Baseball Diary Vol 1, #12

September 7, 1982
Los Angeles

"I have met presidents, governors, senators, and congressmen. I know famous writers, artists, musicians, and industrialists. The most exciting man I ever met - my only hero - was Casey Stengel." --Maury Allen, New York Post columnist and professional writer

Cover image at left by Jagne Parks


Report from Los Angeles
by the Editor

And so, in the beginning of September, they're saying the Dodgers are going to take the pennant. It scares me. They're the same ones who said the Dodgers were out of the running in late August. They're the same ones who wrote off the World Champs last season just before the various playoffs. They have little spirit, even less imagination and no soul. There they are, the newspaper writers, the television announcers, half the Los Angeles fans. They know they're always right, and now they say the Dodgers are going to win. I'm getting worried.

The only man to ever be killed in a major league baseball game was Cleveland Indians shortstop Ray Chapman. The year was 1920. Chapman was batting second in a mid-August game against the Boston Red Sox. The pitcher was Carl Mays. Chapman hit two doubles off Mays and stole third twice. He made it home both times. In the field, the made two putouts, two assists, and two errors. Mays, the least liked player in the league even before he killed Chapman, hit Ray twice in the game. The second time he hit him in the head and killed him. The ball ricocheted off hes head and halfway back to the pitchers mound; Mays made sure he got the out and threw the ball to first.

A. L. Reader sends two items of interest. The first concerns Tommy Lasorda, Jr. Choosing new romantic clothes over a baseball uniform, Tommy Jr. claims his pop "...could talk the back legs off a donkey." He disdains mind altering substances, but claims that if there was a drug that "...kept the dark circles from under your eyes and your hair shining, I'd be pounding [it] down my throat." The second item is an example of how baseball can affect matters outside the world of sports. It seems that Roone Arledge, President of ABC, was extremely upset with Bob Lemon over the Yankees lack of initiative last season in the World Series. If Lemon had managed the Yankees into a seventh game, the premiere of last season's HILL STREET BLUES would have been postponed. Unfortunately for Toone, of course, the Dodgers dispatched New York the night before and nobody watched ABC's 20/20. Ain't it a shame. Thanks for the info, A.L.

Starting this issue: The Ken Koss Kwiz: What are the seven ways a man can reach base? (Answer next issue.)


Under a Lot of Strain
by Ann M

Actually, I really have nothing to contribute to Baseball Diary, as any trace of child-like enjoyment of the sport I might have had has long been crushed by living with a Kansas City Royals addict.

I'm sorry to bore you with the gruesome details, but with the playoffs only weeks away and Kansas City in first place, I'm getting desperate. Now take today for example, Kansas City is playing the Yankees. I'm no fool - I exit for the entire game only to come home to find Jim poised with remote control switch in hand acting like he'd just discovered the theory of relativity. "Come here, come here," he says. "I've gotta show you something. You're really going to love this!" I am suspicious. "Is the game over" I ask. "Yes," he says, and begins to punch away at the video recorder. For a few minutes I am amused watching Willie Wilson and George Brett race around in jerky triple time, but the novelty quickly wears thin and I want facts. "Get to the point, " I demand. Jim, however, ignores my request for a succinct explanation and continues to "fast search" through the game while babbling about this great discovery he has made. This goes on for a few minutes until he is unable to find the "right place" AND under threat of my imminent departure, he is forced to reveal his find.

It seems, ladies and gentlemen, that Jim has discovered (by using careful scientific measures and the single frame advance on the video recorder) that while executing similar double plays and starting from the moment the second baseman has the ball in his glove until the moment the ball is released, that it takes Willie Randolf of the Yankees 24 frames to complete the motion and Frank White of the Royals only 21. In addition, when Frank White was making the play, the ball was received by the first baseman two frames before the runner touched the bag. THIS, he theorizes, (and get this because that's all there will be) means that if Willie Randolf had been the second baseman on that play, the runner would have been safe! This hypothesis now becomes the platform from which to launch a polemic attack on any New York Yankee fans who might have the audacity to even SUGGEST that Willie Randolf might be the best second baseman in the American League. "After all, " Jim explains, "Frank White hasn't won five Golden Gloves for nothing!" On that note, Jim rests his case. There can be no other conclusion. Based solely on pure scientific data, it has been proven beyond the shadow of a doubt that Willie Randolf is the SECOND best second baseman in the American League - Frank White has inched him out (by one frame!)

