Teammate Bob Uecker gave him the nickname Crash. The reason he received that name was his learned preference for wearing a batting helmet not just when he was at the plate but also on the bases and in the field. The Philadelphia Phillies decided for some reason that his name was Richie even though no one ever had called him by that name before. Back home at Wampum High School and nearby Chewton, Pennsylvania he was known as Sleepy. On his birth certificate, he was named Richard Anthony Allen, one of nine children raised in the small western Pennsylvania town mostly by his mother.

He was called Sleepy because an early childhood injury left him with a droopy left eyelid. Dick Allen is in his late seventies now. I never saw him play baseball, even though I grew up close to Wampum and was only slightly younger, until he played for the Los Angeles Dodgers in 1971, but I did see him play basketball once. That was in 1961 and it was a treat. It was a game played during the Christmas holidays with former high school stars at the local YMCA and Sleepy Allen amazed me by dunking the ball with his back to the basket. Dunking wasn’t done much in those days and was a bit of a novelty, especially for a person who stood five feet, eleven inches. Richard and his brothers Harold and Ron filled the local sports pages in those days  with their exploits for Wampum High School as all three of them were All State basketball players  for a team that almost never lost under legendary coach L.Butler Hennon, whose son, Don Hennon, became an All American play making and shooting guard at the University of Pittsburgh.

We all found out about Dick Allen the baseball player in 1964. He became National League Rookie of the Year that season as part of a Phillies team that probably should have won the pennant. He batted .318 with 29 home runs and 91 runs batted in. At  22 years of age he was looking like a star for Philley for a long time. He had power and speed, stole bases and had good baseball smarts. He also committed 41 errors at third base.

Philadelphia fans were happy to have a contending team again but the City of Brotherly Love had, and retains to this day a reputation for unfriendliness  to perceived enemies or miscreants. In 1965, Allen incurred the wrath of many by taking on the Big Donkey, Frank Thomas, when Thomas made racially denigrating statements toward himself and Wes Covington. Allen punched the veteran Thomas and Thomas went after Allen with a baseball bat. Thomas was a career fielder on a level with what Allen had shown in ’64, and was ten years older with perhaps a few good slugging years left, so the next thing he knew he was playing for Casey Stengel as a New York Met. Philadelphia was very late to the integration party, waiting until 1957, or ten years after Jackie Robinson made his Dodgers debut, and those Phillies fans who preferred their stars to be white showed their feelings with signs saying “We Want Thomas”.  Dick Allen had spent the 1963 season playing for the Little Rock, Arkansas Travelers . Those were the days of Governor Faubus, who attended the opening game of the Phillies’ Triple A minor league team  as fans held a sign that read “Don’t Negro-ize Our Baseball”. Wampum, Pa. wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t like that.

So it was a rough start as far as non baseball stuff but Allen went on to have what many consider to be a Hall of Fame career. His career batting average was .292, he slugged 351 home runs in 15 seasons while driving in 1,119 runs, he was very good in 1966 and ’67 for the Phillies, and it was mostly good but by 1969 he really wanted out and he was traded to St. Louis. After a good year there he was traded again, this time to the Dodgers. This was the team that he dreamed about playing for as a youth, but after a good season there in what was not a good park for hitters, he  ended up in the American League playing  for the Chicago White Sox, managed by old family friend Chuck Tanner. Allen crested there in 1972, winning the Most Valuable Player award with a .308 batting average, 37 home runs, 113 RBI. a .420 on base percentage, and a slugging percentage of .603. The years of acrimony and controversy seemed to be suddenly over, but it was not to be.  There came his sudden retirement in 1974 followed by a couple of sub par seasons back in Philley and then an almost ridiculous finale playing for Charlie Finley’s suddenly woeful Oakland A’s in 1977. The baseball world was left to ponder what might have been. Could he have been a Hall of Fame player? Many feel the answer is sure, but….and others feel he is one anyway. The feeling here is that he comes pretty close, but no.

Chuck Tanner said, “What I knew about Dick from having grown up nearby, and, see,this is what other people in baseball didn’t know, was how much Dick Allen liked to win. It was all he cared about.”  What Bob Gibson said was. “Dick was the same way I was. You don’t get in our way when we’ve got ball to play. We’ve got baseball on our mind. Why didn’t the writers ever figure that out? Why didn’t the headlines ever say GIBSON AND ALLEN CARE TOO MUCH ABOUT BALL TO MAKE SMALL TALK?

Sleepy scores points with this writer by saying, “As far as I was concerned the DH was the worst thing that had happened to baseball in my lifetime.” He had it in his Oakland contract that he would not be asked to DH.

Finally, yes, like it or not, racism is still an important part of all of our lives, and it obviously had a big effect on Dick Allen’s. The way he put it was this: “All my career,I had people tell me I was a natural hitter. Never once did they take into account how I studied the pitchers, how I analyzed the defense. Stan Musial and Ted Williams were great students of the game. Henry Aaron and Frank Robinson were naturals. It’s patronizing and insulting and, what’s worse,people think they are being complimentary when they say it.”

