This piece is about sports cards again and if you are a reader and that bothers you, I am sorry, but it is part of my history and DNA. But this is about my early childhood as well.
I had a friend, Gordon, who my friendship with at Somers elementary school went all the way back to kindergarten. This takes place in the third grade and it’s a very quaint story.
Gordon seemed to be getting sarcastically picked on by some other classmates of ours, a couple of them even friends. The reason being, instead of sports cards, they (myself included) collected Star Wars cards, and like smoking, this was cool.
Gordon liked football, and hence collected football cards.
Well, Gordon was a true friend, and I was gonna defend my friend to the end, so I lied to the others and told them that I was backing away from Star Wars cards to join Gordon in the football card parade. I remember this being my direct quote as the reason:
“Because football gives you a lot of exercise.”
As something I said in that moment should have been, it was stupid. This elicited gales of laughter from the Star Wars crew of course, but Gordon was glad I had his back and for some reason he gave me a stack of Topps football cards. I believe the bulk of which were from 1978.
These were the first football cards I ever owned, and I believe they were Gordon’s doubles so that's why he was able to give them away so freely. I appreciated the effort, as a matter of fact I took them home and really enjoyed them. Now, 1978 is not the most exciting year of a football card design, but it was different than what I was dabbling in at the time.
This happened in the dead of winter because I remember laying underneath the Christmas tree with the glow of the lights, an episode of PBS’ Siskel and Ebert’s “Sneak Previews” rolling in the background. I was looking at a 1978 card of Vikings Wide Receiver Sammie White and thinking that the colors and the design were interesting, (maybe not as cool as Star Wars, and 1978 is not Topps Football’s best) but again, different from Star Wars. I kinda dug the little cartoons and factoids that joined the statistics on the back as well. I have re-enacted that magic moment below, you can even see some "Sneak Previews" regalia in the background.
Why this is a memory that sticks with me to this very day I don’t really know. It’s kind of like another memory I have of holding a 1978 Steve Garvey, (also a Topps card) while sitting on the my bedroom floor, looking at it as the sun was starting to peek through the window.
I once told a version of someone else’s joke that when you’re growing up in the suburbs in America in the 70s, you are issued a copy of Frampton Comes Alive, Boston’s first album on 8 track, a paperback copy of Jaws, a Mr. Microphone, a Pet Rock, and the 1978 Topps Steve Garvey.
Anyways here’s to Gordon for being my real first introduction to the topps sports card. Although I never did back away from the Star Wars cards. I’d never let Gordon know that, and kept that collection to myself until I stupidly parted with it sometime in the early 80s. And To a friend who I have long lost touch with. I was a Fool! Those cards are cooler now than they were then, a true valuable. Like, big time.
However, to cover my childish idiocy, I now have a really cool hardcover picture book that actually covers the entire series of Topps‘ 1977 Star Wars cards. That does just fine for me now; the memories the photos elicit are still there, still rich, and still sparked by the book.
my nostalgia is kind of eternal, And visually triggered.
Bill Buckner died 5 years ago. Years after he had that World Series game 6 ball go through his ankles, years after he had his final at bat, back with the Red Sox, years after he threw the opening pitch before a Fenway game in 2008.
The city of Boston forgave him, as they should have, (but there was nothing to forgive) maybe because his friend Dewey Evans was there at his back, and no one in Boston steps to Dewey, no one.
But these were my thoughts after that game 6 anyway.
A swing that looked like it belonged
in the time of a Glenn Miller Song
His glove owned that first bag corner
pitchers feared the bat's owner
and he failed less than most
but no one's raising a toast
because of one singular ball
found its way between his ankle bones
Just because I haven't done it
Doesn't mean I haven't seen it
How can you burn down
Someone you’ve never even known
He has 2,715 more than you
and a hundred more than Teddy Baseball
He's ahead of Ernie Banks
300 more than Mark Grace
But he's still not in the hall
So people with clothes soaked with beer
would slander his name and jeer
because the gods of the World Series
picked him to be the guy to smear
If the ball hadn't skipped when it was supposed to jump
Back in my childhood trading card days, (the glory years of these cards were the late 70's and early 80's) many sets had a team's (less often a “mixture” of teams) future prospects listed on a single card. It was usually three players. More often than not (exceptions to this rule were guys like Cal Ripken, Jr. and Paul Molitor) these players seemed not to make it to the big leagues, and if they did they didn’t achieve much. In the set for 1977 Topps, mixed future stars from different teams appeared on one card. It was an odd set up, really, compared to what came before and after that season.
However there was one particular card, in that 77 set, where each player left their mark on the game in a different way and at a different level.
Here is that story.
Jack Clark
Now, Jack “The Ripper” Clark ripped up Major League Baseball for years. He had one of those "borderline" hall of fame careers, where some may feel as though he should be in the legendary confines anyway. I mean, after all, he hit 340 home runs, banged out 1826 hits, was a four time all star and twice a silver slugger. I mean, if that's not enough to gain entry it's GOTTA be close. So close, Columbia University has developed a test where Clark's career is used as a measuring stick for whether or not a considered player belongs in The Hall. Somewhere, that has GOT to have Jack shaking his head. And with a career this good, this long, why is his rookie card (shared with others or not) only valued at a couple bucks?
Ruppert Jones
Hall of Fame aside, I used to purposely collect cards of players who had damn fine careers, but despite their numbers, were considered in the hobby's nomenclature as "commons". Guys like Jason Thompson, Jeff Burroughs, Cesar Cedeno, Tony Armas, and as seen here, Ruppert Jones. Believe it or not, there's a lot of guys out there that topped 1,000 hits, 150 or more homers, and racked up some steals and batting average but would never even come within sniffing distance of Cooperstown. Damn shame, really, to put up such impressive stats, and be thought of as a "common". At least they would usually make their own team's Hall of Fame.
Lee Mazzilli.
Mazzilli sprung onto a bad Mets team in 1976. He was built like an underwear model, hit for average and occasional power, ran the field and the bases well. Apparently the only thing he was lacking in was arm strength. (However he was ambidextrous). He did nail down an all-star spot once, but there's one thing he led the league in consistently. BIG HAIR.
The ladies loved Lee. He probably was the only thing selling tickets at Shea in his era. Regardless, after a damn fine five year stint, he was traded, and ended up being a career journeyman. In 1986, he returned as a role player to the Mets and helped them get a World Series championship. He retired to do some managing and even got himself into the movies. How fitting.
Out of the 4 players on this card, this one is the most sad and disturbing. Dan Thomas was one of the first "can't miss" prospects that gave 70's Brewers hopefuls hope. He got off to a slow start in the minor leagues that had folks worried, but soon righted the ship (other than a 2 month suspension for a parking lot punch-out of an umpire). Once he got to The Show his talent popped up. Sadly, a serious bout with mental illness surfaced, this seemed to level off with his joining of a religious sect. With this, he told the Brewers brass that he couldn't play evenings on weekends, as that was his religion's sabbath, thus resulting in him becoming known as "The Sundown Kid". Eventually, he ended up ridden out of the league due to those religion-related issues and further mental problems. After some independent league play, he downgraded to odd jobs before being arrested for a sexual assault of a minor. He then hung himself in jail, and was buried in a paupers grave as he was also penniless at this time.
