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

Baseball Diary Vol II #3

Los Angeles May 31, 1983

Cover by Jagne Parkes: Presentation in the Temple

"In Japan, 'Chrees-masu' is of course an adopted holiday. So, appropriately, it is recast as a cross between Halloween and New Year's Eve. Santa Claus in the department store is usually female, and at office parties she is often nude....When Christmas night fell, and it was time to go to the pah-tay, my translator objected that I had not put on my costume. You have to wear a silly costume at Chrees-masu. And the men have to do their own makeup - lipstick, rouge, eye shadow.. My translator turned into an outre-space person swathed in crinkly aluminum foil and topped with crazy antennae, and carried a little of disappearing ink to splash on startled guests; I turned into a transvestite baseball player. With my Giants cap and jacket, female face, and crazy green swimming trunks pulled over orange long johns, I was the 'srender shortstop'. The fun had begun."
Raymond Mungo Confessions from Left Field

"Almost all the white ash used in Louisville Slugger bats is from trees in northern and eastern Pennsylvania. The ideal white ash for bat-making is produced by a tree grown on a ridge crest, or on a north- or east-facing slope. Such sites usually have the richer soils and high moisture retention that result in steady, moderately rapid growth. Because those places are favorable to trees, timber stands there are usually rather dense and the young ashes are forced to develop straight, tall boles to get their share of light. it takes from seventy-five to a hundred years to grow the kind of clean, straight-grained ash tree that (Hillerich & Bradsby) prefers for its baseball bats."
John Madson
Audobon Magazine

"A pitcher with a sore arm visits his doctor. The doctor advises him to soak the arm in hot water. The arm gets worse. The pitcher's cleaning woman suggest ice. When the pain vanishes, the pitcher goes back to the doctor and inquires, 'Why did you recommend hot water? My cleaning woman recommended ice and the arm got well.' The doctor responds, 'That's funny. My cleaning woman told me hot water was better.'"
Baseball humor

"What's invisible and smells like carrots? A rabbit fart."
4th grade humor


Report from Los Angeles
by The Editor

Memorial Day weekend. Hot. Beginning of summer. I was at the theatre playing costume master for a production of WILD OATS, recently discovered (make that re-discovered) 18th Century comedy brought into the public consciousness again by the Royal Shakespeare Company. It was Friday night and I was trying to forget the awful feeling of a second loss in a row to the Giants right here in Dodger Stadium. Meanwhile, Donna was nursing a wretched stomach with chicken soup and prescriptions. She was coasting into the last half hour of THE SOUND OF MUSIC on television when her world was literally shaken by a loud crash. She sprang up from the pillows she was reclining on and ran to the window. On her way, there was a loud explosion that sent a blinding flash of white light into the dimly lit apartment. She recoiled, slightly blinded. The TV started sputtering and the picture went out for a few seconds. She shook her head and groped her way to the window. Three stories down, across the railroad tracks, there were a group of people surrounding a car that had smashed into a telephone pole. Suddenly another, louder explosion cut through the apartment and the television and lights went out. Blackness. She grabbed a robe and ran into the hall. She walked into a darkness so dense she thought she'd been thrown into a giant bowl of giblet gravy. She groped her way to the outside as other residents came out of their places, but there weren't many other people around, most of them having gone out of town for the holiday. When she got to the outside looked across the courtyard and over the distant hill was a crimson, radioactive glow. One of her neighbors came stumbling outside.

"What's going on?" He was practically delirious.

"I think a fire's started."

He ran back to his place, screaming for his roommate to get the hell out of there. Donna made her way downstairs and through the gate at the entrance. Down the street, the El Salvadoran refugee community was out in full force, trying to figure out what was going on. Donna saw another neighbor and asked what was happening. He was gesticulating like a madman, one hand free to express his views in what he considered the proper way, the other hand jealously clutching a bottle of wine.

"There's some guy out there trying to electrocute himself! I saw him grab two lines from the telephone pole and put 'em together and then there was all this noise! Migod, we're all gonna fry!"

Donna slapped him, made her way cautiously back upstairs, and awaited my return in the dark.

