B. B. King came home last night. The greatest ambassador the blues ever had is 81 years old now. His hair is white. His line: "I never thought I'd have anything turn white." He sits to play Lucillle now. He is burdened by age and diabetes. But upon taking the stage, he seemed to have been set free. His two hour performance included an old man's wonderful reflections on life and music, and a still-young passion for entertaining and sharing his music. He has always been effusive in appreciating his audience, and we did everything in our power to return that appreciation to him.
He seemed to be suggesting throughout the show that he is done performing. At the end of the evening he said that whether these two shows (the second coming tonight) are his last, or not, he was deeply grateful for the way we received him. Loud "No!"s rang out in response to the suggestion that he might have finished his work. After all, B. B. is the blues predecessor of Bob Dylan; always on the road, always performing, always looking for that next crowd that would listen and enjoy the music, always PLAYING THE MUSIC. The Beale Street Blues Boy sang the Pepticon jingle for us last night. He finished, of course, with The Thrill is Gone. But it wasn't. The old man still has the powerful, roaring voice that is well-known to most everybody in America and people all around the world. 90 countries he reports performing in. He sang and he played. Mr. King has had a television commercial for a blood-sugar monitor that doesn't require pricking the fingers several times every day. It must work, for his playing was exactly what we all came for, immediately identifiable as the instrumental voice of its owner, as the voices of all the great guitarists are.
If he is nearing the completion of his musical task, he is going out on top. We should all be so wise. It was the voice of wisdom that told us that even if he doesn't play it any more, the music will still be there. He commended just about everybody, by name, who follows in his footsteps. He told us they will all still be playing.
But, sir, none of them are you. And you are a treasure. A black man born in Indianola, MS, in 1925, open and generous with all people. The greatest proponent for his artform, who makes time to acknowledge other artists who will never be in his league. An old man who took time to speak to a child during his performance, and toss him a guitar pick. A public figure for 60 years, comfortable with his fame and accomodating to the public that has put demands on him for all that time.
My stepson will be 17 next month. He's a good kid. As happens along this age, we don't spend as much time together as we used to, and will again in a few years. His mom and I aren't so bright right now, but we'll be better in five or six years. He's a guitar player. I don't think he's ever paid any particular attention to the blues. He just has that general awareness of B. B. King that all Americans have. After his first experience of a genuine legend last night, he was quiet. As we got to the car, he said, "That was awesome!" When we got to the house, "Thank you so much." Thank you, Mr. King, for a great evening and the great music that has graced my entire life! Thank you for connecting with one of our kids. Thank you for your life's work, and for the way you've gone about that work. And, wherever life takes you from here, God Bless you!
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
Holy Cow, It's Over
It is, for me, sort of like Sunday and Monday must have been for St. Louisans. On Sunday, the joy of a Championship Parade and Rally that drew far more people than could ever hope to fit into Busch III, and on Monday it was announced that they live in the Most Dangerous City in America (Woo-Hoo, we Memphians dropped to 13th!). Friday was A World Series Winner, Saturday was all the reporting on same, Sunday was the celebration. Monday? Cataract surgery for my wife. (She's viewing the world significantly better, by the way) No baseball.
The two best things I've ever seen about the off-season? 1) Rogers Hornsby, when asked what he did in the winter, when there is no baseball, responded, "I look out the window and wait for spring." Amen. 2) The next to last legitimate Commissioner of Baseball, A. Bartlett Giamatti, at his literary height wrote: "It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, it stops." The essay is "The Green Fields of the Mind" and is available in several places. I encourage anyone feeling grief today to hunt it up, and keep it close at hand this winter. It will help.
107 days until Pitchers and Catchers Report.
The two best things I've ever seen about the off-season? 1) Rogers Hornsby, when asked what he did in the winter, when there is no baseball, responded, "I look out the window and wait for spring." Amen. 2) The next to last legitimate Commissioner of Baseball, A. Bartlett Giamatti, at his literary height wrote: "It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, it stops." The essay is "The Green Fields of the Mind" and is available in several places. I encourage anyone feeling grief today to hunt it up, and keep it close at hand this winter. It will help.
107 days until Pitchers and Catchers Report.
Saturday, October 28, 2006
X
The great franchise of the National League has returned to the winner's circle. The St. Louis Cardinals got it done in five games against the Detroit Tigers. The Cards' tenth title (sorry about the Super Bowlish title above) was 24 years coming, by far the biggest gap since the World Series title first came to the midwest in 1926. Only then, it wasn't the midwest. The Cardinals were, for eons, baseball's western-most and southern-most team. That's why, to this day, millions of us between the Smokies and the Rockies make the pilgrimmage every year. I stood in Lyndon Johnson's childhood bedroom several years ago, and read a plaque attached to a radio. The plaque explained how the future President of the United States listened, all the way down in Johnson City, TX, to Cardinals' broadcasts early in his life, way before Astros or Rangers crossed anybody's mind.
This is, perhaps, the Cardinals' least likely championship. The Cards' injury problems alone would have prevented any sane person from expecting tonight's clincher. Pujols missed 16 days with an oblique. Mulder wasn't right all season, before finally checking out for surgery. Edmonds bashed his head on the warning track, resulting in continuing problems with Post-Concussion Syndrome. Rolen's surgically-repaired left shoulder can't stand up to a full season. Eckstein missed time. The franchise's all-time save leader, Jason Isringhausen, watched his hip fall apart on him.
It got so bad that castoffs Jeff Weaver and Preston Wilson were picked up during the summer. Thank God! Rookies like Chris Duncan and Josh Kinney and Tyler Johnson, Anthony Reyes and Adam Wainwright had to produce and produce quick. They did. Walt Jockety has to be very, very satisfied tonight. We all wondered why he didn't do more at the trade deadline. Turns out, he did plenty.
Which leaves Tony LaRussa. Tony is too smart for baseball. He's an attorney, for crying out loud. He hasn't seemed one of us; he lives in California and works with the PETA people. And Whitey Herzog has always been available to remind everyone that Cardinal Baseball is about speed and stolen bases. Not this home run hitting nonsense. Many people have savaged Tony's record. He had the best players in Oakland and in St. Louis; why only one title? Everyone's forgotten about the magic that a Kurt Gibson can sprinkle on a World Series, or the insanity of the Nasty Boys and the Idiots.
