Baseball Diary Vol II #5

Los Angeles
June 24, 1983

(Cover by Hastings/Fuller)

"One big item in the annual expense list of a big league ball club accrues from traveling over the circuit throughout the season. The sixteen teams will travel 188,287 miles between April 15 and the first week of October. The American League teams will cover 95,772, while National League clubs will cover 92,165 miles. At the rate of two cents a mile, each club carrying an average of eighteen men, the expense for railroad fares alone figures close to $68,000. And this does not include expenses for berths, meals and other incidentals." New York EVENING MAIL 1908

"Lou Gehrig's withdrawal from today's game does not necessarily mean the end of his playing career, although that seems not far distant. When the day comes, Gehrig can sit back and enjoy the fortune he has accumulated as a ballplayer. He is estimated to have saved $200,000 from his earnings, which touched a high in 1938, when he collected $39,000 as his Yankee salary." James P Dawson, May 2 1939, on the day Lou Gehrig ended his 2130 game playing streak

"The highest paid men on the Philadelphia A's...make $17,500 a year or less, and the sweatful young Valo probably does not make more than $8500. Mister Connie Mack just does not believe in the kind of salaries paid by the rich owners of the Yankees, to buy a ready-made winner. Except for the cost of helping half a dozen of his players through their colleges - Mr. Mack's first advice to any teenager who wants to play for him is, 'You'd better let me send you to school first' - he paid only $20,000 for his present pitching staff." Bob Considine 1948


Report from Los Angeles
by The Editor

What a way to start the week. Beat by the PADRES! There had to be something that would help my team. I decided it was time to change jobs. So the next afternoon I arrived at the DAF Corporation in Beverly Hills. I walked through the huge grated door on Camden Street and entered a small cubicle where I found myself facing a huge iron gate with stairs beyond it. As the door to the street closed behind me and things got dark, I heard a woman's voice ask, "Who's there, please." I announced myself and told her I had an appointment with Andy and she told me to come in. I tried the gate and it opened. I went up the flight of stairs and came to another gate. I reached out to open it and as my hand groped for the bars, I heard the faintest kind of "click"; it was almost subliminal and the instant I sensed it I knew that I had also "heard" it downstairs when I came in the other gate, but that I hadn't realized it consciously at that time. I went in the second gate into a plush waiting room with magazines on the table that had titles like "14 Carat" and something in Italian on high gloss paper with pictures of diamonds on the cover. The voice was a blonde behind a glass encased counter who greeted me and gave me an employment application.

Feeling a little out of place in my worn out New Balance running shoes, I took it and sat on the sofa. In the next room two men were arguing about money and precious stones. I caught a glance at one of them through the open door - a young black man in a suit who had a striking resemblance in appearance to Michael Jackson the singer and a striking resemblance in voice ot Michael Jackson the English radio talkshow host. I filled out the application and gave it back to blondie and took my seat again, dividing my attention between the magazines and the conversation in the next room. Eventually, a vaguely familiar looking young man with a slight East European accent came in and brought me into the room with the arguers. He asked them to leave and when they did, the interview began.

Andy was full of self assurance and after giving my application a cursory scan, he asked me, "Bill, have you ever done telephone sales before?"

I'd just completed a week trying to convince people they had really won something big by buying a book full of free coupons and I tried to turn that into sales experience.

"Bill, do you know what an objections is?"

I stammered something about opposition to what someone is saying and Andy smiled and asked, "Bill, tell me this, do you know what a tie-down is?"

What the hell was he talking about? "No, I don't."

"Do you know what a jack call is? Or a close or a condition?"

"What?"

He shook his head, gazed up to heaven and rubbed his forehead before he let out with a loud laugh. "Bill, what you be been DOING with your life? Do you know that in the first four months of working sales I made over $47,000?"