The next night I was feeling considerably better. The lights were back on, Fernando Valenzuela had shut out the accursed Frisco team, and I was in a better mood in the Los Angeles City College theatre dressing room. Meanwhile, back at the apartment, a new tenant was reaching the breaking point. He was a disturbed man. The first time I met him, he asked me about my sexuality, and confessed that he was confused about his. And in the next breath he started talking about his job at the mortuary. I didn't think too much about him one way or the other, not even when he almost rear ended my Dodge Colt with his black funeral van. After all, there was another guy in the apartment, Steve Yeager's cousin as a matter of fact, who drove around in a hearse all the time and dressed up like Dracula two or three times a week. But this new tenant was troubled. And on this Saturday night, with a girl friend under one arm and a bad grudge under the other, he took out his rifle and handgun and started shooting up the building. Something about his ex-wife just ticked him off. He fired a few rounds off the balcony and retired.

The next day my neighbor came by and gave me the rifle and pistol in question. Seems he and another neighbor, a guy who works out with Lou Ferigno and Arnold Schwartzenegger, paid the tenant a visit and took his toys from him. And I got them for safekeeping. The next day, he was kicked out.

And the Giants won three out of four in Chavez Ravine.


Report from Oakland
by The Fearless Forecaster

Jeez, why didn't you warn me? I took my latest copy of BD out of its envelope when it came in the mail yesterday, and that front cover almost blew my eyes out. Whew! I stumbled around my apartment for two hours to see well enough again to hit a slider. Your art director has really outdone herself this time and I think she deserves an award or something. And that photo essay by Mr. Hastings, well, what can I say about the ol' slugger that hasn't already been said? If only he could have fielded his position as well as he handles a Nikon. (Editors Note: Jack Hastings used to play first base for a softball team called The Power Elite.) I tip my lens cap to him.

Now, about KKKwiz #2. That first kwestion is kind of a lob, isn't it? Our 27th president, William Howard Taft, was the first chief executive to throw out the first ball on Opening Day (by the way, always capitalize "Opening Day", just like Christmas of Bob Dylan's Birthday), in 1910. The game? The Philadelphia Athletics were in town to play the Senators. Walter Johnson pitched a one-hitter and Washington won, 1-0.

I hate to mention this, but Kwestion 2 has a teensy-weensy misprint in it. The first and only Opening Day no-hitter occurred on April 16, 1940, not 1960. Its author was Bob Feller, who was 21 years old that year and beginning his fifth season with Cleveland. Yeah, that's right, Rapid Robert was pitching in the bigs when he was 16. He had a pretty good year in 1940, too. He led the AL in games, games started, complete games, innings pitched, strike outs, shutouts, and ERA. Oh, and wins, he was 27-11. Say, how old is Fernando this year, anyhow? Anyway, it was Feller's first no-no (he pitched two more). The opponent was Chicago (it was the first no-hitter pitched in Comisky Park since 1937) and the final score was 1-0. Feller struck out eight and walked five. His mom, dad, and sister, Marguerite, were among the 14,000 in attendance. Mr. Taft missed this opener because he died in 1930.

Incidentally, I know a lot of you are wondering: no, there has never been an Opening Day no-hitter in the NL. There have been a number of one-hitters, however, the last coming on April 17, 1934, by Lon Warneke of the Cubs. How many no-hitters have been pitched in major league history? All right, all right, I'll stop. But say, can you name the no-hitter that was pitched in 1975 by the combined efforts of four different pitchers? And who - ok, ok, enough.


Letters

Dear Ed: There's been a kind of controversy simmering in the sports section of the Chronicle up here. The people over in San Francisco seem to think that Dodger fans are, well, pigs, but I'm not so sure. What do you think? Is Mr. Bonde, whose Chronicle letter is quite restrained in comparison to others, right in his assessment, or is he exaggerating? Another writer claimed that Dodger fans never change their underwear. How about that? I always kind of liked the Dodgers, especially when the Yankees whomped them in the World Series.
Concerned in San Francisco

Dear Concerned: First of all, for the benefit of our readers, M. Bonde's letter read as follows:

DODGER DEMENTIA
Editor: Dodger fans? Only the most obnoxious, no-class self-centered and ignorant fans in all of sports.
PG Bonde, Fremont

Second of all, we think a lot of this animosity is misplaced hatred for the wretched teams trying to play baseball in northern California; after all, how many pennants have they acquired in recent memory? (Oh, sure, Bill Ball came through one year, but their efforts after that were embarrassing to say the least.)