As a kid, one Christmas, my parents bought me a couple of vintage issues of Street and Smiths baseball preview. And I believe it was the 1977 Milwaukee Brewers preview article that showed a photograph of Dan Thomas sliding into third base.
I remember looking at an otherwise dismal prediction for the 77 Brewers, and thinking “who the hell is this guy?” He became a mystery during the pre internet era. As the years passed, I’ve learned about Dan Thomas from reading about him on Josh Wilker’s “Cardboard Gods” website, and a rather informative article in Milwaukee’s “Shepherd's Press” magazine. Otherwise little more.
Thomas’ career statistics are far from as impressive as the other 3 guys on the card, as he only played parts of two seasons, yet he is still so invariably different from the other three players in a thousand other ways. The degree of difference is more than the other three players are from each other, though those chaps are all shades apart to some extent. However, there’s no denying that all four of these players left an indelible yet distinctly different mark on major league baseball in some form or fashion, good or bad, light or dark.
And that’s what makes this “future star”card unique among it’s contemporaries.
I know I've written about baseball cards on here before, as well as baseball itself. But have I written about the silly-ass kid mentality involved ?
Probably Not.
One of the joys of collecting baseball cards as an adolescent, and looking at or trading them with your friends is laughing at some of the players names. Sometimes, you're just aghast at them. What about guys like the late Biff Pocoroba? How about legendary Bill Naharodony? Buddy Biancalana anyone? Maybe, just maybe, you're a fan of Kurt Bevacqua (who Tommy Lasorda once said "couldn't hit water if he fell out of a fuckin' boat") and his Bazooka world record gum bubble, and accompanying card?
One of my friends in the sixth grade and I often got a chuckle at just what the name looked like. He referred to a California Angels pitcher as Don "Ass". Yes, it was spelled "Aase", (and pronounced Ah-Say) but giant blasts of laughter would explode from both of us if one of us uttered "What do you want to trade me for my 1979 Don Ass?" Your eyes viewed the name, your brain processed it, and your mouth pronounced: "Ass".
Children.
Of course even adults will do this. I occasionally watch videos from the online baseball card chap with the moniker "Junk Wax Sal" who records himself opening packs. He has come across a late 80's card of the Mr. Aase, and also referred to him as "Don Ass". Sal's a grown-ass man. I guess the shit will always be funny, if you're at least partly a child at heart.
Of course when it comes to baseball players with unfortunate names, there's a legendary pairing. Dick Pole and Peter LaCock. I am in no way, shape, or form making those names up. And if you need evidence try this out from the always great Josh Wilker: Cardboard Gods
I've written that baseball and humor go together like chocolate and peanut butter. It's borderline perfection, like they were almost made for one another. So, why should it be any different that baseball cards are often funny? There's snafus of course, like the 1979 Topps card of Bump (Bump? Gales of laughter were emitted up into the atmosphere from youngsters that were visible from satellites at that name) Wills in his full Rangers regalia on a card designated for a player for the Blue Jays.
In reality, errors exist all over the card world and have for decades. But what about shit that happens in camera? Like "Fuck Face" being written on the knob of Billy Ripken's bat as he poses for his card not knowing it's there. Or Bob Uecker batting left handed in his 1965 Topps card, though he was a pure right handed batsmen? Leave it to Bob to pull the wool over the eyes of the Topps Chewing Gum company.
Reasons to laugh can boil down to many things, whether it's a stupid looking face, a guy with a monstrosity of a last name, (or one that evokes naughty words), or goofy errors in the printing or photography process, (I'm sure to this day that Aurelio Rodriguez is thrilled that his 1969 Topps Card is actually the Angels bat boy). Because of all of this, I can always look back at those days, remember my own laughter and that of my friends, and smile.
Living in Texas in 1986, the city of Waco no less, was one of the loneliest chunks of existence my life has had and theres been a few. That Thanksgiving day’s assembly was just a few family members (because I didn’t have a lot of family down there) for dinner. After the small meal was over, my sister and brother went out somewhere, and my parents decided to hang with my aunt and uncle. I chose to go home to our townhouse which was just a couple of steps away from where my aunt and uncle lived, in their own townhouse.
There I’d watch the Packers-Lions Thanksgiving day game which is being rematched again this year, incidentally. Madden and Summerall were in tow. Now it wouldn’t be long before a decision was made to move back to Wisconsin, but I think that we were a couple of weeks away from that choice being executed. Texas was not fitting me in the least, and depression was setting in. I was in a funk.
So there I sat on Thanksgiving day, up in my bedroom watching on my Portland (a Daewoo product) mini-color tv. I’m not sure why because there was a bigger television in the living room, and as I said, I was the only one home. I watched the Packers and the lions go back-and-forth in a meaningless football game. With under a minute left, the Lions held a 40 to 37 lead and things looked grim upon one last possession change as the Lions failed on a late 3rd down attempt. I’m sure in the back of my mind I was thinking “What a great Thanksgiving; here by myself, feeling lonely with nowhere near the family I’m used to having around me, and the Packers are going to lose to the stinking Lions.” However, This should not have come as a surprise as the Packers only won four games that entire season.
But then a Thanksgiving miracle happened.
Wide receiver Walter Stanley directly disobeyed the orders of his coach, Forrest Gregg, one of the dirtiest and lousiest coaches in the NFL, (not to mention the man that cut my personal hero, Packers quarterback Lynn Dickey) and decided to not fair catch. Stanley fielded the punt around the 17 yard line, cut to his left, realized there was no where to go, reversed his field and ran around everybody and straight up the far sideline for the game-winning touchdown. Oddly, ol' Forrest didn't look mad that he was not heeded. He may have been one of Coach Lombardi's favorite players, but as a coach, he was kind of a dingus and that came in real clear here.
I remember jumping up and down for joy in this really minor but at the time major moment, one on a otherwise thankless Thanksgiving. My excitement was rattling the exceedingly weak wooden floor of the second level of our townhouse. I didn’t give a shit, No one else was home.
It’s because of this touchdown and victory that the 1986 Thanksgiving is one I’ll never forget .
I always told people that baseball was really the only sport you could legitimately make films or write truly great books about. The most basic reason is that there are so many lulls in the action, so many hushed points where human interaction could be used to develop relationships, hash out conflict, and build to a climax, all while connected by the sticky glue of America's pastime. Not to mention that in those lulls lie big gaping openings for humor, either slapstick or thoughtful moments.
Cerebral films such as Field of Dreams, Bull Durham, and the ethereal The Natural are perfect examples. And if it's straight chuckles you're going for, there's always Major League, Mr. Baseball, or Mr. 3000.
As I age, I find these things to be true also of biographies, autobiographies, and histories in the realm of sport. I feel the main ingredient is the eccentricity of baseball players. These players are much weirder, right out front, than I've seen evidence of in football, basketball, or hockey (though the latter, I've read little about).
