Baseball Diary Vol 1, #17

October 21, 1982
Los Angeles

Cover by Jagne Parkes

Report from the Editor
Welcome to the final issue of Baseball Diary, Volume 1!

We recently received a submission for a proposed BD cover. It depicts a collage celebrating the Giants triumph over the Dodgers, with such newspaper clipping headlines as "48,000 cheer as Dodgers are Knocked Out of Playoffs!", a photo of a despondent Tommy Lasorda crying in the dugout, and this Giants fan quote: "I'm so happy we knocked those guys out of it. That's all that counts. If you're a Giants fan you hate the Dodgers, I don't really know why, maybe it's because they're so arrogant!"

We'd like to take a little space at this point to consider San Francisco Giants fans.

A couple of issues ago, you may recall Jack Hastings' tale of his journey to Ensenada. The next day, Jack called Ms. Copeland and me to join him at the Ravine for the Dodgers/Giants game. When we got there, we found him sitting on a curb yelling at passing fans and taking sips off a bottle of cheap tequila. We picked him up and brought him into the park with us; he was loud and swearing a lot but not totally out of control. It was an overcast, rainy day, and the game was delayed for three hours. There were a lot of Giant fans in attendance. The game was finally played and San Francisco completed their three game sweep. By the end of the game, those of us rooting for the Dodgers were pretty melancholy, but the Giants boosters were really feeling their oats. Now everyone knows about the fans of Candlestick Park: the average fan there gets into at least one fight at the ballpark per season and knows no greater joy in life than urinating in the stands, preferably in front of a small child. As we left Dodger Stadium that evening, we became involved in a scene concerning a few SF fans beating on a couple of Dodger fans. In the space of a few minutes, the following occurred, in roughly this order: Giant fans call Dodger fans fags, Giant fans beat on LA fans, Ms. C runs for security guards, to distract the perps I declare my love for homosexuals at the top of my lungs, a drooling Jack tries to pull fighters apart, I try to help him, fighters stop, we try to leave, fight resumes, I begin cawing at the top of my lungs, Jack tries to separate fighters and they all fall down and a slobbering Jack sprains his wrist, Ms. C returns with guard, he breaks things up, we try to leave and big Giant fan with a bleeding broken nose tries to fight me because he thinks I think I'm "such a big shot", I tell him I'm not a big shot and swiftly retreat, his friends finally pull him away.

So tell me something: are these people all stupid or just burned out from too many drugs and too many good vibes gone bad?

The cover submission was rejected.


Reflections on a Sensuous Season
by the Big O

What is it about daytime Dodger Stadium games being such a great aphrodisiac? Is it the heat, the (excess) beer and wine; the various baseball sights, sounds and smells, or a combination of the above? I don't think so. I believe it's Dodger blue, or actually the blue paint generously used throughout the stadium that brings on these feelings of eagerness. I can recall several very steamy and erotic instances of lust and all out leg kicking passion in the Dodger Stadium parking lot before, during and after daytime games. (Maybe night games are too cold or the sexy blue color cannot be properly appreciated at night.) Anyway, the "importance of color" is a much discussed topic these days, and I think good ol' Dodger (Stadium) blue, as reflected only from warm moist sunlight, will act as the likely new logo for lucky libidos lusting for lascivious lovelocks.


Letters

Dear Editor:
Not long ago, you sent me a letter asking, "Where's the submission"? (Editor's note: this never happened.) Well here it is, my study of Submission 1982 - the end of the baseball season. It pictures World Series pitchers Bruce Sutter and Caldwell, respectively taming and rising above the submissive What's-his-name from SF, who isn't above taking his leisure on top of several unfortunates: LA's Landreaux, watching the big-hit-that-could-have-been, the eminently submissive Mr. Linares checking out teammate Washington's interpretation of the Brave's dance, Lefebvre of SD suffering at the feet of What's-his-face (with the glasses), the Angels' Fred Lynn with a day-early morning-after, and LA's Steve Sax exulting while Who's-it salutes Dodgerdom. By the bye, my condolences to the Fearless Forecaster - an upset season's hard to call.
(Name Withheld by Request)

Dear NWR:
Your submission is also being rejected.


Dear Editor:
I couldn't sit back and let this cruel, heartless woman Jagne Parkes portray "my birds" in such a manner as she has on the current cover of BD #15. Birds are creatures of the wild and have no place in baseball except to nest on the roofs of stadia, or perhaps to fly over a game looking for bits of leftover Dodger Dogs. To portray the statuesque Flamingo as the head of a player is sheer mockery and I won't stand for it! Perhaps it would be best if she were forced to go to every home game next year. I hope in the future you will use better judgement in what you allow your staff to do. I've enjoyed BD until now, although I have to admit to yawning and squirming more than once while reading FF's detailed column (stats never were my favorite). Come on, Ed, isn't there some sport we could get into to continue this dear diary (no pun intended)? Isn't there a more talented and tasteful graphics director in this great big city of ours?
Westside Woman
Los Angeles

Dear WW:
You are a wretched, cowardly shrew. You send an anonymous poison pen letter attacking a talented artist. You imply that going to baseball games is agony. You criticize Mr. Baseballhead, the incomparable Fearless Forecaster. And then you want more BD. My dear, hasn't anyone told you? There aren't any other sports.


Dear BD:
Number 15 was a truly splendid issue. So splendid I even interrupt my crossword to tell you so. (Five letter word meaning Koran supplement SUNNA.) They say the artist must suffer. Perhaps this is so. There was a great depth and clarity of emotion to your opening piece. It brought a sensation to my eye not unlike that of the sliced onion. (Five letter word meaning famed diarist PEPYS.) Perhaps suffering has brought out the best of BD. Kudos as well to Faithful But Despondent Dodger Fan whose poetic eulogy for downed Dodgers had a terse honesty that said it all. (Nine letter word meaning garment of the good old days CRINOLINE.) Reporter Jack should be shot. His rambling excuse for not doing the assignment belongs either in Fear and Loathing in Ensenada or National Geographic, not a serious art/news mag re: baseball. (Four letter word of derision BOSH.) Of course Forecaster puts much in perspective in usual fine, fearless and funny fashion (SIX letter word meaning acts of daring STUNTS.) Aside to Jagne Parkes: I like covers a lot and not becasue I have to or you will nail my glasses to my face. They are truly baseball as I myself have seen it after sharing joints with cholos behind the souvenir stand. (Eight letter word meaning lays on thickly SLATHERS.) Am awaiting next issue with breath so bated my fillings are melting. (Four letter word meaning dash ELAN.)
PS: (TEN letter phrase meaning storage place for hot dogs at a baseball stadium COOTIE HOLE.)
A. Loyal (Call me Al) Reader
Los Angeles

Dear Al:
How dare you attack dear old Jack, you scuzzbag. We'll be the ones who decide what's pertinent to this publication. Maybe you better stick to your puzzles.