Third of all, concerning personal hygiene - it was our understanding that the reason so few people turn out for Giants or A's games (as opposed to the hordes of astute aesthetes that regularly turn out in LA) had a lot to do with the awful, deathly stench coming from the zombies that file into the games up north. Maybe they're expecting a good bay area rain to wash through. Heaven knows they could use it. For more reasons than one.

Those mellow vibes up there must be twisting your brains - the Dodgers humiliated the Yankees the last time they met in a Series. Oh, one last comment, Concerned. You smell, too.


Ken Koss Kwiz #3:

1) Name the two major leaguers to play all nine positions during a single game (extra points if year and team named).

2) What was the final score with mighty "Casey at the Bat" striking out (extra points if you do NOT read Ernest Thayer)?

3) Time for a physics lesson: A player running around all four bases (home to home) as fast as possible takes more time between 2nd and 3rd base than between 1st and 2nd. Why?


Baseball Diary published and edited by William Fuller

Baseball Diary Vol II #2

April 29, 1983
Los Angeles

Cover by Jagne Parkes

"And hey, barkeep, what's keepin' you, keep pourin' drinks
For all these palookas, hey, you know what I thinks
That we toast to the old days and DiMaggio too
And old Drysdale and Mantle, Whitey Ford and to you."
Tom Waits, "A Sight for Sore Eyes"

"I learned my biggest lesson in managing the first day in Class D. You see these poor kids that shouldn't even be there in the first place. You write on the report card '4-4-4 and out'. That's the lowest rating in everything. Then you call 'em in and say, 'It's the consensus among us that we're going to let you go back home'. Some of 'em cry. Some get mad...(But) if you say it mean enough, maybe they do themselves a favor and don't waste years learning what you can see in a day. They don't have what it takes to make the majors."
Earl Weaver

"Were a man to awaken from sound sleep to the dry-gourd rattle of a diamondback coiled on his chest, head big as a fist, forked tongue flickering, he would to into that dreadful numbness of the ultimate fright."
John D MacDonald

"At Shor's, Joe DiMaggio's friends sat with them and talked about the 1952 pennant races. Marilyn Monroe was bored. She wanted to see the new plays. She wanted to go to the Metropolitan Museum and to visit the hot jazz spots, like Eddie Condon's. Joe didn't care for theatre, music, art. His world was the world of sports, his cronies were sports-loving men like George Solotaire, men who lived in a closed masculine world of gin rummy, sports, betting money talk, inside jokes."
Maurice Zolotow

"This rich verbal tradition - the way the game has taken on the ambiance of the frontier campfire or the farmer's cracker-barrel stove and moved it into the dugout - is what marks baseball so distinctively, not only among our games, but among all our endeavors. Baseball remains, in the best sense, archaic."
Thomas Boswell

"Forward all my mail to the corner of Pork & Beans."
Tom Waits


Report from Oakland
by The Fearless Forecaster

WE'RE NUMBER TWO (IN THE NL WEST): A DODGER FAN HANDBOOK FOR 1983

A few of you may remember the 1982 edition of this handbook, WE'RE NUMBER ONE. I warned you back then that it would be difficult for the Dodgers to repeat in 1982, which turned out to be practically the only prediction I made for that year that was right. The Dodgers begin the 1983 season as the favored team in the NL West, despite a number of question marks about their everyday lineup and their pitching staff. I'm sure that many of you are wondering just how to approach the role of "favorite" with a team that has not proven itself under fire.

1. How do I deal with the collapse at the end of 1982? This, of course, is the first order of business, since the memory of the 8 game losing streak in late September will dog this team throughout 1983. There are two approaches, suggested by the US Government: a) ignore it completely, or b) blame it on the Russians. In other words, if anyone is indelicate enough to ask you, simply pretend that the 1982 season never happened (which is how I deal with 1981 and the subsequent World Series), or admit that it did, and announce that it didn't really count because of KGB interference through their Bulgarian lackeys.

2. What should my early attitude toward this team be? Generally, I would counsel a wait-and-see attitude. Be enthusiastic, because after all you ARE a Dodger fan, but not TOO enthusiastic, because then you leave yourself wide open if Brock is hitting .182 at the end of May and Pedro sets a major league record for most errors by a third baseman after his first 50 games. I should mention here that Garvey and Cey, however much you liked them as Dodgers, are now the ENEMY and should be treated accordingly. I know this might be difficult right at first, but just remember that they both have something to prove to your organization, and they sure as heck will do everything they can to beat you. Just start out slow, and before long, I'm sure you'll hate them as much as Charlie Hustle or the Giants.