Well he didn't have the best team this season. Only the most beat up. And somehow, he convinced whatever able bodies and walking wounded he had from day to day to ignore their record and believe that they could get it done. And the third winningest manager of all time, who actually has a shot at reaching second, became only the second manager in Major League history to win the World Series in both leagues. Tony LaRussa is a Hall of Famer. And he should be in a St. Louis Cardinals cap on his plaque. Take LaRussa to heart, Cardinals fans. He, more than anyone else, (including The Great Pujols) won you your tenth World Series championship tonight.
This is, perhaps, the Cardinals' least likely championship. The Cards' injury problems alone would have prevented any sane person from expecting tonight's clincher. Pujols missed 16 days with an oblique. Mulder wasn't right all season, before finally checking out for surgery. Edmonds bashed his head on the warning track, resulting in continuing problems with Post-Concussion Syndrome. Rolen's surgically-repaired left shoulder can't stand up to a full season. Eckstein missed time. The franchise's all-time save leader, Jason Isringhausen, watched his hip fall apart on him.
It got so bad that castoffs Jeff Weaver and Preston Wilson were picked up during the summer. Thank God! Rookies like Chris Duncan and Josh Kinney and Tyler Johnson, Anthony Reyes and Adam Wainwright had to produce and produce quick. They did. Walt Jockety has to be very, very satisfied tonight. We all wondered why he didn't do more at the trade deadline. Turns out, he did plenty.
Which leaves Tony LaRussa. Tony is too smart for baseball. He's an attorney, for crying out loud. He hasn't seemed one of us; he lives in California and works with the PETA people. And Whitey Herzog has always been available to remind everyone that Cardinal Baseball is about speed and stolen bases. Not this home run hitting nonsense. Many people have savaged Tony's record. He had the best players in Oakland and in St. Louis; why only one title? Everyone's forgotten about the magic that a Kurt Gibson can sprinkle on a World Series, or the insanity of the Nasty Boys and the Idiots.
Well he didn't have the best team this season. Only the most beat up. And somehow, he convinced whatever able bodies and walking wounded he had from day to day to ignore their record and believe that they could get it done. And the third winningest manager of all time, who actually has a shot at reaching second, became only the second manager in Major League history to win the World Series in both leagues. Tony LaRussa is a Hall of Famer. And he should be in a St. Louis Cardinals cap on his plaque. Take LaRussa to heart, Cardinals fans. He, more than anyone else, (including The Great Pujols) won you your tenth World Series championship tonight.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Extremely Untraditional Wisdom
Baseball has a new labor agreement.
Savor those words. Relish in them. Let them roll off your tongue.
For the first time in my life as a fan, Baseball has its house in order. There will be no talk of strikes, except on the batters. Lockouts? Not this year! Horrible, petty wrangling between millionaires and billionaires? None, thanks. They all did their jobs this time, and with two months to spare before the old agreement expires.
I am not a fan of Bud Selig. Everyone who has had the burden of discussing the former used car salesman with me knows that. But this time, he got it right. It isn't the first time, but it is without question, the biggest.
The Game could have died in the winter of 1994-1995. The players went out in August, and Bud canceled the World Series. For the first time since John McGraw was scared of the Boston Red Sox in 1904, there was no end to the season. World War One didn't stop the Series. Neither did WWII, nor Korea, nor Viet Nam, nor strikes or lockouts, until 1994. Had it not been for Cal Ripken, Jr., The Game might never have recovered. His pursuit of the Iron Horse captured the nation, and brought everyone back. His victory lap around Camden Yards upon the occasion of 2,131 might as well have been a victory lap celebrating the recovery of Baseball.
It is resilient, the summer Game. And with Cal showing the way, it came all the way back. This year, again, attendance records were set. Revenues reached all-time highs. Life is good for Baseball.
There would have been no return had they messed it up again. Finally, we have seen good stewardship on the part of those entrusted with this glorious tradition. They recognized that they could actually kill the golden goose, but that there was no reason to do it. We will spend the winter rehashing Ryan Howard and David Ortiz, Zumaya and Papelbon, when Glavine's 300th will come, and an amazing postseason. And not one word about the Collective Bargaining Agreement. Until 2011!
Thanks, Bud! And Bob. And Don and Gene. You did good. For all of us.
Savor those words. Relish in them. Let them roll off your tongue.
For the first time in my life as a fan, Baseball has its house in order. There will be no talk of strikes, except on the batters. Lockouts? Not this year! Horrible, petty wrangling between millionaires and billionaires? None, thanks. They all did their jobs this time, and with two months to spare before the old agreement expires.
I am not a fan of Bud Selig. Everyone who has had the burden of discussing the former used car salesman with me knows that. But this time, he got it right. It isn't the first time, but it is without question, the biggest.
The Game could have died in the winter of 1994-1995. The players went out in August, and Bud canceled the World Series. For the first time since John McGraw was scared of the Boston Red Sox in 1904, there was no end to the season. World War One didn't stop the Series. Neither did WWII, nor Korea, nor Viet Nam, nor strikes or lockouts, until 1994. Had it not been for Cal Ripken, Jr., The Game might never have recovered. His pursuit of the Iron Horse captured the nation, and brought everyone back. His victory lap around Camden Yards upon the occasion of 2,131 might as well have been a victory lap celebrating the recovery of Baseball.
It is resilient, the summer Game. And with Cal showing the way, it came all the way back. This year, again, attendance records were set. Revenues reached all-time highs. Life is good for Baseball.
There would have been no return had they messed it up again. Finally, we have seen good stewardship on the part of those entrusted with this glorious tradition. They recognized that they could actually kill the golden goose, but that there was no reason to do it. We will spend the winter rehashing Ryan Howard and David Ortiz, Zumaya and Papelbon, when Glavine's 300th will come, and an amazing postseason. And not one word about the Collective Bargaining Agreement. Until 2011!
Thanks, Bud! And Bob. And Don and Gene. You did good. For all of us.
One Just For Me
The World Series is shaping up into a great series. Anthony Reyes was spectacular in Game One. Jeff Weaver was good in Game Two; Kenny Rogers was just better. Game Three will probably dictate the direction for the rest of the series.