What truly astounds me is not that this is how my 39 year old highly educated partner chooses to spend his Saturday afternoon. But what does leave me absolutely dumbfounded is that he would think I would actually want to SEE it, to sit there, frame by frame by frame by frame. Tortuously giving a life of minutes to an event that barely deserves a split second. That's what id does to you, this addiction; this seasonal monkey on your back that comes in the spring, like allergies! This insanity that devours you, distorting your vision and forcing your loved ones to stoop to rooting desperately against a team they care nothing about!

Oh, excuse me, I really didn't mean to get carried away. It's just that, well, with the American League Western Division lead changing daily from California to Kansas City - I've been under a lot of strain. (But with KC losing five of its last seven games, I just admit I have been more hopeful of late.)

I'm enclosing a small contribution in order to help with Xeroxing costs. However, I hope that the growing tendency of Baseball Diary to become a Dodger fan letter will stop. The Dodgers are frankly a team with a limited reader interest. (Although I hear they have a nice stadium.)

Response from the Editor:
Ann: First of all, we thank you profusely for your financial aid viz-a-viz Baseball Diary. We can only hope that this will develop into a trend, especially with our new policy of color covers when the material warrants (visual artists take note). Secondly, thank you for your column. We can only assure you that we sympathize with your situation, i.e., having to live with a Royals fan. Thirdly, a bit of an explanation about the Baseball Diary editorial policy. WE have no desire to be "...a Dodger fan letter..." BUT - we recognize Los Angeles' superiority on the major league baseball diamond. Despite the fact that the Big Blue Wrecking Krew is technically the best team in baseball, the World Champions in fact, one need only look at the team to realize their importance. Pedro Guerrero may well be the National League Most Valuable Player this year, Valenzuela is having a great second full season, and Dusty Baker has one of the top ten batting averages in the League. And that's just for starters. Baseball Diary is based in Los Angeles and the editorial staff is, obviously, strongly pro-Dodger. Now here's the other side of the thing. We accept material for publication on ANY team. We encourage submissions, we search our mailbox for submissions. Only one quarter of the people on our mailing list live in or around Los Angeles. The rest are scattered across the United States. So you see, the more submissions we get, the more varied will be the teams discussed. And while we're on the subject, BD would like to institute a new policy: for every submission one of you makes, please include the name and address of someone you think would enjoy AND CONTRIBUTE TO this publication. That's it for now.

Baseball Diary is accepting submissions of a personal, penetrating nature relating to baseball. Prose, poetry or visuals are welcome. Letters, too.
Baseball Diary Editor and Publisher: William Fuller

Baseball Diary Vol 1, #11

Los Angeles
August 22, 1982

"If I were a religious man, I might have prayed, but I don't think so. It seems to me that this brings into the fray an isolated morality factor that has no place in a baseball conflict...Who is there to say that the Giants deserve divine aid more than do the Indians? Of course I want them to win. But I do not feel in any way they DESERVE to win...The Giants, so far as I know, are no more decent, no more law abiding, no more honest, no more kind to their wives and mothers and puppy dogs than any other team, including the Dodgers."
Arnold Hano, 1954 World Series

The diagram above illustrates how a baseball bat can be stuffed with cork. Some say this enables the batter to hit a baseball further. It is illegal. George Steinbrenner accused the Angels of corking their bats last week. His comments came a week or so after Reggie Jackson broke his self-imposed silence regarding Mr. Steinbrenner. Reggie's comments were not complimentary. Two weeks ago, George appeared on network television with Joe Garagiola and Tony Kubek just before a Yankees game. He is an endlessly entertaining man, an owner who is so much the fan that he cannot stop himself from meddling and taking part in the game the only way he's capable. It's just too bad that his actions make so many of his own employees so unhappy. But enough of George. Our feature article this issue is from The Fearless Forecaster. Baseball Diary first became aware of FF last season when his vicious observations and cruel accusations during the World Series became almost unbearable. FF is an indefatigable Yankee fan, and for the record, here's how he sized up this season in early April:

Winners:
NL East Montreal Expos
NL West Los Angeles Dodgers
AL East New York Yankees
AL West: Chicago White Sox

Pennant Race at a Glance
by The Fearless Forecaster

Okay. So it's mid-August and I'm a Dodger fan (no, no, NO. I'm not REALLY a Dodger fan; I'm just pretending, like when we were kids and we pretended lots of silly things.) Two weeks ago we were dead in the water, 10 games out, and now we've got our noses right up against some Brave backsides. We are, my friends, in a Pennant Race, no doubt about it, and it's time to quickly review some of the in's and out's of this uniquely American phenomenon.

First of all, it's very important to stay CALM. After all, it's only a game, right? (I speak here from personal experience: some of you may remember the PR in the American League East in 1978, when the Yankers came from 14 back in August and beat the Red-in-the-face Sox in a playoff. I almost lost it there near the end, what with the booze and the pills I needed to keep my guts from exploding. And I won't even TELL you what happened during the '76 World Series.) It's a good idea to start preparing yourself now for September, which is when things really start, as they say in the papers, to "heat up". Try and keep your personal life running smoothly. Cut back on the hard stuff. Get plenty of sleep and don't forget to exercise. PR's have a way of getting nasty, although, from where I sit, the Dodgers have a better than even chance of turning the whole damn thing into a cake walk. I mean, consider the competition: the NL West is a weak division, especially with the Asstros and Chintzy-nati on the skids. And the Dodgers do have a solid team, even with the sub-par years they're getting from some of their players.

It's also time to begin seriously considering the NL East. If the Smogtowners do take the division, who do we want to face in the playoffs? Naturally, we'd like it if the Cubs or Mets could somehow squeak in, but unless we can figure out a way to make the Phils, Card, Expos, and Bucs all disappear, this is not likely to happen. Okay. We can't have everything. One thing is for sure: we don't want to go up against Steve Carlton. Come to think of it, we'd just as soon avoid Steve Rogers too. So take your pick, the Cards of the Bucs. I'd root for Crudinals; they've got good hitters and decent Dee, but no power and Bruce Sutter is not having his best year. And besides, it's not for certain that Dave Parker is out for the year, and we DON'T want to play with the Cobra if possible.

Now, the daily standings: forget everything except the loss column. As I write this (10 Aug) the Dodgers are 1/2 game behind the Peach Staters, but they have lost two more games (50 to 48). This is an advantage for the Peachers, because as you'll hear over and over again, "once you've lost a game, you can't make it up." Within a few weeks, we'll begin to see little sections in the sports pages titled something like "Pennant Races at a Glance". They'll list the usual W, L, GB, Pct, but also games left, home and away games, and opponents. These, of course, are valuable pieces of information. The Dodgers have about 50 games left: how many at home and how many away? (I assume that our boys do well at the Ravine and split on the road.) Who do they play? And just as importantly, who does the opposition play? Schedules are often lopsided, and some teams end up playing a majority of their final games at home (or on the road). In fact, do the Dodgies finish at home? This could be very significant if the mother comes down to the wire.

Well, what if we keep winning? No sweat, man, just remember to thank the Big Slugger in the sky in our prayers. What if we (gulp) start to lose? Hey, remember what the Yog says: "It's never over till it's over." Take 1964, for instance: the Phillies were up by 6 1/2 with two weeks to go and they were selling tickets to the World Series. Boom. They lost 10 straight and the Cards took home the bacon by one. Remember, stay calm, it's only a *@!!*# game. And oh, go Cards.


This is your Editor again. Congrats to Fernando Valenzuela for realizing a lifelong dream and being allowed to play another position besides pitcher. After Ron Cey and Tommy Lasorda were thrown out of the game in the 21st inning marathon in Chicago, the Dodgers had to be juggled around and because everyone else had been used, Fernando went out to right field. Too bad none of the Cubs were able to hit anything to him. And Congrats to Jerry Reuss for winning two games in one day (the conclusion to the aforementioned marathon and the game right after it).