Baseball seems to have a sort of intravenous connection to the soul that starts in childhood. It pumps in history, as you go to the library to read about Aaron and Ruth, and feel the warmth of sunny afternoons listening to games while sorting through baseball cards (There's life in these motions too, just check out Josh Wilker's Cardboard Gods). The games carried short bursts of excitement that speckle an otherwise slow paced melodrama lacing itself into your evening.
Plus, children are just plain silly, and baseball is a kids game.
I find as I sneak into my 50's that the humor also applies to to the art of biography from the baseball insider. It weaves itself into the essays of fans whose love of the sport may take pauses as the elements of puberty, romance, and life itself occasionally interrupt, yet never quite recedes into the shadows.
At least not permanently.
What causes the bizarre nature of baseball's players, writers, and more often than not, fans? I've pondered that long and hard and haven't been able to field an answer. But I promise I will keep working on it. The first place I'll look will be the mirror.
As far as biographies go, not everything is a pile of yuks like Jay Johnstone's books, but generally there's a generous dollop of comedy in most cases. Some examples of course, notwithstanding. The two I'm reading right now, Ron Anderson's Long Taters and Larry Dierker's It's Not Brain Surgery are not exactly barrels of laughs, but are full of history and baseball lessons.
More often than not, it is the case that humor is heavily involved in the laying out of baseball players' remembrances and the fans connections to it. Try to watch a baseball documentary and not find humor, or maybe just some flaming outrageousness, that one can't help but laugh at. I watched ESPN's four-part series on the 1986 Mets and their World Series run, and despite all the sadness that may have been soaked in those still somehow victorious days, or current life statuses, there was so much incredible ridiculousness, so many quotes, off the field hi-jinks, and knee-jerk acts. These are often so unreal, you just couldn't help but laugh at them. (Bill Buckner's saga of unnecessary scapegoating notwithstanding.)
But it's there. The odd-ball natures of personality and crooked intensity of a baseball man. In full color. Read Jim Bouton's controversial Ball Four, Sparky Lyle's uproarious The Bronx Zoo, Kevin Cooks non-stop Ten Innings at Wrigley, or Jason Turbow's wonderful Dynastic, Bombastic Fantastic and tell me this game isn't a freakin' hoot. Even the moments where some of these guys want to practically assassinate each other in the locker room bring so much of humanity's stupidity into the glow of daylight, that you can't help but roll your eyes and chuckle at the least.
I don't have the inside views of the players or writers, but I doubt any athlete plays more practical jokes than the baseball player. Actually, John Kruk once said, "I'm not an athlete, I'm a baseball player", so maybe that's wrong terminology. Just read the affore mentioned Jay Johnsone's Temporary Insanity for probably case-closing evidence of this practical joke statement. Hot foots to Shaving Cream pies to hotel room chicanery, ballplayers love it.
Malapropisms?
Baseball players deal them like cards in a black jack game. From Yogi Berra to Jim Gantner, to Padres announcer Jerry Coleman. (Baseball announcers often write books as funny as the players. Try Bob Uecker's Catcher in the Wry) The funny thing is they have no clue they just jacked up the English language ("90 percent of baseball is half mental"). Thanks, Yog.
I could probably go on further, but I think I've dropped enough names here so that you can do the exploring yourself, and not be denied the wonderful first-time feeling of experiencing the hilarity. It's an old game. It's attached to America along with hot dogs and apple pie. Some of my earliest memories have elements of it affixed to them like peripheral images. To me, the chatter of announcers and repressed lull of crowds bring me back over 35 years, and to a certain degree, relax me. Yes, baseball is in the blood.
And in the heart.
And, deeply and enthusiastically entrenched in the funny bone.
Sometimes it's not things you see, or things you have happen to you, but an anecdote passed on.
Back in 1984, my friend Jon's parents took me to my first major league baseball game. It was my Milwaukee Brewers against a weak Oakland Athletics team. You'll read later on in the future about how the Swingin' A's were among my favorite Non-Home teams.
But while sitting in the glory of Milwaukee County Stadium, Jon's dad (Not the Crayon Death album, but boy, do I recommend it) regaled me with the legend of baseball's Kong. Apparently on a road trip out west, Jon and his family attended an A's game in Oakland. I guess the area where your feet rested in that former home stadium of the Athletics, is of a metallic design. When Dave Kingman (nicknamed Kong due to his home run prowess and the word KING being present in his last name) approached the plate, the fans would pound their shoes against the metal floor in rhythm causing a resonant banging sound, to which they'd follow with "KONG!, KONG!"
I'd become somewhat fascinated by Kingman at this point. He wasn't the prototype home run hitter, definitely not physically. He was 6'6 and lanky as hell. He wasn't a compact guy with quick wrists like your Henry Aarons and Mickey Mantles. He wasn't your "big strong dude" like George Scott or Richie Allen, and he definitely wasn't your steroid infused versions that came later like Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Jose Canseco, Ken Caminiti, and Sammy Sooser. ( I mean Sosa ).
Jon's dad's "KONG" description drew chills and goosebumps from me as the 1976 King Kong was among my favorite films, and the sound Jon's dad was describing was more than a little reminiscent of the chants and stomping roared out by the natives upon the approach of the great beast to attend to the sacrifices they had laid out for him. Oakland wanted their powerful beast to approach home plate, and launch a sacrifice into the seats.
I often wondered if Kingman was touched by this mass-fan gesture. Looking at the history of the man, it'd be doubtful. After all, he is known for social issues. Like dislike of female reporters and sending a purchased dead rat to Susan Fornoff of the Sacramento Bee in the mail to protest appearances in the clubhouse (this led to his dismissal from the A's). And a general disdain for talking to the press overall.
However, he is among the first noticeable practitioners of 3TO, or the "three true outcomes; you walk, you strike out, or you jack one over the fence." Read more about that here.
The first handful of years of his career consisted of him shifting. He had injuries, he was traded, and in 1977, he was traded and waived 3 times in the same season, and released at the end of it. (Sports Illustrated: More Sports: Joe Posnaski). There had to be some attitude issues for management to give up that bat repeatedly.
In the Summer of 1978 however, with his arrival in Chicago's Wrigley Field, the proverbial bandbox, anticipation was that he would break the seasonal home run record. (Baseball Quarterly, 1978, Summer).
This did not happen. But Kingman did crush a ton of dingers while he was playing in the North Shore.
After some serious baseball mashing around that time in Chicago, it appears, for a while, his career went back to the inconsistency it happened to be previously.
When it comes to the end of Dave's career, I have a conspiracy theory. Despite the dead rat issue. Bear with me here.
The final year of his career, he hit 35 bombs and drove in 94. No one has ever hit that many homers in the final year of their career. Kong's roar was still as powerful as ever.
Why did no one want to pick him up after that season??
He had reached 442 home runs. Most (myself included) feel that 500 home runs is automatic entry into
the Hall of Fame. To me, it goes without saying. As I had mentioned, Kingman had a pretty bad relationship with the press in his career and those folks are responsible for voting people into the Hall...
