Category Archives: Sports

Fiascos and Debacles

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The words fiasco and debacle are terrific words.  However, they sometimes can be used haphazardly in certain situations.  Never actually being aware of how strong these words are, I am guilty of abusing them without acknowledging their official meanings.  Throughout the last two weeks, I have tossed these words out of my mouth like a salad shooter or balls exiting a pitching machine.  I feel as though I’ve been unfair and wish to apologize to these words.  This is not easy……I’ve never had to do this before.  Here it goes:  Sorry, Mr.and Mrs. Fiasco.  Sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Debacle.  That hurt, but now I feel a little better.

Official Ridiculous Definitions: Fiasco: “a complete ridiculous failure”.

Debacle: “a crushing defeat” or 2, “a ruinous collapse”.

My father used to watch Monday Night Football with us and was agitated with words so commonly used from commentators such as “unbelievable” and “incredible”.  A wide receiver catching a ball across the field is not incredible or unbelievable when it occurs several times a game.  A talented and wonderful play…..yes, but not incredible or unbelievable.  Let’s save those terms for someone who jumps off the top of the Empire State Building without a parachute, lands on his or her feet without a scratch, and then heads for some good Italian food.  That’s both unbelievable and incredible.

Let me explain where this may or may not be going.  My wife and I were assisting the move of one of our dear friends moving from Spokane, Washington to Los Angeles, California.  Since we reside in Seattle, Washington and my friend lived in Spokane, our only choice was to facilitate communication between the moving company and our friend while he painstakingly placed all of his precious belongings in packages, boxes and bags. (I stole that line from my man, Dr. Suess……Grinch).  It  wasn’t an easy task for all of us, but I can’t really consider it a fiasco or debacle.  If he doesn’t arrive safely in LA, then we may choose such words.  Otherwise, it was simply a boiling mess.  I don’t believe it was a ruinous collapse, crushing defeat, or a complete failure, it was simply a time to help clean up.

The next time I complain and moan about vacuuming our dog’s hair, I will refrain from using the phrases, “This is a (bleeping) fiasco”.  Or, “What a (bleeping) debacle”.  I’ll merely yank the remaining hairs off the top of my head, and think, “This is a mess”.

Those messes can be easily cleaned up without punching a fist through a wall.  I’m old enough and wise enough to know that just costs me more money and, more importantly, cell phones and remote controls.

Godspeed to my friend…..I hope he makes it

The World Series and My Dad

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Some of you may know that the first game of the World Series begins tonight between the St. Louis Cardinals and the Texas Rangers.  Many of you may respond by saying, “what, huh?”  Or, “Who Cares?”  Well, I do care because it represents a memorable and significant evening I shared with my late and great father 23 years ago.

In the 1988 World Series, my beloved Los Angeles Dodgers were playing the “Unbeatable” Oakland Athletics.  The heavily favored A’s were predicted to win the series quite easily in a 4 game knockout sweep.  Not too keen on being, once again, athletically disappointed, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to witness the Dodgers getting the crap kicked out of them.  Therefore, I was somewhat easily persuaded by three of my friends to attend a high school dance that Saturday evening.  After mentioning game one of the World Series was on that night, they really didn’t care.  They had girls in their, I mean on their minds.

Only a sophomore in high school, I still had to run things by my father and mother before sneaking out of the house.  So, when asking dad if I could attend this dance that evening, he pondered my request for less than a second and said, “Negative…..You will be watching the World Series with your mother and me tonight.  The memories of this game will be far more important later in your life than a half ass ridiculous high school dance where you’ll just end up getting in some sort of trouble.  You need to focus on school and sports…….not girls”.  He couldn’t have been more right or prophetic that magnificent Fall evening.

Now, when my father said to any of his seven sons they were not allowed to do something, arguing was simply not an option.  His word was Stone Cold Gospel.  When he told his six daughters they were not allowed to do something, they didn’t quite cower to him like the boys.  They were always far tougher and a little more outspoken than us.  They still remain the same.  (I’m only still friends with them because I am afraid of them)

Secretly, wanting to watch the game, it was easy to tell my peers I would be unavailable for The West Valley High White Dance Down.  They knew, and liked my father, but also knew when Rodney E. Gannon said, “no”, …well that was that. They just strolled out of our living room without much to say but, “sorry”.

