It's happened again. I wanna write, sure, for you - but, selfishly, for me too. I get a real big kick outta sitting at my desktop - running ideas from my brain past my fingers... backspacing... adding.. thanking auto-correct.. blogging..wondering "is that long enough (or too long)?".."please, a smile, that's all I hope to provoke".. . or, "criminy this boring, they'll never even read through to this point."
The first topic that came across my brain this morning was "fix." I Googled "Brainy Quotes" about fix.. found, "you can't fix stupid,".. "I'm one of those guys who likes to piddle around in the garage and fix stuff" said I NEVER... "We live in a disposable society. It's easier to throw things out than to fix them. We even give it a name - we call it recycling." Then I thought about divorce (throw things out, not fix), the Helsinki Summit, the fix, and decided NO, next subject please - I wanna run so far away from politico here - an easy fix, wipe out everything written - start over.
I thought about things we hear. I was watching Anthony Scaramucci on CNN (Victor, that's politico...) I know, but the first thing I thought of when his name came across was Bohemian Rhapsody's "Scaramouch, Scaramouch will you do the fandango - Thunderbolt and lightning very very frightening me - Gallileo Gallileo Gallileo Gallileo Gallileo Figaro - magnifico" - and to me, that's one of the most wonderful songs ever to hear, get your mind the hell off the real world......... Then I realized I'd just blogged, done snippets on wonderful sounds (Laughter, rain on the roof, coffee brewing, a wine cork popped, a stream, A LINE DRIVE OFF A WOODEN BAT.) No, and yes. No on blogging about sounds, YES on baseball.
Just about the time the sensor on your car tells you the left front tire is now at 18 psi, you forgot about the pre-cooked brats you have heating up in boiling water on the stove - there is now no water, it stinks, smoke everywhere, you live in an apartment and had you not gotten your booty up "Oh yeah, forgot about those" you mighta been responsible for 12 tenants scurrying out screaming "FIRE!". The apartment is a mess, you have on just your undies, you ask "alright, which damn smoke detector is going off?".. You leap to hurriedly find which one, you remember leaping ain't a good thing at age 65......... but it's all ok.
For there is baseball. Ahh, baseball. The hot tub of life.
I drove 158 miles last night for a wonderful gathering of folks at my cousins.. men, age 19 to.. well, I was probably the oldest, so 65. The reason for the gathering was the All Star game.. There were 15 chairs circled in the living room around the TV. Old baseball hats hung on the railing to the front door to greet you. Autographed pictures of old ball players lined the walls, end tables, and, the really big ones were placed on the floor for all to see.
There was a bank president.. two HS baseball coaches.. a college baseball player.. a weatherman.. a guy who owned a baseball card shop with his son.. the local sport's reporter.. a prison worker.. several other's (I forget their employ) and, an old fat guy who not only ate up the hamburgers, BBQ, beans, chips - but the moment.
There wasn't a chick in sight. That's ok. For it's baseball. The night was filled with one story after another.. close encounters of the baseball kind.. Triva questions throughout the game (oh yeah, we forgot, they were playing the game on TV...).. that's ok, stories were repeated, retold around baseball events from Babe Ruth, to the just fired St. Louis Cardinal manager. If one answered a trivia question correctly, my cousin gave 'em a baseball card of that specific player.
Stories sometimes included folks getting up, showing exactly how this player/that player reacted, spoke, yelled, laughed, flipped-the-bird, cussed, spit.....it was guy heaven.
Yelling at players from the stands, players yelling back, players putting lighter fluid on their gloves, burning them.. mustaches, beards, country boys, city slickers, baseball. So-and-so was a real JERK.. nicest guy ever.. The sport's reporter relating when he, at age 22, was scared as could be to be in a World Series locker room, having to interview Buddy Black, sans clothing. (Not a naked reporter, a naked Buddy.) I guess he related that story a few years back, so, onea my cousin's sent him a Buddy Black baseball card which he has pinned to the wall by his desk. Baseball et al.
A 50 year old man related the story of having a seat right behind home plate - and having a 10 minute conversation with so-and-so (I forget now, but, an esteemed player) and he was like a kid at Christmas in relating the conversation. Baseball does that - it takes one back to childhood - and that's the farthest damn thing from fake news there is. (Sorry, slipped.)
Minoso, Mookie, the Mick, Red Schoendienst, Tony C, Reggie, La Russa, Raines, Henderson, Julian Javier (pronounced 'Hu-leon Ha-vier', but, a story recounted about a wet-behind-the-ears Weather guy filling in one night for the absent sport's guy, pronounced it 'Ju-leon Jave-ier"), Denkinger, Dietz, Bake McBride.
We even switched, momentarily, to basketball. (It's ok, basketball has the same 'kid' effect.) One of the baseball/basketball coaches recounted a story of the beloved (may he RIP) Bud Lathrop, once observing his team play a couple years ago.. Bud had coached in the town in the 60's, so he got up to speak to the kids.. He ended his speech with "Boys, there are two kind of players. There are shooters, and there are passers. To win, Shooters need to shoot, and passers need to pass." A sophomore raised his hand, stated "But coach, I'm a passer, can I shoot too?".. "Free throws and layups only son" Bud replied.
It was related, when I was 12, my two cousins (both then 9) and I attended a Kansas City A's game that went into extra innings. Our uncle who'd brought us - told us it was ok for us to stay, but he was going to the parking lot to nap in the car so he'd be able to stay awake on the drive back to Mid-Missouri. We ditched our regular seats, went, bought snow cones - and spied, went to, some really really good seats. I feel like (and am) a really, really old guy, when I say "Back in my day".. but, back in my day (and in that day) folks dressed to the 9's.. men in white, collared shirts, women in dresses, fancy hats. We were honkered down behind two finely adorned couples. The events of the game had us on the edge of our seats - so much so, that my cousin's (full) snow cone tipped over, plastering the two men's white shirts and one lady's royal blue hat in a deep purple, grape color. "WHO THE HELL?" (screamed aloud) we didn't stick around to hear the rest, and it sent us running as fast as we could to the parking lot. Thankfully, youth, outruns age, so we're all three alive to retell the story.
We were all different, in age, occupation, bankroll, height, weight, married, divorced, single, flatbelly, big belly - but the constant was baseball.
In a way, maybe this blog is about fix... and about sounds one hears.. because that's what baseball does.. to (old men) little kids.
Baseball has been berry, berry good to us. Scaramouch, Scaramouch can you hit the damn fungo - thunderbolts and lightning, very very frightening, Gagliano Gagliano - magnifico. Oh mama mia, mama mia, mama mia let me go - remember, relive, rejoice - Baseball.
Well done my cousin - like my brats.
Love, Victurd
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