Kingman was a mere 58 home runs away from that vaunted 500 number. And the way he was raking, (He had hit 100 in his previous 3 seasons), 500 was pretty good odds. Was there something among the baseball writers and management doing a bit of collusion to keep Kong out of the Hall?? I'm not being an apologist for his issues with the postal service dirty tricks, but I'm ready to argue there are folks in the Hall who have done worse.
Well. If it's about personality, and I know there is no comparison between the long-time all time hits leader, Ty Cobb (before Pete Rose came along, broke the record, then kept himself out of the hall by getting caught gambling on baseball) and a guy who's career average is .236 in Kingman. It's well known that Ty Cobb was a racist, misogynist, asshole whose character traits were probably infinitely worse than a guy who was seemingly just known as a chronic crab-ass.
As readers know, I grew up a baseball nut.
And a dedicated, homery fan of the local Milwaukee Brewers.
It's been pointed out here on Last Will than when my teams fail, be it the Brew Crew or the Packers, I was self-allowed to pick up a team outside their conferences, (The Cubs for the former, the Chargers for the latter) to root for.
For some reason I was also interested in the Oakland A's as far as baseball was concerned. I'm pretty sure it began in my card collecting days as I was fond the of the coloration and design of the 1980 Topps Baseball Oakland A's set. See Above, the 1980 players I selected for the photo were Tony Armas, Mitchell Page, and Dwayne Murphy. (There's a Green Bay Packers aesthetic there as well). I loved the history of the A's 70's dynasty as depicted in Jason Turow's book, and even more recently with Billy Beane's dip into building teams with analytics as described in the book and even more interesting film Moneyball.
Besides their colors, the 70's A's always had cool uniforms, renegade players (first team to have ownership demand facial hair) and eventually hugely public wage battles. The best and worst of that team came from it's ownership, Charles Finley. It all fell apart sooner that it had to, as that team was stacked with the likes of Reggie Jackson, Joe Rudi, Gene Tenace, "Catfish" Hunter, Rollie Fingers and on and on. They could have won more than 3 World Series, in my opinion.
But Finley was cheap. And it all dissolved. Dynamic, Bombastic, Fantastic is a great documenting of the rise and fall of the 70's Oakland A's.
Why does everything have to have a rise and a fall anyways?
The A's had a connection with my Brewers too, as Sal Bando went on to play third base for the Brewers for several seasons and became a controversial and unsuccessful GM for the team. Rollie Fingers became a hero relief pitcher for the World Series team of 1982, Cy Young Winner, as well as MVP, and the locals loved him and his handlebar moustache. I became fascinated with a future A's power hitter named Dave Kingman as you can see here. (I'm uncertain of why that is, despite my written self-exploration).
The first and last Milwaukee Brewers games I saw at old County Stadium were against the Oakland A's. I got to see Reggie on his farewell tour when my brother took me to see a game in the final year of his career.
But I still think it came down to the color and design of those 1980 Topps cards. I'd go out of my way in the 6th grade to trade for their players from my classmates (most of them, commons, in the nomenclature of card collecting) and that would draw weird looks from my friends and co-traders who were more than glad to trade these no-names for better players from me.
1980 Topps is my favorite card year design-wise, in general anyway. I often told my friends (and still tell people) that the 1980 Topps Sixto Lezcano, due to the photo selection and the colors is my favorite card of all time. The "flag" portions containing the team name and player position as well as the simple border just cry out to me: baseball imagery. Add those Green Bay Packer colors in regards to the A's, and I was just drawn to the damn things.
1980 was also the year of the Rickey Henderson rookie. A card craved by all card collectors in my childhood. I had one once, but it would have been worth nothing in terms of cash values as the corners were rounded like wheels and there was a staticky wear to the colors that made the photograph look like a fading television image. This was Mostly from being carried around in my back pocket, held together with other cards by a rubber band. We were kids, not prospectors. We loved the game and the cards before prospecting adults came along to ruin the hobby like they would eventually also do with record collecting.
So did I ever actually root for the A's? No, not really. Until recently when I see how hard Beane has to work to build playoff teams with no money. But not even Oakland seems to root for them, as evidenced by the fact that their attendance has never been fantastic, even in those glory years. And now, circa 2023, it looks like they may soon be removed from their home city due to that attendance fact. It's probably long overdue, as they've been saying for years that Oakland isn't a baseball city.
But in today's sports economics, which may soon apply to my Brewers, being a "baseball city" may not even matter.
This was written two years ago. I kept it in the tank, as I thought the first time the Heat knocked us out, it was a bit on the weird side. I thought the piece may have been a bit bitter, over the top, and unrealistic, though.
But this year, It was a little hard to comprehend the repetitiveness of consistently incredible play that normally doesn't appear suddenly exploding from a team that barely made the playoffs. The Heat literally backed in. Here they were though, looking untouchable while surging to knock my team who had once again achieved the best record in the league, out 4 games to 1.
So here it is:
I fell in love with NBA basketball in the winter of 1983, the game introduced to me by my then best friend Jon. Jon spent most of his weekends at his aunt's house, which just happened to be next door to mine. My hometown team was an excellent one, and as the year stretched into 1984, I was consumed with the sport. Watching the Bucks at every given opportunity. The shooting and driving prowess of Terry Cummings, the aggresive bulldog on offense and defense that was Sidney Moncrief, the man who created the postition of point forward, Paul Pressey, and the NBA's best sixth man, Ricky Pierce. Coached by Don Nelson, they were a machine and a blast to watch.
Frequenting the playoffs every year, they would always just fall short. Sure, the names above were among the best in the league at what they did, but the bench talent, apart from Pierce, was not the type to shore up the starters. Trying to go to war against the Celtics and Sixers every year with Paul Mokeski, Randy Breuer and Jerry Reynolds coming off the bench (God love their A for Effort) didn't measure up against the pummeling walls of those other Eastern Conference Juggernauts. Even after they eventually added Sonics star Jack Sikma in 1985, and hall of famer Bob Lanier, It was a frustrating war of attrition.
One thing always rubbed me the wrong way. The Bucks were scrappers. Fighters. Going against teams of superior talent, they would often outplay, and Nelson would outcoach their opponents. But, and it's a big but, there was always one thing evening the playing field.
Officiating. Teams with superior talent don't need the help of the supposed non partisan enforcers of rules, but oh, did they get it. And in spades.
But as the 80's grew into the 90's it became more and more the case. It became so bad, that I stopped watching games that didn't involve the Bucks. It grew tiresome, especially as the Bucks resurged in the late 90's, watching Ray Allen, Tim Thomas, and Glenn Robinson hacked to the floor with no recompense, as guys like Shaquille O'Neal, Allen Iverson, and Michael Jordan would go to the line when breathed or farted upon.
Let's jump forward to the now, where Milwaukee's Giannis Antetekounmpo, is arguably the best player in the league. Still I have sat and watched as last years Khwai Leonard-led Raptors, and this year's Jimmy Butler-fronted Heat were field generals for a group that drew whistles, play stoppage, and shots from the line at one end, as if the damn referee is a Ringling Bros. big top leader pulling overtime. Then I sit in stunned silence after seeing Giannis and his crew laying under the backboard after being clobbered (no mean feat with the 6'11 and monolithically built Antetekounmpo) while everyone else is headed back to the other end of the court.
