Category Archives: Baseball

Legitimate Baseball Emergency

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Trying to maintain some aspect of originality, I usually don’t quote many authors or stories that aren’t mine, my family’s, my friends and or enemies.  However, after reading the following story in The Seattle Times this morning, I thought it was worth sharing.  You don’t have to be a baseball enthusiast to appreciate it.  I hope it’s true.

“A 97-year-old- Wisconsin man called 911 because he couldn’t find his TV remote and wanted to watch the Brewers’ playoff game,” noted Brad Dickson of the Omaha (Neb.) World Herald, “Considering that he is 97 and how often the Brewers make the playoffs, I say the call is justified.”

It reminded me of some wise old Seniors I know well.  Baseball can also be funny.

Baseball and Moms

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Soap Operas are not the only item “stay at home mothers” enjoy.  I know of three who can provide evidence of this statement:  Margaret Gannon, Rose Parcher, and one of my best friend’s mothers.  She wished to remain anonymous, but I am only going to say she resides in Walla Walla.  I believe that is the reason she requested to remain anonymous.  All three of them love the game of baseball.

Let’s just refer to the latter of this simple list as “The Walla Walla Sweetheart”.  She holds season tickets to a baseball team in Walla Walla, known as the Walla Walla Sweets.  She never misses a Sweet game and additionally doesn’t miss a Seattle Mariner game.  (that’s when I question her sanity, even though I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting her)  This is a woman who doesn’t swear even after watching the Mariners make fools of themselves, or observing the Walla Walla Sweets get demolished by the Crab Creek Minors.  She simply says, “oh fishy doo hooks”.  Apparently, according to my friend, that is her nicest and most lovable form of cursing.  She has used this phrase so long, it is now being considered to be placed in the infamous Webster’s Swearing Dictionary.

On to Rose Parcher: This is a completely different form of human.  Rose is teetering on the age of, and this is just a guess, one hundred and seventy seven.  Just like her children, Vic and Tim, she is tough as nails.  She is also as fun as a feather.  I watched baseball with Rose because we both enjoyed the games, and her spaghetti is absolutely worthy of a prize.  She also was fun because she used colorful words I wasn’t used to hearing from a woman, or man, or sailor of that age.   I was confused at the time because I always want to rate things in order of importance.  Her use of the English Language was colorfully fascinating, (she didn’t use words or phrases such as, “fishy doo hooks” when she was pissed. Let’s just leave it at that.  Rose’s knowledge of baseball was baffling, but her spaghetti was a very close first second or third to my enthusiasm for baseball.  We always had a good time betting on pennant winners, eating great food, and tossing some really nice F bombs.

Margaret Gannon:  Because this is my dear mother, I do have to save the best for last.  As the last of thirteen children, and at an age too young for school, I was all alone with my mom at home.  Most of my siblings were in school, fishing in Alaska or working at a lumber mill.  Yet still, it was necessary for me to play catch with someone.  Mom was my only option.

Asking her to play a game of catch with her was extremely cute. Reluctantly, mom always complied.  She is an amazingly talented woman.  Witnessing her artwork, I knew she was very impressive with her left hand, but when we went to the backyard to play catch, she honestly didn’t know if she was right or left handed.  By the way, she is ambidextrous.  I was young enough to not know what that word meant, but when she asked me what hand she should use for throwing, I replied, “I don’t know, how about the one you write with”. She was fabulous.  I then knew I didn’t require playing catch with a father or a brother or sister who just wasn’t and couldn’t be around.

My sister, Teresa, and I spoke the other day.  She remembers convincing our mother to stay home from school in 1973, the year I was born, to watch the baseball playoffs.  Mom understood the importance of witnessing us watching something making all of us so happy.  Dad probably would have said “no”, but since he would leave for work before the other children would have to go to school, mom wanted to watch the game with people who loved the game.

When the team she was rooting for would lose, she would whip out profanity.  “Darn it”.  Then, she’d make lunch and dinner for the whole gang.  The gang would then go out and play baseball.

Baseball Magic

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For those of you who don’t care for baseball and find it extraordinarily boring, you missed history last night.  I even missed some of it.  Everyone knows of players such as Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Hank Aaron, Mickey Mantle, and Roger Maris, but we only see them in museums, or read books from the past or perhaps just hear old stories from a father who loves the game.  Last night, I witnessed a part of history (fun history) I will be capable of telling a son or a grandchild about. It was an evening I wish I could have shared with my late father.

