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
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