By Rick Walunas

Game 1 of the Series
Took two days to play,
But the Yanks were the winners
So that was O.K.

Game 2 was more normal
Both in time and space
The Mets had been scoreless
The Yanks in their face.

Now the 7th had ended,
5 to “Oh” was the score,
My eyelids were heavy
I could take no more.

So I turned off the tube
And drifted happily to sleep.
The Yanks were ahead -
The shutout they’d keep.

Then, what to my bleary eyes
Should arrive
But the morning newspaper,
Yanks Win 6 to 5.

What could have happened
I read every page,
Don’t tell me The Rocket
Went into a rage.

Did he throw at Piazza
Or toss a bat down to first.
What! They brought in Jeff Nelson
What could be worse.

So, no matter the score
Be it 20 to zip,
Now pay close attention
To this Yankee tip,

Don’t go to sleep
And expect them to breeze,
‘Cause if the bullpen gets in,
Better pray on your knees!!

(originally published in Baseball Ink Vol. 2, No. 2 – September 2001)

By Bill Burns

Life is a series of memories and links to memories. Christmas and Easter bring back special sights and smells and feelings of holidays long past. St. Patrick’s Day in March brings back memories of Irish songs sung around the piano with the family and of being proud of our heritage. But mostly March 17th brings back the sweet leathery memories of a baseball and mitt, the smells of moist earth and freshly-mown spring grass.

You see, my Dad loved baseball, and he gave that love to me. He had caught semi-pro for the Owl Drug Company in San Francisco during the 1930′s. “The pitchers got $10 and the catchers got $5,” he would tell me. “Even though the catchers did most of the work and took all the lumps.” We’d listen together to the major league’s “game of the night” on radio as we sat on the living room rug sharing cheese and crackers while he sipped from a bottle of Acme beer. He’d rub my buzz cut and call me “burrhead” after Ferris Fain who was one of his favorites.

He told me he knew Lefty O’Doul, the manager of my San Francisco Seals Baseball Team. I was eight and listened to all the games I could on my radio or the crystal set I made in Cub Scouts. I often fell asleep listening to the heavenly drone of the announcer’s voice as he called the play by play. Baseball on radio is still ecstasy today, and I still envision that I’m watching from a catcher’s squat as Dad had taught me.

I remember it was cold that March night and mom made me wear a sweater and a jacket. She stuck mittens in the jacket pockets as I made a face. Mittens and baseball…ugh! “You know how cold that wind is in the City,” she said, as I ran to the car. We were going to see the Seals play a pre-season game at Seals Stadium, and they were gonna play the Pittsburgh Pirates and Ralph Kiner. It was the Call-Bulletin’s “Father and Son’s Night” that occurred every spring, and for a newspaper coupon and one dollar, my Dad was taking me to see a professional ballgame. Each year it was either Pittsburgh or Cleveland or some other major league team that would travel out to San Francisco to play the Pacific Coast League SF Seals managed by Lefty O’Doul.

I have two vivid memories of that night. One was my first taste of hot clam juice, and the other was the thrill of shaking hands with Lefty O’Doul. You see – mom was right again, and it was a frightfully windy and cold evening in the City. My dad, driving our ’34 Olds sedan, decided to stop on the way for fortification at the Old Clam House. While my dad sipped something stronger, he offered me my first sip of hot clam juice. It was ok – not great – but I really appreciated its warmth. We continued then to Seals Stadium at 16th and Bryant Streets.

I remember little of the game except that at some point during a lull in the action, my dad asked if I’d like to meet Lefty O’Doul. Are you kidding? Suddenly given the chance to meet the great hero of San Francisco and the Seals, I couldn’t control my excitement as I beamed a “yes…sure.” So together my dad and I headed toward the field from our seats on the 3rd base side of the diamond. We got to the railing that separates the fans from the field and he lifted me over, took my hand as we walked into the dugout, and sat down on the bench with me between him and the great O’Doul. Without hesitation dad said, “Lefty, I’d like you to meet my son, Bill.” I extended my right hand as I had been taught to do and firmly gripped the much larger, weathered hand of this baseball idol. “Glad to meet you” Lefty replied, smiling and turning his gaze back toward the action on the field of play.