There is no possible way to go into details regarding everything that occurred last night.  I can only say that when seeing marvelous athletes compete and win, my wife and I looked at each other and collectively said, “Do you have goosebumps?”  Yes.  And it’s not necessarily because of  the team you’re rooting for, it’s sometimes the fans.  These teams and fans come together as a team and a family.  I’m not limiting this to baseball.  It can be soccer, football, hockey…..I don’t really care.  What I do care about is seeing people in a stadium hugging someone next to them who they don’t even know.  It gives people a chance to forget. With our economy, there are millions of people who are struggling not only financially, but emotionally.  But if you can forget for a day or even a moment about your stresses, those goosebumps make you laugh, smile and even provide tears of joy.  It was good to see so many people happy.

Regardless of the sport, many people will root for the underdog.  Last night, the underdogs (plural) won.  There was a perfect storm in baseball.  The Yankees lost to the Tampa Bay Rays, thus allowing the Rays in the playoffs.  At one point, The Yankees were up seven to zero in the eighth inning, but somehow, the baseball Gods prevailed and allowed the Rays to come back from this deficit and win in the bottom of the 12th inning on a walk off home run.  The fans blew up with fabulous emotion. The Red Sox lost to the last place Baltimore Orioles, thus eliminating the Sox from the playoffs.  The Atlanta Braves lost a crushing defeat to the Philadelphia Phillies, allowing the St. Louis Cardinals to knock the Braves out of the pennant race and give the Cards, who were at one point, 10 games out of the race to now have a chance to win the coveted World Series.  (This may be a bit confusing for those of you who don’t watch baseball).  I’m even confusing myself.  Ultimately, and most importantly, all of those games being played at roughly the same time, ended in spectacular dramatic and historic fashion within the course of 25 minutes.  We didn’t have enough television sets to watch them all.  Baseball historians have recognized these feats as having never occurred over the course of a century. 

This may sound a bit corny, and off topic, but there is a song by The Doobie Brothers titled, “Listen to the Music”.  I’ve never been around a person who couldn’t laugh, smile or sing along to this happy tune.  Last night, we were listening to the music.

Baseball, while sometimes boring, can bring strangers together, whether you know the game or not, in a very positive  way.  And, it can be magical.

Be careful who you root for

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While watching “Baseball Tonight” with Britt, I began telling her yet another story about baseball.  As a youngster, stupidly admiring ballplayers, Tom, Greg and I would take what little money we had and purchase caps (hats) we could not afford.   Since my oldest brother, Mike, who in the 1970’s was drafted by the Pittsburgh Pirates, Greg picked the most ridiculous cap available only because my mother loved the Pirates and Mike was a great catcher like Greg.  Tom and I took it to another level.  We wished to kick it up a notch, or dollar, by begging mom on her Sears credit card to buy us some ridiculously cheesy plastic helmets with which we would travel around Spokane wearing and thinking we were cool.  Talk about not being cool…..unless we weren’t in Gannon Stadium playing wiffleball, we looked like the only reason we should be wearing these helmets was because we may end up on a swing set, or God Forbid, monkey bars.

Tom chose the Cincinnati Reds helmet because, at the time, Pete Rose was one of our favorites.  I chose the LA Dodgers helmet because I loved the team, and I was a huge admirer of Steve Garvey, one of the all time Dodger greats. (many of the team members played minor league ball in Spokane) My sister, Maggie would often make fun of me by describing me walking down the church aisle waiting for Dodger Garvey to solidify our married bliss.  I remember reading a biography about first baseman, Steve Garvey to my mom, who so gently tried not to fall asleep.  Now I know why she was trying to fall asleep.  Steve Garvey turned out to be what some people call, other than Wilt Chamberlain, and George Washington, “The Father of our Country”.   He cheated on more girlfriends than he did on wives.

I am not a person who passes judgment at the age of 38.  Acknowledging my mistakes is one of a few reasons I can pray about keeping me out of Hell.  But, at the age of six or seven, devoting hours to people you revere, and reading books they didn’t write, and were completely phony, I think I had a right to dislike and not respect Steve Garvey.