Why did Dick Allen wear that helmet all of the time?  Because while he was on the field, he was subjected, not always but often enough, to various dangerous things coming at him out of the stands from the paying customers.

Faux Ball

After fifty one days of sequestration, I finally worked up the nerve to go shopping and I mean actually inside of a store.  It wasn’t so much courage that got me there but rather  that thing called cabin fever. I think I pulled it off, but of course we just don’t know about anything these days, do we? There have been times in the past when I have surely smelled of alcohol but that was a different kind for a different reason.

Yes, I have the yips and sometimes the dog walks, pleasant though they may be, just aren’t enough. For one thing, where are my box scores? Look, playing ball is still the best way to enjoy the game but I finally reached that age where, just like the tykes in tee ball, even if I hit the ball my legs don’t know what to do next. So it’s fun to watch and then, lacking that, catch up on the box scores of last night’s games and see how everybody did. There is enough information there that you can almost re-create the whole game,which was something I tried to do often as a young lad delivering the afternoon newspaper. In July and August the sun would be hot enough to blend the ink right into my hands as I folded the papers before practicing my peg home (the spot on the customers’ porches right in front of the screen doors, preferably just right so they could open the door without touching the paper). In between stops I would take peeks at the sports page and see how my favorite players performed. Oh, Rocky Colavito  was 0-for-5 again. But Herb Score struck out 14 and the Indians beat Kansas City again. It took a little study but the motivation was there.  I learned that Schndnst was just an abbreviation for Red Schoendienst, a name I was proud to know how to spell early on. And, of course, Klszwsk, or Ted Kluszewski, the guy with no sleeves.

We played ball a lot and however we could. Some kind of bat and something resembling a ball. My brother Jimmy and I were made assistant managers of the family market one summer in the late fifties. That’s a fancier way of saying that the store was in what  the business boys call a downward spiral and we, as almost teenagers, were left in charge  of things  during very slow business days while our Dad attended to other important things. We were supposed to keep busy and we did that but it got boring. So if the Pirates were playing in Chicago it would be a day game and, in those days, the Cubs and Pirates were often contending but for seventh place. We would be listening on KDKA and inevitably it would get us fired up for ball. Playing ball in a store behind showcases and in front of a walk in cooler was not ideal but it was what we had. Also, there was the matter of a bat and a ball. There was a steel, the instrument for sharpening knives that had a handle, which was handy. Okay, but what about a ball? The steel was narrow, so it couldn’t be too big or too small or we’d have nothing but foul tips. Wadded up paper was too light. Jimmy, ever resourceful, came up with a solution. Over by the meat slicer was a loaf of Wonder Bread, so the cops could come in and make themselves a sandwich. They weren’t doing it so much lately with the baloney not being so fresh, so who would care? So he wadded up a slice and went into his windup. That Wonder ball was hard to hit from 20 feet, I’ll tell you. But we had a game and some laughs.

So it is surprising how well I’ve adjusted to not having baseball this season. Those classic games on You Tube or MLB are okay but I haven’t seen as many as I thought I would. I have a bunch of baseball books but they have all been read. The two best are both by David Halberstam, October 1964, an excellent description  of  the shifting  balance of power in baseball  as the old Yankees dynasty crumbled, and Summer of ’49, a story so well told about a year when both leagues had furious, exciting pennant races that it inspired me to replay the entire season with my Strat-O-Matic board game. Yes, I confess, I am one of those. I’ve played alone and with other people for over fifty years now and I’m not tired yet. I know you are all dying to know, so I can tell you  that the Yankees did not beat the Red Sox by a game as in real life. No, I was not nearly as smart as Casey Stengel and Boston won by three games without ever being seriously challenged except early on by Cleveland. No, I did not cheat. The Dodgers came in more to form. edging the Cardinals by two games after, as in real life, St. Louis was swept in a four game series by lowly Cincinnati in the last week. Then I was somewhat surprised when Brooklyn lost the World Series to Boston. Not enough pitching after Don Newcombe and Preacher Roe. Oh, and Ralph Kiner tied Babe Ruth‘s record with 60 home runs for Pittsburgh. So I have now outed myself to the world but guess what? I don’t care, I’ve got something to do and my spouse has not shot me yet. Of course, we don’t have a gun. Actually, she loves baseball as much or more than I do, but rolling dice is not her favorite sound.

It is going to be very interesting to see what happens to this game of ours as well as the rest of our culture as this pandemic plays out. Here is hoping we all make it, faux ball or not.

Here Today….Tomorrow?

By 1966, what had once been the Brooklyn Dodgers had been in four World Series since Walter O’Malley had told the city of New York to kiss off  and moved his team lock, stock and funny accents to Los Angeles, dragging the Giants along with him to some  podunk town up north from La La Land.