This years Eastern Conference semifinals played out almost exactly like last years. Two years in a row, the Bucks have lost to inferior opponents, with the officials playing a massive role in the mess. Often, and this fits with the Milwaukee Brewers as well, (two years ago, the Brewers came within the width of a matchstick of knocking the league's darlings, Los Angeles, out of the tournament) politics feels like it may be a factor. Milwaukee is, in comparison, a much smaller market team, more than likely to draw smaller viewing audiences for the networks in a championship situation. That doesn't make it okay however, if there is some sort of interference involved to steer things. Especially when you have the two time MVP on your squad, an all-star guard next to him, and the deepest bench in the league. I don't believe they were outplayed two years in a row, and I sure as hell don't buy that they're over-rated.
Call me a homer. I grew up with the late 70's and 80's Packers who were awful. I was spoiled the year I became a baseball fan because my Brewers went to the World Series, but it's been a slog since and 1982 was a long fucking time ago. But I'm fine with that "homer" shit. I will worship at the altar of franchises with all-time losing records because I grew up in their backyard all day long, instead of front-running with the League and marketing executive's darlings who glamourize big city players and broadcast all their games every week nationally. My only exception there is the Green Bay Packers, perennial winners, but the NFC title game has been a nightmare for us going on 10 years now. Heartbreaking.
It's just that sometimes Something smells funny. That's all I'm saying.
We huddled in bunches on the the playground at recess. A large group of 6th graders turning in a slow circle. This was of multiple benefits. Wisconsin falls and winters during the school year are, of course, cold. The body temperatures contributed to a group warmth.
Also, we needed to see each other's cards.
No, we weren't cheating at poker.
Stacks of cardboard, scented by pink dusty gum, bonded together by rubber bands (a no-no today), less often in clear sheets of nine, enveloped in binders for protection, were on display. We were a mini-stock market, gathered around in circles, trading in baseball, football, less often basketball.
Bubble gum cards.
It seems an obviously difficult task, all these cards changing hands for trade evaluation, without some ending up in the wrong paws before returning to their original holders.
It was an honor system. We trusted each other (for the most part).
It wasn't perfect, however. Once my stack came back missing a 1973 Pete Rose. Then, a serious card. My 1981 Fleer Sixto Lezcano suddenly had a wrinkle in it that it didn't have before. (Luckily I had doubles of ol' Sixto). For the most part the system worked.
Now, mind you, we paid attention to dollar values back then to a certain degree. A few Beckett magazines or an annually published priced guide could be found floating about. But it wasn't the be all/end all of a potential deal. The "Homer Factor" sometimes led to the un-even deal. I was known to trade a card worth far more than the one being offered by my trade partner, because the player I was trading for played for the Milwaukee Brewers, Green Bay Packers, or Milwaukee Bucks. I took grief from several friends in that arena.
"Rob, don't just try to get Brewers, GET GREAT PLAYERS!!"
But I had just started this business within the last year, and there were decades of Topps going back, and a couple of years of Donruss and Fleer.
An ocean of possible home team players for me to acquire.
Sometimes you'd get the coup de grace. A current Brewer/Packer on a card with a former team. I almost had a stroke when a friend willingly dealt me a 1978 Ben Oglivie (with the Detroit Tigers) for what I thought was a card far less steeped in value (perhaps just in sentimentality to me) not in cash. I'm sure in that regard, I was taken to the cleaners.
Below is the actual card. In pretty damn good shape since the trade of 1982 that resulted in me clicking my heels like July Garland after getting off the bus that day.
There was the crown jewel that I wanted to get amongst our swirling of card traders. Our Bose Elementary traders. One had a 1975 George Scott. He was the Brewers all-star first-baseman who had played for the Crew long before I began watching the team.
But to me at that time, 1975 may as well have been the Paleozoic Era. And what a great image of The Boomer the card featured! (However the 1977 card of George featured a far more detailed shot highlighting the "shark's teeth" around his neck).
Alas, I was never able to convince this chap to let loose in a deal. I would acquire this card via eBay in 2008. Many eons later. I won't forget the feeling I had when I opened the envelope it came in, for a card I paid .75 for.
I felt like that kid again, peeling open a wax pack, but this time knowing the gem was coming.
That boy on that freezing playground who had gotten that Ben Oglivie so many years earlier. That's how I felt.
I have written on this blog before about how baseball at this time was a religion.
How I was a student of its seminary.
Baseball cards were rosary beads. They were prayer candles.
And yes, these players, with their image emblazoned in cardboard.
These were saints.
(Not the New Orleans ones)
Others that read this blog know my main sports hero of the time (and to a degree, today) was Green Bay Packers besieged quarterback Lynn Dickey. I elaborated years ago here. It wasn't until we had moved to Waco, TX in 1985 and my friend Bill slyly and with pomp and circumstance pulled out of his deck a 1975 Topps card of Dickey (with the Houston Oilers) that I saw what I felt was the Holy Grail.
Its light shone on me and beheld me in its trance. I dropped to my knees, dipping down my head in reverence. However, I was both jealous and happy for Bill. He was also a former Wisconsin resident (as our worship of Lynn was on an equal level).
Although in all fairness, he being originally from Maine, was a grand admirer of New England Patriots' veteran signal caller Steve Grogan, and collected his many cards when possible. So, when it came to Clifford Lynn Dickey, I had the edge in fanhood, in my opinion.
I did eventually buy that 1975 card at a card show years later, but right next to it on display? A 1974 Lynn Dickey (also known as his rookie card).
Begin church choir music here.
I bought the Holy Grail and the Ark of the Covenant both for a total of $2.75.
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.
I know way too much about Lombardi's Packers for never having been there for their glory, or for that matter, not even having been born yet.
I know a ton about Milwaukee Brewers players and teams that I never watched. My favorite all time Milwaukee Brewers bubble gum Card is of a guy I never got a chance to see play, The Boomer, George Scott. I remember seeing another kid on the schoolyard who had it in his stack of gems and being jealous as hell. He would accept no trade offers for it..
It would be years before I was able to get it.
I have too much working knowledge of recording artists that were before my time or before I discovered the power chord and Blue Oyster Cult.
I know who it was that starred in and the release years of flicks that came out when my parents were kids.
How?
TV Guide, Reading the backs of Baseball & Football cards, (yes, kids, there once was more to them than air-tight sealing, prospecting, grading and getting maximum value for them!!) borrowed library books on film history devoured as a kid, and too much time spent reading (and absorbing) the backs of album covers.
I still remember before the days of cable and non-stop ESPN media-blasting, being shocked by reading on the back of Frank Taveras' 1982 Topps card that the dude somehow stole 71 bases in a season?
71!!!
Or that Bill Kenney passed for over 4000 yards for Kansas City once!
Really? To Who?
Did you know (back of a Dokken album cover) that Juan Croucier played for Don's boys before Ratt?