Tom’s Pete Rose helmet gambles for itself.  Although being banned from baseball for gambling, he seems to be, genuinely, if you will, a complete D Bag.  My father, when I was admiring these players at a young age told me Pete Rose wasn’t someone I should look up to.  It wasn’t the gambling my father disliked; I could tell, in his eyes, my father just simply thought he wasn’t nice.

Baseball, like so many other wonderful sports has its’ share of A-Holes.  I guess what I learned most from my father wasn’t on the field.  It was the manner with which he taught me to look into someone’s eyes and see both the bad or, hopefully, the good.  Other than being a goofball, I do think I have a gift for recognizing when a person is good or not so good.  (I don’t wish to use the word “evil”…..that may make me return to church on a weekly basis.)

Be good,

Ben

Trick or Treats (Big Gulp and the Bumble)

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While maintaining the summertime theme, this title means absolutely zero regarding Halloween.  I’ll save that for my November blog.  Treats are reserved for those desiring Ding Dongs, Zingers, Wang Doodlers, Twinkies, Pong Paks, and Slappy Sams…..hold on……I may be confusing treats with fireworks. On the flip flop side, there are tricks.  Only one should be reserved for ballplayers!  AND IT’S NOT TREATS!

Let me calm down and explain.  My brother, Tom, and I coached a little league ball team one, and only one summer, for the tricks, not the treats. Coerced (manipulated) by Tom, I accepted the job (his son, Quinn, was a member of the team).  It was difficult denying his offer of no pay, jalapeno heat and pissed off parents knowing zippydadooda NOTHING about baseball.

Showing up at the ballpark two hours before the game, Tom, Russ (my pitching coach comrade), and I would prepare the field.  Russ was our non paid residential good person  preparing the mound for pitchers.  Preparing a mound requires far more time than raking and pounding dirt while sweating profusely.  That’s the easy part.  The hard part is keeping kids with dirt bikes trying to do bunny hops off the prepared pitcher’s mound.  We volunteered our time quite gracefully and enjoyed a few moments over those few hot months.  By a few, I think I mean two, or perhaps, what felt like, five. God Bless our souls.

That summer of coaching could best be characterized by the trinity of fans.  We had the Bumble, Big Gulp, and one other genuinely good man, named Earl, sponsoring  one of our players within the “Big Brother Organization”.  As a spectator and father, Big Gulp’s secondary concern was to bitch and moan about our coaching and where his son should be in the batting order or pitching rotation.  His primary concern was to drink an endless supply of Big Gulps during the game, thus increasing 7-11’s stock drastically in the 1990’s.  Luckily for us coaches, it was nice that he could stick something like a straw, 64 ounces of cola or his foot in his mouth, sparing us from additional whining.

Tom, Russ and I were growing weary of this fellow, but when recognizing someone actually has something, mentally, wrong with them, you make a conscience decision not to beat the hell out of them.  One fine day, ruined by having to coach little league baseball, Tom received a phone call from Big Gulp.  Big Gulp (he reads like a comic book hero) gave notice to Tom that he would not be attending the day’s game, but wanted his son to be the starting pitcher.  Diplomatically, Tom said there was a chance his son may start but wished to speak with me, the assistant coach,before making the decision.  None too pleased with Tom’s non guarantee,  Big Gulp provided meaningless statistics in an attempt to solidify his argument.  Without succumbing to persuasion, and out of curiosity, Tom side swiped the conversation by asking Big Gulp why he wouldn’t be in the stands, or grass that day.  Turns out, Big Gulp had an Elvis Presley impersonation gig that day out of town.  We stopped hating him and felt sorry for him and his child from that day forth.  It did explain some things……such as the side burns.  That was one of the enjoyable moments.

Photo courtesy of Washington State Dept of Motor Vehicles and Licensing

Bumbles don’t really bounce.  The gentleman, or sidekick, perhaps band member of Big Gulp was a man we affectionately labeled “The Bumble”.  His son, equally as crappy as Big Gulp’s, also played on the team.  By play, I mean he wore a uniform and carried a bat.  The Bumble, however, was exceptionally nice, but maintained a gift of gabble, or babble.  Though maintaining his kindness and good sportsmanship, he simply never shut up.

Referencing “The Bumble”, only those thirsting for Rudolph, Charlie Brown, Frosty, and countless other 1970’s classics may remember.  The Bumble was introduced as a Yeti slash Sasquatch like creature haunting, in fact terrifying, bedrooms, closets and tinsel town themed animated Christmas neighborhoods.  That poor giant biped turned out to be a cute, cuddly, furry creature who no one really understood…..other than Tom and me…..until we met the real Bumble.