Baseball Diary Circulation: 10
Baseball Diary is accepting submissions of a personal, penetrating nature relating to baseball. Prose or visuals are welcome. Letters, too.
Baseball Diary Editor and Publisher: William Fuller

Baseball Diary Vol 1, #10

August 10, 1982
Los Angeles

(To the left: Two of the BD staff at the Dodgers/Braves Baseball Ball, celebrating Los Angeles' entry into the 1982 pennant race.)

"...[S]ometimes the game can hold us too closely, when its unique events and their attendant hopes and anxieties so seize us and wear us down that we almost wish ourselves free of such exorbitant pleasures."
--Roger Angell

The article below was preceded by the following letter:

Dear Editor:
I am encouraged by the promising issue #8 of the Baseball Diary. A finer thematic of American experience could not possibly exist. Editorial superlatives allowed to co-mingle with experimental sentimentality, stubborn card collectors cheating on their Yoga teachers, and two psychics who can speak to the dead. (OK, so they're not actually dead, but being Orioles and White Sox almost qualifies).
Viola Weinberg
Sausalito, Ca

BASEBALL SATORI
by Viola Weinberg

(Note: Satori is the Japanese word for "sudden illumination or awakening", literally "kick in the eye".)

The houseboy, Senzo Yamabe, taught me how to run Viceroy Filter Tips from one corner of my mouth to the other by using my teeth and tongue. My father taught Yamabe how to chew and spit, and told us both glorious stories of Babe Ruth's tremendous capacity for home runs and junk food.

This is were it started, in the kitchen of the Tokyo house, the Washington Heights house. It was in the wake of Yankee (!) occupation, away from my mother's maternal vigilance. The big brown cabinet RCA radio continually mumbled on low. It was never turned off, as my father insisted we would waste more electricity turning the knob off and on. We got the news the hard way, picking out words like "co-ria" and "Hairy True-man" and "RBI".

Yamabe loved the Americans. Why not? We shared the joys of Kosher pickles. We took to chop sticks. there was baseball. In return, we took lessons in Japanese cursing, fed the coi, and taught Yamabe how to make Oregon snow angels during Tokyo's unlikely winter blizzards.

As I said, this is where it began. One day, Yamabe heard one too many Abner Doubleday stories. He grabbed Pop by the shoulders. "I want to have the baseball game!" Yamabe had some "natural characteristics" for the game. He was wildly enthusiastic. He could chew and spit a plug of Brown Mule in less than 60 seconds. And he was a consummate competitor. In addition, Yamabe was built like a saxophone reed, and could run like a whippet. He had an adenoidal problem and big bunny teeth that made him a fierce opponent.

In a moment of truth, my father confessed his sporting limitations. In actuality, he confided to Yamabe and me, he only knew about baseball stories. He offered to find a suitable coach if we swore that we would never reveal this fact. (I'm dead if this ever reaches him.)

Pop drove the black Chrysler up to the Officer's Gym and talked to Dick Grey, the big, lunky guy with the medicine ball and the precise flat top. Dick thought baseball was "a sissy deal", but said he'd give the "gook" a chance. My father whacked his hands together and hollered his customary "Now we're cookin' with gas, boys!" We replied the same.

The months passed. Yamabe got a mitt, a ball, a bat. Dick Grey "whipped his ass into shape". Yamabe wrote to his ancient mother, "I am being the baseball, sooner." Yamabe conquered the bunt. He became the baseball. He learned to pitch: the slow ball, the corkscrew, and the final tribute to my father, the spitball.

It was time. My father drove Yamabe over to Yokohama for the tryouts. Mother had captured me, and forced my attendance to "White Gloves and Party Shoes", the military version of debutante trining for scabby-kneed Air Force brats. Yamabe had a great deal of apprehension about the tryouts. He prayed to Buddha and spoke to his ancestors. "Hell, Yamabe," said my old man, "this is Japan. They don't know from Jack about this baseball stuff!" The black Chrysler backed out of the driveway as I was shepherded into the green Plymouth Town and Country Wagon.

Hours after I had peeled off the patent-leather pumps, the Chrysler rolled up the drive. Everyone in Washington Heights could see that Yamabe was in. My father was waving a bottle of B and B out the window. Evidently, both passenger and driver had imbibed. Yamabe was laying across the seat in a liquid version of "home from the hill." We were out one houseboy.