Now, with that out of the way...
We are now a couple of weeks from Election Day. We will hold a referendum on the governance of George W. Bush and his Congress. I will gladly own my bias. I find George W. Bush to be the most reprehensible national figure of my lifetime. Understand the obvious: that includes Richard Nixon, Henry Kissinger, George Wallace, Robert McNamara, James Watt, Edwin Meese, John Ashcroft and the Dick Cheney. OK, just barely more reprehensible than Ashcroft and Cheney.
In all likelihood, George W. Bush has never been elected President of the United States. If not for Kathryn Harris and the Brother-in-Chief in Florida in 2000, and Kenneth Blackwell in Ohio in 2004, we might have been spared this travesty that refuses to end. And yet, as deluded as O. J. Simpson, Mr. Bush has claimed for himself a mandate that has never existed by any known definition of the word.
Bill Clinton left office on January 21, 2001. I would not want to leave my wife or my daughters alone with Mr. Clinton. He certainly has his personal failings. But as he completed the Presidency to which he was indisputably elected, the United States of America was at our strongest point since the end of World War II. We had a record surplus, an economy that had seen its longest period of sustained growth in our history, crime rates that had dropped for each year of Mr. Clinton's administration, abortion rates that were lower than at any time since Rowe v. Wade was decided, and a renewed position of prestige and respect in most parts of the world. Compare that to where we are now.
Mr. Bush has been a disaster of unprecedented proportions for our nation and the world. We are more deeply in debt than ever before, and still Mr. Bush is the first President in our history to cut taxes while adding war spending to the budget. Like the Bush tax cuts, the economy has been spectacular for his Pioneers; tough for many of the rest of us; brutal for those at the bottom. In spite of his having been in office for eight months by the time September 11, 2001 arrived, he has consistently blamed the horrible events of that day on the Clinton Administration. This, in spite of his band of incompetents, led by then-National Security Advisor Dr. Rice, who acknowledged to the 9-11 Commission having received a CIA briefing entitled, "Bin Laden Determined to Attack Inside the United States" which she never discussed with the President.
After September 11, Mr. Bush attacked Afghanistan with as close to universal support as any President will ever have on any issue. But he was already looking for a pretext to invade Iraq. He arrived in office with a determination to attack and remove Saddam Hussein. Bin Laden's attacks became the cover he had so desperately been seeking. And in claiming the fantasy linkage between Bin Laden and Hussein, and continuing to promulgate that idea after it had been shown to be a complete and total fabrication, Mr. Bush played more into Bin Laden's hands than if our War President had offered to fund the next Al Qaeda operation. The ongoing debacle in Iraq has accomplished nothing except to kill more Americans than died on September 11, 2001, and enough Iraqis-most of them who hated Saddam Hussein and had suffered under his rule-to ensure that my grandchildren and their grandchildren will have to worry about terrorist attacks throughout their lives.
The great Christians at the helm of our country knew how to deal with their enemies within, as well. Mr. Bush's underlings exposed a CIA operative who happened to be married to an honest man. When Joe Wilson refused to march in lock-step on the created out of whole cloth effort of Saddam to buy nuclear materials in Africa, they tried to get his wife, Valerie Plame, killed. They have called anyone who disagrees with them unpatriotic. They have told the world, "You're either with us, or you're with the terrorists." Dennis Hastert actually blamed Bill Clinton for his problems that arose from protecting the would-be pedophile, Mark Foley. Mr. Speaker, can't you come up with anything more original? This kind of revenge seeking, name calling and hyperbolic tough-guy language is very familiar. It comes directly from the cowboy stories and movies that most American men grew up on. It has no place in grown up life. It is childish. It is foolhardy. It is what is meant by the old Texas phrase, "All hat and no cattle." And it demonstrates no knowledge of, or commitment to, Jesus Christ.
When we allow the occupation of the Oval Office by a person who claims that God chose him to be President at this crucial time to deal with these great issues, we get what we deserve. This administration has made gay marriage an issue, while they have prevented the photographing of the flag-draped coffins of our dead children coming home from the only war that we have ever started. They have wrecked our nation at every point available to them, and they believe that they have done it in the name of God. They are, indeed, the American equivalent of the Taliban.
Now, they warn the public that if the Democrats come to control the Congress, Bin Laden will be invited to parade down Pennsylvania Avenue. They cannot run on their record, and they know it. So they trot out the only option available to them: they try to scare us all over again. The terrorism alert level will certainly be raised before Election Day. Another attack will miraculously be prevented at the last second. The fears of Americans will continue to be manipulated, strictly for political gain. As will the gas prices, which will continue to fall until we have voted.
Mr. Bush was once asked at a Press Conference if he had made any mistakes as President. He could not think of a single one. Sir, you just haven't been paying attention. His entire presidency has been a mistake. And if we choose to continue to supply him with the lapdog Congress that he has enjoyed for six years, then, again, we get what we deserve!
Now, with that out of the way...
We are now a couple of weeks from Election Day. We will hold a referendum on the governance of George W. Bush and his Congress. I will gladly own my bias. I find George W. Bush to be the most reprehensible national figure of my lifetime. Understand the obvious: that includes Richard Nixon, Henry Kissinger, George Wallace, Robert McNamara, James Watt, Edwin Meese, John Ashcroft and the Dick Cheney. OK, just barely more reprehensible than Ashcroft and Cheney.
In all likelihood, George W. Bush has never been elected President of the United States. If not for Kathryn Harris and the Brother-in-Chief in Florida in 2000, and Kenneth Blackwell in Ohio in 2004, we might have been spared this travesty that refuses to end. And yet, as deluded as O. J. Simpson, Mr. Bush has claimed for himself a mandate that has never existed by any known definition of the word.
Bill Clinton left office on January 21, 2001. I would not want to leave my wife or my daughters alone with Mr. Clinton. He certainly has his personal failings. But as he completed the Presidency to which he was indisputably elected, the United States of America was at our strongest point since the end of World War II. We had a record surplus, an economy that had seen its longest period of sustained growth in our history, crime rates that had dropped for each year of Mr. Clinton's administration, abortion rates that were lower than at any time since Rowe v. Wade was decided, and a renewed position of prestige and respect in most parts of the world. Compare that to where we are now.