I had a couple of impulses at that point. One was to point out a philosophical justification for not pursuing money all my life and the other was to punch him in the mouth. But since I wanted a very large income, which I knew he might be able to offer, I did neither. The interview continued and he finally said he'd try me out. He called back the other two arguers and they continued. They were role playing, with one giving the pitch and the other trying to resist. Michael Jackson would try to convince the other guy, another black guy named John, to invest in a few thousand dollars worth of investment diamonds while Andy threw in pointers and comments and criticisms. This continued for awhile, with Michael Jackson having numerous problems understanding the point of what he was supposed to say, and all three of them role playing and slipping from their "true" personae to their roles with such frequency and abandon that all of us had trouble knowing just what "reality" was for long periods of time. After about a half hour, a short, pudgy man with a full gray beard and a blue jump suit came in and handed his application to Andy. Andy asked him if he minded if we stayed during his interview and he didn't.

Andy looked at his application and said, "Oh, so you're a headhunter."

"That's right," said the guy. "Been one for three years."

The Headhunter did much better in the question and answer portion of his interview than I. A little later, flabbergasted with Michael Jackson's lack of comprehension, Andy took him out of the room to fire him and I had a chance to ask the Headhunter just what it was he did for a living.

"Well, I'm a headhunter. You see, a corporation may lose a vice president or important person in the organization for some reason. So they'll hire me to call people in the same position in other rival organizations and make them an offer. Sometimes I don't get a deal for months. But when I do - by God, the money's incredible!"

I eventually had to leave with a promise to return to work the following morning. I picked up Donna from work and we went home to celebrate Midsummer, the Summer Solstice, the first day of summer. I told her about my new job and we spread out the food and drink on a small portable wooden table in the middle of the apartment. The Dodger/Padre game came on the radio and we started singing - a midsummer tradition. But like all traditions, there's a ceremony involved. First you take a forkful of raw fish (we had a choice of kippers, clams or salmon), then you spear, on the same fork, a chunk of boiled potato and then you dip it in either a chive and sour cream sauce or a mustard and dill sauce. Next you pour everyone involved a shot of imported Danish akvavit. Now you're ready. Someone starts singing a song, and everyone else has to join in. At the end of the song, you down your shot (which tastes of caraway), consume your forkful, and wash it all down with beer (which is optional and in our case meant a taste of hte decidedly non-Scandinavian Tecate). I know of no finer celebration. After a few rounds we decided to ask one of our neighbors to join us, a doctor who had had a horrible day and week and was ready to celebrate something. He wasn't familiar with the Midsummer custom but quickly got the knack of it. A little later we invited his roommate over, another doctor who had just gotten off work. She too found the new holiday thoroughly enjoyable. Well, we kept drinking and singing and Tony and Yvonne came by and then Dick came over and it was his birthday for god's sake and we were carrying on in the best Swedish tradition and someone asked me what the score of the game was and I didn't know and no one else did and we turned off the radio and brought out some records and put on some music and when we ran out of akvavit the male doc went and got some German Kirsch, an almond type liqueur and so we kept singing and when we ran out of Kirsch Doc went and brought over some Triple Sec and he and Yvonne started dancing very close and we started singing some more and his pants came off and we ran out of Triple Sec and Doc wanted more so I brought out that same bottle of mescal from last issue and there wasn't much left in it but a couple shots and good ole Juanito the Worm and Doc just chugged the whole thing and the female doc told him he had to go home and he chased her out of our place and threw an unopened can of beer at her that ricocheted off a few walls and into Dick's place and Bob Dylan, Richard and Linda Thompson and Beethoven's Ninth kept getting louder and louder and louder and male Doc did a sit down dance that involved tongue jobbing a philodendron leaf while his arms and legs went into spasms.

And the Dodgers lost again. And 4:30 AM came too damn fast. And away I went to make my fortune.


Report from Anaheim
by Ken Koss

After a week long skid, the Halos finally halted a tumble out of first place against the Royals last night by winning 7-2. Ken Forsch went all the way for the win. I wonder if Gene Mauch grumbles a lot when Forsch has a good game. We all know the Angels would have been in the series last year if Forsch would have pitched game three in the championship series against the Brewers.