The Yokohama Yankees (!) were quite a team. "American" rules did not apply to their version of the game. Stealing was preferred. Spitballs were encouraged. Throwing garbage at the players was a common practice. If that didn't get their attention, the fans would charge the field and make their feelings known.

In a dirt field, in the peeling GI bleachers, I took my first seat at a "professional" baseball game. Yamabe was in the starting line-up. He never popped fly balls. Instead, he cracked bats in powerful line drives that whizzed through the mitts of the Tokyo Dodgers.

The fans were in a state of bliss that sweaty summer day. Well, perhaps in a state of frenzy. In post-war Japan, the riots always came, everyday at the Diet Building, and every Saturday at Eisenhower Field (a great insult to the resident general, MacArthur). There was no 7th inning stretch. There was no 7th inning. The umpire called it quits in the bottom of the 5th, when Senzo Yamabe stole home by running backwards and spitting on the third baseman.

Years later, I found a surrogate for Yamabe and the Yokohama Yankees. In the vast cistern of the Oakland Coliseum, in the liver spots on Charles Finley's shit smeared hands, came the only other team I've ever really been able to relate to. Billy Martin's addition to the A's would make Yamabe delirious in his golden years. I saw the amazing parallels at once: Henderson Heights, Washington Heights, the watery beer, the raw hot dogs, an eerie, but true circumstance.

Yamabe was no fool. He made some money in baseball, learning the game better as it developed in the Western Emulation of post-war Japan. Like many US counterparts, he bought into nightlife, and opened a club on the newly rebuilt Ginza Strip. He married Aku "Honey Bucket" Araki, a woman my father would only describe as "very modern" for Japan.

In the following years, Yamabe would send me photographs of Nobuyuki, his son. In the cap. In the spats. With Yamabe's bat. With the look.

Yamabe retired on Hokaido with Honey Bucket when Nobuyuki chose engineering school over a baseball education in the States. He says he's never been the same. Now he lives at the remote crossroads of the northernmost train tracks and a country road, where he has a simple country inn. My Uncle Art, who married my Japanese nursemaid, and kne Yamabe well, flies a jet for Pan Am. He visits Yamabe once a year, taking the bullet train through Tokyo, and the steamer up, up to Hokaido. Last year, as he stepped from the train, he was greeted by Yamabe and Honey Bucket, now grey-haired and slightly bent. "Slide!" yelled Yamabe, "God damn you, slide!"


LETTERS TO BASEBALL DIARY

Dear Editor:
Thank you for smearing my words, my face, and my personal effects all over the lurid pages of your tabloid. Thank you also for answering my question regarding the term "cootie hole" and costing me a half case of Olde English 800 (AKA the yellow peril) as well as making me appear the chucklehead before your entire circulation of 5. Yeah, thanks a lot! Still, I must grudgingly admit #9 was another superb issue of BD although I was surprised by Jagne Parks' omission of the fact that the main reason Bernice Gera quit baseball was because the manager of the team against whom she made her unfortunate call referred to her, rather loudly, as "that cootie hole"! Thus the term came into common usage to describe the umpires' locker room. Strange but true!
A Loyal Reader
Los Angeles


Baseball Diary Circulation: 9
Baseball Diary is accepting submissions of a personal, penetrating nature relating to baseball. Prose or visuals are welcome. Letters, too.

Baseball Diary Editor and Publisher: William Fuller

Baseball Diary Vol 1, #9

AUGUST 3, 1982
LOS ANGELES

MAYBE SORT OF A BASEBALL FAN

by Jagne Parks

Up until a year ago my entire knowledge of baseball consisted of Babe Ruth candy bars and the ever-popular saga of “Cool Casey at the Bat" – that is until my Los Angeles friends swore to me on a stack of batting averages that baseball was THE most exciting, action-packed, stimulating, dynamic and inspiring of all sports. That it was indeed THE American Sport and if I refused the offer to accompany them to an actual baseball game I would be “depriving myself of a National Blessing”!