Mr. Bush has been a disaster of unprecedented proportions for our nation and the world. We are more deeply in debt than ever before, and still Mr. Bush is the first President in our history to cut taxes while adding war spending to the budget. Like the Bush tax cuts, the economy has been spectacular for his Pioneers; tough for many of the rest of us; brutal for those at the bottom. In spite of his having been in office for eight months by the time September 11, 2001 arrived, he has consistently blamed the horrible events of that day on the Clinton Administration. This, in spite of his band of incompetents, led by then-National Security Advisor Dr. Rice, who acknowledged to the 9-11 Commission having received a CIA briefing entitled, "Bin Laden Determined to Attack Inside the United States" which she never discussed with the President.
After September 11, Mr. Bush attacked Afghanistan with as close to universal support as any President will ever have on any issue. But he was already looking for a pretext to invade Iraq. He arrived in office with a determination to attack and remove Saddam Hussein. Bin Laden's attacks became the cover he had so desperately been seeking. And in claiming the fantasy linkage between Bin Laden and Hussein, and continuing to promulgate that idea after it had been shown to be a complete and total fabrication, Mr. Bush played more into Bin Laden's hands than if our War President had offered to fund the next Al Qaeda operation. The ongoing debacle in Iraq has accomplished nothing except to kill more Americans than died on September 11, 2001, and enough Iraqis-most of them who hated Saddam Hussein and had suffered under his rule-to ensure that my grandchildren and their grandchildren will have to worry about terrorist attacks throughout their lives.
The great Christians at the helm of our country knew how to deal with their enemies within, as well. Mr. Bush's underlings exposed a CIA operative who happened to be married to an honest man. When Joe Wilson refused to march in lock-step on the created out of whole cloth effort of Saddam to buy nuclear materials in Africa, they tried to get his wife, Valerie Plame, killed. They have called anyone who disagrees with them unpatriotic. They have told the world, "You're either with us, or you're with the terrorists." Dennis Hastert actually blamed Bill Clinton for his problems that arose from protecting the would-be pedophile, Mark Foley. Mr. Speaker, can't you come up with anything more original? This kind of revenge seeking, name calling and hyperbolic tough-guy language is very familiar. It comes directly from the cowboy stories and movies that most American men grew up on. It has no place in grown up life. It is childish. It is foolhardy. It is what is meant by the old Texas phrase, "All hat and no cattle." And it demonstrates no knowledge of, or commitment to, Jesus Christ.
When we allow the occupation of the Oval Office by a person who claims that God chose him to be President at this crucial time to deal with these great issues, we get what we deserve. This administration has made gay marriage an issue, while they have prevented the photographing of the flag-draped coffins of our dead children coming home from the only war that we have ever started. They have wrecked our nation at every point available to them, and they believe that they have done it in the name of God. They are, indeed, the American equivalent of the Taliban.
Now, they warn the public that if the Democrats come to control the Congress, Bin Laden will be invited to parade down Pennsylvania Avenue. They cannot run on their record, and they know it. So they trot out the only option available to them: they try to scare us all over again. The terrorism alert level will certainly be raised before Election Day. Another attack will miraculously be prevented at the last second. The fears of Americans will continue to be manipulated, strictly for political gain. As will the gas prices, which will continue to fall until we have voted.
Mr. Bush was once asked at a Press Conference if he had made any mistakes as President. He could not think of a single one. Sir, you just haven't been paying attention. His entire presidency has been a mistake. And if we choose to continue to supply him with the lapdog Congress that he has enjoyed for six years, then, again, we get what we deserve!
Thursday, October 19, 2006
El Birdos 2!
It has happened before. In 1966, the Cardinals sent Ray Sadecki to San Francisco for Orlando Cepeda. Cha Cha paid huge dividends in '67 and '68, as El Birdos split those two World Series, beating the Red Sox and losing to Mickey Lolich.
It has happened again. Albert Pujols carried the Cardinals to the postseason with a brilliant season, his best yet. And that's saying something. But The Great Pujols has been just pretty good since the regular season, as he occupies Cepeda's first base. The hitting star of the NLCS hasn't been Albert. Nor Scott. Not Jim. Nor the dark horses, Duncan or Encarnacion or Wilson. Not the sparkplug, Eckstein.
Yadier Molina.
The Best Catcher In The National League doesn't hit. He doesn't have to. The Cards have long preferred a backstop that handles the pitching staff. Simba was the exception in the 1970's. Ted Simmons knew what to do at the plate as well as behind it. (Someone, Anyone, explain to me why Simmons isn't in the Hall of Fame?) Tim McCarver in ancient times, Tom Pagnozzi in the '80s and Mike Matheny to start the 21st Century all fit the bill. On Charlie Steiner's excellent XM Radio program, Baseball Beat, Yadi was described as "worse than the pitchers with a bat" in his hands.
And still.
Yadi hasn't just guided the Cards' very average pitching staff through a spectacular performance (with the exception of the Game 4 collapse), he has been the offensive star. How about .348 with 2 homers and 6 RBI? (And no, I checked twice, those aren't Albert's numbers.)
This is precisely the great thing about postseason baseball. Dusty Rhodes (No, not him; the one who played for the NY Giants) becomes a folk hero. Gene Tenace materializes as though beamed in from the Starship Enterprise. Some infant named Andruw Jones becomes the youngest player to homer in his first World Series at bat in 1996. And that doggoned Mickey Lolich launches what became, after the 1968 World Series, a very fine career.
Yadier Molina took the St. Louis Cardinals to the World Series. And not just with his glove, arm and game-calling, although they were all on awesome display. He brought his bat to the National League Championship Series!
Adam Wainwright caught a flying Molina after the called strike three to Cardinals killer Carlos Beltran, of all people. The team should return the favor, and carry him on their shoulders all the way home. He certainly carried the rest of them for the last week.
El Birdos Live! Viva El Birdos!