The lovable Bums were wearing shades now and some of them were guests on genuine Hollywood television shows and stuff. The difference between Don Drysdale and Donna Reed was that she could pretend to be a modest every day homemaker and he would knock down his mother if she crowded the plate but there they were.

The Dodgers had immediate success in their new home . All kinds of Californians, some even born there, filled one of the weirdest ball parks ever, the Coliseum, to watch major league ball and, after a hiccup ,as they say in the board rooms these days, in 1958 they started winning lots of games. They did that in Brooklyn too but not so many people were present. In 1959, parity, a thing that many people say they like until it happens, struck big time baseball. Mediocrity ruled. The Dodgers caught the reigning National League Champion Milwaukee Braves and then passed them by winning the playoffs. That qualified them to advance to the World Series against—what? Not the Yankees?—the Chicago White Sox. Their season record was 88-68 after finishing off the Braves while the Chicago team, called the Go-Go Sox at the time, won the American League pennant by five games over Cleveland with Casey Stengel‘s Yanks 15 games out in third place.  Those Yankees were aging but not as much as the Dodgers were. Carl Furillo (37) played 50 games. Gil Hodges was 35 but still clubbed 25 homers and drove in 80 runs. Duke Snider was still pretty good at 32 but this was clearly a team in transition. A 26 year old rookie named Maury Wills played 82 games at shortstop, stole 7 bases and provided a spark. Drysdale was 17-13, 1955 World Series MVP Johnny Podres was 14-9, and 23 year old Sandy Koufax was 8-6 with a 4.06 earned run average.

Then, in 1963, they really hit the big time. They won 99 games, swept the Yankees in the World Series, and enjoyed playing in their new yard, which was really meant for baseball  although many of the displaced people of Chavez Ravine did not agree. Koufax was 25-5, Drysdale 19-17, and Willie and Tommy Davis  were kicking ass. There was another hiccup in ’64, but then the ’65 team added Lou Johnson and Claude Osteen, scratched out a pennant over the Giants and beat the Twins in a seven game World Series. In Hollywood tradition, they performed a re-run in 1966, edging the Giants again with basically the same cast. But then….there appeared new darlings in baseball land, the Baltimore Orioles. Led by National League expatriate Frank Robinson and their own cast of  tough pitchers named Dave McNally, Jim Palmer and Wally Bunker, Baltimore swept the Dodgers in the Series,  But then…the Dodgers toured Japan after the season and Maury Wills left the team with what he said was an injury only to be found playing the banjo somewhere in Hawaii. In no time, Maury Wills was traded to Pittsburgh for two guys the Pirates didn’t need, Bob Bailey and Gene Michael.  But then…the immortal Koufax, after his spectacular run of Cy Young seasons, suddenly announced his retirement. Just as suddenly, the Dodgers were ordinary again for quite a while.

Is this how it is going to be for all of us who are floundering here on Earth with this human killing virus that, unlike the troubles of a baseball team, is likely to endure for a very long time?  Are there people that we know, friends and family, that we may never see again? That’s already true for many of us. Do things seem to be completely out of our control? Little things, like a walk to town to get the mail or a newspaper, are now difficult if not impossible. Are we safe? Do we know when this will end? Or if it will end? Some things might change for the better. Will we take our relationships with each other more seriously? Will we value things differently as it becomes more apparent what is really important? I don’t think that the superficial world of desire for material crap will survive this very well. Maybe that is what has the president and all of the quadruple chinned excuses for leaders in such a tizzy. And maybe folks kike me who get so wrapped up in things like baseball or whatever it is will gain some perspective. Here’s hoping.


The Way It Was

There I was  whining and moaning in the last piece about how MLBtv should be showing old games  and then bang! It appeared! Not directly from MLB but I was directed by same to YouTube, a division of Google, a subsidiary of Alphabet, the worldwide  masters of everything that Amazon and Microsoft don’t own, where they are now showing–for free!–one re-broadcast  per each of the 30 major league teams classic games from the past. Not really a hurrah moment but, at least, a good start.

Now I had a reason to get out of bed during my who knows how long this is going to last quarantine! I was afraid I was going to have to revert to reading books and learning about things and stuff. Whew! My first selection was the Pittsburgh Pirates entry, the seventh game of the 1971 World Series versus the Baltimore Orioles. You youngsters out there—you are out there, aren’t you?—may find it hard to believe, but once there was a time when both the Baltimore and Pittsburgh franchises were proud, top notch baseball outfits. Needing to have something to feel good about other than how well I washed my hands and how diligent I have been about not exposing myself to all of those disease carrying  low grade semi-zombies out there, this was an easy choice.