Was there a trade worked out there?
It's amazing where all that clutter came from, let alone that I remember learning it.
Hope I have some GB left....
Anyway, there's some comfort drawn from that old stuff from which I gleaned my knowledge. A simpler time, indeed. Information gleaned from hard work, microfiche, a library card, and memory instead of a lightning fast Google search. Old dusty cardboard baseball cards and comic book pages that yellow with time, not the high gloss, freaky bright stock that blasts at you today. Giant lyric sheets and musician rosters that were readable without needing to squint to see on the opposite side of some pretty dynamic (or cheesy, better yet) artwork on the front of an album cover as opposed as to the less tactile jewel case and inlay card of a CD.
Or worse, in all cases, just a computer download you never actually prove exists other than a e-receipt and a cold icon on desktop or mobile device.
As I'll point out in a future somewhat related post, are we moving too far too fast? Technology for even life's minutiae has grown far more in my lifetime, or even last 30 years, than it did in the previous 70. There's something scary and impersonal in that.
Okay, let's get this out of the way. Richard Sherman is a smart man and the best corner in the league.
Good. I feel better now.
He's still an ass, and here's why:
The reason he blew a gasket on national television is because, and he stated it in his pants-crapping, Napoleon Complex-fueled tirade on Erin Andrews, he was insulted because Michael Crabtree was talking about him.
Excuse me, sir Richard......but isn't that what you do? Talk crap. Every day? Incessantly? To the point of nausea? Insulting people online, in the national media and on the football field. Constantly? Which is fine, I have no problem with trash talk. It's part of the game, but for a true purveyor of the craft, and some may say a master, you seemed a wee bit hypocritical getting all jacked up for Crabtree doing likewise.
Some may call it, in the era of the web, butthurt.
But there are those that tout Mr. Sherman and not only forgive, but endorse his yammering because of his humble beginnings, coming Straight Outta Compton, getting into Stanford, and then the NFL, eventually becoming the best at a very difficult position. He deserves credit, yes.
But, there are tons of poor kids who get into the NFL and shine their stars who don't draw this kind of WWE "I'm the best!" attention to themselves constantly. Look at Donald Driver. Poor kid from Houston, who sold drugs, once lived in a U-Haul, 7th Round Choice out of tiny Alcorn State, and became the Packers all time leading receiver, Super Bowl champ, Dancing With the Stars winner, and never lost his humility in the process.
He surely never took the attention off of his teammates at the apex of their success like Sherman did as soon as the final second ticked off the damn clock.
And those on line and in print who act like he is some spokesman for all that's right (or wrong) in America just make me laugh. Canonizing someone because of their mouth? Please don't get started on the race card. It's insulting to everybody.
And don't you dare compare him to Muhammad Ali. Yeah, he was the greatest, and said so. But what truly made Ali the greatest was what he said and did AFTER he said so.
1982 was a crazy year. My father had died a short two years before. We were a family in transition. A while later my brother, after almost being killed by a potential axe murderer in his building, decided to move back in with myself, my Mom, and my stepdad. I was thrilled.
Not about attempted murder, but about my big bro moving back in to share a room with me. He was back and unexpectedly brought a passion with him.
The Milwaukee Brewers.
As we watched ballgames together on a tiny Admiral black and white, he explained the strike zone, runs, hits, errors, and the science of the game I never really played or understood. As that 1982 season progressed, I became enthralled with America's pasttime and the Brew Crew. The players individually became heroes, almost as big as my brother, Dan.
Having never attended a game at legendary Milwaukee County Stadium, I had to hope for those 50-odd games on the road each season that were televised by local independent station WVTV-18 to be aired on the weekends brought to you live by husky white-haired play-by-play man Steve Shannon and former Brewer first baseman Mike Hegan (Rest his soul). It was more fulfilling to listen to the radiomen, Wisconsin mainstay and current legend, Bob Uecker, "Mr. Baseball" himself, and his partner, Dwayne Moseley (The Nose and the Mose). However, having the ability to see what I normally merely heard was something special. It allowed me to be able to put faces to the names.
On that immensely exciting '82 Brewers squad, there were rookies, vets, speedsters, power hitters galore, and something that set them apart from a lot of other classic baseball teams
Character.
Manager Harvey Kuenn, the Wisconsin-bred West Allis boy who hit .300 for his career and had over 2000 hits was the top character of the big list. Leaking tobacco and ambling out to the mound on his wooden leg (he had it surgically amputated due to circulation problems) he looked every bit the pirate born to command a ship of baseball buccaneers while taking the ball from some exhausted pitcher, and pointing to the bullpen for relief.
There was the young stud, Robin "the Kid" Yount, who had come up under the mental tutelage of the great one, Henry Aaron. The youthful eventual 3000 hit hall-of-famer consistently hit for average, in the clutch, and fielded shortstop like it was his own personal domain. Gorman Thomas, the oafish Bob Stinson-like power-hitting centerfielder, smashed almost as many outfield walls crashing into them hunting down flyballs, as he did fastballs out of the park.
He once accidentally dyed his hair orange.
Another Brewer star that would ultimately lay claim to 3000 hits and the hall of fame was Paul Molitor, nicknamed "The Ignitor" for his uncanny ability to start late inning rallies with base hits and stolen bases, despite overcoming an intense cocaine addiction in 1980.
The team had the third base/DH tandem of Don Money, longtime crowd favorite and Brewer mainstay since the mid 70's, and pesky spray hitter, Roy Howell. Charlie Moore, who was a former light hitting catcher, stalked right field with arguably the strongest cannon in the A.L., who regularly gunned down cocky baserunners that underestimated his right handed shotgun. (Including Reggie Jackson, in the ALCS, who according to legend, popped up out of his slide to salute Moore.)
Who could forget the diminutive second baseman Jim Gantner of Eden, Wisconsin? A malcontent on the field, his temperment was legendary, and he combined with Yount to be 1982's best double play combination.
Lastly, but certainly not least, were this duo: cool cucumber Cecil Cooper, who hit well over .300 (and would have won the batting title the year prior had it not been for George Brett's flirtation with .400) and drove in runs with clockwork regularity. Besides Coop's offense, his glove was the envy of first sackers around the league.
Let's not forget wiry, whip-swinging power lefty, Ben Oglivie, who had some production left in the tank after a deal with the Tigers that brought him to Milwaukee to be the left fielder a couple years earlier. Coop and "The O" both also spent significant 70's time with the Boston Red Sox.
From Molitor down to Howell, the Brewers were a modern day "Murderer's Row" (a moniker given to the 1927 New York Yankees) for their ability to pound pitching over the fence from the top to the bottom of the lineup. For this talent, they were also given the nickname "Harvey's Wallbangers", as they were the power source of major league baseball (and the joke not lost on a state known for it's drinking prowess).
My family was drawn together a bit that late September into October by the Brewers successes, as wins were delayed a bit after a lackluster start dimmed the optimism of their playoff appearance in the strike-shortened previous season. Then they fired manager Bob "Buck" Rodgers and the fortunes almost immediately changed when Kuenn, the hitting instructor, took the reins.