It has happened again. Albert Pujols carried the Cardinals to the postseason with a brilliant season, his best yet. And that's saying something. But The Great Pujols has been just pretty good since the regular season, as he occupies Cepeda's first base. The hitting star of the NLCS hasn't been Albert. Nor Scott. Not Jim. Nor the dark horses, Duncan or Encarnacion or Wilson. Not the sparkplug, Eckstein.
Yadier Molina.
The Best Catcher In The National League doesn't hit. He doesn't have to. The Cards have long preferred a backstop that handles the pitching staff. Simba was the exception in the 1970's. Ted Simmons knew what to do at the plate as well as behind it. (Someone, Anyone, explain to me why Simmons isn't in the Hall of Fame?) Tim McCarver in ancient times, Tom Pagnozzi in the '80s and Mike Matheny to start the 21st Century all fit the bill. On Charlie Steiner's excellent XM Radio program, Baseball Beat, Yadi was described as "worse than the pitchers with a bat" in his hands.
And still.
Yadi hasn't just guided the Cards' very average pitching staff through a spectacular performance (with the exception of the Game 4 collapse), he has been the offensive star. How about .348 with 2 homers and 6 RBI? (And no, I checked twice, those aren't Albert's numbers.)
This is precisely the great thing about postseason baseball. Dusty Rhodes (No, not him; the one who played for the NY Giants) becomes a folk hero. Gene Tenace materializes as though beamed in from the Starship Enterprise. Some infant named Andruw Jones becomes the youngest player to homer in his first World Series at bat in 1996. And that doggoned Mickey Lolich launches what became, after the 1968 World Series, a very fine career.
Yadier Molina took the St. Louis Cardinals to the World Series. And not just with his glove, arm and game-calling, although they were all on awesome display. He brought his bat to the National League Championship Series!
Adam Wainwright caught a flying Molina after the called strike three to Cardinals killer Carlos Beltran, of all people. The team should return the favor, and carry him on their shoulders all the way home. He certainly carried the rest of them for the last week.
El Birdos Live! Viva El Birdos!
Monday, October 09, 2006
That's A Winner
A few years ago it became very fashionable in certain portions of my world for people to wear and stick on their car bumpers a variety of items bearing the logo "WWJD." Said items were to cause the bearer to spend time before any decision contemplating the question, "What Would Jesus Do?" The only problem with fashionable things is that followers of fads do not care about the original significance of the fashionable thing; they just care that they be seen wearing the fashionable thing, and thus, fitting in with The Crowd.
Irony: wanting to fit in with The Crowd, when it was The Crowd who called for Jesus' death.
All of that said, I am the proud owner of a handful of stickers that bear the letters, "WWJBD?" These stickers came from St. Louis. They pose the question, acronymically (HEY-a new word!), What Would Jack Buck Do?
If you don't know that Jack Buck was the Cardinals' play-by-play man on KMOX, you shouldn't be reading this little reflection on my hobby. If you do know, then you probably had the great joy of listening to the best broadcaster I have every known anything about. Jack Buck was gold. He was smart. He was funny. He had THAT voice. He knew the game, and loved it. Perhaps the only thing he loved more than baseball and broadcasting was people. Everyone I have ever met who met Jack Buck tells a wonderful story about a tremendous man. Joe Buck's current commercial, in response to a bartender's question about who Joe would have a beer with if he could choose anyone, tells his family's perspective on Mr. Buck.
Jack Buck raised millions of dollars for churches and charities, but was never pompous about his piety. He was frequently the most accomplished, smartest man in the room, but his New England roots and adopted Midwest manner kept him humble. Jack developed Parkinson's Disease late in his life. He didn't hide from the world. He put people at ease about his tremor by opening conversations with a self-deprecating line: "What's shaking, besides me?"
Jack Buck received the Ford Frick award in 1987, granting him admission into the National Baseball Hall of Fame (one of the eight Halls of Fame where Jack is counted a member). In his induction speech, he showed his feet were still firmly planted on the ground. He talked about his greatest joy at work being the ability to share baseball with "those who are exiled from the game." He mentioned people in the hospital, the elderly, those far away in the military services. He would never have called it by its name, but what he found most rewarding was ministry with those who needed him most.
He said one more thing in that speech. He told the gathered throngs and millions of others listening or reading the speeches later that as much as he appreciated the honor, he shouldn't have been there ahead of Harry Caray. Two summers later, Harry was inducted. By the late 1980's Harry Caray wasn't the announcer he had been in his prime in St. Louis. Harry was beloved in Chicago, but made fun of in many other parts of the country, sometimes cruelly so. Jack reminded baseball that Harry had been The Man in the broadcast booth for many years; baseball responded. You just had to pay attention when Jack Buck spoke.
I thought about Jack last night. As Adam Wainwright finished off the Padres for a trip to the Cardinals' third National League Championship Series in four years, I didn't have to listen very hard to hear a very familiar voice shouting again, "And that's a winner!" Because if it takes one to know one, Jack Buck knew winners.
Irony: wanting to fit in with The Crowd, when it was The Crowd who called for Jesus' death.
All of that said, I am the proud owner of a handful of stickers that bear the letters, "WWJBD?" These stickers came from St. Louis. They pose the question, acronymically (HEY-a new word!), What Would Jack Buck Do?
If you don't know that Jack Buck was the Cardinals' play-by-play man on KMOX, you shouldn't be reading this little reflection on my hobby. If you do know, then you probably had the great joy of listening to the best broadcaster I have every known anything about. Jack Buck was gold. He was smart. He was funny. He had THAT voice. He knew the game, and loved it. Perhaps the only thing he loved more than baseball and broadcasting was people. Everyone I have ever met who met Jack Buck tells a wonderful story about a tremendous man. Joe Buck's current commercial, in response to a bartender's question about who Joe would have a beer with if he could choose anyone, tells his family's perspective on Mr. Buck.
Jack Buck raised millions of dollars for churches and charities, but was never pompous about his piety. He was frequently the most accomplished, smartest man in the room, but his New England roots and adopted Midwest manner kept him humble. Jack developed Parkinson's Disease late in his life. He didn't hide from the world. He put people at ease about his tremor by opening conversations with a self-deprecating line: "What's shaking, besides me?"