The next thing I recall was the ump behind the 3rd base bag calling time and turning toward us and motioning for us to get out of the dugout. I was too excited to be shocked or embarrassed, and I guess my dad was in a similar state. He lifted me back over the railing and into the stands. I have no memory of being ejected from the park, and I’m pretty sure that didn’t happen. My dad and I never discussed the incident except for reporting it to my ever-scowling mother upon our return home that night.

I still remember that Lefty O’Doul had kind eyes like my dad’s, with lots of wrinkles at the corners when he smiled. I remember that just once I got to meet him, shake his hand, and sit next to him for a very long minute in the Seals dugout. I can’t remember anything about the great Ralph Kiner except that he had made the trip and played in Seals Stadium.

Nothing can erase that memory…that moment. I treasure it as much as I treasure my dad’s gifts of a love for baseball and a love of life. He taught me to dare to enjoy, to feel, to take risks, to be a little crazy and to never look back. Even though he’s now gone, I still thank him daily for these great gifts – and for giving me the chance to meet in person the great Lefty O’Doul.

(originally published in Baseball Ink Vol. 2, No. 2 – September 2001)

By Robert Nishihara

The first time I faced a major league pitcher I was seven years old.

It was crafty left-hander Jon Matlack of the New York Mets, and he was on his way to a 15-10 record and a sparkling 2.32 ERA in 1972. He threw this nasty breaking pitch that started out at the belt and broke sharply down and in, buzzing past the back knee of a right-handed hitter. I hated that pitch. I always committed to it, and I always swung over the top of it.

So, when he threw it to me again, I tried to wait on it and drop my hands to lower the angle of the bat to try to get to it. Somehow, miraculously, I had dropped the bat just enough to meet the pitch solidly, sending a drive down the right field line. It hit the fence about halfway up.

“Foul ball!” cried Matlack, who was also umpiring the game.

“No way!” I called back.

“Definitely, foul.” He answered and went to retrieve the ball.

Frustrated that my protest went unheeded, I took the next logical step. I ran over and tackled Matlack. A brief struggle ensued, and Matlack, who was nearly six years older, won the wrestling match easily. So, his call stood.

It was not the first time I lost out on a call, and it would certainly not be the last time. But I also knew that whiffle ball was not for the weak-willed. So when my older brother Kevin, who was playing the part of the 1972 New York Mets that afternoon, sauntered back to the pitcher’s mound (which was something of a misnomer since it was really just a piece of cardboard laying flat on the grass in our backyard), I resolved to hit the next pitch harder than the disputed foul ball.

Expecting another sharp breaking pitch, I readied myself in the batter’s box. But Kevin/Matlack crossed me up and threw a big sweeping curve instead (ugh, those crafty lefties!). The pitch started out a couple of feet outside the plate and shoulder high before bending across the heart of the plate and dipping to belt level. Still fuming over the “blown call” a pitch earlier, I swung out of my shoes. Of course, I missed the pitch by about a mile and a half.

The Mets went on to crush my beloved San Francisco Giants, 11-2. Though, the local nine did get a touch of revenge when, as Giants reliever Jerry Johnson, I planted my best whiffle fastball into Ed Kranepool’s ribcage just to give the New Yorkers something to think about the next time they stepped into my backyard acting like they owned the place.

And so it went that summer. My brother and I staging these titanic whiffle ball contests in the backyard. He was even gracious enough to let me be the Giants in all of the games while he rotated personas to suit the other clubs in the NL, or at least as many of the teams that we were able to get $1.99 plastic batting helmets for from the local toy store. Hence, our version of the NL consisted of the Giants, Mets, Cardinals, Reds, Pirates, Expos, and Dodgers. The Dodgers, however, were given a special exemption from the helmet rule since, as any reasonable Giants fan can attest, it was (and still is) utterly unacceptable to purchase anything with a Dodgers logo. So, when the Dodgers came to town, Kevin would merely wear the Mets helmet backwards.