Humor is so medicinal.  Sometimes it comes without words.  It does arrive with hand or feet gestures, or even a smug grin acknowledging the ridiculousness of a situation.  Suffering through these baseball games, Tom, Russ, I and anyone within 100 miles of this ballpark yearned for something more than mere humor.   We sought relief.  Not from the heat or children who hadn’t tossed a ball before 10 years of age, let alone conception, we just wished to find some solace with summer.  The Bumble provided that solace one day when Tom looked at me and said, “Do you know who he looks like?”.  I replied, “Yeah, The Bumble”.  Tom and I both laughed and the summer felt like winter, without the storms, the ice, red noses and frozen fingers.  Once again, I loved baseball.

Coaching anything requires patience, knowledge, persistence, acceptance, sternness, and two or three straight jackets.  Representing the civilized world, Earl was one of the few members of the baseball and athletic community certifying why sports, humanity, and humility can coexist.

As an intimidating figure, one of which upon approaching Tom and me after a game, we collectively said, “Oh boy, here we go again.  How is this guy going to educate us about the sport of baseball?”  This man approached us, presented his hand, and said, in the most kind and genuine of ways, “Thank you… you have done a wonderful job”.  Acknowledging we hadn’t done a wonderful job, we exhaled relief knowing someone cared not just about baseball, but two or three cats taking time out of their schedule to coach the art of baseball.  This man who approached us was working full time and mentoring a young man who has turned out to be a wonderful adult.  I think that’s when we stopped bitching about summer.

Tom and I were speechless.  Simply, we replied, “You’re welcome”.

Formerly, I was going to bitch about the treats required by parents after a game.  Tom and I received a request to provide treats after the last game.  Our reply was, in a Gannonuttshell……”Negative”.

On a sideshow note,  regarding the appreciative and nice intimidating guy approaching Tom and me following the game……well, twelve years later, I married his daughter.  Isn’t baseball miraculous?  What a treat!

Waste Paper Service

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 WASTE PAPER SERVICE

 

This story is not about a picture of two young ganstas deciding to, idiotically, take a photo in a coin operated photo booth.  Rather, it is about a hat and an ice cream man who created the hat.  The WPS displayed on my brother Tom’s hat represented Waste Paper Service, a youth baseball team Tom was playing for and the business we were representing.   I was merely the bat boy for two reasons: one, I was too young to legally play on the team, and two, that name (Waste Paper Service) was just far too embarrassing. We were the Bad News Bears of Spokane, Washington.

Our coach and local Ice Cream Man, Walt Mabe, a Vietnam Veteran, had a passion for baseball and a further passion for arguing with umpires.  Having  utmost respect for any veteran, Coach Mabe was no exception.  This brave man had his left leg removed after stepping on a land mine while fighting in Vietnam.  However, he maintained some idiosyncrasies which must be acknowledged.  First of which being that his ice cream truck was the only one which didn’t play the traditional jingle, “The Entertainer”…he would play “Ride (Flight) of the Valkyries” from “Apocalypse Now”.  Additionally, the baseball games we played would usually last upwards of 17 or 18 hours because he kept a rule book handy in his wooden leg which he would pull out on an inning by inning basis.  As a Catholic, it would create an image of a baseball priest providing a homily after each strike or ball.  Those poor umpires, making about 4 cents an hour with coach Mabe’s rants, are now, hopefully, and deservedly in some sort of baseball heaven.

I’m sure my brothers Tom and Greg will provide additional commentary on Walt’s quirks.  Yet, I will quickly present the most memorable one.  While taking infield practice, (for those of you who despise or know nothing about baseball, this is when the coach hits ground balls and fly balls to the players prior to the first pitch of the game), rather than using a bat, and I kid you negative, coach Mabe would use his wooden leg.  Going to the ballpark was always genuinely interesting being coached by this good man. Bless his baseball soul and his wooden leg.

Just a typical Spokane little league experience.  You play for a team sponsored by and named after toilet paper, coached by a man with a wooden leg who uses it as a bat, and the games would last 16 or 17 hours.  Yet, I still love the game of baseball.

(All is true with exception of the ice cream truck jingles.)