3. Some of you may find wait-and-see to be too wishy-washy. I understand. In this case, you'll have to take the opposite approach, which might be characterized as I'll-kill-you-if-you-say-that-about-my-team-again. Here the emphasis is on rabidness bordering on a kind of religious insanity. Heaven knows, we have numerous examples of this approach in the world today, so it shouldn't be too hard to find appropriate role models. One caution though: I tried this one back in 1976 when the Yanks won their first pennant in 12 years and then got swept by the Reds in the Series, and I'm still carrying the scars. This approach is recommended only for emotionally stable individuals, which leaves out practically everybody I know.

4. What, then, should my attitude be down the stretch? You've probably already guessed the answer: it depends. If the Dodgers are winning, and are in first or close to first, then you are duty-bound to abandon wait-and-see and commit yourself to open rooting (if you've been using I'll-kill-you all along, then there is no change in your attitude; perhaps your eyes can get more glassy and your nostrils flare wider.) I really don't think the Dodgers will be losing, but if they are, be prepared to shift into the it's-only-a-game attitude that I perfected last year. Put away all the baseball mags, stop wearing your Dodger hat, and stop reading the sports section of the TIMES. It's best not to show too much pain, because after all, it's only a game. Right?

I'll check back in with BD later in the year to fine tune these attitudes. Every baseball season has many surprises, so who knows, maybe the Dodgers will clinch the division before the All-Star break. It might be fun to dust off the holier-than-thou attitude that I used to drive people crazy with in the late 50's and early 60's. And if the Dodgers are in last place at mid-season, we can go with the attitude I developed in 1966, the what's-baseball? attitude.


The Baseball Incident
by The Editor

(Photos by Donna Copeland-Fuller)

On April 8, 1983, Opening Day at Chavez Ravine, Dennis McCarthy, a reporter for the Los Angeles Daily News, interviewed various members of the Baseball Diary staff on assignment at the game. His article appeared in the newspaper the following day and a portion of it read:

SEASON OPENS WITH LOSS: 45,000 WELCOME '83 DODGERS
The home opener is the fans' spring training - a major celebration of the kind a James G Watt might very well frown upon, wondering if indeed baseball is undermining the work ethic in this country. How did 45,000 people get the afternoon off anyway? "It's easy, I came with my boss," said Donna Copeland-Fuller, a secretary for an executive with the state Public Utilities Commission, Pomona Division. Jack Hastings, who lives in the Wilshire District, has not missed a home opener in seven years. "I work for the state, but it doesn't matter if they know I'm here because I'm getting laid off in July anyway," he said.

The following Monday, an employee with the Public Utilities Commission, after seeing the article that weekend, filed a grievance with the PUC Commissioners in San Francisco. The employee was shocked ot learn that state workers would spend part of a workday at a baseball game. Upon learning of the complaint, BD sent an investigative reporter to the North Bay to find out the repercussions, if any. Our man discovered the following confidential memorandum:

MEMO FROM: ***
DATED: APRIL 15 1983
TO: President, Commissioners, and Executive Director, PUC
SUBJECT MATTER: April 11, 1983 memo of *** "Wasted Tax Dollars Within the PUC"

On April 11, 1983, ***, an employee of the Los Angeles office, wrote to you to express his views on employees work day activity in Los Angeles. He perceives that a certain indolence amongst the rank and file as well as the supervisors. His ire was precipitated by a quote in the April 9 edition of the Daily News attributed to PUC employees and (two employees) who attended the Opening Day Dodger Game. The Executive Director requested I investigate the baseball incident, submit a plan to correct the office problems alleged in the memo, and report my findings and recommendations to you. The two employees at the game were on approved vacation periods. While it is indeed regrettable that two of our vacationing employees were singled out of a crowd of 45,000, there is little of anything we can do other than to request our people emphasize they are on vacation should a similar incident occur. To correct the alleged personnel problems noted in the memo, we have formed a Los Angeles Advisory Committee consisting of a section head from transportation, revenue requirements, utilities, communications and myself. The committee will meet the 4th Thursday of each month to review2 current procedures, disciplinary action, work productivity, etc. The committee will serve in an advisory capacity to *** recommending actions which will emphasize the productivity and morale of staff. It will deal specifically with the problems noted in the April 11 memo to the Commission.