Rod Carew not affected by Sports Illustrated cover jinx. Still hitting .410 and leading vote-getter for AL first baseman for All-Star game. Reggie may be out of AS game (he's leading outfield vote-getter) because of bruised ribs he suffered after falling over the bullpen mound chasing a fly in Texas the other day. They must have big flies in Texas. Happy Halos.

(Note: Answers to last issue's Ken Koss Kwiz will be in the next issue.)


Baseball Diary is published and edited by William Fuller

Baseball Diary Vol II #4

Los Angeles
June 17, 1983

Cover by Jagne Parkes: Museum Tour

"It is foolish and childish, on the face of it, to affiliate ourselves with anything so insignificant and patently contrived and commercially exploitative as a professional sports team, and the amused superiority and icy scorn that the non-fan directs at the sports nut...is understandable and almost unanswerable. Almost. What is left out of this calculation, it seems to me, is the business of caring - caring deeply and passionately, really CARING - which is a capacity or an emotion that has almost gone out of our lives. And so it seems possible that we have come to a time when it no longer matters so much what the caring is about, how frail or foolish is the object of that concern, as long as the feeling itself can be saved. Naivete - the infantile and ignoble joy that sends a grown man or woman to dancing and shouting with joy in the middle of the night over the haphazard flight of a distant ball - seems a small price to pay for such a gift."
Roger Angell after the sixth game of the 1975 World Series

"Among wishes for the new year by Manager John McGraw, pitcher Christopher Mathewson, and followers of the New York Giants will be that in 1908 the Giants will be more successful against Mordecai Brown of the Cubs than in the past, and particularly will there be a wish that the Polo Grounds combination will be able to beat the Three-Fingered Wonder when he is opposed by the Bucknell boy. Known as "Three-Finger" Brown, the Cub pitching star gained his nickname from a youthful accident when his right hand became caught in a piece of farm machinery and he lost most of his forefinger as well as the use of his little finger. This mishap enabled Brown to give a peculiar, frequently puzzling twist to his curve ball. The Miner (Brown had been a coal miner) and the Collegian (for three years Mathewson had played baseball and football at Bucknell University) have hooked up eleven times since they have been big league rivals, and Matty has gone down before the man with missing digits seven times."
New York Press, December 30, 1907


Report from Los Angeles
by the Editor

A couple of weeks ago, I was wigwagging between two television stations, one with an Angels game on it, the other with some other game, possibly from the National League, when a ring came on the telephone. I tore myself from the set and discovered two friends were downstairs at the locked gates wanting in. I went down and let them in. We came back to the games. In the course of the afternoon, they revealed to me a desire for my services as best man at their wedding. Well. I had been a maid of honor before (non a rainy night after driving through a toxic waste spill in San Francisco) and I had been a bridegroom before (on a sunny day in a small lighthouse on the edge of California at Point Reyes) but I had never had this particular honor. It seemed to me a drink was in order, so we broke out the Labatt's and the Jack Daniels and started toasting. When we ran out, a quick trip to the store brought more celebrating. Eventually, they had to leave, but we agreed to meet at a party/band showcase that evening in a few hours. By that time, I was flushed with a sappy nostalgia for the changing of the seasons, and continued toasting and reminiscing by myself. A few hours later J Hastings and Jagne Parkes came by in their new car, fresh off the lot not five days before, not a scratch on it and even smelling like it just rolled off the line from Detroit or Tokyo or wherever new Toyota Corolla Station Wagons are given birth. In the backseat were baseball portrait artist Tommy DeMarco and baseball odds maker Ron "Spitball" Silverman. I was allowed the honor of being the first human in the hole, the storage area behind the backseat.