As summer faded to fall, the leaves browned and the sun dipped beyond the horizon sooner in the day, we'd gather around to watch the ever more important late season games wondering if this could be the first year the Brewers, since their move here from Seattle in 1970, could make a serious run at the World Series. My Mom and eventual stepdad would spend a fair share of time at taverns, and the talk of the bars and nightspots was the Milwaukee Brewers. It was often on these evening drinking expeditions that little bits and pieces of memorabilia would make their way home to me thanks to my parents remembering to bring them home for their Brewtown-baseball obsessed kid. All kinds of little junk from evenings out with the Brewer logo on it would be laid claim to by my small hands.
I never imagined my mother, a life-long Packers fan, would become embroiled in baseball, but she did. It was fun to watch her chew her nails during those tight one-run affairs where Rolaids relief man Rollie Fingers would have to be called in yet again to put out another team's fire. It was completely reminiscent of her moaning and groaning over tight-knit Packer battles with the hated Chicago Bears, as the Brewers attempt to clamp down the A.L. East came down to a four game series against the Baltimore Orioles. Only needing to win one, the crew lost the first three, and the title came down to a one game playoff.
My Dad and I would play a game wherein we would try to outguess each other as to what the next hitter would do, and what would happen next. Even my 16 year old sister got in on the act, developing a major crush on the face of the franchise, Robin Yount, with his shoulder length hair and sly grin. Yount won my sister over for more than just his ability on the grass. In that cathartic last game against Baltimore on October 3rd, Yount hit two homers to lead the crew over the Orioles and their ace Jim Palmer, 10-2.
On to the famous come from behind ALCS victory, and eventually, the Series loss in 7.
This team claimed a hold on my imagination, most importantly. I would often go out into the backyard with my black weather-beaten Louisville Slugger and pretend to be the Brewers lineup. I had mastered the art of imitating each and every one of their batting stances. Yount's wide-open pose with his back almost facing the pitcher. Catcher Ted Simmons' stoic and motionless knee-bender. I'd even switch around to the left side to mime Coop's way-back lean (wondering the whole time how he never fell down), and "The O", Ben Oglivie's stick straight stance, bat waving in the air as if the wiry Panamanian was attempting to swat flies above his head with the lumber.
Incidentally, it was this odd attempt at mocking Cooper, Oglivie, switch-hitting legend Ted Simmons, and Jim Gantner that actually led to my ability to be able to hit left-handed. I had inadvertently taught myself to switch hit. My physical baseball abilities initiated upon me from the tutelage of my brothers, Dan and Tim, were brought to another level all by my lonesome reenactments.
For each of these "plate appearances", I'd toss the ball up into the air and swing my damndest to simulate the Brewers hitters in an effort to forecast the crew's performance against an upcoming opponent. Narrating to myself the whole time in my best Uecker baritone, I'd give myself the challenge of facing the other teams, if only portraying my heroes in doing so. Nightly, my imaginary Brewers would vanquish the likes of Jim Palmer, Ron Guidry, Dave Stieb, and Jack Morris.
It was a thrill, if only a small one, to get a hold of one, especially lefty, and watch it sail over my parents chain-link fence from under the backyard porch light, perfectly mounted on the middle of the house, right where "home plate" was. I then would do a victorious homerun trot around the bases, (Frisbees in this case) before ending the joyous tour back under the light, where the grass had been flattened by hours of my mimicry. I would then bask in the imagined admiration of 50,000 strong County Stadium faithful. Ben Oglivie had just taken Steve Trout off the right field foul pole to end the game and thwart the dreaded Chicago White Sox again, and I had made it happen. Then I would trudge out to the field beyond the fence to undergo the crime scene investigation of trying to find the baseball I had just crushed.
Ah, yes, the innocence of the young baseball fan, and the purity of his admiration for the sport. The pungent smells of summer with humidity hanging in the air, Uecker's perfect musings juxtaposed with the crackle of the crowd on the radio, all amongst the calming hum of our central air conditioning unit. The sounds of baseball. The sounds of summer.
The sound of my childhood.
Before sexual angst, teenage frustrations, systemic anger, punk rock, and rebellion set in to flatten it all.
Baseball, youth, and Wisconsin. Forever intertwined.
I've been finding an irritating trend amongst my coworkers and many Wisconsinite cats in my southeastern neck of the woods. The Double Standard.
These people, a cast of thousands are they, are the same ones that 5 years ago when Favre threw 29 interceptions, wanted him hung from the rafters. 2 years ago, when he threw that inane interception in OT of the NFC Championship game at Lambeau, these same folks wanted him retired. Among other less savory things I will refrain from adding here. I do have some fucking restraint.
Those same chaps are now wearing a purple #4 Jersey on Sundays.
Yeah.
When you get into "conversations" with these people, it borders on the ludicrous. If you're gonna get into a semantic argument, come fully strapped, please... For example:
I cite:
When you discuss Favre's signing with the dreaded Purple Princesses, his zealots claim "It's a business." Conversely, when the Pack Management dealt him to the Jets last season, the organization was being "disloyal".
When Favre danced on the proverbial fence for 6 seasons, and brought that jitterbug to an epoch 2 springs back, the favre-lots, as I call them for brevity's sake, claimed he'd "earned the right". But when the QB job was given to #12 whilst Brett dawdled, the organization was being "ungrateful". I am to believe it were all Favre, all the time, and the rest of the organization and team had nothing to do with it. Brett was out there alone? Is #4 playing Linebacker?
An insult to Reggie White, LeRoy Butler, Robert Brooks, Frank Winters, George Koonce, and a slew of others.
Now I'm not saying Thompson was blameless in this, not even a little bit. But I'm just tired of the fans who spent the better part of the last 16 years thinking this guy could walk on water, and a whole damn state that looked at him as a demigod, being put on the back burner for his ego.
"True Packer Fans will understand" says Brett.
Really?
For perspective's sake how about Miami fans picturing Dan Marino suiting up for the Jets and taking them to the playoffs. Any Aikman fans like the idea of #8 leading the Redskins to the Super Bowl?
Didn't think so.
When all this Favre crap is blessedly over with, and Aaron Rodgers is consistently leading the Pack to post-season berths, I know the Favre zealots are gonna be running along the bandwagon, latching on, in an attempt to get back on .
I'm just gonna kick them right the fuck off.
Brett can go into the hall as a Viking, and I will be keeping his jersey around, just in case we run out of toilet paper.
We all deal with pain in our own way.
Grief is a bastard, and we usually react instantaneously, grasping as one waist deep in the quicksand for that thing that most easily and quickly, (even if temporarily) has the answer.
Dad died. No secret there, fearless readers, and we as a family, as a collective unit, stumbled along in our own ways. People, drained of color, wandering in circles like elderly people mall-walking, or one of the zombies in a George Romero movie.
There were different answers for everyone, at least varieties of answers. My elder siblings found solace in their own ways, my mother as well.
In that situation you have to, absolutely have to, do what you can. We had crutches. All of us. We fought as a family. Sometimes we swung those crutches at each other, but sometimes we loaned them to each other to prop ourselves up.