Now for the boring details of the game:  Kirk Gibson played for the LA Dodgers that year and was apparently ferociously competitive.  He helped lead them to the World Series even though suffering numerous injuries during the course of this long season.  His knee injuries did not allow him to start in the first game of that World Series.  That was disappointment number one for dad and me.  Early on in the game, a very respected man in the baseball community (steroids) known as Jose Conseco, (I hope I spelled his name wrong) hit a grand slam putting the A’s up 4-0. That was disappointment number two.  I’m glad my mother’s clam dip was so good that night because it was the only thing keeping me from running away from home.

Much like baseball, a son only gives his father three chances before saying, “I’m Out”. He was down to his last disappointment strike.  While stuffing myself with chips and dip, trying to ignore the game, I noticed the Dodgers were making an attempt to come back and make a game out of this debacle.  With Kirk Gibson, not even on the bench, but in the training room, barely able to walk, the Dodgers chipped away at the A’s lead making it 4-3 in the bottom of the ninth.  It was then when Kirk Gibson asked the batboy to get him a batting tee.  The manager, Tommy Lasorda, also known as Tommy Lasagna (he once claimed to have never turned down food ending with a vowel) had no intentions of allowing this hobbling athlete to enter the game.  However, down to their last out facing Dennis Eckersley, thee most feared closing pitcher in the game, he considered putting Gibson in as a pinch hitter.  With two outs, and nobody on base, a lesser known player, Mike Davis, drew a walk.  Thus, the winning run would come to the plate.  Lasorda beckoned for Kirk Gibson.  Unable to run, a game winning home run was the only option.  On a three and two count, with fifty thousand fans screaming, Gibson jacked a backdoor slider into the right field stands of Dodger Stadium for the game winning home run sending the loyal followers into a high five frenzy.  It was his last at bat of the series.

The Dodgers went on to beat the “unbeatable” Oakland A’s to win the World Series.  I couldn’t thank my dad more for keeping me home that evening.

We celebrated by having mom’s Saturday evening burgers and making fun of the fools inevitably getting their hearts broken at that coveted dance.  I didn’t sneak out that night.  I also realized that dad wasn’t being a tyrant keeping me home.  He just wanted to watch the game with the last of his seven boys.  That was one hell of a memorable moment, not just for baseball, but for a father and son who didn’t always see eyeball to eyeball.

After my last and closest brother left for college, I was left alone with mom and dad for those high school years and it wasn’t always easy for any of us.  After that evening, dad and I became a little closer.

That was 23 years ago, almost to this day.  Ironically, or coincidentally, Kirk Gibson was wearing the number 23 that night.

Baseball Moments – Footage of Gibson\’s World Series Pinch Hit

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.

College Football (personal rivalries) and Target

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Millions of people love the game of football.  I’m one of them.  For those of you who don’t really give a damn about the game, this is your chance to jump on the “I hate football bandwagon”.  Specifically, in my case, I am going to watch, with furious passion, every down of  THEE University of Washington football games this year. Or, if I may “Flatball games”.  Now, of course, I will have to plan this very strategically with regard to the young Britt and Chain.  It’s a simple solution.  When I require watching a Husky game, our bargaining agreement is that she is allowed to visit a place called Target, where she can get drunk by purchasing five thousand dollars of crap she, the dogs, cats, and less importantly, I don’t need.  (I’m currently wearing a Dairy Queen shirt purchased for 10 dollars by my wife, Britt……the neighbors are making fun of me).

My current wife and I graduated from the less relevant Washington STATE University… home of the Mighty Meowing Cougars.  She earned a psychology degree, and I purchased an English Degree.  Thus, it’s a bit odd we support the local Huskies.  My ex-wife, her two brothers, father, several cousins and one of their dogs graduated from the University of Washington, all with honors, including the dog, who is currently a licensed physician.  I won’t mention any of their names, including the dog’s, but they were all good people….including the dog.  They were also wildly smart and talented in ways I can’t even begin to fathom.  Therefore, I grew to hate all of them purely out of jealousy.  The WSU, UW, rivalry amongst some of us in this new family also began to blossom….and, by blossom, I don’t mean like a flower or a glorious butterfly, but a bitter ugliness only idiots like me can understand.