Ah, yes, THE American Sport. Well, I've never been much for sports whether they be American or not. I grew up not caring about scores or batting averages. I attended school sporting events but that was purely social. My father prefers the “macho” sports of football and stock-car racing and my mother has always had a fondness for softball and track – but not their daughter. I mean why should I care about what a bunch of people (usually men) over here do to a bunch of people (usually men) over there? Sports have always seemed to me to be like some kind of controlled warfare based on an arbitrary fiction and structured for the sole purpose of channeling aggression according to mysterious strategies of offense and defense (aside from being either male oriented and/or male dominated). But this is not about all sports. It's about baseball.

There are no professional female baseball players and I know of only one professional female umpire. And she only lasted one game. Poor Bernice Gera, after fighting a flood of negatavism for years for the right to work as a professional umpire, made a bad call at second against the Auburn Phillies in her first Minor League game and, under pressure, hung up her mask and left the locker room for good. That was 1972. A minor tragedy when compared to the deaths of Roberto Clemente and Gil Hodges and the great Jackie Robinson but a tragedy all the same. Since then other women have attempted to enter the male sports world but they are few and far between. It was with this in mind that I half-heartedly agreed to go to my first professional baseball game.

Okay – there was aggression, yelling and disorder. There were no female ballplayers but there were plenty of rude male spectators. Yet, my friends had not lied to me. It was exciting, dynamic and action-packed but there was also Something Else! Something one doesn't feel when attending a play or watching a circus – the feeling of belonging to a Team!

While sitting there in that ocean of turbulent humanity, sharing the experience of watching a bunch of grown men hit balls, chase balls, I started to, well, care. God knows why. Maybe I was swept up in the excitement of the moment like a teen at her first rock concert or maybe it was a sugar rush from the fourth Coke washing down the third Dodger Dog or maybe (worst of all!), maybe I was a Closet Baseball Fan! Those guys seemed to love what they were doing so much that it was impossible not to care. There wasn't really that much violence, not even as much as prime-time TV. Baseballs, not flesh, were being hit and all the yelling by the fans seemed good for them, like some kind of primal therapy and a lot cheaper at that.

That was my first baseball game. I'm now a seasoned veteran of one year. I'm still not the greatest fan of baseball but I don know what an error and a foul are so I can at least follow the play-by-play. I still eat Babe Ruth candy bars but I don't yell at the TV anymore when they announce that Monday Night Baseball will be preempting M*A*S*H. In fact, I even own a few baseball cards and a button of Fernando Valenzuela. Still and all I can't help wishing that someone else would come along like Bernice Gera and add a little variety to the field. Until then, I'll be satisfied with being a maybe-sort-of-a-baseball-fan.

REPORT FROM LOS ANGELES

This is your Editor again. The Dodgers have taken the Reds/LA series 2-1. This is a terrific sign. Tomorrow starts the second Dodgers/Braves contest in two weeks. It is imperative that LA win at least one game if they are to make a bid for first place. As of early this morning, they were 6 ½ games back and in second place (by only half a game). Depending on what happens to Atlanta today, the Dodgers will go into the series either 6 ½ or 5 ½ games back which means that if Atlanta returns last weekend's sweep, LA will be close to the middle of August 9 ½ or 10 ½ games back. It's a dismal thought and while this wouldn't automatically discount the boys in blue, it would make another comeback WAIT A MINUTE! Just heard on KABC that Joe Morgan doubled in the bottom of the ninth to give the Giants a 3-2 victory over Atlanta. (And hats off to new Dodger Ricky Wright, who pitched a two hitter though six innings today against the Red.) So there it is. The next four days. 5 ½ games back. Closing in.