Baltimore was the defending World Champion team and the favored team no doubt with their glittering array of pitchers, strong defensive players, and power hitters. The team earned run average was 2.99 and Dave McNally, Pat Dobson, Jim Palmer and seventh game starter Mike Cuellar were all 20 game winners, something we may never see again even after Covid-19. In addition, they had Eddie Watt, Pete Richert, and Grant Jackson in the bullpen and each capable of saving a game. Shortstop Mark Belanger and Hall of Fame third baseman Brooks Robinson were the impenetrable left side of the infield and Paul Blair was a brilliant center fielder.  Boog Powell, Frank Robinson, Merv RettenmundDave Johnson, Don Buford, and Brooks Robinson powered an offense that led the American League in runs scored. How could they lose?

The Pirates’ best pitcher, Dock Ellis, had won 19 games in the regular season but was looking shaky in recent outings. He was knocked out of the first game in the third inning as Baltimore took an early lead to win, 5-3. The Orioles had also won the second game at home but the Pirates, behind right hander Steve Blass, turned the tables in their home park by winning all three games to take the series lead before Baltimore won the sixth game in ten innings back at home. The Pirates did not look, on paper, to be as strong as the Orioles but they definitely had some weapons. Chief among their weapons was right fielder Roberto Clemente, the future Hall of Fame player who, at 36 years of age, had batted .341, was still playing at a legendary level in the outfield, and, after not appearing in a World Series since 1960, was on a personal mission to win another championship. They also had 31 year old Willie Stargell, who had a peak season with 48 home runs and 125 runs batted in, and young first baseman Bob Robertson, who added 26 homers. The Pirates  had a strong bench, as did the Orioles, and a varied offense that scored even more runs than the Orioles had in the regular season. So it was a fun match.

The first big impression I got watching this game after nearly a half century was–my goodness–everyone seemed so calm, relatively speaking, of course. Curt Gowdy of NBC and Chuck Thompson, the regular Baltimore announcer, were calling the game with occasional comments from Tony Kubek in the stands and the tone was serious but relaxed. There was not a cluster of on air voices full of hype and hyperbole. There was a noticeable absence of irrelevant interviewing and, best of all, commercials were limited to between half innings. There were a few NBC network promotional announcements but by and large the emphasis was on the game being played. I was reminded of my respect for the way NBC did things in those days and , funny thing, Gowdy and Thompson didn’t seem nearly as over the hill and out of it as they did live to a mid-twenties aged university  student.

Another large difference was, bless my soul, it was a day game! On a Sunday afternoon! While NFL football games were being played! Unbelievable! I saw trees! Yes, from home plate in the pre-Camden Yards days, the batter saw a background of actual trees, not the kind Disney  used in Anaheim. That was just wonderful.

Here’s another thing you youngsters won’t believe: the first five innings took an hour and five minutes to play and the whole game lasted two hours and ten minutes. Plus there was only one brief camera shot of either team’s bullpen before the eighth inning.

Beyond all that, it was also a well played exciting game. Steve Blass, more recently a provider of amusing and informative color commentary on Pirates broadcasts, was the hero of the day along with Clemente, who broke a 0-0 tie in the fourth with a home run, as Blass pitched the whole game. Jose Pagan, starting at third base instead of Richie Hebner because manager Danny Murtaugh liked the way he batted against Mike Cuellar, drove in the winning run in the eighth. In Bruce Markusen’s book, The Team That Changed Baseball, the Pirates manager is quoted as having explained, “Jose has been around,and he has faced Cuellar a lot of times in the Caribbean during the winter. I think Pagan might do well against him.”  Irish analytics.

It also was great to see both of those great managers, Murtaugh and  Earl Weaver, in action. Weaver tried to get Blass and the Pirates riled in the first inning by making an agitated complaint to the umpires about something Blass was or was not doing in relation to the pitchers’ mound or the rubber. One could only imagine the field day FOX sports would have had with that. As it was, it was all handled calmly and intelligently by Thompson, Gowdy, and Kubek.  All in all, it was great fun. Let’s have some more.

Ask Doctor Anarchy

Well, what a revolting development this is! I realize that a lot of people are suffering terribly and that a pandemic is nothing to joke about but damn! Without sports or, as those snobbish Brits say, sport, what the hell is there to live for anyway? Can’t enjoy nature if I’m stuck inside and the weather is not so hot anyway. Nobody in my family wants to be around me because I’m so grumpy. The basset hound shies away even when I make cellophane wrapper noises because he’s afraid I’ll kick him or something.


Fortunately, we are not alone. That is to say, we are alone, but there are others out there in the same spot and we have electronic means to communicate with each other unless the power goes out. Several readers have sent messages and so now is a good time to read and respond. So pull up a bean bag and pour yourself a hot chocolate or a few daiquiris and let’s share. Here’s one from Hector Szymanski in Wilmington, North Carolina:

Dear Mr. Baseball: I am really concerned about the suspension of the MLB season because I fear that great players like Mike Trout and Josh Bell will not only lose valuable statistics in their career totals but also the income that their families need to get by in this day and age. Can’t they just play for the television audience?