By way of ballpark tendencies, our backyard definitely favored pitching. Though, in truth, much of that was due to a carefully thought out set of rules. Since the neighbors who lived over our back fence had a rather aggressive and ill-tempered German shepherd (do all neighbors who live next to makeshift backyard baseball fields have ill-tempered pets of one sort or another?), we determined that any ball hit over the back fence (and, thus, needed to be retrieved from the clutches of said German shepherd) would be a triple play. We also determined that any ball hit over the side fence and landing in the adjacent sloping field would most likely be lost in the trees or weeds or be sitting smack dab in the middle of a bunch of poison oak. So, any ball hit over that fence would also be a triple play. But any ball hit on the flat roof of our house was merely an out (we didn’t consider climbing up a ladder to get it to be as much of a hazard as the elements over our fences). The hedge that ran along the far edge of the lawn was in play, kind of like the monuments in Yankee Stadium before it was reconfigured. Home runs, triples, and doubles were determined by where on the back fence a ball hit on the fly. We used chalk to mark up the fences (a fact that annoyed my parents no end). Grounders needed to be fielded, as the batter was required to run the bases on grounders. The batter was out if the fielder could hit him with the ball before he reached base. (Though we didn’t realize it at the time, hitting a runner with the ball to record an out was a regular practice in “town ball,” a 19th-century precursor to baseball. This method was called “soaking” in town ball lexicon. And, man, did my brother and I ever try to soak each other that summer!) Balls and strikes weren’t called, but each batter was only allowed three pitches to put the ball in play, and we both agreed that the pitcher must try to throw a strike on each pitch. A swing and a miss or a foul ball on the third pitch constituted a strikeout (no matter what happened on the previous two pitches).

Aside from the 11-2 drubbing and assorted other early season ignominies, I found that my play improved over the course of the summer. I actually started to eke out some wins. Though thinking back on it now, I think my brother was more obvious than the 1919 White Sox in the way he dumped some of those games. Of course, at the time, I believed that I was just starting to play some good ball and that the Giants .500 record that summer was a decent barometer of my efforts. For my brother, though, I think it was probably a matter of getting bored with beating the daylights out of his little brother every game and that it was almost more fun to watch how ridiculously giddy I got when I won.

Armed with a Giants batting helmet (I actually used cardboard and masking tape to craft a couple rather crudely made earflaps) and my souvenir Willie McCovey bat (which I netted at a Giants Bat Day giveaway), I endeavored to try to copy as many of the batting stances of as many of the Giants as I could. I even taught myself how to hit left-handed this way (I’m a natural righty). The results were decidedly mixed. Because I struggled mightily trying to emulate the great Willie McCovey’s big, looping swing, Willie Mac suffered through a miserable summer in my backyard (ironically, the real McCovey stumbled through an injury-plagued season in 1972, hitting just .213 in 81 games. I was young enough that I actually felt responsible for his bad season, because of the way I was failing to hit as “him” in our backyard ballgames!). The most unnerving thing for me, though, was the absolute hot-cold performance of my favorite player at the time, Bobby Bonds. I found that I could hit the daylights out of a whiffle ball with his swing. Unfortunately, any time I didn’t hit a line drive to the fence for a homer or triple the ball usually had enough lift to carry over the fence and into dreaded “triple play, German shepherd” territory. I spent many a trip outrunning that dog while retrieving a triple play ball on Bobby’s behalf.

But, my “secret weapon” that summer was a little-known reserve outfielder named Jim Howarth. Howarth, who spent parts of four seasons with San Francisco (1971-74), hit .217 in 226 at-bats over that stretch. In 1972, he managed to garner 119 of those at-bats and hit his only career homer. However, Howarth’s alter ego was devastating in my backyard despite his real-life mediocrity. My strategy was to conserve Howarth’s swings (for some reason, I wasn’t comfortable with his swing but since he was so good for the team, I endeavored only to use him when I really had to). So, I primarily used him as a pinch-hitter, and he seemed to come through every time. His highlight came during a game with the dreaded Dodgers when he ripped a screaming liner in the hedge and then motored around the bases with the winning run while my brother haplessly looked for the ball.

On the mound, I was a little less precise. Early experiments with pitching left-handed proved disastrous. So, all of the pitchers on the team magically turned right-handed and basically had the same windup and delivery. Since we bought the medium-sized whiffle balls (bigger than a baseball but smaller than a softball), I couldn’t really grip the ball properly to throw with my fingers. So, most of my pitches were variations of a palm ball: a big palm curve that arched like a boomerang, a palm knuckler that I threw like I was heaving a shot put, and the palm fastball that must have hit 25 mph when I really reared back and let it loose. Of course, my twelve-year-old brother beat those pitches like a drum. For the record, when he was Willie Stargell, he was deadly.

As the summer drew to a close and our backyard season wound down, we played the final game of the year. The Montreal Expos vs. the Giants for the whole enchilada (or at least a couple of grape sodas in the fridge).