Dear Baseball Diary:
Guera sure enjoys a little hard ball, but let's leave Tommy DeMarco and his CUTE BUTT out of this game. And she still hasn't answered my question from BD #15 about artsie-fartsie! I guess I'll just have to stay in the dark till next season rolls around. Speaking of next season, I hope BD plans to return in '83. Despite what some people think I really don't mind baseball or baseball players, and I've enjoyed (GREATLY) being a part of this publication. Please look me up in the Spring; I'll be here, unless Guera's had me driven out of town (that vixen). Thanks again and I look forward to Volume 2 of Baseball Diary. Your totally mad and deranged cover artist,
Jagne Parkes
Los Angeles

Dear Jagne:
We would like to take this opportunity to thank you for your remarkable covers this season. Your unique vision of the American Pastime hit the nail on the head with such accuracy that many people seemed disturbed by what you chose to depict. We suppose a glimpse of the truth now and then can be uncomfortable. Thank you again, and a special thanks for this last issue effort.


Back to the Editor
And so the stadiums fill with ghosts of baseball past for another winter. I spent last night, the night of Game Seven of the '82 World Series, with neighbors, Tecate, old friends, and pilaf. A great part of this year's Series was wondering if Brewer Manager Harvey Kuenn would let loose with his tobacco spittle before the national television cameras cut away from him. I enjoyed this Series because it went seven games as I predicted and because it sought to resolve once and for all the question of which is the better approach: speed or power. Alas, the issue remains open. I loved it that the Cardinals came back to slaughter the Brewers in game six as they had been slaughtered in Game One. I loved the terrible trio of Molitor, Yount and Cooper. I think it's funny that half the St. Louis team looks like E.T. I think it's funny that every time a Brewer hits a home run in their ballpark, a man slides into a giant mug of beer in the center field bleachers. I admire Joaquin Andujar for playing with a short deck and a lot of guts. I admire Harvey Kuenn for managing with half a right leg and a mouth full of sputum. I missed the Dodgers, but they'll be back, and with ol' Garv too. I want to thank everyone who contributed to this publication and especially Copeland/Ramos. I want to wish a big pedo in the direction of everyone who received this for a month or more and never contributed anything. The answer to the last Ken Koss Kwiz: Second Baseman Bobby Richardson is the only Yank to have played in all 30 consecutive '60-'64 World Series games. (Sure, Ken.) This weekend I'm going to the book store to buy some books: The Sinister First Baseman and Other Observations, How Life Imitates the World Series, and Remembrance of Things Past, and I'm going to read them this winter and I'll let you know how I liked them next spring.

Well, it's late and I'm tired and I've got to catch up with some sleep. Pleasant dreams, y'all.


FINAL NOTE:
Dear Editor:
This is Guera watching a ballgame at her home. She was about to bite into her ever-present Dodger Dog when Tommy Herr's buttocks appeared on the tube. I don't think it's worth Jagne's effort to clash with such a fanatic.
Best Regards,
Tommy DiMarco
Los Angeles

Baseball Diary Vol 1, #16

October 13, 1982
Los Angeles

"There are no good teams in the World Series, only great teams." R. Jackson

Cover Image by Jagne Parkes

(Note: Here we are on the first night of the 1982 World Series. This issue is devoted to four letters and an advice column. We assume the choice of subject of the first two contributors was arrived at unbeknownst to each other.)

Dear Editor:
Thought you'd like to see a little tidbit of mine that wormed its way into the Chron last week. We fans here in Oakland, as you may know, have been subjected to a "Billy Ball" hype for the last few years, a "different brand of baseball", or so they say. It is, of course, poppycock, unless you can believe that a team that loses 94 games plays anything but shitty baseball, pure and simple. Anyway, earlier this month (September) the A's were being thrashed by the Blue Jays, and manager Billy Martin just couldn't take it anymore. He broke down and cried after the game. Really, who could blame him? He had convinced himself, his team, his owners, and a good many people around the country that the A's were for real. Just how he did that with no infield, no bench, and no bullpen is anybody's guess. I'm not putting him down for crying (I cry regularly myself, especially at weddings and Yankee losses), but I've really been insulted by this idiotic "Billy Ball" business. Well, I couldn't help it, and Martin's despair gave me the chance I've been waiting for for a long time. This was the first time I've ever written to the paper. Maybe Baseball Diary could run a contest: first one to get a letter in the Times wins some kind of prize. BD could run some of the losers.
Richard Rosen
Oakland, California

Dear Richard:
We reprint for the edification of our readership your letter to the sports editor of the San Francisco Chronicle as it appeared on the 25th of September, 1982:

A NEW NICKNAME
Editor - Billy Martin in tears? This is a new brand of A's baseball: Billy Bawl.
R. Rosen
Oakland


Dear Editor:
Enclosed is a proposed advice column, "Dear Billy", in which "subjective and penetrating" questions will be answered in the spirit of the baseball world's most sensitive man: Billy Martin. If you like, "Dear Billy" can be sent on a regular basis. I envision "Dear Billy" to be a forum for social, athletic, and political questions of the day. To quote the great answer man himself: "There is no such thing as a stupid question. Ridiculous, yes, but never stupid!"

I hope you and your loved ones are holding up under the tremendous disappointment of the playoffs. I certainly hope this isn't the end of Baseball Diary! I noted that your cash contributors now are predominately Northern Californians. I'd hate to have to blame BOTH the use of our water and our cash reserves on the South!

I ran into our old comrade, JB Jones at the Crocker Art Museum (in Sacramento) the other night. He says he will be sending a submission to BD soon. He vividly remembered the day that he "kidnapped" us, "forced" us to drink beer, and "humiliated" us into playing horse shoes! Somehow, he still seems to have a great deal of satisfaction at how many people were mad at us for having so much "fun". At the same fete, I watched Kent Lacin, ever the elegant and lovely jazz pianist, play the beautiful old mahogany grand in the ballroom of the Museum. I gave him a bouquet of roses, and he was really touched. (In other words, he did not call me an incompetent slut in front of 2000 onlookers.) There were many people there from our past. A couple of lunatics like Ethan Aronson and Tom Witt ruined an otherwise wonderful evening with a performance in the park across the street that entailed swinging flashlights on chains and setting off a cherry bomb in a cannon. I don't know, Fuller, after seeing Laurie Anderson, I know that there is no reason to present schlock in the guise of performance art. Anyway, Pat Minor is now the art tech at the Crocker. Roger "the Clis" Clisby, Crocker curator (that tactless bumpkin), greeted me by exclaiming how remarkable my new hair color is. (It's neither remarkable OR new.) I hear he's going through a curatorial menopause.

Enough said,
Viola Weinberg
Sausalito, California

Dear Viola:
The next issue of Baseball Diary will be the last for Volume 1, though the end of the season has more to do with it being the last issue than our editorial despair. We publish for the edification of our readership your prototype for "Dear Billy"; hopefully it can be a regular feature next year.


Dear Billy:
An Advice Column Written by the Black Holes of Baseball
Nothing Escapes Us!