It was a beautiful new blue machine but there's something about a new car that always upsets, something false and artificial that's unsettling - a piece of technology falsely perfect. There was something inside me crying to get out, but I didn't know what it was at the moment. I settled back and tried to enjoy myself. We took off just about the time the Dodgers and Mets were squaring off not two miles away in the Ravine, and our first stop was for refreshments. I started drinking Lucky Bock as we sped to the Westside and the World Premier of the Keith Joe Dick Orchestra. We got to the Marina, parked the new car, and made our way through a series of alleys to the party - a glassblower's studio with an open-air area for the band. Baseball strategist Spencer Sparrow showed up and there were quite a few people and about an hour later the KJD Orchestra started up.

The band was basically a rockabilly outfit with a nice sax, but when Mr. Dick hit the stage, things started happening. Mr. Dick is a giant human with a coiffure that extends about a foot off the top of his head. He is a competent singer and knows how to move is extraordinary body onstage. His entrance was followed shortly by the arrival of the Dickettes, four wig-headed ladies that sang back-ups (one of them also played sax). About half way into their first set, we ran out of beer and whiskey, so I went into the kitchen and checked their icebox and sure enough, frozen and syrupy and just waiting for the right connoisseur was a bottle of Stolichnaya which I grabbed. I was trying to make my way back to the dance floor with it when I was stopped by a Marina-type who told me to put it back. Always one to comply with the demands of others, I went back to the ice box, placed the Russian ambrosia inside, and took out the other bottle, some kind of whiskey. I made my way back to the dance area and passed the new bottle around.

The first set finally ended and we mingled with the partyers. Things were beginning to get hazy. I remember at one point J Hastings going into the bathroom, which was very long and had the toilet at the far end behind a short curtain. There was a woman in there at the time but J, seized by gods of his own devising, misunderstood the visual images his brain was receiving and cried out, "Good God, there's a dog in here lapping up the toilet water!" I think the woman may have said some unkind wo5rds, because J came out rather quickly and ran off into another room. Meanwhile, DeMarco decided he needed some money for food later on, so he took off on foot to find a bank. Spitball had made his way into the band's dressing room where he discovered some unique pens and cigarette lighters that he just had to have. Parkes and Sparrow were trying to communicate with the pack of ex-hippies, artists, new-wavers and nerds jamming into every nook and cranny of this place. i was taking every opportunity to feel the Dickettes' wigs. The next and last set started. We were back near the dance area when we ran out of whiskey. I decided to go back to the ice box.

Meanwhile, DeMarco was having a helluva time on the streets of Marina del Rey, roaming uncontrollably from sidewalk to gutter to street, weaving between cars parked and moving with equal grace and aplomb, but he was getting bugged, where was the bank, where was his money, how was he going to eat later? He kept going. Back at the ice box, I took out the Stoli and no one said a word. We racked it open and enjoyed the music. DeMarco finally made it back, evidently successful, but he was cursing a blue streak at anyone who got near him. The set ended. I wandered through the crowd touching Dickette hair and refusing to talk to anyone unless they had a shot of Russia's best. Spitball started yelling at me and when I went over to see what the hubbub was about, it turned out that he had discovered a woman xylophone player who was interested in joining our group. We all discussed the ins and outs of the music world. Then it was time to go.

We made our way back through the alleys to the new car, DeMarco cussing all the way. I crawled into the hole and collapsed on my back, barely able to move. We took off and stopped at Tiny's for food. I couldn't move and DeMarco had passed out in the back seat, but the others went inside. The next thing I remember, Parkes opened the back door to the hole while I was convulsing with an uncontrollable stomach urge. I realized we were still in the parking lot of Tiny's and fought against my body's needs, and then it happened. There I was, lying on my back in the new car, when a geyser of vomit shot from my mouth to the ceiling of the car, where it stuck and splattered - sticking uneasily to the top, portions of it dripping slowly back onto my outstretched body, and splattering into the backseat onto Spitball's arm and DeMarco's unconscious head. The next thing I knew I was being thrown out of the car at the gate of my apartment.

