tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5596159149469621302024-03-12T16:49:46.950-07:00Verb PlowWhere I turn words overGlenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.comBlogger136125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-37396077219695461162023-12-23T05:59:00.000-08:002023-12-23T06:19:45.989-08:00A Little (True) Christmas Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjraOGqoXBpWCZAeVBWcn5MOVAYqxTgF1KqjkYnHT3tekwSQnZvaJKSc0wOSsspuSJXV-5Xs6TzoQq0Mz7PSlJVBkHciP4X1UA14tI9AfGte5-6sVpQKNHzuV74FYAclOS5LgwN4jC_xbm1jX6jxfadfrxPjzVy_XZjsQfUH52Frnv5uRSCwC2AbgVGC4wE/s2016/Claire%20Christmas.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" height="320" data-original-height="2016" data-original-width="1512" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjraOGqoXBpWCZAeVBWcn5MOVAYqxTgF1KqjkYnHT3tekwSQnZvaJKSc0wOSsspuSJXV-5Xs6TzoQq0Mz7PSlJVBkHciP4X1UA14tI9AfGte5-6sVpQKNHzuV74FYAclOS5LgwN4jC_xbm1jX6jxfadfrxPjzVy_XZjsQfUH52Frnv5uRSCwC2AbgVGC4wE/s320/Claire%20Christmas.jpg"/></a></div>
Christmas can be stressful, and even more so when you’re a toddler not quite three years old and it’s the first Christmas you can really anticipate, full of Santas and stockings and reindeer and angels. We usually have Claire, my granddaughter, a couple days a week and this week she’s been too excited to take a nap, so at the end of the day, when we meet her Mom after she gets off work halfway, Claire’s exhausted.
<p>Yesterday was no different. I left a little early to go to the grocery store with Claire, trips we both enjoy, even with the bout of projectile vomiting we had in the frozen food aisle last month.
<p>Anyway, I’d barely pulled out of the driveway yesterday when I realized that, of course, NOW she’d fallen asleep. I drove the rest of the way knowing that when I woke her up, the transition from sleeping to waking would probably result in a flood of disoriented tears and if not quite a shopping trip from hell, at least one from the darker side of heck.
<p>So I pulled into the lot and waited a few minutes to give her a few more minutes of sleep, but I didn’t have much time and it was cold, so I got out of the car, grabbed a cart, swallowed hard, steeled myself and woke her up.
<p>As expected she didn’t want to be awake, wasn’t sure where she was and really, really didn’t want to get in the cart. She wasn’t crying hard, not yet, but it wasn’t far off.
<p>So far her experiences with Santa have been, well, pretty suspicious. She likes to look at him, but not up close and certainly not in his lap. That photo-op is still a year or two away.
<p>So I’m pushing her through the parking lot as she’s BARELY holding back tears. Then just ahead, between us and the door to the store, I spot a guy wearing dungarees held up by suspenders, boots, and a bright red shirt. He also has gray hair, a long white beard that I could tell was real… and he’s wearing a Santa hat.
<p>“Look,” I say to her pointing, “Santa Claus is going into the store.”
<p>Her head spins around. Her tears stop mid-cheek. Her eyes go wide.
<p>“Santa” hears us. He turns around, then stops as we approach and catches my eye, smiling.
<p>“Look, Claire,” I say, It’s Santa!”
<p>He wasn’t some mall Santa stopping at the store after work, not that I could tell, but just a stocky old guy maybe a few years older than me who apparently gets a kick from wearing a red shirt and a Santa hat paired with his white beard at Christmas.
<p>We pull up alongside him, and suddenly she’s closer to Santa than she’s ever been. He leans over with a gentle smile and goes, not too loud or scary, “Ho-Ho-Ho, Merry Christmas!”
She grins and wiggles and shakes her legs, tears forgotten, looks up in wonder and says back to him, “Merry Christmas, Santa!”
<p>It only lasts a few seconds, but that’s enough to make a memory. We go into the store and “Santa” follows and she waves and says “Hi, Santa,” and he waves back and we start shopping and then he starts shopping and I tell her that I’m really, really old but that I have never, never ever, seen Santa Claus at the grocery store before and that he’s probably getting food for the reindeer and the elves and she's really lucky and that makes sense to her.
<p>And for the next twenty minutes we keep seeing Santa down this aisle and that one and, well, she forgot all about crying.
<p>Santa was real.
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-66429151652825547672021-03-03T10:22:00.002-08:002021-03-03T10:22:50.651-08:00THE YEARS' BEST SPORTS WRITINGA couple things about The Years’ Best Sports Writing, the new annual collection of sports writing.
For one, I’m thrilled that a collection of sports writing will continue, following The Best Sports Stories series, which appeared from 1945 thru 1991, and The Best American Sports Writing from 1991 thru 2020, meaning that the first edition of The Years’ Best Sports Writing will mark the 76th year such a collection has appeared. I thank everyone at Triumph for their faith in the concept, and for reaching out after the demise of BASW.
It is not “my” book, and never has been. Although I will serve as editor of this inaugural edition – until this year – I have never made a selection of a single story for the collection, and in subsequent years a new editor will be chose by the Publisher each year. There will be no “Series Editor,” the role I filled for The Best American Sports Writing. An eight-member Editorial Board made up of both staffer and freelancers covering the full spectrum of contemporary sports writing will make recommendations to the Annual Editor each year and we will ask that Editor to take a much more active role throughout the year in the selection process. This, I think, will ensure the Series will not only be sustainable but will include as many diverse viewpoints and styles as possible. I’ll stay on in only an advisory capacity for the next few years to make sure the train keeps running. Then I’ll step away. The book belongs to its readers and the writers who make such a collection possible.
More than anything, I thank the many, many readers whose enthusiasm for these books has meant so much – I’ve lost track of the number who have sent me photos of their collections of the earlier two series. I leave the collection in the hands of the writers whose work will be responsible for its success.
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-45032276777928609242020-12-09T08:11:00.003-08:002021-01-25T09:08:59.447-08:00WRITING TIGER GIRLYou're researching another book, a long time ago. You come across a headline, two headlines, ten, a hundred. And two names: Tiger Girl and Candy Kid. They work their way in slow at first, first just tapping at your brain's back door, then start hitting like a hammer. <p></p>
<i>Who are these people?</i> <p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJCdC3eh3dL-s8o6EOtiJulJ23C0RCyMWrVuixJnR_ex52HFDOzeDs6fNWlP4u2qGBbc3vO-wKaCHyqJKz_OZyuxBtXWz-3edvuP2IagEeDt2I4Ca3wQWHdPwf7gh5OdnoFth3yhnwDLuO/s468/TG+cover.jpg" style="display: block; padding: 1em 0; text-align: center; "><img alt="" border="0" width="320" data-original-height="264" data-original-width="468" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJCdC3eh3dL-s8o6EOtiJulJ23C0RCyMWrVuixJnR_ex52HFDOzeDs6fNWlP4u2qGBbc3vO-wKaCHyqJKz_OZyuxBtXWz-3edvuP2IagEeDt2I4Ca3wQWHdPwf7gh5OdnoFth3yhnwDLuO/s320/TG+cover.jpg"/></a></div>
You finish that other book, then dive in and get sucked down to the bottom. Margaret and Richard. Two kids, Lovers. Who had nothing and shot for the moon, the only way they knew how, the only way they knew. You don't ask; you take. And you don't let anyone or anything get in the way, cops or crooks. <p></p>
You get to know them, and get to know their time. Denizens of the Jazz Age, two tickets to a time and a place and two people who together tell a story Fitzgerald missed. You put together a proposal. It goes around. <i>Everybody</i> wants it. Then the 2008 recession hits like a punch to the heart; <i>Nobody</i> wants it. <p></p>
<i>Forget about it</i>. <p></p>
You try to set it aside. Filing cabinet, bottom drawer. It keeps floating to the top. You write other things but you keep thinking about Margaret and Richard, Tiger Girl and the Candy Kid. You see their pictures when you go to sleep. They start to whisper in your ear. You keep learning more, scrolling through mountains of microfilm, brushing off the dust of a century, and listen close. You tell your friends and they keep asking questions you know only you the answers to. They tell you it should be a movie. You've already watched it a million times. Their story starts talking to you while you're reading, watching TV, driving long distances alone or staring in the dark while the clock keeps ticking. <p></p>
But people tell you not to bother, not to pitch a book everybody already passed on. It NEVER works. <p></p>
<i>Forget about it.</i> <p></p>
But it’s already too late. You're all in, over your head and way too deep. And you wait. And wait. Times change, and so do the people who say yes or no. <p></p>
Besides, by now you know who Tiger Girl and the Candy Kid really are; what the tabloids told you and what they didn't. What they ate and what they drank. How they talked and how they walked. <p></p>
How they lived and how they died. <p></p>
...So now you take your shot, a long one, the longest one of your life, this book or nothing... <p></p>
Bullseye. Your 100th book. <p></p>
Roll the credits.You're researching another book, a long time ago. You come across a headline, two headlines, ten, a hundred. And two names: Tiger Girl and Candy Kid. They work their way in slow at first, first just tapping at your brain's back door, then start hitting like a hammer. <p></p>
Who are these people? <p></p>
You finish that other book, then dive in and get sucked down to the bottom. Margaret and Richard. Two kids, Lovers. Who had nothing and shot for the moon, the only way they knew how, the only way they knew. You don't ask; you take. And you don't let anyone or anything get in the way, cops or crooks. <p></p>
You get to know them, and get to know their time. Denizens of the Jazz Age, two tickets to a time and a place and two people who together tell a story Fitzgerald missed. You put together a proposal. It goes around. Everybody wants it. Then the 2008 recession hits like a punch to the heart; Nobody wants it. <p></p>
Forget about it. <p></p>