Dear Billy:
My problem is a rather delicate one. I am a newly wed, living in a major metropolitan area. My husband and I were engaged during last year's super-long season, and at the time, I was impressed at his sexual restraint. Since I was a virgin, I thought that "Fernando" (not his real name) was simply showing respect for my purity. Well, we tied the knot at the climactic end of last season's World Series after watching the Dodger cavalcade on an Advent Screen close to our offices.

At first, life was wonderful. It was basketball season by then, and who cares about a bunch of guys in their briefs who can slam dunk by standing over a hoop? But, soon, baseball season was upon us, and my love life took a dive. Dear Billy, here is the problem: I have not had "relations" with my husband since the first exhibition games back in the Spring. In fact, I haven't even had a conversation with the man since the Giants got into the running. Last weekend, I found "Fernando" rocking back and forth on his heels in front of the TV set, mumbling something about Steve Garvey. What is wrong with me? Not only do I dress and diet for this man, I memorized baseball cards and learn the league standings as they are released.
Dying for a 7th Inning Stretch
Needles, California

Dear Dying:
Don't blame yourself, blame Tom Lasorda! Or blame "Fernando". This sexual condition (or lack thereof) is a very important aspect of baseball zealousy. With it, we would have no Oakland A's fans! Sexual deprivation is an integral part of the American way in regards to sports. When the teams go into training, so do the fans! Across the country at this very moment, there are millions of men who have rigorously trained for the Series by lifting cans of beer and waving pennants. As for your frustrations, I suggest a membership in a relatively new, but effective organization designed specially to deal with this very phenomena: Sex Without Partners. It may not seem like an attractive group at the moment, but will keep you in the running for "relations" during the off-season. Write to me care of Baseball Diary for details. And remember, I care.

Dear Billy:
I am an attractive but shy junior high-schooler, who loves baseball. I have never had a girl friend, but have developed herpes on my hands. some of the guys told me that you can catch it from spit-balls. Is this true? And is it true that I can cure spit-ball herpes by swinging the third base bag over my head three times, while yelling "slide, slide, slide!"?
Just a Guy
Layfette, Montana

Dear Guy:
While it is possible to get herpes from an infected source who slobbers, I personally think you got it by thinking about girls while you should have been tagging runners at home base. The cure you mention has not been tested, but sounds like a good bet, anyway. See your doctor and keep your mitt on! And remember, I care.

Dear Billy:
Ah jist want ta write in an' ask yew jist one li'l ole thang: why issit that theah has nevah been a con-tribu-tion in Basebahl Di-ary from an Atlanta Braves fan? Nat'ully, Ah have attended many games, an' found them ta be the best ole boys in baseball. Ah anticipate a warm an' rewardin' Series that will give the South the credit that it all de-serves.
President Jimmy Carter
Plains, Georgia

Dear Jim-boy:
There has never been a letter from an Atlanta Braves fan in Baseball Diary because there are none. About the way you signed this letter: you can call yourself president all you like, but the country knows you haven't been in office for nearly two years. If you go to the playoffs to root for Atlanta, your only friends will be die-hard Yankee fans who would rather see the pennant taken by an Eastern Seaboard team than ANY team west of the Rockies. And remember, I care.


Dear Editor:
I've been very busy with my Samadhi lessons over in San Fran - (Oops, sorry, I don't mean to upset you Lower Californians) over in this city across the bay from where I live, and I haven't had the chance to respond to that very pointed letter from Guera in (BD Vol 1 #14 or so). Say, by the by, what the dickens do you mean by implying that I wouldn't answer her, huh? Are you still after me about that question from you-know-who that I couldn't answer that one time? Jeez, how about a break? Despite ample evidence to the contrary, I'm only human.

Anyway, Guera, I may have been exaggerating a tad in my tirade against poor old Frank White and plastic grass. Frank is really a very decent second sacker, altho of course, not in a class with, say, Manny Trillo or Joe Morgan (in his prime). And oh, while we're on the subject of tirades, what in the heck was Ken Koss hinting at in his World Series re-cap about Mickey Mantle in '57? Huh? Huh? It's one thing to claim that Frank White is better than Willie Randolph, but it's quite another to insinuate that the Mick was dogging it in game four. Let's not forget he was coming off his second straight MVP year, in which he hit .365, scored 121 runs, and had a slugging pee-see-tee of .665. Hey, Ken, Mickey Mantle was the greatest one-legged outfielder ever, and I shudder to think what he might of done on two good wheels. Willie Mays? Sure, he was good, and sure, so was the Duke. But Mickey Mantle - well, anyway, Guera, plastic grass is much more "regular" than the real stuff and you get truer hops. Of course, I'm not suggesting that the fake grass will turn a bad fielder into a good one, but it's just that infielders will get fewer errors on balls that take tricky hops. By the way, plastic grass is an abomination that has turned traditional baseball into a kind of giant pinball game. Baseball was created by God to be played on grass, real, green, sweet-smelling grass that grows when you water it and dies when you don't. The only good thing about plastic grass is that it forces you to get fast guys to play on it, especially in the outfield. This has resulted in the resurrection of the stolen base as an offensive weapon, which makes the game more exciting. Those "erratic kangaroo jumps" you referred to occur primarily in the outfield after fly balls have dropped in for hits. This does indeed cause fielding problems for outfielders, but not usually for infielders. Of course, *I'd need a computer and some stats for the last 15 or so years to PROVE that plastic is easier to field on than grass. All I know is, you're not going to have a grounder take a weird bounce off a pebble and crack you in the knee for a big E-6 on plastic, unless they've got plastic pebbles out there too.

As for catcher's interference, it's really self-explanatory: the catcher somehow interferes with the batter, usually by getting his glove in the way of the swing. This does happen now and then, particularly with hitters who stand deep in the box. And hey, I liked the way you brought up the unfortunate fact that there are no women in pro ball. I have an article on this very subject, and all I need is a socially-conscious, baseball-oriented magazine to publish it. You wouldn't know of any, would you?
Fearless Forecaster
Oakland, California

Dear Fearless Forecaster:
Thanks for shedding light on Guera's questions. And speaking of the lovely lady...


Dear Editor:
This is directed to Jagne DeSade Medici: yes, Ms. Medici, Botticelli IS the ARTIST - as everyone knows. Who is Tommy DiMarco, anyhow, your acquaintance Mr. Potatohead? (Does he have a butt as nice as Tommy Herr's?) Your latest macabre desecration of a ballplayer (last issue's cover) was more than I could take. Do you have something against baseball or are you completing these pieces with Joe Morgan in mind? Whatever the reason, it doesn't really matter anymore after Candlestick Sunday. So get in the last few blows and maybe you'll be more inspired next season.
PS: I'd rather duel in Chavez Ravine.
Guerra
Los Angeles


Here's the answer to the latest Ken Koss Kwiz, straight from KK's lips: "Mel Allen was announcing the '63 Series when his own snot got caught in his throat. It was the Dodgers and Yanks and Vin Scully and Jerry Doggett were covering LA; they were in the booth next to Allen. Doggett was on the air at the time for the Dodgers and when Scully saw what was happening to Allen, he jumped into Mel's booth and took over the play by play."
(Sure, Ken.)