Jack Buck received the Ford Frick award in 1987, granting him admission into the National Baseball Hall of Fame (one of the eight Halls of Fame where Jack is counted a member). In his induction speech, he showed his feet were still firmly planted on the ground. He talked about his greatest joy at work being the ability to share baseball with "those who are exiled from the game." He mentioned people in the hospital, the elderly, those far away in the military services. He would never have called it by its name, but what he found most rewarding was ministry with those who needed him most.
He said one more thing in that speech. He told the gathered throngs and millions of others listening or reading the speeches later that as much as he appreciated the honor, he shouldn't have been there ahead of Harry Caray. Two summers later, Harry was inducted. By the late 1980's Harry Caray wasn't the announcer he had been in his prime in St. Louis. Harry was beloved in Chicago, but made fun of in many other parts of the country, sometimes cruelly so. Jack reminded baseball that Harry had been The Man in the broadcast booth for many years; baseball responded. You just had to pay attention when Jack Buck spoke.
I thought about Jack last night. As Adam Wainwright finished off the Padres for a trip to the Cardinals' third National League Championship Series in four years, I didn't have to listen very hard to hear a very familiar voice shouting again, "And that's a winner!" Because if it takes one to know one, Jack Buck knew winners.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
A Long, Hard Day
The day began with an early phone call from my wife. Friday is sleep day. Theoretically. Today was that "once in a while I actually get the day off" day. So I was somewhere south of thrilled when her cell phone number popped up on the caller ID. She knows better! What she actually knew was that First Church was burning.
I was privileged to teach the John R. Pepper Sunday School Class of First United Methodist Church in Memphis, TN, one Sunday a month for three or four years in the mid-1990's. I was on the Wesley Senior Ministries staff, and had no Sunday morning responsibilities. The Pepper Class was the great Sunday School class of the oldest church of any sort in Memphis. While spending that time with the Pepper Class, I fell in love with First Church. It has, ever since, been the only church in our Annual Conference (it's a Methodist thing) that I have specifically wanted to serve someday. It isn't our biggest church. It isn't our richest. But it just may be our most historic, and it's the only one we have in downtown Memphis.
I'm not just a Memphian; I am a downtowner. There is a sense, a spirit, to downtown Memphis. It has a lot to do with music-the intersection of delta blues, Elvis' rock, Rev. Al's heart-lusting on Saturday night and praying about it on Sunday morning, Sam and Dave's and Cropper and Dunn's Stax of soul and so much more; it's also part having had to deal with our racism while on international display since the hard days of April, 1968; it is the residue of an old style political boss-the inimitable Mr. Crump about whom WC Handy put pen to paper-who wouldn't abide any consideration of successors, which in some ways limits us to this day; it's about The River, just down the cobblestones from our high bluff; it's about being Southern and defeated and Southern and triumphant; and it's about a million other things that make little sense to us, and less to anyone who ain't from around here.
I'm a couple of high school kids and one other obligation away from living downtown. I hate our current neighborlesshood with a passion that makes purple seem calm. I despise notions of entitlement and that mentality that blames all problems on any "them" as though life is ever anything but "us" on this little journey. I live in a buttoned-down, gated-up, uptight, repellant suburb, which is a dirtier word than any of those George Carlin said couldn't get on TV. (He never saw the Sopranos before writing that bit. Ah, Freedom!) I want to live downtown. I have dreamed of working there. I still do.
First Church's sanctuary is a shell today. The outer walls stand; there's nothing else of that grand structure left. God bless my colleague, Rev. Martha Wagley. Her job got a lot bigger and tougher today. How fortunate we downtowners are to have her there at this time. Martha will love downtown through this challenge.
Tonight a tough day got much worse. Buck O'Neill died. Earlier this year, the morons on Fay Vincent's committee, named to correct the blindness of the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum when it comes to Negro Leagues players and executives, failed to make the most obvious call, and name Buck O'Neill for induction. They found 17 people deserving of induction, and I agree with all of them. But there had to be room for one more. John Jordan "Buck" O'Neill should have gone in for his contributions to the game. They said he wasn't quite player enough to warrant induction. How many home runs did Lee MacPhail hit? How many bases did Larry MacPhail steal? The only thing Ford Frick affected on the field was disrespecting Roger Maris with that damnable asterisk. He, and a lot of others, weren't players at all. But some supposed contributions to the game got them in. Buck O'Neill did more for the game than pretty much the whole lot of them. He was the first African-American coach in the major leagues. He was the face and presence of the Negro Leagues for the last generation, through his work at the Museum in Kansas City. He was a presence of grace and reconciliation whenever the question of justice for black players was raised. Buck was often asked, "Don't you wish you had come along a little later?" He answered, again, with the title of his wonderful autobiography: "I Was Right On Time."
I was blessed to meet Buck O'Neill at a University of Memphis symposium on Negro Leagues baseball in the late 1990's. The smile that illuminated Ken Burns' "Baseball" was genuine and ready. The grace that enabled him to walk, beaming, onto the stage at Cooperstown last Summer to introduce the inductions of those who should have been his classmates was evident those years ago, as he took time with, and showed genuine interest in, every single person who passed by his table. How marvelous it is to meet a celebrated person who equals their reputation. Mr. O'Neill far surpassed his.
Time ran out for Buck on Friday night. He was 94 years old, and succumbed to pneumonia. Der Kommisar for Life now says that he will do everything in his power to see Buck O'Neill elected to the Hall of Fame. As usual, Bud, you're too late. Shame on Baseball. Shame on Baseball. Shame on Baseball.
Tomorrow has to be a better day.
I was privileged to teach the John R. Pepper Sunday School Class of First United Methodist Church in Memphis, TN, one Sunday a month for three or four years in the mid-1990's. I was on the Wesley Senior Ministries staff, and had no Sunday morning responsibilities. The Pepper Class was the great Sunday School class of the oldest church of any sort in Memphis. While spending that time with the Pepper Class, I fell in love with First Church. It has, ever since, been the only church in our Annual Conference (it's a Methodist thing) that I have specifically wanted to serve someday. It isn't our biggest church. It isn't our richest. But it just may be our most historic, and it's the only one we have in downtown Memphis.