BA: Hector, I really hate to discuss contracts and financial problems about people who are not myself, but I think you can be assured that those people will still get paid. As for career stats, well, at least they won’t be getting injured, and some of them will have a chance to heal from injuries they already have. And, could you please move a little further back away from your keyboard? Thanks.

That thing about television prompts me to make my semi-annual plea that those blockheads at MLB TV use the off season (and times like this) to show tapes or films of games from the past. Wouldn’t you rather watch the fourth game of the 1966 World Series than another episode of The Big Bang Theory or Wheel of Fortune? No? Well, I would. Now here’s one from Cara Lott in Encino, California:

Dear Mr. Baseball: This sign stealing business has me really upset and I just think that the Dodgers won the World Series against those Puerto Rican cheaters and that  Houston should forfeit their first 82 games this year so that they can’t repeat their crime. If we keep our borders closed both the fans and the games will be cleaner. Right?

Well, Cara, you could blame all of this on Carlos Beltran and Alex Cora if you want but those two players have, for the most part, been upstanding citizens in the past and, more importantly, there is no way that other people were not involved. And other teams, for that matter. Also, without players from other countries participating, the quality of play in the major leagues would revert to the relatively uninteresting form that it displayed in the late 40s and early 50s. We’ll call those the Al Campanis days.

Here is a more cheerful note from Ralph Rolph of Fort Lauderdale, Florida:

Dear Mr. Baseball: It’s really good for  Florida to have all of those baseball teams going back home and those Spring Break college kids self quarantining! We have the place practically all to ourselves! No traffic jams! I love it!

Good for you, Ralph. Who knows, this could be the wave of the future. If weather trends continue, all of those pesky tourists and retired folks in New England and other heretofore frigid places can just stay put!

Finally, we have this rather worried note from Jerome Widely of Nome, Alaska:

Dear Mr. Baseball: Watching ice melt can be fun sometimes but I got this television for a reason and the reason wasn’t to watch politicians bicker and yodel. This is getting serious. What if this thing just goes on and on and there are no baseball games to watch? Football is bad enough during football season, and they are not playing either. I can’t watch giants colliding with each other while tossing a basketball anywhere but in the hoop either. This sucks! Not even hockey! This has got to end sometime, right? I’m losing it!

Jerome, here is the sad truth. If governments start to take this seriously, and it looks like that is starting to happen, widespread free testing will occur and the tough realities that places like Korea and Italy are already facing will begin to be dealt with even in slow moving countries like the U.S. Warmer weather is expected to help. Then, and only then, will we be able to get back to our carefree indulgence in watching good athletes do their thing. Hang in there and get to know your neighbors, if only from a distance.

Mason Saunders

One of the brightest stories of the first half of this decade in baseball was the emergence of battery mates from the South  who had an immediate impact on the National League pennant races. Those two were Buster Posey from Leesburg, Georgia and Madison Bumgarner from Hudson, North Carolina. Both were signed by the San Francisco Giants and, after a very short period of giggling among Giants fans at the prospect of having  a battery of Bumgarner and Posey, they became leaders of a team destined to win three World Series Championships in five seasons from 2010 to 2014. Those three Giants championship teams did not really constitute any kind of dynasty because they were anything but dominant over other teams, but they were each well led by Bruce Bochy and his staff and, more importantly, fiery competitors like Bumgarner, Posey, and Hunter Pence.

The 2014 team was especially marvelous. They won 88 games and lost 74 to finish six games behind the Los Angeles Dodgers in second place in the National League West. Once they got into the playoffs, however, it was a different story, and no player was more responsible for that than Madison Bumgarner. The big lefty was 24 years old and looking like the face of a winning franchise for many years to come. He won 18 of his 33 starts with four complete games, 219 strikeouts and, as a batter, a .258 batting average with four home runs that earned him a Silver Slugger award.  His 27 year old  mate Posey had one of his best seasons, batting .311 with 22 homers and 89 RBI. The Wild Card  Game was in Pittsbugh and was scoreless through three innings before Brandon Crawford hit a grand slam in the fourth  off Edinson Volquez. Bumgarner completed an 8-0 shutout and the Giants were on their way. They proceeded to beat Washington in the division series in four games and the St. Louis Cardinals in five games in the League Championship Series.  Bumgarner was the losing pitcher in the third game of the Washington series and then went 7 and two thirds innings to beat the Cardinals in the first game of that series,3-0. Then he pitched eight innings in the decisive fifth game, yielding three runs on five hits before Travis Ishikawa‘s three run homer in the ninth inning won it. Bumgarner then thrilled Giants fans and amazed the rest of the world with his MVP performance in the World Series. He won the first game 7-1, threw a complete game shutout to win Game 5, 5-0, and then finished the seventh game by hurling five shutout innings, allowing only two hits.