The Last Ken Koss Kwiz:
Of the five straight World Series the New York Yankees appeared in, what Yankee player played in all 30 games?

Baseball Diary is published and edited by William Fuller

Baseball Diary Vol 1, #15

October 6, 1982
Los Angeles

"They would not let go of it, they refused to let it end, and they even persuaded the reluctant...television network that this was the thing to do, this was the place to be, that this was no time to go quietly into the dark of winter."
David Israel, Los Angeles Herald Examiner

Cover Image (and a fine one it is) by Jagne Parks


Report from the Editor
There were four of us here when it happened: the staff of Baseball Diary and Mr. Greg Faulds, who has recently opened his doors to allow us to type, paste-up, etc. each issue in his well-equipped domicile. We yelled a lot during the course of the game, expletives flying, cheers at the top of our lungs. But I remember one moment in particular, a moment of silence. It occurred when the Giants had achieved a debilitating blow against LA. No one cheered and no one cursed. We all seemed lost in our own thoughts, and yet there was a collective sadness. Greg stared at the TV; he's not a particularly avid baseball fan, but he seemed to sense the despair that was developing. Maria had not even liked the Dodgers in years gone by, but through her association with BD had grown to appreciate the team and now seemed stunned. Donna looked at the TV screen and I could see her pretty eyes glaze over and take on a red, shiny appearance. I looked at the people around me and I looked at what was going on in Candlestick Park and I thought about the last six months, every day since April 10 watching and listening and reading about a group of men involved in what we call a "sport". We died with them in July and we rose with them in August and we laughed when they won and frowned when they lost and now it was about to be over.

We don't imagine it means all that much in the overall scheme of things, and BD will continue to cover the baseball scene through its conclusion this season, but perhaps the spirit won't be quite the same. Baseball is an everyday experience for six months and illusory, imaginary friendships are a part of it. One person feels this player is almost like a brother, another person feels the player should be traded, another player is playing what may be his last year with a particular team. The eternal confrontation between two people trying to outdo each other (pitcher/batter) is given rules and a code of ethics. I remember as a child telling a young friend that my sister could beat him up. He said she couldn't and so they had a little fight. As he relentlessly pummeled her, I remember the agony I felt. When I broke the fight up, I'm sure I felt far worse than she. It's horrid seeing friends and relatives physically or emotionally beaten, and yet we hear of the plight of strangers every day and hardly think twice. Why add on other devotions to groups of people we don't really know called "athletes"? For most, it's a childhood inculturation we can't fight. For some of us it's something else; perhaps we should know better. I suppose that right now, there are people making music, people making love, people at movie houses laughing, people enjoying good food, fine wine, people getting married and people enjoying their newborn child. But folks, there ain't no joy in Mudville - my sister's out for the count.


Lament
by Faithful but Despondent Dodger Fan

We watched
We hoped
We prayed
We cursed
We held our magic charms and our breath
Our boys in Blue went down and with them
The man of iron
Mr. Clean
Mr. Baseball
GAR-VEY
So the year's at an end
They came in second
We had all the chances and dropped them
All hope shattered, our team out
I can hear the relentless
"I told you so's" now -
Fairweather fans -
Competitors -
Bleechk!
So much for World Series Tickets and Blue in '82
Emotional fall Sunday
Tears on parade
Be a hero Garv
Be a hero, yeah?
On some other team in '83
We'll be there waiting in '83


Report from Chavez Ravine, Interrupted Part II
by Jack Hastings

(Note: A couple of weeks ago, we had asked Jack Hastings to cover the second game in the San Francisco/Los Angeles series concluding the teams' 1982 season at Chavez Ravine. He said he would. A few days after the game, we received a memorandum from him. The first half was printed in the last issue of Baseball Diary. The conclusion follows. It finds Jack, cover artist Jagne Parks, and cunning capitalist Tommy DiMarco driving on a "...full tank of gas, ice chest full of Seagrams and Bud..." towards what they think is San Francisco to rescue some friends from despair and surrender.)

Chief, baby, it was hard for us to believe we'd been on the road for six or seven hours when we topped a rise and looked out over a hazy sea of lights, rolling up to a row of toll booths shortly thereafter. The Golden Gate Bridge was weirder than I remembered it. There were two sets of booths, one after the other, and at the second one this oily, moustachioed type only charged us 29 cents to pass. There was a lot more chain link and barbed wire around than the last time I'd been across but we were too busy celebrating our arrival to give it much thought.

A niggling suspicion hatched into a full-fledged paranoia as we drove on and on into an increasing murk and a deteriorating highway that soon faded to two lanes with no sign of bridge or bay. Even the road sighs, which had not exactly been what you could call legible to our glazed eyes, looked very strange. Maybe the Big One had finally hit and rearranged the geography some or, more likely, we had done a woojie and slipped into the wrong slot on one of those incomprehensible interchanges back in LA.

Either way we weren't where we were supposed to be and getting there now would probably be a lot less than half the fun. We had to unwind the string all the way to the end of the spool. A Newtonian physics of the mind had us in its grasp. We'd stopped caring about destinations somewhere around about 30,000 of those little, white dots ago and whether we were in San Francisco or, as you may have guessed, Mexico, didn't make much difference to us anymore as long as that gray snake kept uncoiling into the night. We drove on and hoped the chums could find some other way out of their dire straits.

A long time on, as a matter of fact, Chief, into a moist darkness that smelled like old oil and a dead sea until at last we coasted into a medium-sized city that looked like Modesto on a bad night. We had reached the end of the line.

To tell you the truth, Boss, I don't really remember that much of Ensenada. I got a few patches here and there but nothing with any real continuity. Like I remember punching out a parking meter because Hussong Cantina (and all the other bars) was closed. And seeing a machine gun-toting Federale patrolling the street that sent me spinning into a Costa-Gavras fantasy dark plots and bloody coups. And eating some really good machaca burritos in a little restaurant that could've been on Broadway or Pico except for the incredibly cheap price and that the ceiling in the men's room was only about four foot from the floor which called for some rather strange contortions on my part. And these three enormous stone heads perched along the sea wall like a cross between Magritte and Rameses II.

And worst of all I remember waking up. With the flies buzzing and the Mexican sun pouring hard, white heat through the windshield and my head as swollen as one of those huge busts.

I'm tellin' you, Chief, Mexico in the light of day is enough like a bad hangover in itself to make a real megaton mind-melt feel like the kind of hell George Steinbrenner deserves to go to in the hereafter.

Somehow, after we had struggled painfully back to something approaching consciousness, Tommy DiMarco (that man of steel) got us the hell out of there. Wound us all the way back along the narrow coast road (where we wondered how close we'd come to the edge of the now visible and rather dizzying cliffs on some of those pee-stops the night before) to Tijuana and back across the Border into the land of Safeway and through San Diego (where we stopped for a breakfast that made me sicker than anything I'd eaten in Mexico) and finally right up to the very portals of Dodger Stadium with five minutes to spare before game-time.