Letters

Dear BD:
Congrats on a spectacular return to the world of publishing. Loved the issue from cover to cover. Answer to KKKwiz:
a) William Reich; b) The Adele Davis League
A. Loyal Reader
Los Angeles

Dear ALR:
It's nice to have you back, A. Of course, your answers are wrong. Ah, well, at least you didn't bring up cootie holes.


Dear Ed:
Thank God (if there is one) that Baseball Diary is back! It is, in my opinion, the finest publication of its type on the West Coast, possibly the entire country and, who knows, maybe the world and even the universe. But hey, man, Chicago for 2nd place in the NL East? I'd like to hear the rationale behind THAT pick, believe me. They've got some decent players, but really, get out your STREET AND SMITH'S and check out the pitching. Now, want to change your mind? That photo essay by Mr. Hastings was first-rate, if not inspired. I mean, who else could inject such significance into a light standard and an empty parking lot? Wow, more, please.

Here are my answers to the KKKwiz:

Mordecai Peter Centennial "Three Finger" Brown was one of the best pitchers in the NL during the early years of this century. He came up to St. Louis in 1903 as a 26-year-old rookie and was traded the next year to Chicago. Between 1906 and 1911 he won more than 20 games each year for the Cubs, with a high of 29 in 1908. In 1914, he was signed to manage the St. Louis entry in the new Federal League (more about this league later); unfortunately, he was a better pitcher than manager: his team went 50-63, and Brown was canned before the end of the season and sent to Brooklyn. In 1915, he pitched for the Chicago team of the FL (nicknamed the "Whales") and won 17 games (and batted .293). He returned to the Cubs in 1916 (he went 2-3 with a 3.94 ERA), but dropped out of the majors the next year. My reference sources vary somewhat on his lifetime stats. The Sporting News has him 239-130, including the two years in the FL. Brown was elected to the Hall in 1949, the year after he died. In case anybody is wondering: Brown lost half of the index finger on his right hand in a childhood accident. I have not been able to ascertain the exact nature of this accident (lawnmower? butcher knife? hungry tiger?), but one of my sources says that his disability allowed him to throw a number of "unorthodox pitches". I suppose that, technically, his nickname should have been "Three and a Half Finger".

The Federal League operated for two years, 1914-15, with eight franchises: Baltimore, Brooklyn Buffalo, Chicago, Indianapolis (shifted to Newark in 1915), Pittsburgh, Kansas City, and St. Louis. It was, at best, a second-rate little league, sort of the USFL of its time. I won't bore you with a lot of useless stats on this league. What I would really like to know is: who in the heck nicknamed the Chicago team the "Whales"? I mean, we can all understand Tigers and Pirates and Indians - but Whales? I can just see the team logo - Captain Ahab holding a bat riding on Moby Dick's back. Anyway, the park built for the Whales way back then is today Wrigley Field.
Richard Rosen
Oakland


Inside Chavez Ravine: A Photo Essay
by Jack Hastings

For a few hours each day, a few days each week, a small city grows within the caverns and passages of the stadium. It is temporary yet it contains all the elements of a basic urban geometry. It has its residences and its residents, its government and police, its trade and commerce and even a kind of art.

The endless concrete galleries are like a science fiction writer's fantasy of life after the bomb, a microcosmic parody of urban culture held within a vast time capsule waiting to be opened by some insectoid heir to the ravaged earth, a curious artifact of their unlamented predecessors.

Baseball Diary Vol II, #1

Los Angeles
March 30, 1983

(cover by Michael Kellner with an assist from Jagne Parkes)

"Our heroes, as a condition of a well-paid immortality, now stand in more or less permanent display, exhibits in garish buck-a-pull museums, illuminated by the coarse light of casinos instead of the gentle glow of nostalgia...Who thought...it would end like this, with one of the greatest players of our time serving out his days in an alley of slot machines." Richard Hoffer on Mickey Mantle's first day of work at the Claridge Hotel and Casino in Atlantic City

"Everything dies baby that's a fact But maybe everything that dies someday comes back Put your makeup on fix your hair up pretty And meet me tonight in Atlantic City"
Bruce Springsteen