As was customary for our games, my brother continued his bizarre ritual of singing the beginning of the “Star Spangled Banner” at the top of his lungs but never going any further than “the dawn’s early light.” (Mercifully, he did not render a similarly “enthusiastic” version of “O, Canada,” sparing us both the wrath of Canadians everywhere.) With the pregame festivities out of the way, I threw my first pitch to Expos leadoff hitter Ron Hunt. It was a big palm knuckler, and my brother belted it WAY over the fence. I pumped my fist excitedly, inning over.

The score seesawed over the next few innings. And by the top of the 9th, the Giants were clinging to a 9-7 lead. Bobby Bonds had accomplished the rather difficult task of hitting into three triple plays as well as hitting a pair of home runs.

Sensing potential trouble, I summoned hard-throwing Jim Barr from the bullpen. The heater, I reassured myself, would be doom for the Expos’ hitters. Unfortunately, my brother nailed the first palm fastball to the fence for a double. He then hit a grounder to my right on the next pitch. I fielded it cleanly and then inexplicably threw it onto the roof of the house as I was trying to “soak” him.

Runners on first and third, no one out.

My brother cupped his hands around his mouth as he made the announcement for the next hitter, “Now batting, center fielder, Boots Day!” Ugh, Boots Day. Day was killing my pitching staff that game, three homers and a double (this was, of course, three more homers than the real Boots Day hit in 1972. In fact, Day would hit a grand total of eight homers in his six-year major league career).

I pondered my pitch selection. He was ripping my fastball to shreds. My curveball wasn’t doing much. And then the wind started to pick up. The knuckler!

With the game (and two grape sodas) hanging in the balance, I placed my faith in the wind and its ability to make my knuckler dance around enough to be trouble. It didn’t. My brother hit a high looping drive that looked like sure extra bases. But as the ball got up into the wind, it began to carry. With a little luck, it would carry over the fence for a triple play. Instead, it struck the very top of the fence and bounced straight up in the air. As it came back down, it glanced briefly off the top of the fence again before falling into the waiting jaws and claws of our canine nemesis next door.

Game over. The Giants won.

Since it was the last game of the season and since the German shepherd was already in the process of destroying the ball, we didn’t bother with trying to hop the fence to retrieve it.

Since I won the game and was feeling fairly benevolent, I gave my brother one of the grape sodas. As we sat down in the shade and started to drink them, Kevin remarked, “Man, Boots Day stinks.”

Nah, he doesn’t. To this day, any time I hear the name “Boots Day” I am reminded of the most satisfying can of grape soda I’ve ever had.

(originally published in Baseball Ink Vol. 2, No. 2 – September 2001)

By Cecilia Tan

Time is a crucial element in many competitive sports. In a race, the fastest time wins. In football or basketball, the team with the lead can run out the clock. Figure skating routines are of a prescribed length. But time in baseball is not measured in minutes nor in hundredths of a second. It is measured by the deeds of players, their accomplishments or their failures. This is, I believe, why umpires are so loath to tell pitchers or batters to hurry up, despite the prescriptions of the Rule Book. Because to clock the action on the field is anathema to the spirit of the game.

It’s only when not playing the game that time takes over again. When a player goes on the disabled list, his sentence is measured, fifteen days, sixty days. Home team batting practice from 5pm to 5:45.

Now the powers that be, including the television barons, would like to see the game sped up. Years ago, they say, baseball games took a lot less time. What they seem to forget is that one reason that the games took so much less time was that they did not pause every half inning for three minutes or more of commercial announcements. Most spring training games still finish in two and a half hours, despite the fact that every batter is still trying to find himself at the plate, and despite the fact that there is a pitching change every two innings. Baseball moves at whatever pace is necessary.

So why is it, if games were shorter twenty years ago, did they seem so much longer to me then? Perhaps it’s that, as a child, everything seems to take longer. A year which zips by now would have been a significant fraction of my life when I was seven, eight, nine years old.

I remember my father taking me to see games starting when I was about five. Back then, a trip to a game was a major excursion. It was more like spending a day at an amusement park than, say, going to see a movie. We’d pack food, as if we were camping out. Even when I was ten years old, I remember the games seeming endless. It was not because I was bored–far from it–it was like a different measure of time took over. An afternoon at the ballpark had plenty of time for a hot dog, an ice cream bar, a knish, plus the fried chicken and fruit and other goodies mom had brought. There was time to roam the stadium, exploring the ramps and souvenir stands and escalators. There was time to forget all about school–like we were on vacation. We never wanted them to end, either, except for the fact, of course, that if the game didn’t end, then our team couldn’t win. Our team in those days was the Yankees, and Yankee Stadium was our amusement park, our Disneyland.