You try to set it aside. Filing cabinet, bottom drawer. It keeps floating to the top. You write other things but you keep thinking about Margaret and Richard, Tiger Girl and the Candy Kid. You see their pictures when you go to sleep. They start to whisper in your ear. You keep learning more, scrolling through mountains of microfilm, brushing off the dust of a century, and listen close. You tell your friends and they keep asking questions you know only you the answers to. They tell you it should be a movie. You've already watched it a million times. Their story starts talking to you while you're reading, watching TV, driving long distances alone or staring in the dark while the clock keeps ticking. <p></p>
But people tell you not to bother, not to pitch a book everybody already passed on. It NEVER works. <p></p>
Forget about it. <p></p>
But it’s already too late. You're all in, over your head and way too deep. And you wait. And wait. Times change, and so do the people who say yes or no. <p></p>
Besides, by now you know who Tiger Girl and the Candy Kid really are; what the tabloids told you and what they didn't. What they ate and what they drank. How they talked and how they walked. <p></p>
How they lived and how they died. <p></p>
...So now you take your shot, a long one, the longest one of your life, this book or nothing... <p></p>
Bullseye. Your 100th book. <p></p>
Roll the credits. <p></p>
Here's what they’re saying about it: <p></p>
<b>"Straight out of Ben Hecht by way of Damon Runyon,</b> Tiger Girl and the Candy Kid are the Adam and Eve of jazz-mad flappers and mad-dog killers. Avid and dynamic, <b>this is Glenn Stout at his storytelling best, delivering a meticulous history with a kick like bathtub gin:</b> Of a man and a woman fallen at the founding of modern America - that revved-up white-hot electric-chair America of sensational tabloid crime and smash-and-grab capitalism, of sudden money and sex and excess, reckless ambition and lies and violence, all of it spinning a blur - and woven now into the perfect book for our own roaring moment." —Jeff MacGregor, Smithsonian Magazine <p></p>
"Reported with a historian's careful research and written with a novelist's mastery of character and scene, Tiger Girl and the Candy Kid is a true-crime thriller embedded with a love story, set in the intoxicating glamour of the Roaring Twenties. A fast-paced, exhilarating read, the story unfolds like cinematic noir. This book deserves a place on the shelf next to Devil in the White City as a gem of true-crime narrative nonfiction."—Kim Cross, New York Times best-selling author of What Stands in a Storm <p></p>
“Compared to Tiger Girl and the Candy Kid, Bonnie and Clyde were pikers. The original gangster couple was more ruthless, more captivating, and far more clever, the inspiration for the gangster movies made in their wake. As you read Stout’s deeply researched, fast-moving account – covering a multi-year crime spree, courtroom dramas, and an unexpected denouement -- <b>you’ll keep asking yourself: why hadn’t I heard of them before? If Tiger Girl and Candy Kid doesn’t become a blockbuster movie, Hollywood is broken.”</b>—John U. Bacon, bestselling author of The Great Halifax Explosion <p></p>
"It’s strange what we forget. Margaret and Richard Whittemore were Jazz Age icons, their gang’s jewel heists and bank robberies the stuff of bandit legend. Chased down by detectives and time, their love-and-crime story was lost to all but the Underworld—until Glenn Stout brought their exploits back to vivid life in this shining, meticulous book. In a way, <b>Stout’s fine-eyed attention is one last score for Tiger Girl and the Candy Kid.</b> Nobody knew better the value of a professional."—Chris Jones, author of Out of Orbit <p></p>
"<b>Tiger Girl and the Candy Kid brings the Roaring Twenties to life.</b> With his meticulous research and vivid writing, Glenn Stout captures the era’s perverse version of the American Dream, in all of its excesses and envy. Stout imbues century-old jewelry robberies with heart-stopping suspense. Beyond that, he shows how his protagonists birthed the archetypes of the bad boy gangster and the gun moll, and how the breathless coverage of their crimes created the true crime genre."—Greg Hanlon, People <p></p>
"This is <b>a get-away car of a book</b> -- you dive in and hold on tight and trust the driver as the tires burn, the police sirens wail in the distance, and all that 1920s Americana rushes by outside."—Ben Montgomery, author of Grandma Gatewood's Walk and A Shot in the Moonlight <p></p>
"[A] rollicking true crime tale...Stout colorfully evokes the era’s political issues and cultural trends, and describes how Prohibition increased disrespect for the law across American society. This snappy page-turner informs and delights."—Publishers Weekly <p></p>
<b>Rip-roaring account of the Jazz Age’s most-feared gangster couple.<i></i></b>
Before infamous criminal lovebirds Bonnie and Clyde, there were Richard “Candy Kid” and Margaret (“Tiger Girl” Whittemore, whose big-city jewel heists and bank robberies made the Barrow Gang’s stickups look like candy snatching in comparison. In his latest, journalist and sportswriter Stout raises his game a notch, transitioning from quaint sports history books to this true-crime barn burner, set against the backdrop of a post–World War I America rolling in wealth and prosperity. “Bank vaults were full and brimming over,” writes the author, “and all the businesses that catered to this newfound wealth—the jewelers and furriers and night clubs and jazz joints and new car lots—were raking it in by the fistful.” Both brought up in Baltimore with virtually no economic prospects, Richard and Margaret married young and faced uncertain futures, with Richard engaging in petty thefts that saw him in and out of prison with not much to show for it. However, it wasn’t long before he began making powerful contacts in the criminal underworld and attempting more formidable crime sprees—with his wife by his side. The couple moved from Baltimore to more cosmopolitan climes like Philadelphia and New York, working within a criminal syndicate robbing banks or staging jewelry heists. As they found further success in the criminal game, they enjoyed a glamorous lifestyle of all-night parties, luxury apartments, and fast cars. However, Richard’s inevitable downfall came at the age of 25, when an informant turned him in. <b>Stout’s fast-paced prose has a Mickey Spillane–like cadence to it that fits his subject matter perfectly.</b> The narrative is unrelenting to the bitter end, when Richard had to confront the kind of forced early retirement that guys in his profession almost invariably faced.
A compulsively readable criminal biography as well as a vivid cultural snapshot of early Prohibition-era America. - Kirkus Reviews
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-39432571600111746992019-08-06T10:43:00.002-07:002019-08-06T10:44:57.779-07:00Cousin Johannes<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">(This column
first appeared in the July edition of Boston Baseball)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">My older
brother wasn’t much of a ballplayer, which I guess is really a nice way of
saying he really didn’t like baseball at all. It’s understandable - he was left-handed
and for some reason grew up trying to throw and bat right-handed. I was not much
older than a toddler and remember watching him in Mosquito League wearing the
old wrap-around earmuff batting helmets. When he didn’t want to play the next
season, my parents, who weren’t big fans, were fine with that. Besides, somewhat
inexplicably, by then I was crazy about the game and sucked up all the baseball
oxygen in the house. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Yet he’s
always recognized my baseball obsession, something I’ve grown to appreciate. He
spent his career as a graphic artist and if something interesting and
baseball-related passed his way, he always made sure I heard about it. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Since retirement
he’s kept himself busy diving into the rabbit hole of our family genealogy so
deeply that, well, if he’d have put that effort into baseball, he’d be in the Hall
of Fame – I tell him he should become a professional genealogist. He gets lost
in history and that’s where we intersect. When we talk, most of the
conversations are about some arcane relative he’s just discovered which opens
up some obscure fact about what was happening elsewhere in the world four or
five hundred years ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Over the
years he’s had some surprising finds, such as the fact that my high school band
director, who I didn’t much care for and who I don’t think thought much of me,
was something like my third cousin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
he’s discovered other remote ancestral connections to people as diverse as
Maria Shriver, the actor George C. Scott, Chicago’s Mrs. Catherine O’Leary (whose
cow was blamed for starting the great Chicago fire), one of murderer Whitey
Bulger’s victims, a turn-of the century congressman, and two former major
league ballplayers. Clyde Shoun, winner of 73 games (including a no-hitter) as a
pitcher with the Cubs, Cards, Reds, Braves and White Sox from 1937 to 1949, is
a not too distant cousin. Through marriage I’m also related to Denny Galehouse,
notable in Red Sox history for pitching, and losing, that 1948 playoff game to
the Cleveland Indians. In 1988, long before I knew this, I interviewed
Galehouse and was surprised when he told me I was the first writer to interview
him about that game in forty years.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">A few weeks
ago my brother came up with the mother lode.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He identified my 8<sup>th</sup> great grandparents as Johan Peter
Wagner, (1677-1742), and Eva Marie Heinz, (1677-1751), from the town of Dirmingen,
in the Saarland, southwestern Germany. They had several children and daughter
Ana’s lineage, after an immigration to the U.S. in 1837, leads directly down to
my father, and hence to my brother and I. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He generally
cross checks with other genealogies, and was surprised when he came across
another very thorough and apparently accurate genealogy that included the same
two names. Turns out they also had a son, John Valentin Wagner. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Here’s where
it gets interesting. In 1866 his direct descendent, Johannes Peter Wagner (1838
–1913), also immigrated to U.S. His son, also named Johannes Peter Wagner, was
born in 1874 in the borough of Chartiers, in what is now Carnegie, Pennsylvania.