I'm happy to say the Dodgers won that night. The next day, Sunday, my acting partner and I worked on our final, the last scene from DAYS OF WINE AND ROSES. We performed it the next Tuesday, and a week later, when I discovered at my semester conference that we had done okay, I celebrated by cracking open a bottle of mescal a friend had given me that morning. I sat in my car listening to the Dodgers/Reds game, talking to Juanito the Worm about how he liked being in a new country, and wondering why the changing of the seasons could sometimes be so harsh.


Report from Oakland
by The Fearless Forecaster

Good grief! What's going on down there, anyway? Three out of four to the GIANTS?! I watched all of those games on the TV up here, and all I can say is that I'm shocked. Say, are you guys trying to make me look bad again by finishing second just like last year? I hope not, because it appears as if I've already blown both AL predictions, not to mention the AL Cy Young and MVP too. Hey, here's a tip for you: why not bring up a lamp post from Albuquerque as a late inning defensive replacement for Pedro at third. Or better yet, why not just start the lamp post at third, move Pedro back to right where he belongs, and trade Marshall to the Baltimore Colts, who I understand need some help at linebacker. Pedro looks like he's fielding raw eggs down there and wants to be sure not to break any. And by the way, the TV replay showed that Bergman missed the tag on Marshall in the play that ended Sunday's game. I kept waiting for BD's Associate Editor to charge out of the stands and scratch the ump's eyes out - where the heck was she?

And now to the Ken Koss Kwiz. Kwestion 1 is pretty easy: the two players are Bert Campanaris (for KC, AL, 8 Sep 1965) and Cesar Tovar (for the Twins, AL, 22 Sep 1968). Incidentally, there are seven players including Campy and Pepito, who played all nine positions over the course of one season: Lew "Sport" McAllister (Cleveland, NL, 1899), Sam "Sandow" Mertes (Chicago, AL, 1902, Jimmy "Runt" (he was 5 foot 9) Walsh (Philly, NL, 1911), Gene Paulette (St. Louie, NL, 1918; he actually only pitched one third of an inning), and Jack Rothrock (Boston, AL, 1928).

Kwestion 2? "The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day/the score stood four to two with but one inning more to play..." This poem by Ernest Thayer first appeared in the SF EXAMINER on 3 June 1888. Every baseball fan knows the situation: bottom of the ninth, two outs, Mudville down 4-2, nobody on base. The fans are praying that Casey, the team's best hitter, will get acrack at the plate, but "Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake/and the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake". Now, even Tommy Lasagna knows enough not to bat a "lulu" and a "cake" in front of his best hitter; even more surprising, thought, is that the Mudville manager doesn't pinch hit for these two duds. But it all works out: because Flynn "let drive a single" and Blake "tore the cover off the ball", and wound up[ with a two-bagger, the tying runs on with "mighty Casey...advancing to the bat". As the opposing team's manager, what do you do? How about, with first base open, walking Casey intentionally, set up a force at every base, and take your chances with the next batter? Of course, you might not want to put the winning run on base, but still and all, you're going to pitch very carefully to Casey and if you walk him, no harm done. Right? So what does the opposing pitcher do? Wast a breaking pitch in the dirt and maybe get an over anxious Casey to swing at a bad pitch? Heck no, man, he drills the first two pitches right down the middle for strikes, with Casey taking all the way. Well, for sure he's going to waste the 0-2 pitch, maybe bust one in on Casey's fists and set him up for a slider away, right? Wrong again, and I guess the rest is history.