The big lefty’s legend grew in the next two seasons despite the fact that the Giants as a team began to hit the skids. He was an All Star in 2015 and’16, compiling records of 18-9 with a 2.93 ERA and 15-9 with a 2.74 earned run average. Legend had it that he also once did a roadside repair on the team bus and there was the MadBum competitive glare that  is the kind of thing you don’t mind when a guy is carrying the team but looks kind of foolish when he becomes ordinary. There were noteworthy stare downs with umpire Joe West and flashy outfielder Yasiel Puig of the hated rival Dodgers.

Then came trouble. MadBum did what a lot of reckless twenty somethings, especially the male variety, do. Despite his looming status as a millionaire big game  star with eventual Hall of Fame credentials, he got himself hurt doing something stupid , risking it all  by driving around on a dirt bike and hurting himself in the off season before the 2017 campaign. His resulting late start made for a 4-9, 3.32 record as the Giants continued to fade. He apologized for that and Giants fans were forgiving and sympathetic when, during Spring Training in 2018, he was struck by a batted ball and broke a finger. Another short season made for a 6-7, 3.26 record but this time it wasn’t his fault.

Now,at thirty years of age, Bumgarner is coming off a mediocre season that has baseball people wondering if he has, in fact, become just ordinary. Last year he was a typical .500 pitcher, winning 9 and losing 9 with an ERA of 3.90. The Giants said they wanted him back, but he oddly signed with the division rival Arizona Diamondbacks. It is not difficult to speculate that, if the home run balls continue to fly at record setting rates throughout the major leagues, and given the fact that his new home ball yard is much easier to hit in than the cool gray park in San Francisco, Madison Bumgarner will have a very difficult time holding opponents to fewer than four and a half runs per game. He is also hurt by the disturbing trend toward forbidding starting pitchers to pitch more than five or six innings even if they can field, hit, and bunt. That really hurts a guy like Bumgarner because he has proven that he is strong enough to be more like Steve Carlton or Juan Marichal than, say, Kirk Reuter.

If all that had not been enough, now comes the news that Bumgarner has had a somewhat secret life as a rodeo performer. Using the name Mason Saunders, he has been a competitive roper. That may be good for his macho man self esteem, but it probably excites his manager and pitching coach, not to mention whoever signs his paycheck, in all the wrong ways. Okay, MadBum, you’re a badass, now how about being a team player? The D-Backs were not looking for another Mordecai ” Three Fingers” Brown. Ask the rodeo folks, it does happen. At any rate, Giants fans are probably not so sorry he’s gone at this point.

Seeking Professional Help

The therapist was being kind but, what kind of business could a therapist do by being unkind? The kindness wasn’t helping my mood. I wanted someone to be ticked off with me. Things are just kind of getting me down. I mean, how could I be getting disillusioned at my age? Can’t be that but, damn it,what is it? The world  was fixed once, wasn’t it? Our parents and grandparents went through two world wars and the big Depression and they fixed everything. The bad guys lost. Hitler and Mussolini and that guy in Japan all got their asses kicked by the good guys from the U.S. and their colorful friends from Europe and Asia and whatever. It wasn’t easy but they got it done. Freedom won out over tyranny. Not only that, but the horrible effects of economic collapse were overcome by the hard work of tough labor organizers and strong people demanding equality with the help of FDR and the good hearted American people. After their fierce struggles, then we could have houses to live in, all of us, and food to eat, and long and low cars with sharp fins and television and movies and, well, just about everything. But now look. There is war everywhere and people living in tents and dying on the streets. What happened?

Larry (he lets me call him Larry) told me that it was indeed rough out there but maybe I should calm down.  Maybe we should talk about something else for a while. Like maybe baseball, he suggested. That didn’t help. I asked my therapist for another beverage. Look, I told him, it’s the same kind of story. Things had gotten bad in baseball right after WWI and the big flu thing but the good guys won again .  Babe Ruth and the home run ball got people back into it. Then, after WWII, the majors started signing players no matter what race they were and not only did the games get better and more fun but also a big blow was struck  for racial equality. Jackie Robinson, Larry Doby, Don Newcombe, Monte Irvin and others brought social progress and quality baseball along simultaneously. Again, it sure wasn’t easy, but by the time Curt Flood took a stand in 1970, black players were leading the way and dominating the game. Guys like Willie Mays and Hank Aaron and Frank Robinson and Bob Gibson and Joe Morgan absolutely fixed the game when it needed fixing.  The players won free agency and started getting paid what they were worth. But now look. Scandal after scandal. Cocaine. Steroids.Everybody making so much money that they’re all losing touch with what makes the game great, and the working people can’t afford to go to the ballpark anymore. Electronic invasion and stealing signs crushing the integrity of the game. Who’s a bad guy now?  Mike Fiers? Carlos Beltran? Alex Cora? Or what?

Larry the therapist grabbed himself a beverage. I admire the way he can make the bottle cap disappear and pour into the glass without making a sound, or so it seems.