Nowadays I live hundreds of miles from the Stadium, but I still go down there a few times a year for a reunion with my parents and family. They say the Yankees play slower games, on average, than any other team. Thank goodness! Now that I’m a grown-up, those three and a half hours in the ballpark seems like a precious short time. Because the game can still make me forget school/work/deadlines, but all too soon, it’s over, and we’re waking up from the dream and back to reality. There’s just this brief window of time in which to bask in the baseball.

Remember twi-night doubleheaders? I know the players didn’t like them, but for me, that was the greatest. That really was an all-day excursion. Dad liked to park in this tiny parking lot right near the giant Louisville Slugger outside the Stadium, and you had to get there early for that. These days that parking lot is gone, replaced by a multi-level garage. But in those days, we’d be two hours early at least for the first game, and sit in the upper deck eating fried chicken and watching batting practice. Then we’d have that whole game, and then a break, and then ANOTHER game. Gluttony. That’s what it was. And we loved it.

Now, whether I am seeing a game at Fenway, or in a small Florida spring training facility, or some minor league park, I always like to arrive as early as possible. And I’m typically still standing in my seat until the last player has left the field, the final announcements have been made, and most of the rest of the spectators have left. Anything to make it last just a little longer. Because baseball time, magical as it is, does come to an end.

(originally published in Baseball Ink Vol. 2, No. 2 – September 2001)

Fiction by C. B. Rothwell

Conversations with Connie Mack’s White Elephants

(This document was found among receipts, contracts and other miscellaneous papers in a cardboard box stored in a warehouse after Shibe Park was demolished. Interestingly, the questions are not included, only the players’ answers. The interviewer is also unknown.)

Tully Hartsel: “Now Plank, there was a specimen! Reminded me of a spider, all lanky and stretched out, with limbs goin every which way. And that’s before he threw the ball! As a leadoff man myself, I can tell you he used to drive batters batty! Me, I had patience so’s I’d wait out those kind of pitchers. But most guys were so anxious to hit, that by the time Eddie got ready to toss the damn thing, they were tight as a over-wound watch. Very deliberate fellow. Took his job as seriously like a banker. His smile muscles musta withered after childhood cause I never saw him smile. Like warm up pitches he hardly ever threw; why use em if ya don’t have to?!”

John McInnis: “To lose Lajoie that way was like being forced to eat live grasshoppers. Collins? That was like having caramel poured over them.”

Eddie Collins: “I really loved playing second base. It was like being in a tree where you’re on the ideal limb and see through the branches like you’d pruned them. If a left-handed hitter was late you could hear it coming your way. All the hard stuff was down the line, and I didn’t envy that other side of the infield anymore than the guy who catches cannon balls with his stomach at the circus! But God, I loved diving for those liners trying to get by on either side, leaving the ground and feeling that hard ball in your glove nest. Plank? Oh yes, he would wait until all the birds had stopped singing before he’d throw. Reminded me of my grandmother. Because she’d just sit there and rock and knit, rock and knit. Ed would knit his monogram on the ball before he threw it. Very effective since this game is all timing. Born pitcher. Suitable for framing.”

Frank Baker: “Everything about this game is beyond our ability to appreciate appropriately. Mr. Mack was so shrewd at putting teams together. Thinking back, what other team could lose Waddell, Lajoie, and Joe Jackson and still be so powerful? The reason folks get dizzy thinking about the greatest teams in the history of this game is simply because, like women, not one can truly be compared to another because of the uniqueness of each one’s beauty. I really think that’s why people believe in God. Because it is the ideal source of all. The gavel lands – the brain rests.”