According to genealogists, that makes Johannes my 5<sup>th</sup> cousin, four
times removed, sharing a tiny shred of the same DNA.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span id="goog_1285401154"></span><span id="goog_1285401155"></span><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
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<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But you
don’t know him as Johannes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you know
any baseball history you know him as “Honus” Wagner, the shortstop for the NL
Louisville Colonels from 1897-1899 and the Pittsburgh Pirates from 1900-1917. He
figures prominently into Red Sox history because in 1903, the Sox and Pirates
played in the first World Series, Boston winning in eight games when Nuf Ced
McGreevey’s Royal Rooters (who I’ve written about at length) famously re-wrote
the words to the song “Tessie,” mocking cousin Honus and his teammates without
mercy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Wagner
recovered from the lass to win a total of eight batting titles and become a
charter member of the National Baseball Hall of Fame, one of the first five men
selected in 1936. He is considered the game’s greatest shortstop and his 1909-11
T206 baseball card is the most valuable card of all time. In 2016 one sold for
$3.12 million dollars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Apart from that
twisted little strand of deoxyribonucleic acid and an outsized love of the
game, I’m afraid that’s all I share with my esteemed cousin. While I must have
inherited whatever remained of the baseball gene in the family, the closest I
got to Cooperstown was a few visits to the Hall and an afternoon playing at
Doubleday Field with my old over-30 team. Maybe I should have batted with my
hands apart, like cousin Honus, and earned my way inside.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But if
anyone wants to leave me a T206 Honus Wagner baseball card, I promise I’ll keep
it in the family.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Glenn Stout recently assisted Red Sox
groundskeeper David Mellor with his memoir </span></i><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">One Base at a Time: How I Survived PTSD and Found My
Field of Dreams.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-63650120408542240882019-06-10T05:17:00.000-07:002019-06-10T05:23:31.919-07:00One Word at a Time<br />
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<o:p> (from Boston baseball, June 2019)</o:p></div>
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You’ve seen him at the ballpark, an hour or two or three or four before the games in khaki shorts and a polo shirt, sometimes carrying a rake or dragging a hose, walking across the field. You’ve likely seen Drago, his almost supernaturally well-behaved German Shepherd service dog, too, either at his side or not very far away, ready whenever he is needed.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvM3UYiLf0XTiDGrcQ9VvcpAjm5IsHAv6qzO4mYZZbHpCpjk5MnsJjO7CQyTESkct4-c4ZaSCdjJkZO3Xtj_GD53oMLz9DKr3MziFply3wyAXE3HwoC2Jz4OjpyIUCgMCHUNDCf60D75Lm/s1600/mellor.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="265" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvM3UYiLf0XTiDGrcQ9VvcpAjm5IsHAv6qzO4mYZZbHpCpjk5MnsJjO7CQyTESkct4-c4ZaSCdjJkZO3Xtj_GD53oMLz9DKr3MziFply3wyAXE3HwoC2Jz4OjpyIUCgMCHUNDCf60D75Lm/s320/mellor.jpg" width="212" /></a></div>
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I’m talking about David Mellor, Fenway’s Superintendent of
Grounds, aka the groundskeeper. He and his staff have been responsible for
maintaining Fenway’s field since 2001, and he’s also behind the designs you see
mowed and rolled into the outfield grass that make Fenway’s field the most
distinctive in the major leagues. He also suffers from post-traumatic stress
disorder, PTSD.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I met David a few years ago to help him with a book project,
and in our first conversation we realized we had more than a few things in
common. Like David, I grew up in small Ohio town and as a kid was all about
baseball. Like David, I was a high school pitcher dreaming of the majors, at
least until I blew out my shoulder. But there’s more. Twenty years later I
played for an over-30 team in East Douglas, Massachusetts. David told me his grandfather,
Big Bill Mellor, who played first base for the 1902 American League Baltimore
Orioles, later coached Douglas team in the semi-pro Blackstone Valley League. I
played on the same field as his team, and Dave and I discovered we both had a
copy of the same team photo, one that not only included his grandfather, but
also a nineteen-year-old Hank Greenberg, and Will Jackman, the Satchel Paige of
New England.<o:p></o:p></div>
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David was a better pitcher than I was and had a chance to play
in college after high school, hoping to one day take the mound with his
favorite team, the Red Sox. Then one summer evening he was walking across the parking
lot of McDonald’s and a car roared into him, ripping up his knee and pinning
him up against the restaurant wall. That began a long and often tortuous
journey that would one day bring him to his current role with the Red Sox,
where he’s probably spent more time on the field than any player on the roster.
I won’t give away the rest of his story, but the next twenty-nine years of his
life were dominated by nightmares, anxiety attacks, and flashbacks and other
symptoms. He didn’t know why, suffering in silence even as he experienced even
more traumas, including, remarkably, being struck by another car in the
outfield of Milwaukee’s County Stadium. <o:p></o:p></div>
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It took David twenty-nine years before he realized he had
PTSD. Once he did, he sought the help that has changed his life. David wanted
to write about his experience to help others understand that PTSD isn’t just
something that afflicts veterans of combat, but by a variety of traumas,
physical and emotional. More importantly, David wanted readers to understand that
a PTSD diagnosis isn’t hopeless, that it’s never too late to get help and seek
treatment. His book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One Base at a Time</i>,
comes out this month.<o:p></o:p></div>
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But I’m here to tell you that his story is about more than
PTSD, and that you need not suffer from PTSD or have been hit by a car and have
your dreams crushed in order to benefit from reading the book. You see, in the
process of helping David, which entailed hours of extensive interviews and
conversations as David entrusted me with his story, I experienced these
benefits first hand. I’ve been pretty lucky in my life and am fortunate not
have experienced David’s kind of pain and trauma, but life hasn’t always been
as smooth as the infield dirt at Fenway Park, either. When I helping David shape
his words into a book, I wasn’t in a very good place either, deep in a hole I
wasn’t sure I’d ever escape, feeling as vulnerable and alone as I ever have.