"But on these evenings I...had to snatch [my mama's kiss] without even having the time or being properly free to apply to what I was doing the punctiliousness which madmen use who compel themselves to exclude all other thoughts from their minds while they are shutting a door, so that when the sickness of uncertainty sweeps over them again they can triumphantly face and overcome it with the recollection of the precise moment in which the door was shut."
Marcel Proust

"Old lady stand on the corner With a purse in her hand She does not know but in a minute of so She will be robbed by a naked man Beware, beware, beware of the naked man."
Randy Newman


Report from the Editor
Last night I was eating a delicious Eggs Moppioli I had prepared (recipe available on request) when a knock came at the door.

I screamed, "Come in!"

A naked woman came into my apartment. She asked me if I would enter the chili cook-off at the Treehouse Fun Ranch. I hesitated before replying. I have only cooked chili once in my life, from a recipe given to me by a computer programmer in Silicon Valley. I took a long sip from my vermouth and tonic water (with a generous dash of lemon).

"Sure," I said. "But what's in it for me?"

"$500 if you win", she replied.

I smiled.

"Can you write a song for your chili?"

I didn't bat an eye. "Consider it done."

"Good," she said. "We've got about eight topless cheerleaders that want to do a routine."

"I'll be ready," I told her.

She left shortly thereafter. I dove into my green beans topped with cornbeef and chicken sauce (a holdover from St Patrick's Day). Another knock at the door.

"COME IN!"

A naked man came into my apartment.

"Are we running in the Jimmy Stewart National Relay Marathon?"

I told him to sit down, but he was dripping wet and declined, not wanting to ruin the only piece of furniture in the place, an antique rocking chair. I had to explain to him that we were not entering the race this year due to dropouts on our team, Legs Amok. He was disappointed, but took it okay. Then he told me about his partner's mugging in broad daylight at a local Lucky's grocery store. I couldn't finish my meal. We chatted awhile. He said she was okay. And he left.

One other naked person came over that night and brought the typewriter I'm currently working on. Thanks, Greg.


Report from Oakland
by The Fearless Forecaster

HEY KIDS! What time is it? Yup, baseball's back! It's time to break out those sweat stained blue hats with the white interlocking el-ay and the crumpled visors, time to put four new double-A Eveready Energizers int he transistor, time to buy the 1983 edition of Street and Smith's, time to get one of those little cardboard season schedules that folds up and fist neatly in your pocket for instant reference, and time to start WORRYING. To hell with high unemployment, those dirty Russkies in Afghanistan, the rapists running the EPA, even herpes: I'm worried about the catching situation. Why DID Sundberg turn down that trade? What about Brock? Marshall? How's Burt Hooten's knee? Has Steve Sax heard about the dreaded Sophomore Jinx and what it does to rookie phenoms? Will Pedro Guerrero have to change his name to Gu-error-5 down there at third? Is Landreaux over his "chemical dependency"? What about Bill Russell? Is there life at shortstop after 34? Will we miss Forster? Ron Cey? And what's-his-name, um, Gravey? Good God! Do I need this? I've got bills, my love life is in shambles, my car needs a brake job, yes, yes, yes, it's BASEBALL!

Actually, the Dodgers are the team to beat in the NL West in 1983. They have, as the cliche goes, the right mixture of youth and experience, some hitting, some speed, some pitching, and a manager who's friends with Don Rickles. What more do you need? The rest of the division? Heck, you Dodger nuts down there don't really care, do you? I mean, everybody knows the Braves will fall apart by mid-season, that Captain America won't turn the Padres around, that the Gi, er, well, we'll SKIP OVER this particular team and that horrible city of San Fran, er, that city across the Bay from where I live, and that the Astros and Reds are doomed because God hates them. My forecast? The Dodgers first and everybody else tied for last.

The NL East is of interest only because the Dodgers are required by law to play somebody from this division before they can go to the World Series. So how about the Cards again? Nah, it's too hard to win back-to-back titles as the Dodgers found out in 1982. I'm going with the Expos, who I also picked to win last year but didn't because they're stupid. If the Expos are stupid again this year, the Cards might repeat, but keep your eyes on the Pirates, especially if the Cobra comes back (that's Mr. Parker, in case you don't know). My advice to Dodger nuts is to pray for an outbreak of bubonic plague in this division that sends all the good teams to the hospital and lets the Mets finish on top.

