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
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