“They’ve starting playing games now,” he said. “Yeah,” I answered. “But the Giants don’t have a fucking chance.” We tapped our glasses together and laughed.

For Pete’s Sake

There seem  to be  people who are able to argue that, since it has become apparent that  there is no longer any such thing as good and bad or right or wrong, and Huey Long has become president, we ought to all just tear up all of the rules and do whatever the hell we want to do. These days, it seems, the only bad thing to do is to be poor or disabled or to piss off the president and his amoral followers. This makes the time right, then, to allow Pete Rose back into baseball and hurry up and rush his ass into the Hall of Fame. Pete the peckerhead himself has been appointed the arbiter now of the Ten Commandments, the Constitution, and Robert’s Rules of Order.

Can I call again for Fay Vincent or should I perhaps just come out and say it? Okay, then. Bullshit.

In case you missed it because you were busy  worrying about the corona virus or Syria or the Iowa caucus or some other trivial pursuit, Mr. Rose  has still not mellowed at age 79. Like most criminals, Rose doesn’t speak for himself. His mouthpieces said, “The time has come to recognize that Mr. Rose’s penalty has  become grossly disproportionate relative to Major league Baseball’s treatment of severe wrongdoing by ownership, management, and players,” . What they were referring to was the lifetime ban  from baseball that Rose agreed to in 1989 just before  Commissioner Bart Giamatti died. John Dowd‘s investigation had found that Rose had bet on his team to win from 1985 to 1987 while playing for and managing the Cincinnati Reds. They go on to say that what Rose did was not giving his team a competitive advantage over other teams whereas using steroids or other performance enhancing drugs and using electronic methods to steal signs for the calling of pitches certainly, or at least probably, did. Now, these days it is not as easy as it was in 1919 to make arguments about the dangers of gambling  with sports. We have MLB sponsored by and really in partnership with businesses who fleece people  who bet daily on the performances of players if not teams and we have legal gambling seemingly on every street corner and we even have professional sports teams right there in Las Vegas, although the Raiders barely qualify. Nevertheless, the reasons why  betting  was outlawed remain real and valid. Some people, perhaps Rose included, become addicted. Some gamble foolishly and often and fall into debt. When betting was illegal, the schemes were operated by people who used  often harsh methods to collect their debts.  If boxers and other athletes could be tempted or coerced into losing on purpose, the credibility of the game and the integrity of its results were irreparably damaged. So, what Rose is saying is equivalent to the little schoolboy yelling, “Teacher, teacher, Johnny cheated on his test so it’s okay that I stole Annie’s lunch money!”

I will admit to some bias. Pete Rose is a generally disgusting character who took out Ray Fosse in an exhibition game  and that irritated  me immensely because he was almost universally hailed as a heroic Charlie Hustle for doing so. For a long time I fantasized being the catcher at home plate with him rounding third and saying,”Come get me.” That was not a good fantasy and chances are he would have knocked me up into the cheap seats as well. And what Carlos Beltran and Alex Cora and the others participated in was dead wrong. What the admitted steroid users like Mark McGwire and the not admitted ones like Barry Bonds did was also wrong. However, I hold out hope that one day most of them will apologize and come clean. With Rose, it doesn’t look like he will ever have remorse. So stay away Pete. Meanwhile, welcome back, Dusty Baker.

Time For a Change

The other day I was in the mood to listen to some good tunes and so I put on Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons. Frankie Valli was not part of the band. It was great to hear this wonderful piece but I had the same problem with it that I have for the rest of life–Autumn came too soon.

Usually it is about this time of the year that I begin to feel the stirrings like a bear coming out of hibernation in anticipation of the coming of spring training for baseball players. That feeling isn’t there yet; in fact, it has been replaced with  apprehension for what the 2020 season will bring. The big deal now, of course, is the revelations of sign stealing on the part the World Champions of 2017 and 2018. It’s not just that, however. There is a bit of sour taste about many things having to do with where the game seems to be headed and where it has recently been. I’m bummed.

Mike Fiers did the right thing. Traditionally, in our win at all costs culture, that means that he is due for some shunning and name calling and retaliatory actions. There are also many in the game who will support him and be thankful that the ugliness has been exposed, but maybe not enough. So I think it’s time for a change. I don’t know if he is healthy enough at age 82, or if he is willing enough after all that he has been through, but I’d like to see our old friend Fay Vincent become the commissioner of baseball again.

What we need is to totally ban all electronics on the field, in the dugouts, and in the clubhouses during the games. Clay Bellinger can see how Madison Bumgarner  struck him out  between games, not during them. Pat Neshek can watch Manny Machado take him deep tomorrow, not today. While we are at it, give those monstrous scoreboards a rest too, as well as those incredibly stupid electronic ribbons around the park suggesting where we can get heartburn after the game and all of that other useless information.

