How Can There Be No Jay?

       Today I found out Jay Johnstone passed away.  I stumbled across that upsetting piece of information on a 80's baseball facebook page, and I was taken aback.

     I shed a few tears, tears of a clown perhaps.  Johnstone's first book was the perfect storm of two the most important things in my life during the mid 1980's; baseball and laughter.  He was the clown prince of baseball, cut from the same cloth as Bob Uecker, just a bit younger.  His first book, Temporary Insanity, went with me everywhere.  Living in Waco, Texas circa 1986, and not knowing anyone, I buried myself in books (and baseball).  Insanity documents not only what was a really original baseball career story, but a life lived that was often inspiring, and always hilarious. 

     The chapters of this book point out how no one was safe in the circumference of Jay Johnstone.  He was a hell of a pinch hitter, one of the best the game's seen, but was unmatched as a prankster.  You'd probably feel sorry for his primary targets Phillies and Dodgers managers Danny Ozark and Tommy LaSorda, if you weren't laughing so damn hard.   He also flat-out illuminated in the department of finding out and illustrating slips of the tongue and malpropisms, no matter who they originated from, and they're listed in perpetuity in the last chapters of the book.  This first of his three books was so funny in so many ways, and so moving, that I have probably read it 8 or 9 times.   This may be a conservative estimate.

     It's not unknown information that baseball is the sport that probably lends itself best to comedy due to the long periods of inactivity, and the interaction that falls between pitches.  The sport is full of quirky characters.  It's not unlike fielding a roster of 24 field goal kickers.  Johnstone took that weird to a next level, sought it out in others, and made sure he remembered and documented it. 

     Left to my own devices much of the time in Texas, as I was pretty much everywhere I lived, when I needed a smile or a chuckle, it was there in that book.  At least in the first volume, it almost felt like you were being regaled with classic stories by a friend. It really felt like I knew Jay.  The resultant condition of the book explains my dependence on its words and images.

     Life moves on, we all age, grow, mature, move on.   I hadn't thought about Johnstone in some time, and maybe that humor should be something I ought to look back on in these dark fucking times we're endlessly wallowing in. So, in actuality, I wish I could have thanked Jay for being one of those figures that helped me crack grins when they were a rarity, and may be soon giving me some once more.   A friend once told me; everything that is old becomes new again.  Pick that book back up, Rob.  Hilarity awaits.  

  You see, I still have that original paperback copy, worn, dog-eared, yellowed, and partially separating, though it may be.  However, It's definitely got miles on it to go before it sleeps, and it sure as hell is not going anywhere.  I may actually still need it.

     Thanks, Jay Johnstone.  And please, rest well and with much laughter. Somewhere you're giving hot foots, locking managers in their offices, and wearing a Budweiser umbrella hat like the one you sported on your 1984 Fleer baseball card.   I'll miss you, your giant glasses, your stories, and your smart ass sense of humor.