I crawled out of the car I'd made my home for the past 16 hours and lurched across the parking lot, headed for the press gate. Then, borne by an ill wind from the nosebleed section, my nostrils were assailed by the unmistakable fragrance of a Dodger Dog and everything went black.

I woke up two days later in my apartment and immediately began this memo to you so's you'd know the how and why and everything in between. I just want you to remember, Chief, what those bum Giants did to the Dodgers right there in Chavez Ravine and that if it hand't been for a phone call from SAN FRANCISCO (!), none of this would've happened.

By the way, Thom-with-an-H and Matt made out okay after all, stuck it out in San Francisco and are now fabulously wealthy and leading fully rounded and richly rewarding lives.

Maybe you should shred this after reading. You know how sensitive the toes of some of our Northern California readers and correspondents are.


Year End Rap Up
by The Fearless Forecaster

(Note: Have no doubt about it, the following was written before the Playoffs began.)

Sometime last April, I submitted to Baseball Diary my fearless forecasts for the 1982 baseball season. In case some of you may have missed them, I picked LA and Montreal to win in the NL, and New York and Chicago in the AL. (By the way, I have an early issue of BD here dated 5 April picking the Dodgers and Expos in the NL and - hey, pretty good - Milwaukee and California in the AL). I really don't know WHAT I was thinking back then. It was Spring, I guess, and maybe my head was ll stuffed with pollen, but I looked down the rosters of all 26 teams and it seemed logical somehow that the best team (sure, on paper) in each division would win the title. (By the way, I looked down those rosters in my STREET AND SMITH'S, who are in their 42nd year, and who also selected LA, Montreal, New York, and the ChiSox to go all the way.)

The NL West is, of course, far and away the biggest surprise. The Dodgers are clearly the best team in that division, especially with the decline of Cincinnati and Houston. I picked Atlanta to finish 4th, and I felt at the time I was being generous. How did the braves do it? Easy: the Dodgers said, "Here, take it." In the NL East, I thought Montreal had a slight edge over St. Louis, who I picked for 2nd, and Philadelphia, who I put in the 3rd slot. What can I say? The Expos have speed, power, defense, and pitching. When thy picked up Al Oliver for a song from Texas, I figured that would put them over the hump. What happened here? Heck, don't awsk me, I've been too busy cleaning the pollen off my brain to pay attention. I would, however, like to predict here and now that Jim Fanning will not be managing in Montreal in 1983. (Ed Note: FF's right on that one.)

A lot of people liked Chicago in the AL West in 1982. Why not? They had some speed, some pop, and what seemed like a million great young pitchers. I picked KC for second and the Angels for third (S&S had them 5th and so did the SPORTING NEWS who, by the way, picked CINCINNATI to win in the NL West.) The Angels just seemed to have too many question marks: Was Reggie washed up? Did Fred Lynn really, really, really want to be a baseball player? Could DeCinces bend over? Who was going to pitch? I would like to point out that i had Oakland 4th, while most everyone else had them one or two. Living as I do IN Oakland (yes, Gertrude, there IS a there there) I've had the chance to follow "Billy Ball": very closely. It was, as they say, a hype, which has really rankled me for the last two years. I hope to God (if there is one) that they try to promote the team some other way in 1983.

And finally, the AL East. I'm not sure I can go through with this. It's, it's just too painful and I - let me say this about the Yuckees: when they win, George is colorful and controversial, and when they lose, he's a jerk. Which is the more accurate picture? Guess. I had the feeling very early on (Bob Lemon was fired the second week of the season) that things were a little out of hand back in the Apple. I thought for awhile that George might just try to trade for or buy up the rest of the league, thus eliminating the competition and winning the pennant by default. For a Yankee fan, 1982 was like contracting some bad disease or breaking a let. Just in case you haven't noticed, this franchise is in Trouble with a capital tee, thanks to what only can be described as monumental greed on the part of its Owner. Unless something is done, and fast, 1983 will be a disaster for the Yankees on the order of 1965, and I don't think I can take another 1965 again. And what about the rest of the division? Who cares. I picked Milwaukee to finish second because they were the second-best team in the AL East, only nobody told them so and the suckers went out and played over their heads. Thank God Baltimore didn't win. Who the hell wants to turn on the World Series and watch John Lowenstein, Benny Ayala, and Len Sakata? For that matter who the hell wants to turn on the World Series when the Yankees aren't playing the Dodgers? Huh?


Letters to the Editor

Dear Baseball Diary:
This is the sixth letter I've attempted to write to you concerning Guera's comments in BD #14. Being the creator of those "deranged" and "gruesome" covers, I feel I must come to their defense. First, it was really nice to know that someone actually looks at the Baseball Diary covers! WOW! I know when I get my issue I always read the thank-you's first, then work my way to the KK Kwiz; in fact, sometimes I even go through the whole publication without even looking at the cover. Thank you, Guerra, for your observations and tough questions. Second, I liked her title "The Birth of Valenzuela" for the color Xerox cover #12, and don't worry about the figure's head; it wasn't a "malformed regurgitation of THE THING", merely a poorly reproduced daffodil. Third, while naming a BD cover is fine, please don't change my name; it took me a long time to get the spelling of this one correct, besides, the artist's name was BOTTICELLI not MEDICI (how could you get that wrong after Tommy DiMarco gave you all the facts?) Finally, yes, Guerra, I am totally Mad. Also, anytime you wish to design a BD cover PLEASE feel free or if in the future any covers I may design for BD still manage to offend you, drop me a line or better yet, just slap me in the face with a glove and we can duel at Griffith Park.
PS: Is "artsie-fartsie" another name for a cootie hole? And what the hell is a REAL Mr. Baseball? Anything like a Mr. Potatohead?
Jagne Parks
Los Angeles


Dear Editor:
I open my eyes upon a gray fog of despair. I drag myself over to the typewriter. Pressing each key takes an effort of will. All is meaningless in the wake of the Candlestick Disaster. I'm a Dodger fan, not a baseball fan. I don't want to see another pitch or hit or run or error until '83. I thought I could keep reading Baseball Diary purely for its artistic and literary merit until you butchered my story, you heartless assassin. You left out part of a sentence. It was a very funny part, too. Now the sentence is vague and not really funny at all. Ah, well - fuck it.

Nothing really matters anymore. Not now. Not after (sob) Black Sunday.
Jack Hastings
Los Angeles

Dear Jack:
We, too, are less than ecstatic these days. As far as your missing sentence goes, it WASN'T very funny. Not worth a giggle. Consider yourself lucky it was left out.


Baseball Diary is published and edited by William Fuller

Baseball Diary Vol 1, #14

September 29, 1982
Los Angeles

"A whole country was stirred by [their] high deeds and thwarted longings...The team was awesomely good and yet defeated. Their skills lifted everyman's spirit and their defeat joined them with everyman's existence." Roger Kahn
Cover Image by Jagne Parks


(Note from the Editor: For the last few weeks of Baseball '82, I asked some of our mailing list to cover specific games that I felt were of great importance. The following communication was received in the form of a memorandum to me on September 28; it is from the poet of Chavez Ravine, John "Jack" Hastings.)