During the rivalry Apple Cup Weekend, I had internal disagreements with my then mother in law.  She possessed less knowledge about football than I did about the next coming of Christ.   As a self proclaimed prophet regarding Husky/Cougar games, she was correct most of the time.  The Huskies have a terrific tradition with beating the Cougars, but the Cougs were making a stance for many of the years I attended the college.  By stance, I mean the Cougs ACTUALLY beat the Huskies on several occasions.  Much like a person with Alzheimer’s might react, she could not recall a time the Cougs had ever beaten the Huskies……..which had happened the year before.  Still, she would make comments like this which made me wish to swing, but you just can’t justify hitting a girl even when it’s about football.  “Do the Cougars really think they can beat the huskies?” I was only speechless because I provide forgiveness for the blind, deaf and stupid.  I maintain far more respect for people such as my mom….blind, deaf, kind, and far from stupid.  By the wayside, my ex mother in law was far from stupid.  In fact, she was always kind to me yet smart enough to get in my football kitchen.  I hate it when people are brighter than me. Darn it!

I couldn’t watch the annual Apple Cup rivalry that day because: One, I was spineless and TWO: I spent most of the day at Nordstrom’s with my ex-wife and mother in-law.  On the drive back home, I convinced wife and mother in law to turn on the game radio.  The Huskies won on a last second field goal, and mother in lawless looked at me with disgust, further convincing herself she knew football better than most.  I then threw up in her new car.  It was my only form of defense.

Back to football, rivalries, and Target. If you were paying any attention to college football over the weekend, you may have noticed that the University of Washington narrowly squeaked past a very formidable opponent, Eastern Washington University which happens to be a division 2 school.  The U of W was extremely lucky to be victorious.  Only making a friendly bet with brother Tom, I thought the Huskies would easily conquer.  I lost the bet, but really didn’t care because Britt was happy not looking for the remote control in The Puget Sound.  (secretly, I began rooting for the underdog, Eastern Washington)

Guilty of jumping on the pretentious University of Washington Bandwagon, and now living in Seattle, I have been made fun of by fellow Cougs and friends including my wife, who just simply despise U dubious.  An experience on Sunday solidified their argument…….and it was not created by jealousy…..sort of.

In line at the local farmer’s market, I noticed the non-gentleman in front of me was wearing a U Dub Cap.  Kindly, just bored standing in line, I said, “wow, that was a tough one yesterday…..Eastern really put up a good fight”.  That was all I had to say.  This jerk was pissed because the Huskies only won by three points.  He was abjectly disgusted by the fact the infantile Eagles of Eastern Washington, formerly known as the Savages, could even entertain the notion of winning.  For those who know and appreciate the game of football, this was offensive.

Initially,  I wanted to cram my knuckles through his pretentious teeth.  But, remembering my pacifist background much like a vegetarian transitions from meat to soybean, I made the conscious decision not to kill him.  And then, he kicked it up a notch.  This guy struck a nerve with me forcing me to call my “Swing Like a Wild Man Settle Down Hotline”.  After lying about playing this high level of football, he went on to describe how a team like Central Washington University should be playing with High School children.  My brother, Tom, an all state running back, played football for Central for four years.  He never made it to the NFL, but anyone who watched him play, had and maintains tremendous respect for what he did on the field.  At that point, the man in this market was in danger of having his necked snapped after disrespecting my brother.  My fuse was getting shorter and shorter as the line grew longer and longer and the tomatoes were getting older.  That’s when I called the hotline.  Coincidentally, my wife answered.  She was at Target and politely told my not to swing like a wild man.  I relaxed, smiled, and walked to Target, where she bought me an ice cream cone and a ridiculous t-shirt.

(for those of you a-hole husky fans who are not arrogant,  I apologize…….believe me, there are plenty of a-hole coug fans)

Let’s just all keep our egos in check, and Husky fans . . . please stop making it difficult to support your team.

Ben Gannon

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.)