But, one word at a time, in David’s story I found little parts of my own, and
in David’s journey toward healing I found the confidence and strength that I,
too, would one day find my way back out. I eventually did, and I think readers
of this book, in their own way, may have a similar experience. Inspiration can
be very powerful.<o:p></o:p></div>
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I also learned that David is one of the nicest guys on the
planet. Every time we speak or email each other, without fail, he thanks me over
and over and over again for helping him out. Well, I don’t think I ever really
told David that that as much as he thinks I was helping him, for much of that
time it was really the other way around. By trusting me to help share his life
with others, he was really helping me recover mine. Today, David is proud to
call himself a PTSD survivor, and as the very first reader of his book, I am
proud to call him my friend and brother, and prouder still to have been
fortunate enough to be the first person <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">One
Base at a Time</i> helped find healing.<o:p></o:p></div>
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So buddy, this time it’s my turn: Thank you, David. Thank
you, thank you, thank you.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">David Mellor will be signing copies on June 11 @ 5:30 p.m.at the Red Sox team store at Fenway.. Glenn Stout’s most
recent book is the </i>New York Times<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
bestseller </i>The Pats<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His last baseball title, </i>The Selling of
the Babe<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, winner of SABR’s Larry Ritter
Award, provided the definitive account of the sale of Babe Ruth and its impact
on the game. www.glennstout.net<o:p></o:p></i></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-70480258746955692572019-05-21T09:02:00.000-07:002019-05-21T11:59:47.289-07:00SWINGING, SINGING TONY C<br />
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><em>This story first appeared in the May issue of Boston Baseball</em> </span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3189">There
was more to it than “Little Red Scooter.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3192">While
it once appeared that Tony Conigliaro would take his place along alongside
Foxx, Williams and Yaz in the pantheon of Boston sluggers, for a brief period
of time it seemed as likely he’d be on <i id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3193" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Billboard’s</i> “Hot 100” as in the
Baseball Hall of Fame. </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3196">At
the end of the 1964 season, his rookie year, Conigliaro, only nineteen and never particularly shy, jumped on stage with the
band at the Escape Lounge, a Hopkinton nightclub, and started to sing. A rep
from Mercury Records heard him, and before long former Boston DJ turned
promotor Ed Penney partnered up with the budding young heartthrob. Just before
Christmas, swinging Tony C was singing in a recording studio in New York. <span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3197"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3200">Penney
was serious and didn’t skimp. Over the course of two days, Tony C, backed by
session musicians, cut four songs. The two A-sides, baseball-themed “Playing
the Field” and “Little Red Scooter,” were penned by Ernie Campagna, an East
Boston native who later went on to a long career as an executive in the
recording industry. Only nineteen himself, Campagna was already the musical
director of WMEX.<span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3201"> <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>He’d been enamored with music since he
inherited his grandmother’s piano, which had to be hoisted into a third-floor window
of the family’s East Boston triple-decker. Penney had already Selected, “Little
Red Scooter,” a song Campagna wrote while in high school. But Campagna also
knew Tony C as a ballplayer. He had played Pony League baseball against
Conigliaro and remembers him arriving for a game behind the wheel of a white
convertible. Tony’s father was in the car too, but Campagna recalls “He was
already Tony C,” a kid who already had a “man body,” handsome, charismatic and
already ticketed for the big leagues. When he learned Penney was recording Tony
C, in just a few days he wrote the baseball pun-filled tune “Playing the Field”
which he refers to today, jokingly, as “My Rhapsody in Blue.” Due to his role
at WMEX, however, Campagna wrote under the pseudonym, “Ernie Camp.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3204">Tony
C’s burgeoning music career was no joke and Penney pulled out all the stops for
the session, making use of some of the industry’s top talent. Producer Al Kasha
was a veteran Brill Building songwriter/producer who later won Academy Awards
for co-writing the themes to the films <i id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3205" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Poseidon Adventure</i> (“The
Morning After”) and <i id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3206" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Towering Inferno</i> (“We May
Never Love Like this Again”). The arranger was another well respected figure,
Charlie Calello, the bassist for The Four Seasons. Calello eventually worked on
over 100 <i id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3207" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Billboard</i> chart records,
including Neil Diamond’s “Sweet Caroline.” And the B-Sides on those first two
releases were no less impressive. “Why Don’t They Understand” penned by Joe
Henderson and Jack Fishman, had been a hit in 1957 for George Hamilton IV, and
“I Can’t Get Over You,” was credited to Edna Lewis and Ernest Salters – she
also wrote the Connie Francis hit “Lipstick on my Collar.”</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3210">Penney
thought the recording industry was eager for “a real All-American boy.” Penney
found contemporary rock and roll “sickening,” saying of Tony C that “unlike so
many Rock ‘n Roll singers, he isn’t a bad singer,” adding that even “The
Beatles look mild now. There are the Zombies, the Detergents and lately The
Pretty Things and the Fairies.” Kasha compared Tony’s voice to Ricky Nelson’s
and predicted “Why Don’t They Understand,” might sell 100,000 copies.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3213">Penney
and Tony C created their own label “Penn Tone” and a short time later released
“Playing the Field” in the Boston market. The girls went ga-ga, and within six
weeks it sold upwards of 15,000 copies, earning far more than the cost of the
session and pressings. </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3216">Those
numbers got the attention of RCA records. The Beatles had invaded and every record
label in the country was looking for young talent. Tony C had it all, and they
signed him a four-year contract with a $25,000 guarantee, greater than his
$17,500 salary with the Red Sox, big money at a time when rookies were lucky to
earn $5,000 and the major league average was <span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3217"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>only about $15,000. The contract was
structured so that Tony C’s musical responsibilities were confined to the time
period between the World Series and spring training, because, as Tony explained
“You never know what can happen in baseball.” Those words, sadly, would prove
prophetic. </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3220">For
a while, it looked as if RCA had cashed in. In 1966 “Little Red Scooter” was
another local hit and Tony C headed back to the studio to cut a third single.
The A-side, “When You Take More Than You Give,” was written by one-time teen
crooner Jimmy Curtiss, who later penned both the cult classic "Psychedelic
Situation," and King Harvest’s 1973 hit “Dancing in the Moonlight.” The
B-side, “I Was There,” was no throwaway. Written by Brill Building legends
Gerry Goffin and Carole King, it was also recorded by Lenny Welch, Paul Anka
and Johnny Mathis.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3223">But
musical tastes were changing, and soon all the shaggy-haired groups Penney
found “sickening,” were selling way more records than guys who crooned like Tony
C. Despite appearing on <i id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3224" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Merv Griffin Show</i> and Johnny
Carson’s <i id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3225" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Tonight Show</i>, the record
flopped outside the Boston market and RCA cut Tony C loose.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3228">It
was back to baseball – mostly. Tony C had led the AL in home runs with 32 in
1965 and became the youngest hitter ever to hit one hundred home runs. He cut
one more record before the 1967 season, backed by The All-Night Workers, a
Syracuse University garage band that had recently relocated to Boston. But
before they did, in 1965, they had recorded a song written by Lou Reed and John
Cale, later of the Velvet Underground (Reed had attended Syracuse University
and friends with the band). The song, “Why Don’t You Smile,” allegedly featured
Cale on guitar.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3232"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3231"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>“Limited Man,” the A-side, was written
by Bill Carr, who also co-wrote the Monkees’ “Hold On Girl,” and Joan Meltzer,
who later became a pioneering female DJ. The B-side featured Carr’s “Please
Play Our Song.” </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3235">The
45 was released just as the “Impossible Dream” was coming into focus, only a
few weeks before the August beaning that changed Tony C’s life, and reached
number one locally. But after the beaning, sales of “Limited Man,” which
included the haunting line “I don’t wanna life my life as limited man,” fell
flat – after the beaning, Tony C was a “limited man,” his baseball career at
risk. As Tony C sat out the 1968 season he briefly tried to restart his musical
career, appearing on Merv Griffin again with The All-Night Workers, covering
The Rascal’s “I Ain't Gonna Eat Out My Heart Anymore.” <span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3236"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3239">By
then, clean-cut swinging Tony C was an anomaly in the music world. He returned
to the Red Sox, was traded to California, retired in 1971, made a brief
comeback with the Red Sox in 1975 and then, after recurring vision issues,
retired from baseball for good. He cut one final demo, by Ellison Chase and
Bill Haberman, (who among other sings also penned Ram Jam’s “Black Betty”),
“Poetry” backed by the instrumental “Midnight in Boston.” But Tony C’s time on
stage was nearing the end. Hits of any kind were no longer in his future.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3242">After
becoming a San Francisco sportscaster, Tony C’s heart was still in Boston. He
returned in 1982 to audition as a Red Sox broadcaster only to suffer a heart
attack that put him into a coma and resulted in brain damage. Two more previously
recorded songs were released privately under the direction of Dionne Warwick
for a 1983 fundraiser at Symphony Hall. Both were written by Michael Gately,
who recorded two albums himself, and Robert John, who later wrote and recorded
“The Lion Sleeps Tonight” and in 1979 scored a number one hit with “Sad Eyes.”
One was a cover of the Whispers’ “You Fill My Life with Music,” the other “We
Can Make the World A Whole Lot Brighter,” previously recorded by television’s
“The Brady Bunch.” </span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3245">By
then, swinging, singing Tony C’s world had grown dim. He passed away in 1990.</span></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEiYrmVV44qLIDBfp8dIMxqyfUOqlwpietemvgdgBVP7mMy0iU9mTCJ_zGQTwHH7S9qjgfEeMB2-bsRAxnvj5osejfOsE8RgGRso1LPbznrAmUDtR5dm__w4-jTQv2f8I_4IWL4yl-n6Wd/s1600/tony+c.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="194" data-original-width="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEiYrmVV44qLIDBfp8dIMxqyfUOqlwpietemvgdgBVP7mMy0iU9mTCJ_zGQTwHH7S9qjgfEeMB2-bsRAxnvj5osejfOsE8RgGRso1LPbznrAmUDtR5dm__w4-jTQv2f8I_4IWL4yl-n6Wd/s1600/tony+c.png" /></a></div>
<i id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3248" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3249"><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Recordings of many of Tony C’s songs can be
found on YouTube, and Glenn Stout’s 1990 profile of Tony C, “Summers of Love,”
can be found online at thestacksreader.com. Glenn is the author of The New York
Times’ bestseller</span></span></i><span style="color: black; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3250"> The Pats. <i id="yui_3_16_0_ym19_1_1558453951442_3251" style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://www.glennstout.net/"><span style="color: blue;">www.glennstout.net</span></a></i></span><span style="color: black; font-family: "garamond" , serif; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-50487392483275489962019-04-18T06:29:00.003-07:002019-04-18T06:29:22.177-07:00
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">OUCH!!! or Baseball Hurts</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">By Glenn Stout<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And they say football is dangerous.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Now that I’m entering the later innings, let me tell
you, the injuries have added up. Each morning every little ache and pain and
scar is like looking at an old box score of my body. These days I generally start
at my feet and work my way up the roster.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Right heel #1, 1970, age 11. Missed part of a season
with a bone bruise. Those Converse All-Stars looked cool, but they were hell on
the feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Right heel #2, 1996, age 38. While playing Men’s
Senior League Baseball, my right Achilles started bothering me - like “bring me
to tears” bothering me. Kept playing and developed a calcium deposit on the
back of my heel, and now my right foot is a half-inch longer than my left.