Look, if a pitcher takes his cap off and scratches behind his left ear  every time he is going to throw a breaking ball, a smart player or coach will pick up on that and use it. Fine. There needs to be room for intelligence in the game. The kind of stuff that the Red Sox and Astros  have been busted for is way too much though. And let us not kid ourselves for a split second that they have been the only teams to participate.

The current regime of bosses in the big leagues is not up to the task. We need someone who actually loves the game to boss the bosses. We don’t need Rob Manfred or Bud Selig  or somebody like them who calls the game a product. We don’t need a typical CEO type like those cockroaches from Apple or Google or Microsoft who like to hire PR slobs to bullshit the public. No, we need Fay Vincent. He succeeded Bart Giamatti, who died from a heart attack while dealing with the Pete Rose mess. Vincent was such a good commissioner that he got sacked. Giamatti died September 1, 1989. Vincent took office right before the big Loma Prieta earthquake  that interrupted the World Series between Oakland and San Francisco. Fay Vincent did away with Ford Frick’s ruling that put Babe Ruth and Roger Maris side by side as single season home run  record holders and left Maris alone at the top until all that stuff Bud Selig doesn’t want to talk about even today. Fay Vincent wanted to shitcan the DH. That alone is good enough for me. He also pleased many right thinking citizens by banning George Steinbrenner from baseball for life after George paid a low life 40grand to dig up dirt on Dave Winfield. Winfield was suing George at the time because Steinbrenner reneged on a contractual agreement  to fund Winfield’s foundation. All of these good acts had to be rewarded so the owners , led by Peter O’Malley, Jerry Reinsdorf and Bud Selig, gave Vincent a no confidence vote by 18-9 and he resigned in 1992.

Come back, Fay. Or, if he can’t, maybe Bob Costas. Somebody with integrity. Please.

For the Love of Money

Like any man with rocks in his head, I can take a punch. The side effect is that it sometimes takes a while for things to sink in.  Ever so slowly but surely, like the erosion of educational opportunities across the land, the term for big numbers has become billion rather than  million  when economists and other dealers in shock therapy and junk science speak and write. As these words are being written, trillion is making its way into the parlance of the day.  When million was the big deal, none of this mattered  at the beer thirty hour when we kicked off our shoes and had ourselves a cold one as we tossed the ghastly news of the front pages aside and got down to what we really cared about, that being the sports pages.

Now sports, particularly professional sports, are being sucked into that same black hole of pain and despair. It was all good and cheery when athletes broke out of  the chains of the “reserve clause” and other  shackles and won free agency and organized themselves . They, not the owners, are the ones that people identified with and were willing to spend their hard earned bucks  to see perform. Something has been lost over the last three decades, though. The average player in major league baseball gets paid four million plus dollars a season now. Considering the fact that they actually do something to earn it, I don’t resent that. While some of the players might be accused of greed, however, it is nothing when compared to the nameless faceless ownership groups that have been filling their secret coffers with receipts from television contracts, sales of “gear” and whatever else can be monetized from that simple game so many of us love.  Meanwhile, ticket sales have dropped. Revenue, the sacred cow of all things, is endangered. They are even plotting to take away minor league baseball. I don’t know about you, but I truly wish that there was a minor league team close enough that I could go and watch. One that had on its roster young players getting ready for the big time and perhaps others who may never make it but love to play and some old timers or injured players trying to work their way back. Big league tickets have priced a lot of us out of the game, especially when you add in transportation, parking, meals and the rest. The sad truth is that fewer and fewer people are playing the game and, as well, fewer people are able to witness it in person after they can’t play any longer. Like too many other things,  sports has become just another television show, competing with Trump’s wrestling circuses.

Here at Baseball Anarchy, we like to investigate things. A quick call to the commissioner’s office on our hotline yielded an assistant who agreed to speak with us on condition of anonymity since his Check Engine light was on. We politely asked, what can be done?   His answer was puzzling. “We here at MLB are always at work to further the interests of our devoted fans, which is why the rule changes we expect to advance in the coming months  are aimed at speeding up the games without affecting concessions.” Okay.

We then thought it would be more interesting to talk with one of the owners from back in the days before free agency in order to get his perspective.  We were able to reach Charles O. Finley, the former Kansas City and Oakland  boss.  We caught up with him at his exclusive suite in Purgatory, where he was binge watching the World Series of 1972 through 1974. The cell reception wasn’t top notch. “Mr. Finley—can I call you Chuck?—what do you think about the evolution of the game over the last several decades?” we asked. The answer wasn’t clear enough over the shaky connection but there seemed to be a consistent flow of profanity along with names like Bowie Kuhn, Sal Bando and Catfish Hunter. Perhaps Reggie Jackson was included, but I can’t be certain. At any rate, Mr. Finley did not sound happy.

So what is next? Only time will tell, and pitchers and catchers report in thirty days. I just hope we can start reading and hearing more about wins and losses and  batting and pitching and running and catching and throwing and less about contracts and no trade clauses and all that financial page crap. Agreed?