I'm not just a Memphian; I am a downtowner. There is a sense, a spirit, to downtown Memphis. It has a lot to do with music-the intersection of delta blues, Elvis' rock, Rev. Al's heart-lusting on Saturday night and praying about it on Sunday morning, Sam and Dave's and Cropper and Dunn's Stax of soul and so much more; it's also part having had to deal with our racism while on international display since the hard days of April, 1968; it is the residue of an old style political boss-the inimitable Mr. Crump about whom WC Handy put pen to paper-who wouldn't abide any consideration of successors, which in some ways limits us to this day; it's about The River, just down the cobblestones from our high bluff; it's about being Southern and defeated and Southern and triumphant; and it's about a million other things that make little sense to us, and less to anyone who ain't from around here.
I'm a couple of high school kids and one other obligation away from living downtown. I hate our current neighborlesshood with a passion that makes purple seem calm. I despise notions of entitlement and that mentality that blames all problems on any "them" as though life is ever anything but "us" on this little journey. I live in a buttoned-down, gated-up, uptight, repellant suburb, which is a dirtier word than any of those George Carlin said couldn't get on TV. (He never saw the Sopranos before writing that bit. Ah, Freedom!) I want to live downtown. I have dreamed of working there. I still do.
First Church's sanctuary is a shell today. The outer walls stand; there's nothing else of that grand structure left. God bless my colleague, Rev. Martha Wagley. Her job got a lot bigger and tougher today. How fortunate we downtowners are to have her there at this time. Martha will love downtown through this challenge.
Tonight a tough day got much worse. Buck O'Neill died. Earlier this year, the morons on Fay Vincent's committee, named to correct the blindness of the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum when it comes to Negro Leagues players and executives, failed to make the most obvious call, and name Buck O'Neill for induction. They found 17 people deserving of induction, and I agree with all of them. But there had to be room for one more. John Jordan "Buck" O'Neill should have gone in for his contributions to the game. They said he wasn't quite player enough to warrant induction. How many home runs did Lee MacPhail hit? How many bases did Larry MacPhail steal? The only thing Ford Frick affected on the field was disrespecting Roger Maris with that damnable asterisk. He, and a lot of others, weren't players at all. But some supposed contributions to the game got them in. Buck O'Neill did more for the game than pretty much the whole lot of them. He was the first African-American coach in the major leagues. He was the face and presence of the Negro Leagues for the last generation, through his work at the Museum in Kansas City. He was a presence of grace and reconciliation whenever the question of justice for black players was raised. Buck was often asked, "Don't you wish you had come along a little later?" He answered, again, with the title of his wonderful autobiography: "I Was Right On Time."
I was blessed to meet Buck O'Neill at a University of Memphis symposium on Negro Leagues baseball in the late 1990's. The smile that illuminated Ken Burns' "Baseball" was genuine and ready. The grace that enabled him to walk, beaming, onto the stage at Cooperstown last Summer to introduce the inductions of those who should have been his classmates was evident those years ago, as he took time with, and showed genuine interest in, every single person who passed by his table. How marvelous it is to meet a celebrated person who equals their reputation. Mr. O'Neill far surpassed his.
Time ran out for Buck on Friday night. He was 94 years old, and succumbed to pneumonia. Der Kommisar for Life now says that he will do everything in his power to see Buck O'Neill elected to the Hall of Fame. As usual, Bud, you're too late. Shame on Baseball. Shame on Baseball. Shame on Baseball.
Tomorrow has to be a better day.
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Baseball Weekend 2006
This was the guy weekend. Years ago, my brother and I began to go to St. Louis for the last weekend of the season. Later, at age three, his son joined the excursion. A year after that, our father signed on. A couple years after that, my stepson. Then this year, our brother-in-law and nephew made the trek with us for the first time.
My wife and I used June's Annual Conference (it's a Methodist thing) in Paducah, KY, as a "Hey, we're half-way to St. Louis anyway" excuse to check out Busch Stadium III. It is fabulous! Several years ago, the Cardinals came to Memphis to celebrate the new relationship via the AAA Redbirds and christen AutoZone Park. The Brass, and especially Mr. Buck and Mike Shannon, raved about our downtown jewel. Their degree of appreciation became evident upon walking into the new park in St. Louis. It IS AutoZone with Major League seating. Couldn't be any better.
I knew what my family guys were going to enjoy, and the payoff was well worth the wait. Then, in that splendid setting, the stumbling, bumbling (thanks, Boomer!) Cardinals put the stumbling and bumbling on hold for us. On Friday night, Jeff Weaver channeled that guy who pitched so well for the Tigers years ago that the NYA forked over big bucks for a new contract that never paid off for them. Add to that The Great Pujols' 48th homer of the season, and a grand night was had by all.
41,718 stood in the bottom of the sixth when Ernie Hays followed the Sound Effects' guy's BOOM-boom-boom-boom, BOOM-boom-boom-boom with a Busch Stadium rendition of the Tomahawk Chop tune. We all chopped and cheered with all our might when the final was posted: 4-1 Braves! Rookie Chuck James had bested Roger Clemens! Maybe the Baseball Gods weren't going to wreak total vengeance on the Cards after all! Fifty minutes later, the magic number was down to 2.
The Spawn of Satan Fox Television Network moved Saturday's game to 12:25, so there could be no celebration of a clinch at the park. Nevertheless, the Cards took care of business. Scott Spiezio, son of ancient Redbird Ed, delivered a three-run pinch-hit triple to provide all that was needed to vanquish the Brewers and make the magic numeral 1. The only times I had ever heard Cardinal Nation louder than on Spiezio's shot was when Mark McGwire tied Babe Ruth on the Saturday before Labor Day in 1998, and then Big Mac tied Roger Maris two days later.
We tried as best we could to listen to the station that should still be KMOX, but the clock radios in the Westport Best Western just weren't up to the task. Sportscenter let us know that Sunday would matter.
We were passing Cape Girardeau when the house Chopped again on Sunday afternoon, courtesy of John Smoltz' 16th win and Bob Wickman's 33rd save. (I believe that if Smoltz had had Wickman behind him all year, he would be the 2006 Cy Young Award winner at age 39) The Cardinals had won their third consecutive Central Division title. Mike Shannon, lucid for a few minutes, pointed out that this was the first time since 1942-44 that the Cards had posted three straight championships. He then went on to try to explain where they would play in the first round. It was classic Mike. Check out the website and give it a listen. You won't be sorry.