Makes shoe buying fun.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Left ankle, 1972, age 13.The first year I was
allowed to wear genuine metal spikes. I’d read all about Ty Cobb and was a
terror. Then, while sliding into third, I foolishly did not try to spike the
third baseman. He jumped for a high throw and landed on my ankle, leaving two
lovely diagonal puncture wounds. Since I’m allergic to tetanus shots, this was
almost life threatening. Note to enemies: If you want to kill me, just stab me
with a rusty nail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Right knee, 1967, age 8. I’d slide into the three
maple tree in the backyard that served as bases. You might notice that in the
big leagues they don’t use trees as bases, probably because when you slide into
trees, THEY DO NOT MOVE. This explains the small bend in my right leg.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Right hip, 1971, age 12. I liked to slide. A lot. In
my last year of Little League I had a seeping open wound on my hip all season,
and now a lovely circular scar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Left hand, 1969, age 10. Went a whole season with a black
and swollen left hand because I was a catcher and Jay Greiner threw harder than
Sam McDowell. Our Little League coach finally gave me a falsie to put in my mitt,
which didn’t really help, but inspired puberty and caused me to look at Jay’s
sister. A lot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Right elbow, 1970, age 11. My first year pitching,
and my elbow would swell up like Sandy Koufax’s. But I was a gamer and Mom
swathed it in ice after every game. Hitting other kids with pitches that caused
them to quit baseball forever made it all worthwhile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Right side, circa 1998, age 39. Got hit with a pitch
in Senior League.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shook it off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Went home and almost threw up. It didn’t
hurt, but the bruise on my right side was as big as a dinner plate and the
color of concord grapes. Over the next few weeks it turned many other colors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Left side and left elbow, 2001, age 41. My reflexes
were starting to slip, and a one-hopper right back at me came off the baked
earth like a howitzer. I pinned it between my elbow and my side, and threw the
guy out, but it felt like I’d been folded in half. The stitches on the ball
left a bruise on the inside of my elbow that dovetailed seamlessly into a
bruise with more stitches on my ribs. Very attractive.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Right elbow, 2002, age 42. A broken limb on a tree
in my backyard hung down like a guillotine. I put an eyelet in a ball, tied a
rope to it, and threw it into the tree until it wrapped around the limb and I pulled
it down. But that took about 200 throws. I strained my ulnar ligament and lost
my curve ball.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Right shoulder, 1975, age 17. The Big One. After a
summer in Australia as a foreign exchange student before my senior year, I
played in a fall league, threw too hard too fast, and got a sore shoulder. I
stole some leftover Percocet my brother had after his wisdom teeth were pulled and
kept pitching. After a few games like this, after the pills wore off, I wanted
to amputate my arm. The result? A Class-4 rotator tear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t play baseball for the next 17 years,
but did learn to comb my hair left-handed. Also started writing. See, IT’S ALL
BASEBALL’S FAULT!!!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Right temple, 1966, age 8. First year of
T-Ball.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We went undefeated, usually
destroying the opposition by scores of 37-12, but before one practice some
idiot discarded chunks of concrete block all over the field and we had to clear
it off. As soon as our coach said “Don’t try to throw a chunk of concrete over
the backstop,” Dave Mayer, our Aaron Judge, did just that. That chunk landed on
my right temple and I went down like a cartoon character. I ended up with a
concussion, a half-dozen stitches and a scar I’ve since used to track my
receding hairline.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I’d do it all again. Except for the Percocet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">First published in Boston Baseball. Glenn
Stout’s most recent book, with Richard Johnson, is the</span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">
New York Times <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> Boston Globe <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">best seller, </i>The Pats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-46477850041386931332019-01-09T08:23:00.002-08:002019-01-09T08:23:41.587-08:00SCREWED IN SAN DIEGO... How the Pats Blew the 1963 AFL championship game
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<span>This Sunday won't be the first time the Chargers and the Patriots have met with a potential championship on the line - they played for the 1963 AFL Championship. If you're a Pats fan, you better hope that this time the Chargers aren't on PEDs, there's no spying and a reporter and a coach don't spill the beans ahead of time... because in 1963, the Pats didn't have a chance.</span></div>
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<span><em>Excerpted
from THE PATS: An Illustrated History of the
New England Patriots. Copyright © 2018
by Glenn Stout and Richard A. Johnson. Reprinted by permission of
Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">South Boston native and <em>Boston Globe</em> football writer Will
McDonough, a graduate of Northeastern University, covered prep sports for the
Globe before moving to the Patriots beat in the summer of 1962 as backup to
John Ahern. Like Patriots owner Billy Sullivan, McDonough made a career
aligning with those in power. His reporting, both with the Globe and later as a
television analyst for CBS and NBC, focused less on the players and what took
place on the field than on what went on behind the scenes, in the locker room
and front office, covering the inside power struggles among the men who owned
and coached the Patriots and those who ran professional football.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In quintessential McDonough fashion, he later liked to tell
a story — which he never wrote — about the 1963 AFL championship game in San
Diego, the kind of story that enhanced his reputation as someone who knew what
was really happening. After the Pats beat Buffalo in a playoff to take the AFL's Eastern Division and earn the right to the Chargers in San Diego for the championship, the Chargers arranged for Boston to practice at a nearby
Navy base, a presumably secure facility that would allow them to work out in
private. Yet, according to McDonough, “the Chargers had several people dressed
as Navy guys watching practice all week long,” although, as a reporter who
bragged he never took notes, he never provided a source for that information.
According to McDonough, the Chargers thereby learned exactly what the Patriots
planned to do during the game and adjusted accordingly. The Patriots were
beaten before they ever took the field. Receiver and kicker Gino Cappelletti
later remarked, “You know, the way the Chargers played, especially on offense,
it was as if they knew just what we wanted to do.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">They did, but if the Chargers had spies at the Patriots’
practice, anything they learned was confirmed before the game. The fault for
that lay with Pats’ coach Mike Holovak. . . and perhaps Will McDonough.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In two earlier meetings that season, the Chargers and
Patriots had played to a virtual standoff, the Chargers narrowly winning both,
17–13 and 7–6, even as the Patriots shut down the potent San Diego offense,
particularly the running game led by backs Paul Lowe and Keith Lincoln. In
fact, the Patriots had angered the Chargers before the game at Fenway Park when
the home team “accidentally” forgot to cover the outfield during a rainstorm.
The resulting quagmire left Lincoln and Lowe running in place. Fortunately for
the Chargers, flanker Lance Alworth caught 13 passes, including the winning
score. But San Diego coach Sid Gillman did not forget.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">He did not just want to beat the Patriots—he wanted
revenge, a victory so complete and thorough that the NFL would agree to an
interleague championship game. With two weeks to prepare for Boston, Gillman,
considered one of the most creative offensive coaches in the history of
professional football, installed what he referred to as a “Feast or Famine”
game plan, a scheme he felt would either work to perfection or fail miserably.
If it failed, well, there was also the “East Formation,” which put both Alworth
and split end Don Norton on the strong side of the field, another wrinkle the
Pats hadn’t encountered. Today the schemes seem simple. In 1963 championship, they were a
revelation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Over the course of the season, the Patriots’ defense earned
a reputation for what Boston defensive end Larry Eisenhauer called their “Ban
the Bomb” defense — a gambling, near-all-out blitzing attack keyed by
linebacker Nick Buoniconti and safety Ron Hall. It worked because their
linemen, Bob Dee, Jim Lee Hunt, and Houston Antwine, were quick in pursuit,
able to tie up runners at the line or in the backfield before they could reach
the secondary and exploit any gaps abandoned by the blitzing defenders or in
between the Pats’ slow-footed defensive backs, whom Gillman derisively referred
to as “old ladies.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The new scheme was designed to exploit the Patriots’
defensive strengths. Based on men in motion, traps, misdirection, and surprise,
the new plays, some of which weren’t put in place until a day or two before the
game, were calculated to thwart what the Patriots planned to do and free up
Lincoln and Lowe.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It wasn’t the first time the surprise use of the
“man-in-motion” had been used effectively in a championship game. In 1940,
Chicago and Washington met for the NFL championship. Three weeks before,
Washington had defeated the Bears 7–3. But in the championship game, the Bears
surprised Washington by unveiling the T-formation — something that hadn’t been used
in decades — and putting backs in motion. Chicago rolled to a record 73–0
victory as the Washington defense spent the whole game reversing field.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">As game time approached, if Gillman was wondering whether
the Chargers would enjoy a scoring feast or famine, or if the Patriots would
plan some changes of their own, his questions may well have been answered. A
few days before the game, McDonough had interviewed Holovak about Boston’s game
strategy and presented it in a story with a subhead “What to Look for on TV.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Holovak may as well have handed McDonough his playbook. In
a series of extensive quotes, the Patriot coach revealed his entire game plan
in detail. On offense, Holovak said, the Patriots were confident they could run
on San Diego, and he described one play in detail, “what we call ‘a pick,’”
adding, “We’ll be running it all day.” He noted that one San Diego defender
“tips the defense,” so the Pats had plans for quarterback Babe Parilli to check
off to alternative plays at the line. Thanks, Coach.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But on defense Holovak really gave away the store. He
revealed that he planned to use the Patriots’ blitzing reputation as a ruse,
faking safety blitzes with Hall, then having him drop back to double-cover
Alworth. He said that the Patriots had drilled the defensive front to focus on
pursuit and follow the flow of the play, using their speed to contain Lowe and
Lincoln and then shut down Alworth deep. A confident Holovak was almost giddy
with excitement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It was as if Muhammad Ali had told Howard Cosell before
“the Rumble in the Jungle” that he planned to lie against the ropes until
George Foreman punched himself out. Although the <em>Globe</em> wasn’t widely available
in San Diego, it’s hard to believe that Gillman didn’t learn about the story —
there were telephones, after all, and Gillman was well connected in the
football world. Whether Holovak knew McDonough was planning to run with the
story or whether the information was given on background is uncertain, but at
that point any trepidation Gillman had over his feast-or-famine approach would
have evaporated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Yet perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. As ESPN’s T.