I think we did it. We emerged from that three year period of bleakness, emaciated, bloody, angry, but still deeply loving of each other.
I spent a lot of time alone there. A kid on the weekends, often left to his own devices learns to talk to himself, which eventually I did well. I wandered the back yard, rehearsing speeches never to be heard, singing songs never to be written. I constantly reorganized my baseball cards, carrying my favorites wrapped in a rubber band in my back pocket.
Denny O'Neil, Neal Adams, Dick Giordano, and Jim Aparo created the four-color heroes that emerged from my 35 cent comic books, that always had a new angle every time I read them. Make no mistake, these things lost much of their sheen after Dad died, but they still held the power to spark my mind.
Still do.
We deal.
For a time, I thought "The Bar" was a giant beast that swallowed my loved ones whole and belched out stumbling, bumbling, mush-mouthed versions of themselves, that for the first time would have the power to grieve out loud. By morning, they were themselves again, and the outward angst was gone. That slow-steam building anger at the world for removing one of our own, temporarily silenced.
A few years later I discovered the gains to be had in alcohol, and whole-heartedly engaged in them myself. The forgetting it created, which eventually led to catharsis. It was purging, artifical, but purging nonetheless. There's nothing for anyone to be ashamed of. I even convinced myself of that.
Anyone.
I can never blame any one person for using what was there for band-aiding the cuts that never seemed to stop bleeding. But in a 3 year period, my family had been tied together with a barbed-wire twine, dropped into a hole with a high-powered explosive, and left to wait for it to detonate.
During the tumultuous times shortly after my father's death, my big brother Dan became a prevalent figure in my life. He hadn't been too much previously, due to a 10 year age gap and the fact that he lived in a different county. Didn't affect the love. I love all my brothers and sisters, especially now more than ever, because I have learned so much in the last decade. I can never repay what they've give and the warmth they've pored out, even when I haven't deserved it in my blackest and most self-absorbed moments.
This is hard for me to write, as the words are blurring before me now, cheeks dampening, but I shall press on. I need to get this out.
Dan introduced me to music. Not the country and western/WMAQ/Patsy Cline/she-bop shebop my mom was ingratiating me with, although that stuff is fantastic. I keep Sam Cooke, Engelbert Humperdinck, and Roy Orbison around due to her, and that will never change. But my brother brought me the CRASH.
The stuff that had me thinking, "Holy shit, what's this?" Long before I arrived at the doorstep of punk, this was my initiation in the fact that music had FORCE. It started with the Who's "Who's Next". From the opening bars of "Baba O'Riley", on through "Love aint For Keeping", (a personal fave), to the forlorn "Behind Blue Eyes", and "Won't get Fooled" which has to have the best effin' rock scream ever recorded on it.
Pete Townshend is monster. Entwistle a dream, Keith Moon was, well......Keith Moon.
Danny introduced me to "Welcome to the Machine"...."Have a Cigar", of course I am speaking of Pink Floyd. I used to use "Dark Side of the Moon" to meditate, in high school. Before pharmaceuticals came into my life, it was my only means of "toning down" my high-strung nature. Lights out, blanket, Side one.......soothing the savage beast.
Dan brought me more, much more, Led Zeppelin II and Jimmy Page's first take animal riffs, Boston I, which may be the closest thing to Phil Spector's "wall of sound" done in it's wake.....Now mind you, I don't like everything Dan does, I eschew his ponderous joy with Steely Dan and Supertramp, but no one, including myself, is even close to perfect.
But I just wanted to take this opportunity, publicly, and in prose, to thank my big brother, and tell him I love him. For his music he so graciously shared with me...and for his companionship.
Fellow siblings, fear not. I have much to share about you as well. You have all shaped me, whether you know it or not. And I will be bragging your exploits in turning me into one strange, yet hopefully memorable individual. Stay tuned.
When my inner monologue is angry it speaks with the voice of Colonel Sherman Potter of "MASH" fame. When I first started to get entrenched in the Brett Favre mambajamba that has been going on for nigh on 5 years now, I heard my psyche say "What a bunch of Horsehockey!!", or "What in the H-e double hockey sticks is going on here!?".
Then when the more sedate part of my mind stepped in, it was "Calm down, son, everything is gonna be fine."
Yeah, it will, but it will sting for a long time.
In the midst of this brouhaha between former Packer QB Favre and Green Bay GM Ted Thompson, are the fans. Caught in the drift like little children of a divorce. They sometimes look up, seeing heroes that are often not really there. They place players and management from professional sports on pedestals more commonly reserved for statesmen, or even deities.
When those "parents" can't coexist peacefully anymore, the humanity oozes out like so much grue.
When Favre was traded to the Jets last season he seemed to envision himself in New York like William "Braveheart" Wallace, crying "Freedom!!!", while back in Green Bay, Ted "King Longshanks" Thompson groaned in his deathbed.
Horsehockey.
Thompson, stubborn, never addressed the situation much, and didn't handle it well. The stern patriach, hiding his emotions. Keeping to himself.
It was obvious from the beginning, neither one liked being told what to do. Favre seemed to think he was the face and voice of the Green Bay Packers. Brett didn't want the Public Services contract Green Bay offered. Thompson didn't like Favre's behavior that he displayed when he didn't like any of the moves Ted made. The Mississippi River Boat Gambler even asked to be traded when the Moss deal didn't happen, I seem to remember.
Each one trying to force the other's hand.
16 glorious years. A love affair between a community and one man, who seemed to epitomize what being a Green Bay Packer was supposed to be. It could have been one of the all time great one team legacies. Joe Montana, Dan Marino, Jim Brown. In less than 12 months, it was completely tarnished.
I heard J.A. Adande, a sports journalist I normally respect, as a panelist on ESPN's "Around the Horn" say that the Packers didn't want Favre last year. Really? I seem to remember McCarthy and Thompson, just prior to last season flying down to Mississippi in a last ditch effort to either find out his "final answer" or get him to change his mind. A vehement no was the response. The Packers customized their offense to Aaron Rodgers, and used two draft picks on Quarterbacks. Then #4 comes ambling back, "Hey guys, I changed my mind." That train left, Brett. And Adande, you're way off base.
Favre is now and has been coming off like a petulant child. When asked about his legacy, he says it's just that. HIS legacy. Has he ever mentioned Packer fans once outside of "If they're true Packer fans they'll understand....". Now he's telling us how to think. All through this, Thompson has been the quiet parent, not consoling, not making it worse. It's like a marriage where one spouse is acting like the last 20 years never happened. Now the farts on Don Beebe's helmet, the silly "Three Packerinos" video shorts with Chmura and Winters, the laughter on the sidelines, it all doesn't seem so quaint or even warm anymore. '
It's ash in the wind.
And guess what? It's the kids that end up getting hurt.
This blog contains essays, prose, poetry, reviews, and some general whining blather.
I do not review records or movies I don't like because I don't believe in hurting the feelings of another should their art not appeal to me.......I mean, who the fuck am I?