We started going to Cardinals' games on August 4, 1971. That night, we saw Bob Gibson win his 200th game, Joe Torre go 3-4 in his MVP season, Willie Mays played Center Field, Gaylord Perry took the loss, additional future HOFers Brock and McCovey were in the game, and should be HOFer Ted Simmons was in there, too. Bobby Bonds earned a family of life-long fans when he opened the window of the team bus and kept signing autographs after a 20 minute session on the sidewalk. Two little kids from Union City, TN, got the then-great young player's name written on their scorecards, and have never forgotten it more than 35 years later.
Dad grew up poor on a small West Tennessee farm. In his younger days, his folks never had time for things like baseball, band, camp, Vacation Bible School or any of the other things that my brother, sister and I got to take for granted. He had to work in the fields. Always. Many of my friends' dads had grown up similarly. A lot of the other dads took out their frustrations over hard upbringings on their own kids. Our father wanted us to have a different experience of life than he had known. That's why he and mom somehow scraped together the money to take us on a vacation to St. Louis in 1971, to see a baseball game. He didn't know the game well; he didn't know the players at all. But his boys had been bitten by the baseball bug, and that made it important to him to take us to see the real thing.
Our first stop Friday night was outside the Home Plate entrance to Busch III. There, at Gate 2, Section D, lies the brick I bought last Winter. It bears the inscription "Piercey Boys' Baseball Club Est. 8-4-1971." I wanted Dad to know that I remember, and am grateful. I also want my nephews to remember, when they are bringing their own kids and grandkids, that it mattered to Granddaddy and Nana that their family know that life is supposed to be fun, and shared with people you love. It just doesn't get any better than this. I already can't wait until next year!
My wife and I used June's Annual Conference (it's a Methodist thing) in Paducah, KY, as a "Hey, we're half-way to St. Louis anyway" excuse to check out Busch Stadium III. It is fabulous! Several years ago, the Cardinals came to Memphis to celebrate the new relationship via the AAA Redbirds and christen AutoZone Park. The Brass, and especially Mr. Buck and Mike Shannon, raved about our downtown jewel. Their degree of appreciation became evident upon walking into the new park in St. Louis. It IS AutoZone with Major League seating. Couldn't be any better.
I knew what my family guys were going to enjoy, and the payoff was well worth the wait. Then, in that splendid setting, the stumbling, bumbling (thanks, Boomer!) Cardinals put the stumbling and bumbling on hold for us. On Friday night, Jeff Weaver channeled that guy who pitched so well for the Tigers years ago that the NYA forked over big bucks for a new contract that never paid off for them. Add to that The Great Pujols' 48th homer of the season, and a grand night was had by all.
41,718 stood in the bottom of the sixth when Ernie Hays followed the Sound Effects' guy's BOOM-boom-boom-boom, BOOM-boom-boom-boom with a Busch Stadium rendition of the Tomahawk Chop tune. We all chopped and cheered with all our might when the final was posted: 4-1 Braves! Rookie Chuck James had bested Roger Clemens! Maybe the Baseball Gods weren't going to wreak total vengeance on the Cards after all! Fifty minutes later, the magic number was down to 2.
The Spawn of Satan Fox Television Network moved Saturday's game to 12:25, so there could be no celebration of a clinch at the park. Nevertheless, the Cards took care of business. Scott Spiezio, son of ancient Redbird Ed, delivered a three-run pinch-hit triple to provide all that was needed to vanquish the Brewers and make the magic numeral 1. The only times I had ever heard Cardinal Nation louder than on Spiezio's shot was when Mark McGwire tied Babe Ruth on the Saturday before Labor Day in 1998, and then Big Mac tied Roger Maris two days later.
We tried as best we could to listen to the station that should still be KMOX, but the clock radios in the Westport Best Western just weren't up to the task. Sportscenter let us know that Sunday would matter.
We were passing Cape Girardeau when the house Chopped again on Sunday afternoon, courtesy of John Smoltz' 16th win and Bob Wickman's 33rd save. (I believe that if Smoltz had had Wickman behind him all year, he would be the 2006 Cy Young Award winner at age 39) The Cardinals had won their third consecutive Central Division title. Mike Shannon, lucid for a few minutes, pointed out that this was the first time since 1942-44 that the Cards had posted three straight championships. He then went on to try to explain where they would play in the first round. It was classic Mike. Check out the website and give it a listen. You won't be sorry.
We started going to Cardinals' games on August 4, 1971. That night, we saw Bob Gibson win his 200th game, Joe Torre go 3-4 in his MVP season, Willie Mays played Center Field, Gaylord Perry took the loss, additional future HOFers Brock and McCovey were in the game, and should be HOFer Ted Simmons was in there, too. Bobby Bonds earned a family of life-long fans when he opened the window of the team bus and kept signing autographs after a 20 minute session on the sidewalk. Two little kids from Union City, TN, got the then-great young player's name written on their scorecards, and have never forgotten it more than 35 years later.
Dad grew up poor on a small West Tennessee farm. In his younger days, his folks never had time for things like baseball, band, camp, Vacation Bible School or any of the other things that my brother, sister and I got to take for granted. He had to work in the fields. Always. Many of my friends' dads had grown up similarly. A lot of the other dads took out their frustrations over hard upbringings on their own kids. Our father wanted us to have a different experience of life than he had known. That's why he and mom somehow scraped together the money to take us on a vacation to St. Louis in 1971, to see a baseball game. He didn't know the game well; he didn't know the players at all. But his boys had been bitten by the baseball bug, and that made it important to him to take us to see the real thing.
Our first stop Friday night was outside the Home Plate entrance to Busch III. There, at Gate 2, Section D, lies the brick I bought last Winter. It bears the inscription "Piercey Boys' Baseball Club Est. 8-4-1971." I wanted Dad to know that I remember, and am grateful. I also want my nephews to remember, when they are bringing their own kids and grandkids, that it mattered to Granddaddy and Nana that their family know that life is supposed to be fun, and shared with people you love. It just doesn't get any better than this. I already can't wait until next year!
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