Now for the American League. Say - uh - you all do remember the AL, don't you? It's kind of this other league, see, that plays a modified version of baseball that most purists consider an abomination along with plastic grass and big-mouthed owners who are always meddling with their teams and firing managers every other day and - Anyway, the AL West is very close. I'll say Chicago, but only because my favorite aunt lives there and I almost melted the last time I was in Kansas City. Besides, I hate George Brett and those ridiculous fountains in Royal's Stadium California has a lot of old guys and they lost Don Baylor, who led the league in game-winning hits in 1982. Oakland, the team that plays just down the freeway from me, has got more holes than a slab of Swiss cheese, and should save me lots of money this year, since I refuse to pay to see lousy teams play. I understand there are three more teams in this division, at least that's the rumor, and I'm doing research now to find out who they are.

OK, the AL East. I bet you're all thinking to yourselves: "Uh oh, here we go." Right? Am I right? Huh? I always save the AL East for last because I have a certain, shall we say, bias toward one of the teams in this division, and I like to end these worthless forecasts with a little screed on how this certain team will reduce the rest of the division to wimpering idiots, begging for the blow that ends the misery. Well, not this year, folks, uh uh. This year, I'm picking the Brew-sers. I know, I know - you're thinking: "Sure, Ef-Ef, the Brewers. You can't fool US. WE know who you REALLY THINK WILL WIN." Yeah, well, OK, maybe deep down inside me on those genes indelibly imprinted with the en-why, I do sort of, kind of, a teensy bit, think that there's about a million-to-one shot that the Yuckees can pull it off. Especially if some unnamed person whose initials are G.S. can keep his paws off the team for two seconds and start treating human beings with some respect and, and, and the Brewers really look strong, except maybe for some problems in the bullpen if Fingers can't come back, and a little age on some of their starting pitchers, and a rather thin bench, and, and, well, the rest of this division is filled with ugly teams from places I wouldn't ever live in even if you paid me. So I like the Brewers this year - really I do.

Last year I also forecast the MVP's and Cy Young winners from both leagues, which naturally is even dumber and a bigger waste of time than picking the pennant winners, but I'm going to do it again anyway. I'm going to look into my crystal baseball and say that Andre Dawson, the same guy I picked last year, will be NL MVP, and that Fernando Valenzuela, even though he isn't worth a million, will pitch like it anyway, and win the Cy Young.

Fearless Forecaster's Picks for 1983:

NL West
1. Los Angeles
2. A certain city in Northern California across the Bay from Oakland
3. Atlanta
4. San Diego
5. Houston
6. Cincinnati

NL East
1. Montreal
2. St Louis
3. Pittsburg
4. Philly
5. Chicago
6. New York

AL West
1. Chicago
2. Kansas City
3. California
4. Oakland
5. Texas
6. Seattle
7. Minnie Ha-Ha

AL East
1. Milwaukee
2. New York
3. Boston
4. Baltimore
5. Detroit
6. Cleveland
7. Toronto


Ken Koss Kwiz, Spring, 1983:
Off to a fast start:
1. What baseball player was nicknamed "Three Finger"?
2. What was the name of the short-lived baseball league formed in 1914?


Chavez Ravine: On the Outside Looking In
Photo essay by J. Hastings

On a Sunday in late March with two weeks still remaining before the start of regular season play, a Baseball Diary press pass and fifty cents will get you a short ride on the San Fernando Flyer but it won't get you into Dodger Stadium. So one who wishes to document the waiting emptiness, the expectant silence, of this vast "maison de sportif", must do so holographically. One must attempt to obtain a sense of the whole from patches of seemingly unrelated detail - seeing the rigid formality of this mock combat called baseball and the solidity of the tradition upon which it rests in the base of a massive light standard (fig. ii); seeing the insulation and near-mystical separation of the modern-day Odysseus from his teeming fans in a striped barrier and barbed wire gate (fig. i); seeing the complete tapestry of fifty thousand lives intertwined for a single ritual purpose in a single ritual place in the patterns of a deserted parking log (fig. iii).

Perhaps most important of all, one must invent a great deal of pseudo-intellectual swill to explain why one has a picture of a dumb lamp post, a dumb gate and a dumb parking lot instead of Dodger Stadium like one was supposed to have in the first place.

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