LETTERS TO BASEBALL DIARY

Dear Editor:
What a day for baseball! I saw Tommy “Wrap 'em in Pasta” Lasorda get himself thrown out of the game in the 4^th over Orta's slide into 2^nd and I saw the Dodgers have to leave the field with the bases loaded and Garvey up for an agonizing 45 minute delay on account of rain and I saw back to back homers by Dusty Baker and Pedro Guerrero and I saw Dave “Falsetto” Stewart pitch four shutout innings and I saw the Dodgers rip the rug out from under the Braves four out of four right in front of the faces of those Atlanta scum who cheered when Tommy got bounced and then I saw Vin “Farmer John” Scully get inducted into the Hall of Fame for chrissake right there in ol' Cooperstown him babbling about mountains and indians and I gotta admit I felt a little tightening in the larynx and then by god I opened and read my very first issue of Baseball Diary!
Thank you for embracing me in your new expanded circulation. I'd trade two years of Dodger Blue for just one issue of BD any day of the season and throw in a Roger Maris rookie card for the privilege. Your special Baseball Card Issue with Richard Rosen's penetrating insights framed by your astute observations and frank personal revelations was the kind of sports writing I had thought was interred with Red Barber. I only hope that future issues may include a forum for the discussion of crucial questions pertaining to various aspects of the baseball experience. Meaning only that I've got a couple on my mind and I'd like to have the benefit of your expertise.
F'rinstance: I've got a bet with this guy I know in Sonora (who recently had a face to face with a stretch of Highway 49) that I'm hoping somebody on your staff can settle. We've got a half-case of Olde English 800 riding on this so you can tell it's kind of important. Anyway, I say a “Cootie Hole”, besides being whatever it was you were talking about in your last issue, is also a term pro-ballers use to describe the opposing team's dugout. Well, the little creep in Sonora says I'm full of two-baggers but what do you say?
Secondly: I have seen a lot of science fiction movies in the past few years and nowhere in any of them is there any reference to or mention of baseball! This is very disturbing to me. The closest thing to it I've seen was Luke Skywalker taking strikes with his light-saber from some weird perpetual knuckle ball that hummed and spit sparks and really didn't look like any kind of a baseball at all! Does all this mean there is no baseball in the future? Is it the ultimate players' strike? Is nuclear Armageddon better than a galaxy without baseball? Perhaps you could bring in the noted futurist, philosopher and baseball blabbermouth Dr. Rotwang “RayNo” Shark to outline some possibilities for the survival of baseball into the next century. I happen to know he's available and works dirt cheap.
Yeah, I know these are tough questions preying on the minds of those both on and off the diamond but I also know that you guys won't sidestep these issues either. I believe that only Baseball Diary, aside from having the sheer guts to look at the truth square down the baseline, also has the depth of knowledge and acuity of intelligence – both in its editorial staff and in its vast network of correspondents – to take a bite out of this plug and gnaw it until it's the brown, runny glob of spittle and chaw that we can all live with!

A Loyal Reader

Los Angeles

Dear A Loyal Reader:

We decided to print the photo you sent of yourself so all our readers might know who you are. Thank you for a well thought out and well written letter. As for your desire to see “a forum for the discussion of crucial questions” relating to baseball, here goes, although we're somewhat dubious about just how heavily these particular matters are “preying on the minds of those both on and off the diamond”: 1) You say you provided the two “baseball” cards reproduced above to illustrate your subjects. The top one was supposedly retrieved from a Cootie Hole. Sorry, ALR, better get out your beer money and resign yourself to being a big bag of nuts, we at BD have never heard an opposing team dugout referred to as a Cootie Hole; 2) The bottom card supposedly shows some of the Nostromo crew unable to find any sign of baseball. We would like to open the door right now to a discussion of baseball in the future. All submissions on this subject are welcome.

That's Almost it for Now

Just a couple more things. First of all, retired to the BD bookshelf is Roger Angell's LATE INNINGS, a wonderful book. Of particular interest is the chapter on women sports writers being admitted to baseball locker rooms and the profile of Bob Gibson, who finally got his wish and is now one of the pitching coaches for the cursed Atlanta Braves. The other coach teaches them how to pitch and Gibson teaches them ho to win. Also recommended is PIG IRON #9, devoted to baseball. Included is poetry, fiction, articles, photographs, and graphics, all relating to the National Pastime.
“Dial 8” means hitting a home run. To make a long distance phone call on the road, traveling ball players have to dial 8 on their hotel telephones first.
An “apple” is a baseball.
A “Baltimore chop” is a batted ball that takes an extremely high bounce after it hits the ground, usually on or near the plate. So called because early Baltimore Spider players, especially Wee Willie Keeler, used this tactic frequently.
A cyclops is a player who wears eyeglasses.
Moxie is courage.
Baseball Diary Circulation = 5.
Baseball Diary welcomes submissions and/or letters of a subjective nature relating to baseball. Prose, poetry, visuals – all are welcome.
Baseball Diary Editor and Publisher: William Fuller