Report from Chavez Ravine, Interrupted
by Jack Hastings

Jefe: Before you read any further, why don't you take a lemon, stuff it into the top of an ice-cold Tecate, and take a long, long pull. Feeling better? Good.

I got some good news and I got some bad news. The bad news is that there ain't no in-depth story on the second game of the Dodgers-Giants three-game series complete with locker room interviews and glossies like you assigned me to do last week and what took you six months to arrange to get a Baseball Diary reporter into the showers and like that. And the further bad news is that you'll be getting your generous advance check back drawn on the Banco de Ensenada as I spent the whole wad but I swear I'll pay it back to you, honest.

The good news is -

Come to think of it, I guess I only got bad news.

Look, if you haven't already ripped this memorandum to shreds (you're so brutal when you're angry) I want you to take another long one or maybe two off that Tecate and tive me a chance to explain how I became the victim of not just circumstance or even fate but what I suspect is a conspiracy on the part of the entire city of San Francisco.

It all began last Friday night. There I was diligently absorbing the stats on the Dodgers and the Giants and fixing them into my memory bank with boilermakers when a knock came upon the door. It was Jagne Parks (you know, BD's art director and my main squeeze) and Tommy DiMarco (you know, manager of the BD so9ftball team and bookmaker to the stars). It looked like a party to me but Jagne was upset. She'd just gotten a call from a couple of long-time chums who had, like her, left the Old Country for a new start on the West Coast. Unfortunately they had picked San Francisco as their new turf and for all the warmth of their reception they might as well've tried mining for pitchblende on the North Slope. The shaft they would've ended up with there wouldn't have been any bigger than the one they got from Baghdad by the Bay. After months of the ol' scrimp and scrape for quarters off the Golden Gate Bridge, with about as much success as the Minnesota Twins, the poor lads (Thom-with-an-H and Matt) had decided to chuck it and head back to the home and hearth and kith and kin of Richmond, VA posthaste. They had only called Jagne to say goodbye.

She was desolated. DiMarco and I explained to her about the hearless arrogance of the typical San Franciscan and how the chums would be better off in Jonestown than that city but she was not to be consoled.

We were in a quandary.

Here was Jagne all moping and sad and spoiling the whole Friday night what should be spent drinking and yelling. And there was Thom-with-an-H and Matt ground down to the nub by those rice-a-ronoid Giant-lovers. It was one of your decisive moments and DiMarco, man of action with a heart of gold that guy, made The Decision. We would the three of us that very night drive up to San Francisco and rescue the chums from the clutches of those pietists and oenophiliacs and bring them back to the sunny, albeit smog-tinged, bosom of Los Angeles (known far and wide as The City With Open Arms) where they would of course be instantly bestowed with a fast car, a swimming pool, and a rich, dark tan as is every new resident.

Now, Esteemed One (may I call you Chief?), I wish you to know that I demurred strongly from this riotous expedition valuing above all my responsibilities to this publication and your revered self but I figured hey! maybe I can get two strikes with one pitch. Not only would I be perfomring a humanitarian gesture in taking the chums out of the stodgy morass of San Francisco (and let's face it Chief, nothing exciting has happened there since ought six), but also I could get a slant on the impending game from the Giant fans' view. True, I was probably being over-optimistic in expecting to be able to tolerate their insulting demeanor long enough to get a coherent quote, but at least you can see that abandoing the story was the furthest thing from my mind.

So there we were, the three musketeers ready to wrest whomever from the throes of Richelieu, amped and tuned and ready to roll. Full tank of gas, ice chest full of Seagrams and Bud, snuggies stowed in our little, blue Dodger duffels. Wildman DiMarco at the helm was doing seventy before he even turned the key in the ignition and before you could spit we was doing a dizzying rondelay through the freeway maze that soon had us hurtling down I5 and into the night.

A few warm ones and a few cold ones later found us happy as clams in a shell of glass and steel and not caring whit one about anything except the song of rubber and tarmac. Time crawled into the backseat and then got out altogether when we stopped to tak a leak at a 7-11 that could've been in Boise or Bangor or Bakersfield for wll we knew or cared.

To Be Continued


Report from the Editor
Various readers of BD have wanted to know a little something about our contributors. We would like to share an anecdote about our next author, Ken Koss. A few months ago Venom Junta and the Fun Girls, a musical cabaret ensemble including some of the BD staff, was performing at the now defunct Contemporary Artists Space of Hollywood (CASH). Ken Koss attended. Ken Koss is in this thirties, about seven feet tall, with boyish good looks (he is currently negotiating for a photo spread in Playgirl); he spends his days investigating and exposing criminal truckers. He showed up at CASH with his entourage, about six or seven men and women, all over six feet tall, all in a wildly celebratory frame of mind after fifteen bottles of champagne. They brought another case in with them (CASH was a BYOB gallery). The evening went well and everyone had a good time. After the show, everyone went to Oki-Dog, a fast food punk hangout. Ken Koss was jubilant as he munched on his pastrami-and-weiner-in-a-tortilla-with-beans (an "oki-dog"). After Oki-Dog, he and four others of his group stuffed themselves into a four door sedan, he between two others in the backseat. They had to go from Hollywood to Pomona, which is a good hour drive away.

About halfway there, Ken Koss felt nauseous. He fought the awful urge, but knew he ultimately couldn't stop the gorge. But what to do? He didn't want to barf on anyone. When the need became more than he could control, he made his decision. He pulled his shirt a few inches from his body and threw up on his chest. A few minutes later, he had to throw up again; not wanting to repeat his chest heave, he deposited the next batch in his shirt pocket. They got Ken Koss home, quickly, to his house in the outer suburbs of Pomona. He got out of hte car and as it sped away Ken Koss stripped naked on his front lawn. It was around 3AM on a Friday morning so one would assume no one saw his large bare body. Then he went to the front yard hose and sprayed his vomitous torso. When he felt better, he turned off the water and walked thru his front door into his living room. As he walked in, his cocker spaniel greeted him with a few happy yelps. Ken Koss kicked her. As the cute little cur went running off, he grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his head. He sat on his couch, staring into the room. Then he passed out. When he finally woke up, he started writing, and BD is proud to present his World Series Kapsule.