Charles Bender: “Once I put on my bird cage and strapped on the leather, my pitches hitting the catcher’s mitt sent smoke signals to the opposition to raise the white flag! What’s a ‘bird cage?’ Our hats, of course. Where do you think Stengel got the idea with the bird? Mr. Mack was a real gentleman, a real man in the strongest sense. To win for him was a source of great pride. And to see those eyes twinkle! But he was deceptive. He knew the angles and of course there weren’t all those umpires standing around like there are now. ‘Cunning’ is how I’d describe him. A real blue print for a manager. ‘Statuesque’ in the highest sense. Mr. Mack and McGraw were perfect twin opposites. But like Matty and McGraw the differences ended when it came to winning. In 1911 it was like two freight trains coming around the mountain from different directions on the same track. And when you beat McGraw you knew you’d beaten the best – you were also sure you’d outplayed someone who couldn’t stomach losing. Anytime!”

Harry Morgan: “I don’t feel like saying nothin’. Ya play this game. Talkin’ just makes trouble.”

Jack Coombs: “Our staff was the best in the game. Ask Ira Thomas our catcher about that. But don’t ask him which one was best! He’ll never tell for fear of jinxing the others.”

Danny Murphy: “Loved playing for Connie. Who doesn’t love taking the field for a winner? When I saw Collins play, I was glad I could catch fly balls! I’d pull the local micks out for home games, and it was always somebody else’s house for dinner those nights. But those Philadelphia fans could be tough, their Liberty Bells were all a little bit cracked! Winning almost spoiled them. Like an old man ya just can’t please. Very demanding. I stuck to my crowd and had a ball. Oh, 1911. No question bout it. No question. Best.”

Amos Strunk: “Baseball was like going to sleep and having your favorite dream! Its always new. Never the same. Always something. The fans acted like it was candy. Grown men whooping like five-year-olds at a party or crying like women over a cake that didn’t rise. But we went through it all together, the cranks and the players in the big parlor called ‘The Ballpark.’ It was like being home. Never growing old or breaking down. And you were sure it was going to last forever. There was only right now. And it was always enough. Just enough steps to first base. Just enough time to double the guy off second. Just enough of what people want. Like a candle flame all pregnant with itself! Something beautiful in every way…”

Jack Lapp: “Just sitting on the bench with these guys was like having a perch on the throne.”

Harry Krause: “Well, I don’t believe in free will. Fate is everything. You don’t have no say. Just kick some ass when your chance comes. That’s what I did. The rest is up to your guardian angel, who I’m suing for lack of support!”

Rube Oldring: “Now hear me out. Nobody knows nothin they didn’t always know. Been thinking bout this and seems like forever and I’m sayin that everybody knows everything, they just don’t know it! Like baseball, the only security is knowing there is no security. Its like hitting a home run, or better yet, makin love – you gotta touch all the bases before you’re home free. This world’s a perfect place. And if you’re not confused, you’re not thinkin clearly.”

Eddie Plank: “Technique? Get em’ out! I didn’t necessarily pitch fast or slow. I pitched according to my precise measurements, which is how I size up each hitter, in each situation, with each pitch and his reaction to it determining the next kind of pitch he deserves. If you’ve got the stuff, it becomes a battle for the hitter’s mind. Once I got his attention, I ignored it and pitched the ball like I wanted, exactly where I wanted it- in my head – and then I threw it like I just thought. Right. Each pitch. Well, there’s different ways a man can react in battle. General McClellen couldn’t turn the final corner, go over the last hill or bring an end to a battle he had already won. The killer instinct must be there. Grant, for example, was behind the count almost all the time he was in against Lee, but it always stimulated his inner drive to get the better of his man. Which he did over and again ’til he won. It’s you or him. And it was never going to be me with my teammates behind me out there. I would lead them in there and we’d take ‘em ‘out. And they’d die behind their eyes.”

Harry Davis: “Mr. Mack and his prodigy, Mr. Waddell, were a strange couple. Rube was a very odd duck, and it was just a matter of time ’til he flew the coop. But Mr. Mack got the most out of him when he needed him most. A lot like his teams. He would keep them together, get 100% from them, and then it was like he went to see a ‘Reader’ who told him to fold up the tent and away they went. Could take one or two years or ten. He just knew when he had to do what he had to do. Even he would tell you it was out of his hands, he was just reading the handwriting on the wall, etc. But I can tell you Waddell was by far the hardest for him to lose! Oh yes. By far! But then Rube was the furtherest gone before he went than anyone else any of us ever knew. If he had a fraction of the ability to focus on his skills as he did the air he blew into those balloons that took him away…well…he reminded me of a child who was never told about death.”

(originally published in Baseball Ink Vol. 2, No. 2 – September 2001)