a serious naming discussion. I didn’t like most names for some reason, but after watching the post-season games, one name kept repeating itself in my head: Robbie. I heard that name incessantly during the playoffs, when Alomar slugged, swiped and swooped his way to the ALCS MVP. Though he slumped in the World Series, the Blue Jays couldn’t have won it all without him. Robbie: a great name and no one we knew had used it.

So Robbie it was to be. He was two weeks late and finally arrived on January 5, 1993. That was 18 years ago yesterday, the same day his namesake received the ultimate honor.

In Celebration of the Plantation Owners

Back in the good ol' days, when the working scum knew their places, the great barons of industry were legend. Carnegie, Ford - they made America, not the bohunks, Micks, Sheenys and coloreds who toiled in the factory. Right? That's how it was written in all the textbooks.

Baseball was like that too. The great helmsmen in the dugout - McGraw and Mack - it was they who made the game great. Umpires like Klem WERE the game on the field, their martial manner giving the game its character. Where would the game have been without the steely leadership of Kenesaw Mountain Landis? (Integrated, for sure, since he was a racist bastard). Sure, a Ruth or a Cobb broke out of the fold, but the baseball history books were mostly about the cattlemen, not the cattle. Spalding, now there was a man!

That was before Marvin Miller. Before Miller, the authoritarian figures were more important than the players. What Miller made all of us realize is that the players own the game. The team names, the uniforms, the stadiums are the property of the moguls; the ballplayers ARE the game. Steinbrenner was a great owner? Gabe Paul was a genius team builder? Sure. Just check the Yankees between 1973-5. Add Reggie Jackson in 1977 and, voila, the Yanks are champs again. Now, who gets credit for that? Only a moron would give the kudos to King George instead of Jackson.

The Hall of Fame has voted in numerous executives, managers, umpires and owners over the years, but those men were mostly enshrined in bygone days. Yet, in recent elections, there has been a return to the glorification of the men upstairs, a bowing down to the business interests only exceeded in the halls of Congress. Bowie Kuhn? Are you kidding? Kuhn's son made a heartfelt Induction speech on behalf of his dead father, citing all the progress baseball made during the Kuhn era. Never before had baseball experienced such a growth in popularity, things like that. What was forgotten was that Kuhn FOUGHT that progress with every breath of his being. Miller paved that way.

Does Marvin Miller belong the Hall? I don't know. I really don't care. What Miller did is beyond plaque-worthy. He is the Abe Lincoln of the diamond. Honest Abe didn't need a sign on the wall patting him on the back for freeing the slaves. Every one knew what he'd done, and some hated him for it.

But Pat Gillick? Give me a break. Who's next Walt Jocketty? And this resurgence in enshrining money men and wheeler-dealers would make Larry Summers proud.

"Many years ago those who control the Hall decided to rewrite history instead of recording it," the 93-year-old Miller said today upon receiving his latest rejection from Cooperstown. "The aim was to eradicate the history of the tremendous impact of the players' union on the progress and development of the game as a competitive sport, as entertainment, and as an industry."

That is the true crime perpetrated by the voters today, the reemergence of the corporate over the men who created the memories we all love.

Get out your shackles and buggy whips folks, they're back in style.