As for Kwestion 3: this isn't one of those sneaky ones, is it, like the one last year about how many ways can a "man" reach first base? What exactly does KK mean by "as fast as possible"? Theoretically, the speed of light is "as fast as possible", and then you get into things like the Fitzgerald-Lorentz contraction and the time dilation effect. Naw, it couldn't be that - he must mean "as fast as humanly possible", because not even Steve Sax can run 186,000 miles a second. I don't suppose it has something to do with the way most stadiums face relative to the earth's rotation? Or maybe - ah hell, what do I know about physics? OK, Ken, you got me. (Editor's Note: The answer to Kwestion 3 appears at the end of this issue. For the record, Baseball Diary does not necessarily endorse the KKKwiz. As a matter of fact, we feel this particular Kwestion and answer sucked.)


Report from Anaheim
by Ken Koss

ATMOSPHERE SHOCK. Attended my first '83 Angel game (Angels-Toronto) last Sunday. Jays won it in the 15th inning, thought I was long gone by the 9th. Amazing how much more "sanitary" Angel Stadium is compared to good 'ol Dodger Bluegrounds. Parking lot attendants actually WATCH your car. Mostly a festive, relaxed crowd. Mostly Orange County types. Mostly white, shorts from Sears, shoes from the Footlocker. No parking lot fights. No blowing horns. No tailgate parties.

Stadium relatively quiet. Nowhere for noise to go but up. No violet covered hills behind the pavilion. No pavilion. Yes, there as a banner - "Reggie Country"; you can guess where it hangs.

Food and goodies pretty neat. Corned beef sandwiches, mixed drinks, hot fudge sundaes served in little Angel hats (or Yankee, Royal, etc. hats, if you prefer). You even get to keep the hat.

Seats in 2nd level behind home plate, under the screen. Both starting pitchers great. Angel new-guy Byron McLaughlin (to be seen again, we hope) and Jay reliable buy Dave Stieb (the best pitcher in AL). Relievers soured the 2-1 Angel victory into a 6-5 Jay win.

No word on progress of Mike Marshall (you remember the '74 CY winner) as Angel reliever. Probably because of his 60.0 ERA at Angel Tri-A team - Edmonton.

Rod Carew has his smiling face on current cover of Sports Illustrated. Report on possible "cover jinx" in next BD. Happy Halos.


Report from Seattle
by Bruce Walkup

Things are looking kind of bleak today. the Mariners are 11 1/2 games out of first place. Where's the D-Con? It has been an unsettling Spring with strong promise to be a Euthanasian Summer. Yes, the mighty M's are single-handedly putting many workers in Haiti out of work by successfully using an average of two baseballs per game. The M's have hit two foul balls out of the playing field this season, but fiscal conservative George Argyros, owner of the Puget sound Pacifists, personally chased and retrieved them from two seven year old fans.

Yes, the odds are better than even that we will not catch the Division leading California Angels this year.

I have received a copy of a confidential memo from the Mariners' front office indicating their future plans. General Manager, Dan O'Brian, will be using next year's sure top choice from the Amateur Draft to select former slugger Boog Powell. O'Brian wrote that the team needs power from the left side and though it will be a risky gamble choosing the former Oriole first baseman, they were quite successful with octogenarian Gaylord Perry. Please keep this confidential memo to yourself. I remember what happened to Daniel Ellsberg. My therapist would prefer to remain a private person. Well, I will close with a thought; I have them occasionally. If the Chicago Cubs would just donate a can of non-perishable food for each loss in the last 50 years, Third World hunger problems would be eradicated. Goodbye from Seattle, suicide capital of North America.


A View from the Stands
Photo Essay by J Hastings




















Answer to Ken Koss Kwiz #3, Question 3:
There is a short stop between 2nd and 3rd base.

Ken Koss Kwiz #4:
Firsts, Onlys and Longests:
1) The 1st Major Leaguer to have his number retired?
2) The only man in both the baseball and football Hall of Fame?
3) The only Major Leaguer to hit 30 homers and steal 30 bases in a single season - THREE TIMES?


Baseball Diary Publisher and Editor: William Fuller
Associate Editor: Donna Copeland
Art Director: Jagne Parkes
Staff Photographer: J Hastings