J. Quinn reported in 2009, the 1963 Chargers were the first pro football team
known to supply players with steroids. After the Chargers’ 4-10 finish in 1962,
Gillman hired pro football’s first strength coach, Alvin Roy, a man the New
York Times later called “the guru and godfather of the weight-training field.”
Roy had trained US Olympians and learned about anabolic steroids from his
Russian counterparts. During camp before the 1963 season, players were ordered
to lift weights and, for at least five weeks, provided with Dianabol, the first
steroid developed solely to impact athletic performance, and still one of the
most effective. They were given 5 milligrams of the drug three times a day, a
dosage that experts agree is more than enough to impact performance. It remains
the standard starting dose to this day.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The players did as they were told, and didn’t know any
better anyway. Neither did Gillman or Roy. No one really knew about the
long-term effects of the drugs, nor did they worry much about their health
impact or even whether their use was fair — US Olympians were using it too. One
Charger estimated that all but 5 percent of the Chargers took the drug. As
lineman Walt Sweeney told Quinn, “It was like the wild, wild West. Everything
went. There was speed, painkillers, steroids.” Half the league was jacked up on
something, but only the Chargers had the magic steroid pills. Ron Mix recalled
that “they showed up on our training table in cereal bowls.” They worked too.
Quarterback John Hadl said the Chargers linemen “started looking like Popeye.”<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Mix and a few other players eventually complained, but even
though the “mandatory” program was discontinued in 1964, the drug remained
available to any player who wanted it throughout the 1963 season. One thing is
certain: the 4-10 Chargers of 1962 went 11-3 in 1963. And as the season went
on, as other teams seemed to lag, the Chargers seemed to get stronger. Including
the championship contest, they’d score a total of more than 100 points in their
final two games. And let’s not forget that because of the Eastern Division
playoff between the Patriots and Buffalo Bills, the Chargers had an extra week
before the championship to heal and “prepare.”<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Or maybe the Patriots had just simply left it all on the
field in the playoff versus Buffalo the week before. . . and then left a little more behind during
a week of partying. After all, they hadn’t really expected to reach the
championship game, and when fans had greeted them on their return to Boston,
they had suddenly found themselves popular overnight in a city that had been
searching for a champion.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">They continued the celebration under the warm California
sun in San Diego, where the players stayed at the Stardust Inn, a “Mad Men”–era
hotel that allowed patrons of the Mermaid Bar to gaze through an enormous
window at bathing beauties cavorting underwater. In one famous incident,
several Patriots—among them Larry Eisenhauer and Ron Hall — entered the pool
themselves. Eisenhauer mooned his teammates. . . and everyone else in the bar.
Suffice to say that the team’s focus entering the game was not particularly
sharp. Most observers installed the Chargers as narrow favorites.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Even before kickoff, the game was already something of a
letdown. Despite the 71-degree temperature, Balboa Stadium, with a capacity of
34,000, looked barely half full. Though official attendance was announced to be
30,127, thousands of empty seats said otherwise. That was understandable. The
uncomfortable stands featured concrete bleacher step seats and half of San
Diego could pull in the TV feed from Los Angeles. It was easier to watch from
the couch. Since the players’ bonuses were based on attendance, by the start
the Patriots knew that, win or lose, their bonus would be far less than they
expected. A lot of mink coats turned to chinchilla.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p><span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The Chargers received the opening kickoff and got right to
work. On the first play, San Diego quarterback Tobin Rote read an attempted
blitz, then faked a toss to Lincoln and a handoff to halfback Paul Lowe. The
Pats bit on both, and Rote tossed a short pass to a wide-open Lincoln for a
12-yard gain. The Patriots were playing just as expected.<o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The next play set the game in stone. Ron Hall faked a
blitz, but Lowe went in motion. Bob Dee jumped offside, and then jumped back.
As Gillman later noted, that one small change caused every Patriot player to
“reset.” Suddenly caught leaning, the Patriots backfield had to scramble,
overloading one side of the field. Rote took the snap, the blockers went one
way, the Patriots overpursued, and then Rote handed the ball off to Lincoln on
an inside trap. The running back burst through the line. . . and there was no
one. Fifty-six yards later, the Chargers had the ball at the 2-yard line. Rote
snuck in for a touchdown.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The game was effectively over; as the <em>Boston Herald’s</em> Joe
Looney later noted, the Chargers “simply out everything-ed” Boston and the
Patriots couldn’t adjust. Time after time Lowe went into motion, Buoniconti
shifted, Hall either backed off to double-team Alworth or burst through a hole
into the backfield and tackled a phantom, while Rote either pitched to Lincoln,
sent him inside in the opposite direction, or found him on a swing pass. Every
so often, as if bored, Rote got the ball to Lowe, who was just as effective.
The Chargers quickly scored a second touchdown on a 67-yard pitch to Lincoln,
and after the Patriots came back to score on a seven-yard run by Garron after a
long pass to Cappelletti, Lowe scored again on a 56-yard run.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Fullback Garron then went out with a concussion, star
halfback Ron Burton was hobbled, and that was the ball game. Five minutes after
kickoff, the Patriots were as ineffective as a punched-out George Foreman.
Forced to throw, Parilli spent most of the game retreating from the San Diego
defense. By the end of the first quarter, the Chargers led 21–7 and Lincoln
already had more than 200 yards rushing and receiving. As the Globe’s Bud
Collins later wrote, “Every time San Diego scored, a platoon of young things in
barebacked costumes threw them around in a triumphant dance. . . this kept the
touchdowns from getting tedious.” With a 31–10 halftime lead, Gillman was so
confident that he left the locker room early to catch the end of the Grambling
College band’s halftime show.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The Chargers never let up in the second half, even trying a
couple of onside kicks in the eventual 51–10 rout. Eisenhauer noted that “from
the very first play, they were in high speed and we were in slow motion.” The
Globe’s Harold Kaese wrote that “it was the sorriest breaching of a vaunted
defense since the Maginot line.” Parilli said it was like “they wanted to kill
us.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Gillman and the Chargers gloated after the game, and with
610 yards of offense, they deserved to. On the way back to Boston, some Pats
joked about wishing their plane would be shot down, a better fate than facing
Patriots fans after the loss. But when asked if the defeat—which had dropped
Boston’s record to 8-7-1 for the season—would inspire wholesale changes on the
team, Holovak indicated otherwise. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">“We need a touch here and a touch there,” he said. “Nothing
major.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-47503189531601018472018-12-14T09:38:00.002-08:002018-12-14T09:38:19.239-08:00Why Go on Book Tour?
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I recently completed a somewhat grueling book tour for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Pats,</i> a heavily illustrated (200
plus images selected by my collaborator Richard Johnson) but equally comprehensive
narrative history (150,000 words) that treats the history of a team and sport
as a real subject, rather than writing an extended valentine intended to pander
to sycophants. Over the course of about two weeks, I drove some 2,200 miles all
over New England, signed nearly 2,000 books in libraries, bookstores and
historical societies, did a couple dozen radio interviews and spoke before or
met hundreds and hundreds of readers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
was exhausting – you have to be “on” far more than is comfortable, and soon
fall into the same patter at each appearance, even delivering the same laugh
lines. There were times, in between sleepovers at Comfort Inns and spare beds
in the homes of relatives and friends, that itallrantogether and I occasionally
lost track of where I was (Hello, Detroit!).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I am not complaining.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Book tours are sometimes a necessary part of the deal, one that has made
the book a regional bestseller behind Michelle Obama, currently wedged between
Lin-Manuel Miranda and Nathaniel Philbrick on the hardback nonfiction list.