The Ken Koss Kapsule: 25 Years of the World Series
by Ken Koss

1957-58 Milwaukee and Yanks trade seven game series wins. Lew Burdette wins three games, the Hammer hits three HR's in '57 and Eddie Mathews' two run, 10th inning HR wins game four. Mantle takes himself out of the game just before Mathews' homer as he jammed his throwing arm in a slide the day before. I guess he thought the arm was ok in innings 1-9. '58 Yanks come back from 3-1 deficit to win.
1959 Ex-Brooklyn Dodgers sweep best of three pennant playoff from Braves, then take it from Chisox in six.
1960 Maz' solo shot in bottom of ninth in 7th game gives Bucs win over Yanks.
In the the eighth inning of that game, Tony Kubek gets hit in the throat by a Bill Virdon bad hop grounder, leading to a 5 run inning and a 2 run Pirate lead. Yanks tie it in 9th to set up Maz' game winner off Ralph Terry. Yanks more than double Pirates' run total for series, 55-27.
1961 Yanks over Reds in a cake-walk, though Maris can manage only one HR in series after 61 (asterisk) regular season trippers.
1962 Giants win playoffs over Dodgers 2 games to 1 as Felipe Alou scores the winning run in the deciding game (this is, of course, the answer to last issue's Ken Koss Kwiz). The series sees Chuck Hiller hit first ever series grand slam (somehow that doesn't seem right). Yanks win game 7, 1-0, as Willie McCovey lies a shot just barely caught by a leaping Bobby Richardson in bottom of ninth. Mays hits one series HR after 49 regular season league leading long ones.
1963 Yanks score only 4 runs in 4 game sweep by Dodgers. (Of course, Dodgers only score 2 runs in 4 game sweep by O's in '66.)
1964 Yanks (in fifth consecutive series) lose to Cards in 7 games. Yanks hire Cards manager Johnny Keane after series ends. Was Geroge S around even then?
1965 Dodgers in 7 not too exciting games over Care(w)-less Twins.
1966 See 1963. Koufax loses Game 2 (the last game of his career) 1-0 to Baltimore rookie Jim Palmer.
1967 Yaz, Lonborg and Cinderalla can't stop Bob Gibson from winning 3 and the Cards from taking series 4 games to 3.
1968 Mickey Lolich turns 3 win series on Cards, as Tigers win 4 games to 3. Tigers come from 3-1 deficit.
1969 Amazin'.

1970 The Robinsons couldn't be beat as the O's prevail 4 games to 1.
1971 The great Roberto in his last hurrah. Steve Blass wins 2 with a 1.0 ERA. Bucs in 7 games, even though O's boast 4 twenty game winners.
1972 The beginning of "A" dynasty. Reggie is out with an injury, but
Fury Gene Tennace hits 4 HR's in 7 games to tie a series record and beat the Reds.
1973 Darold Knowles appears in all 7 games. Willie Mays appears in his last. (His first was 1951.)
1974 The first "California" Series and last of "A" dynasty (though they were barely beaten by Boston in '75 playoffs). Dodgers never had a chance, but Fergie's throw will always be replayed in series highlights films.
1975 Carlton Fisk and Bosox almost do it, but the Big Red Machine cannot be stopped.
1976 BRM become (and are) only team to sweep league championship and series, 7 games to none. They also beat 2nd place Dodgers by 20 games in division.
1977-78 Reg-gie, Reg-gie. I wonder if his hip still hurts? (I went to game 1 in '78, $12.00 for Pavillion seats and ran out of gas twice in two different cars - on way to game. I was also "ordered" to empty my picnic jug I had just filled with three quarts of beer before I was allowed to go in.)
1979 We are Fam-i-ly. Wilver Dornell Stargell is '79 season (co-) MVP AND Series MVP. Phil Garner hits .500 as Bucs come back from 3-1 deficit in win and coatless Bowie Kuhn freezes his butt off to "prove" series night games can be played in late October Baltimore.
1980 Series a bore, as Phils beat Royals (who finally reach series after winning division 3 of previous 4 years). But what a playoff. 'Stros and Phils play best five game playoff ever (how many hits did Terry Puhl get, anyway?)
1981 The Dodgers (Fernando), a strike, the Astros (the Dodgers), the Expos (the Dodgers). Yankees (the Dodgers). Yanks finally get equal treatment after winning 1st two then being swept next four by LA.
This Year: 1982 Freeway Series (with or without Dodger Dogs, Farmer John to go on strike October 1)? Missouri Series? Two teams with a pitcher named "Bruce" series? The Don Sutton past and present series? The "Let's have a Beer" cities series? The Cable TV series, despite protests of ABC and NBC? Or just maybe, a California series WITHOUT the Dodgers?


The Ken Koss Kwiz:
What broadcaster lost his voice in his final game in the booth in the last game of a World Series? (Hint: Vin Scully took over the play-by-play for the remainder of the game.)


Letter to the Editor
Dear Editor:
I love Baseball Diary and I love our World Champion Dodgers. But I do have to remark ont he cover of Baseball Diary, Vol 1, #12. Although artistically creative and curious, I believe this type of cover to be too artsy-fartsy for BD. I mean, after all, isn't BD accepting "submissions of a personal, penetrating nature relating to BASEBALL"? What the hell does this cover have to do with baseball? Does it have anything to do with the St. Louis Carp-nals or the Seattle Mariners? I mean there is this FISH involved. How 'bout this supposed head of the woman? This resembles more the malformed regurgitations of John Carpenter's THE THING. Everyone knows, unfortunately, there are NO women involved in major league baseball - except wives of the ball players. I believe I'll name or rename the piece "The Birth of Valenzuela" by Jagner Medici. It makes just as much sense.

As for the Fearless Forecaster, I have a question. Why is it easier to play on plastic turf? Doesn't Ass-tro Turf make the ball take erratic kangaroo jumps, making it harder to play ground balls? And what exactly is catcher interference? This FF seems to know it all. A REAL Mr. Baseball - I'd love to meet him!

PS: After seeing the cover of issue #13, I'm convinced JP is totally deranged. Don't we have enough deformed babies? Or is this supposed to symbolize the spirit of baseball? Gruesome!
Guera
Los Angeles

Dear Guera:
If you don't understand the covers to this publication, that's your problem. As for F Forecaster, we're not a lonely hearts club. Hopefully he'll answer your question, but don't count on it, blondie.

Baseball Diary is published and edited by William Fuller

Baseball Diary Vol 1, #13

September 23, 1982
Los Angeles

"By and large [baseball] is the sport that a foreigner is least likely to take to. You have to grow up playing it, you have to accept the lore of the bubble-gum card, and believe that if the answer to the Mays-Snider-Mantle question is found, then the universe will be a simpler and more ordered place."
--David Halberstam

Cover image above by Jagne Parks


Doris Lessing at Chavez Ravine
by John Hastings

Last Tuesday I woke up alone.
There were no messages on my answering machine.
I turned on the television and watched (small) figures
move fitfully over a (bright) green.
The sound was too low to understand the chatter.
But I thought I heard a note of hysteria
or perhaps only a dial tone.
I am not sure.
It may have been an echo of my time passing
(in the language of stones) as it often does.
There came an interlude.
A (heady dazzling) rush of image.
I felt the axis of my interior world shift farther from the sun.

I was in a (dim) concrete passage that curved away in the distance.
A clamor fell like sleet from above the (blue white) lights and
shattered reverberant all around me.
I thought perhaps I had come under the sea.
But the (still) air was too heavy with the cloy of stale beer
and onions and sweat.