Come Christmas morning, and the book is finally read, I’m reasonably confident
it will also enjoy some surprising success outside New England. But the real
takeaway, the one I can’t stop thinking about, was a total surprise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Along the way I made guerilla stops at more than a dozen
Barnes and Nobles, offering to sign books, which each was eager to have me do. I
stop at the customer service desk, pull out my Sharpie, explain who I am, and, since
they’re doing me a favor, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ask that they
steer me toward the stacks of my books so I can sign them in place so they don’t
have to lug them all over the store. I even offer to place the “signed copy”
sticker in the upper corner, telling them “I’m a full service writer.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">In one store in Rhode Island on a Saturday morning, as I
sat on the floor at the end of an aisle before a pile of some 40 books, I
noticed someone to my side. I turned and saw a young girl about age 10, long
brown hair and cute, black-framed, nerd girl glasses, staring at me furtively,
serious beyond her years. I smiled, said “Hello,” and explained what I was
doing. Then her father, standing nearby, said she wanted to ask me a
question.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She looked panicked at first,
and looked at him as if to say “Noooo, Dad, don’t…” but I smiled and told her
to go ahead, she could ask me anything. I assumed she’d want to know if Tom Brady
was my favorite player (he’s not) or what Gronk is really like (I suspect he’s
well aware of how lucrative his shtick really is).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">Wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was
interested in me. I was something she’d never seen before, but dreamed of.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was an “author” with a book in a bookstore,
and it didn’t matter what it was about.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">She set aside her shyness, looked down at me, her eyes
peeking out over the top of her glasses and asked a question I suspect has been
keeping her up at night and occupying her ten-year old dreams for quite some
time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">“How can I become an author?” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">This is a question both easy to answer and hard to explain,
but I did my best, and for the next ten minutes we had an increasingly breezy
conversation as I first told her to ReadReadRead <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>EverythingEverythingEverything, and she asked more
questions of me, and I of her, and I told her she reminded me of me, and soon I
was making her laugh, and she told me she had just finished the “million word reading
challenge” at her school, and I told her I hadn’t read that much at age ten,
that she was WAY ahead of me, and that even though this book is about sports, I
write about all sorts of other things, that I studied poetry in college, and
that I even have a book that looks like it will be made into a move (<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Young
Woman & the Sea</i></b>, a biography of Trudy Ederle) and I even whispered
the name of the famous actress who will play her, and told her she had to
promise not to tell anyone because it was a big, big secret, which it is.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">So by the end she wasn’t shy and was laughing and bubbly
and talking a mile a minute and her eyes were shining behind those nerd girl
glasses and then I could see it click: authors weren’t “other” people to her
anymore, faceless names on the spine of a book, as far away as Mars. They were
someone who, when they were ten years old, was a lot like her.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">I wrote another book, sure, but sitting on the floor of
that bookstore, I’m pretty sure I helped make another writer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;">And that makes it all worthwhile.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><em>The Pats: An Illustrated History</em> <em>of the New England Patriots</em>, Text by Glenn Stout with Illustrations curated by Richard Johnson, is available at booksellers everywhere, with signed copies at store all over New England.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Garamond","serif"; font-size: 14pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-37814237033476195982018-09-28T08:40:00.000-07:002018-09-28T08:40:45.579-07:00
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;">The Other Team</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;">(originally appeared in Boston baseball July 2018)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;">Has a women ever hit a ball over the Green Monster?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;">Someone asked me that the other day, and I had to say “I
have no idea.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As far as I can tell, the
answer is “No,” but I think it’s high time someone receive that opportunity (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You’re welcome, Sox PR Department. Think
that would raise some money for charity and get some attention???).</i> The
Coors-sponsored, all-female Colorado Silver Bullets did play at Fenway in 1994
and had the opportunity, but were shut out 6-0 by the Boston Park League
All-Stars. But as Linda Pizzuti takes on an ownership stake, it got me thinking
that women have not been widely recognized for their role in the history of
this team. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;">Oh, they’re there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In
fact they’ve been here all along.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Here’s
just a start:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Lizzie Murphy</b>
didn’t play for the Red Sox, but she is likely the first woman known to play in
Fenway Park, appearing in a charity All-Star game in 1922, playing first base
and helping her team beat the Red Sox 3-2.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Credited by some as the first professional woman ballplayer, Murphy, a
Rhode Islander, had a long career playing semi-pro ball throughout New England.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Isabella Stewart
Gardiner </b>was one of Boston’s grand dames, a philanthropist and art
collector who smoked cigarettes, drove too fast and didn’t give a damn what
anyone thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After husband Jack died
in 1898, Gardiner beat the Red Sox to the Fenway by nine years, building the
house-turned-museum that bears her name.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She also became a frequent and very recognizable visitor to both the
Huntington Avenue Grounds and Fenway Park. After the Sox won the 1912 World
Series, she created a scandal when she attended a Symphony Hall concert wearing
''a white band around her head and on it the words, 'Oh you Red Sox' in red
letters.'' <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Marie Brenner</b>
made history in 1979, covering the Red Sox for the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston Herald</i>, the first woman to do so on a regular basis. Given
the assignment by editor Don Forst to take an “anthropological approach” to her
task and told “For God’s sake, don’t write about the game,” Brenner fulfilled
her assignment, capturing the “25 cabs” atmosphere of the club as well as any
male reporter at the time. Her 1980 <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Esquire</i>
story “Confessions of a Rookie in Pearls,” appears in my Red Sox anthology
“Impossible Dreams.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Lib Dooley</b> taught
Phys. Ed. and Health in Boston city schools for nearly four decades and was
mainstay in the box seats at Fenway Park for 55 years, watching more than 4,000
games. A self-described “friend of the Red Sox,” she passed out cookies and
candies to her favorite players.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her
father was famously a member of Nuf Ced McGreevey’s Royal Rooters and Dooley
herself was a member of the BoSox club. She was also known to be a special
friend of Ted Williams.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;">Speaking of Ted, he’s the reason I’ve chosen to include only
one player’s wife, Ted’s first partner, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Doris
Soule</b>. In January of 1954 she filed for divorce, alleging among other
things that Ted had struck her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the
couple failed to settle over the next year, Ted decided to retire from baseball
after the 1954 season rather than share a new contract with his Ex. Two days
after the divorce became final, on May 13, 1955, Ted unretired and signed a
contract for $98,000, stiffing Doris out of the new contract and the Red Sox
out of a month of play. All because of money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I wonder if this story will make that “American Masters” documentary
that’s in the works?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;">Red Sox pitcher Bill Lee, aka “The Spaceman” always credited
his aunt, <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Annabelle Lee</b>, of the All-American
Girls Professional Baseball League, with teaching him how to pitch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She played seven years in the AAGPBL, even
twirling a perfect game. A self-described “junkball pitcher,” Ms. Lee was not,
however, responsible for teaching her nephew the infamous eephus pitch that
Tony Perez sent into orbit in the 1975 World Series.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Elaine Weddington
Steward</b> was a pioneer in several capacities. Named Boston’s assistant GM in
1990, primarily performing legal and contract work, at the time Steward was first
black woman and only the second minority to hold an executive position of any
kind in major league baseball, something that is both hard to believe today,
and well, not so hard to believe. She now serves as an attorney for MLB. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Jean Yawkey</b> is
one of only a handful of women to own a major league team, taking over the Red Sox
after her husband died in 1975. While the Sox mostly remained competitive for
much of her tenure, she made the same mistake her husband did, turning over
most day-to-day management of the team to others, namely men like Heywood
Sullivan and John Harrington. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;">Ms. Pizzuti, take note: Maybe she should have done it
herself. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Garamond;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glenn Stout’s next
book with Richard Johnson, </i>The PATS: An Illustrated History<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, is due out in November. See glennstout.net.