I ran down the passage. My shadow danced (brokenly insane) along
the walls in time to the passing of the lights overhead and then
fell headlong swallowed up in a flood of (white) brilliance from
a (sudden) open-ing on my right. I plunged into the light and came
up in the (strong) arms of a (round angry) man. His eyes spat from
within dark circles as he led me deeper into the (blinding) glare.
"What am I to do?" I asked him.
"You know," he replied as he slid the (smooth) wood into my hands.
And I did. Almost.
Somewhere deep within the layers of ice a (shaggy blistered) memory
stirred and whispered of (tingling) Sunday rituals of peanuts and heroes.
But before the beast could wallow free there was a swirling of the
(searing) brilliance. It coalesced into a (small) mockery of the
sun and sped toward my face.
So fast and filled with threat I could only stand glazed against
the sound of many thousand bodies tensed and hissing against the
(bright) plastic of their seats and taste (hot) leather from its streak.
(Small) knowledges burbled up from my mental tarpits.
Bat and ball. The crowd. The (aching) light.
Dimly I saw figures shifting in a (green) haze and felt their eyes
fall toward me.
"I must swing the BAT at the BALL!" I cried (triumphantly).
But already it was too late.
Screaming out of the (perspective-less) distance (white and deadly)
it was before my nose and gone and all in the same instant of time.

The crowd breathed out a cloud of menace that settled around my
shoulders like the (cold) cloak of the (drowned man's ) sea.
I steeled myself now ready to face that hero's moment.
That (raptured) child's dream of a time that lights the fuse
of destiny. I felt my muscles swell as the wood in my hands
drew power from the night like some antenna tuned to a broadcast
of all the will and passion that lay beneath legions of
(sweat-sheened) flesh.

From out of the (long) dark beyond the stars that (tiny) comet
hurtled toward the (blazing) sun that I had become. I swung
(a mighty swing) and (blue) lightning coursed down my arms and
out along the (gleaming) wood knifing through the (gelid) air
twisting me helpless into a (delicious) spin round and round and
round faster and faster until I was frayed into threads and the
threads stripped to particles and the particles hurled into space
pinwheeling sparks to color the void.

There was a non-time as I re-formed.
Flowed together like cold oil.
I found myself crawling back into Tuesday alone.
Still no messages on my answering machine.


THIS IS YOUR EDITOR AGAIN: WELCOME
The first televised sports event was a baseball game on February 17, 1931. It took place in Tokyo and was played by members of the Waseda University teams...Jackie Mitchell was the first woman pitcher in the history of professional baseball. In 1931, playing for Chattanooga, she struck out Babe Ruth her second day on the team...The "bullpen" originally was the roped off area where standing-room crowds were kept. It didn't become the term for the relief pitchers'
warmup area until about 1909 when the Bull Durham tobacco folks plastered giant posters of bulls on about 150 ballpark fences...Last week during the Dodger butchering of the Astors in the first game of their series here, we were stunned by the sight of two-baggers flying through the air with uncommon abandon. One of us almost got beaned by the hurtling goobers. After calming down a bit, we san before us Roger Owens, "The Peanut Man". Owens' knack for accurately placing bags of nuts six or seven rows, eight or nine people deep is earning him a reputation and a presumably healthy bank account. And he never seems to do anything as pedestrian as throw them over or underhand; they're always tossed from around the back or under a leg. Here's what the back of his business card says:

Roger Owens is the man
Who throws the peanuts in the stands,
People come from everywhere
Just to see him throw a pair.

So when you see the Dodgers play
Help Roger Owens make his pay.
Buy your peanuts from him and you'll see
He's making peanuts do down in history.

...You don't think Rickey Henderson broke Lou Brock's record in a pair of Keds, do you? No, ma'am. He wears Mizuno shoes imported to the United States via Burlingame, California. He and the R.K. Mizuno Sporting Goods Ltd. Company of Osaka Japan desinged them. The back cleats are angled inward and the hell is inclined, theoretically increasing a runner's speed and stability. Brock set his mark in a pair of shoes made by Converse.


LETTERS TO THE EDITOR

Dear Editor:
I really enjoyed the humorous story by Ann M in my last BD. Wow, where on Earth did she get the idea for a ROYAL fan who thinks Frank White is a better keystoner than Willie R? And how about the part where she had him counting frames on his video recorder? Perfect touch, really, man, just the kind of nuttiness you'd expect from a ROYAL fan. Of course, in real life, Frank's fielding per cent IS one-one hundredth of a point higher than Willie's, but then Willie will get 40 more put outs and 50 more assists than Frank in an average season. Then too, he's a better hitter, he's faster, and he walks more than Frank, which is why he's scored 80 more lifetime runs in 260 fewer lifetime games. I also liked the way she had her character crowing about Frank's five Gold Gloves, and completely ignoring the fact that he plays at least half his games on plastic grass, which makes fielding a LEETLE bit easier than on the real stuff (no, no, no, not THAT stuff) which God intended should cover a baseball diamond.

Now, gee, about your Ken Koss Kwiz: that's a real toughy. Let's see. Seven was a "MAN" can reach base. Hey, is this a trick question? A BATTER can get on with a hit or walk (including intentional walk), by a fielding error or being plunked with the pitch. Hmmm. That's four, right? He (or she) can also reach base by forcing another runner or through catcher's interference (Dale Berra led the NL in 1981 in being awarded first base because of catcher's interference with three, Charlie Hustle was 2; surprisingly, Glenn Adams was the ONLY AL'er to reach first on interference in 1981.) So, 4 and 2 is, um, six, so I need one more. Well, heck, we all remember the 1941 World Series, when the Dodgers had the Yanks down 4-3 with 2 outs in the ninth in game 4. Hugh Casey had 2 strikes on Tom Henrich, Ol' Reliable swung at strike 3, but Mickey Owen, the Bum backstop, muffed the pitch, Henrich reached first, the Yanks scored four runs, won the game 7-4 and the Series 4-1. So I guess the seventh way a BATTER can reach base is on a dropped 3rd strike (wich less than two outs, first base must be unoccupied). Of course, a MAN can reach base as a pinch runner, but your KWIZ wouldn't be THAT sneaky, now, would it?
Sincerely,
F. Forecaster
Oakland, California

Dear Fearless Forecaster:
We hate to burst any bubbles you may have been blowing, but we at Baseball Diary are assured that Ms. M's column last issue is true. Evidently such a Royals fan does indeed exist. As for your answers to the Ken Koss Kwiz, we don't understand what you mean by "He (or she) can also reach base by forcing another runner..." Your other seven guesses are correct. Guess ole KK can be THAT sneaky. By the way, BD takes no responsibility for the validity of any of the answers of Kwestions in the Ken Koss Kwiz, nor do we endorse the Kwiz or Ken Koss himself. As for his Kwestion this issue, here goes:

"Who scored the winning run in the 1962 Dodger-Giant Pennant Playoff Game?"

Answer next issue.

BD published and edited by William Fuller