He is also the author of </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Young Woman
& the Sea: How Trudy Ederle Conquered the English Channel and Inspired the
World, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">soon to be a major motion picture.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-80343443967928764782018-08-17T04:11:00.002-07:002018-08-17T05:45:38.589-07:00WIFFLE RULES<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">Originally appeared in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston
Baseball</i>, August 2018<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "garamond";"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">This is the way it was.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">When I was little –four or five years old – our spare, bare
backyard in Ohio was pancake flat and empty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My dad would pitch a Wiffle ball, I would hit. If it reached the big
pile of dirt at the back edge of the yard, leftover from some garden project,
well, that was a home run, and so were a lot of other lesser hits as I ran the
bases, slipping on vinyl-covered foam bases that didn’t last a summer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">One spring that changed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My dad planted three silver maples in the backyard, twiggy little slips
only a few feet high, held in place and marked by a stake to make sure he
didn’t mow them down and I didn’t snap them off at the ground running through
the yard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">They grew quickly and in a year or two were sapling height,
as big around as my then-thin wrist. And over a summer… they gained names.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The tree at the side of the yard, almost at
the edge of the property, became first base.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The tree in the middle became second base and the last tree, not nearly
as far away as first base to leave room for the clothesline, became third.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And suddenly the back yard was a ballpark,
the always worn spot in front of the steps a muddy or dusty home plate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">As the trees grew, the branches served as outfielders,
snagging flies and knocking down line drives, at least until the limbs of
second and third began to touch and merge with each other, meaning that if I
pulled the ball, I was either out or the ball was lost, caught in some crook
that left me crying.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">Ah, but right field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Right field was free, wide open, first and second so far apart they
would never touch. By the time I hit Little League I was already an opposite
field hitter, my swing hard-wired to shoot the gap, a place with no shade.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKjfZWoF9sa70hyiy3RUIFmbcOItIr5pgebAHVtRps2f-jyFWQrlNBz3ZHZ1ZQmWqnn8C9hTHd8O6FK4FWU_Qsa0bfXp-YtttWFgXVOFyl9D1Gy8fWF2kWqnzaVROBBQrXjEZPK6ANiFO/s1600/Louie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1078" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQKjfZWoF9sa70hyiy3RUIFmbcOItIr5pgebAHVtRps2f-jyFWQrlNBz3ZHZ1ZQmWqnn8C9hTHd8O6FK4FWU_Qsa0bfXp-YtttWFgXVOFyl9D1Gy8fWF2kWqnzaVROBBQrXjEZPK6ANiFO/s320/Louie.jpg" width="269" /></a><span style="font-family: "garamond";">I got bigger, stronger and older, and a kid moved in two
doors down who loved baseball almost as much as I did. We started pitching to
each other and the field shrank.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
stopped using Wiffle bats to save our swings and switched to wood bats, wrapping
the ball with electricians tape to mend the inevitable cracks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">Then one day we flipped the field.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First base became home, second became first,
third base second, and that bare spot by the steps third.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But we grew bored with running – we wanted to
hit – and recruited ghost men as baserunners.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">The rules evolved.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If
we caught a fly or fielded a ground ball clean before it made it past the
greener grass that marked the leach field, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that was an out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But if it found the ground or stopped in the
grass past a line that stretched from first to third, it was a single.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Past second was a double, past the
clothesline a triple, and over the clothesline, Hosannah! A home run!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">Hanging from one end, near the house in left, a bucket full
of clothespins, and a shot at immortality: an automatic grand slam.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">But now right field was closed off by the tangle of branches.
The real game now lived in left field, the house a not so much a Green Monster
but white vinyl sided one, with an asphalt shingled roof.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Line drives could smack off the wall like
Fenway, but if the ball landed on our roof, it rolled and gave the pitcher a
chance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">After landing on the roof it would bounce and roll and we’d
run under the eaves, Yaz-like, guessing where the ball might drop down, blind to the
ball<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to where it would fall. It was as
if a ball hit over the Monster could bounce back and still be in play. In our left
field potential doubles, triples even potential home runs all had to find the
ground to count, disasters saved by diving snags. On our field, if Bucky Dent’s
home run wouldn’t have made it over the crest of the roof, it could have rolled
back and been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">caught for an out</i>. F-7.
And that bucket of clothespins? I hit that target once, a grand slam walk
off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Game over. My friend Chris,
pitching to me, turned around and walked across the yard to his house without a
word, Ralph Branca to my Bobby Thomson. I can see it still.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">But Chris is gone now, long dead, buried in his uniform, and this spring we finally
sold the old house. In think those trees have either been cut down or trimmed
now, memories lost in splinters and sawdust, I guess. I’m not quite sure.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">I can’t go back, not yet. But I can go on. Next week my old
friend Anthony and his wife Raquel are visiting with their son, Louie, five
years old and all about baseball. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";">I got the bat and brand new Wiffle ball already. Time to
make another backyard into a ballfield.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "garamond";"> </span></o:p></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "garamond";"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glenn Stout’s next
book, with Richard Johnson, is </i>The Pats: An Illustrated History of the New
England Patriots, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">available in November.
For more see glennstout.net.</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-46817278337051372402018-04-27T05:14:00.002-07:002018-04-27T05:14:47.672-07:00STREET JUSTICE
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Personally, I always thought “Yawkey Way” was
unintentionally appropriate, referring to the way of Tom Yawkey failed to lead
the Red Sox to a championship in his 44 seasons as owner. That way remained in
place for more than two championship-barren decades even after his death and “Yawkey
Way” was always a kind of grim reminder of that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">But that’s over now, so I’m fine with Jersey Street.
The most discussed address in recent memory pre-dates Fenway Park by some 25
years, to 1887, when the name was first proposed to the Laying Out Department
of the City of Boston. At the time, the Fenway neighborhood was little more
than mud and a few lines scratched out on paper by renowned landscape architect
Frederick Law Olmstead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">All this got me thinking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why “Jersey Street” anyway?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or for that matter, why Lansdowne or Van Ness
or Ipswich (which was what that stretch of road that is now Van Ness was once
called)? Although I’ve been going to Fenway Park for almost forty years, I knew
almost nothing about how the surrounding streets got their names… or even much
about how the decision came about to rename a portion of Jersey Street after Yawkey.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Brookline Avenue is a gimme, as that was simply the
name of the road that connected Boston to Brookline. The rest is more
complicated.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The filling of the Fenway, which was completed by
about 1900, was an extension of the earlier filling of the Back Bay, which
turned tidal mud flats into developable land. The architect behind the Back
Bay, Arthur Gilman, was eager to give the former swamp an aura of class, so he named
each cross street after an English Lord. This explains the alphabetic pattern
which begins with Arlington and ends with Hereford.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Olmstead, the Fenway architect, took his cue from Gilman
and decided to continue the alphabetic pattern of the Back Bay cross streets
honoring English lords. Hence the naming of Ipswich, Jersey, Kilmarnock (originally
Kenyon) and Lansdowne Streets.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Specifically, Lansdowne was named after the Marquis
of Lansdowne, a peerage held by the held by the head of the Petty-FitzMaurice
family. Jersey Street memorialized the Earl of Jersey, a title held by the Child-Villiers
family. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Yet another powerful family, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston Globe</i> Taylors, owners of the Red
Sox, bought the land for Fenway Park in 1911, and the parcel was originally
bounded by Brookline Ave., Lansdowne, Jersey and Ipswich Streets. Ballpark
construction necessitated an extension of Ipswich Street to border the park to
the south, but club president John I. Taylor balked at naming the extension Ipswich
Street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In 1906, during a trip to
Europe, he had met and later married Cornelia Van Ness of San Francisco, a high
society girl whose family had roots in Vermont. Ever the romantic, John I. named
the extension Van Ness Street after his bride, thus breaking the stranglehold
of British Lords. A year later, when Fenway Park opened in 1912, the official
address of the new ball club became 24 Jersey Street.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And so it stayed until Tom Yawkey, who bought the
team in 1933, died on July 9, 1976. A short time later a Boston City
Councilman, variously reported as either Christopher Ianella or Fred Langone,
proposed the name change. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was passed
by the nine-member council unanimously and was in effect by the time the Red
Sox opened the 1977 season. The clubs official address became 4 Yawkey Way, the
#4 numeral likely a subtle homage to Joe Cronin, a Yawkey favorite.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It was not controversial at the time, but it’s also
important to note that despite the fact that Boston was 25% black and Hispanic
in 1976/77, the city council was all-white.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Louise Day Hicks, the Southie attorney known for her staunch opposition
to desegregation, served as council president in 1976 and remained on the
council in 1977. In fact, she was at her political peak, having recently founded
an organization known as ROAR (Restore Our Alienated Rights), which advocated
organized resistance to busing. They not only held mass marches, but pelted school
buses from black neighborhoods arriving in white neighborhoods and burned a
wooden school bus in effigy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Pretty subtle, huh?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">This is not to suggest that Tom Yawkey was in any
way responsible for that, but it does indicate that the initial name change
took place with no input or consideration whatsoever from Boston’s minority
communities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And isn’t that the lasting lesson of all this? Only
the rich and powerful, like John I. Taylor and Frederick Law Olmstead, the City
Council or John Henry get to name the streets. And only the rich and powerful, like
the Earl of Jersey, the Marquis of Lansdowne, Cornelia Van Ness or Tom Yawkey,
get to have streets named after them. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">That’s the way of this world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Glenn
Stout’s next book, with Richard Johnson, will appear in November. </span></i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The
Pats: An Illustrated History of the Patriots<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">
will be the first complete narrative history of the team. For more see
www.glennstout.net</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-80612491711158713392017-09-10T07:07:00.001-07:002017-09-14T05:39:51.629-07:00Tom Yawkey, Race, and the Smoking Gun II<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">(as
published in Boston Baseball September 2017)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">On April
16, 1945 the Red Sox held their infamous tryout of Jackie Robinson. For the
next fourteen years - and for some years beyond it - the question of race
during the tenure of Red Sox owner Tom Yawkey loomed over the Red Sox franchise
as palpably as the Green Monster. While it is undeniable that the Red Sox were
the last major league team to integrate, since that time there continue to be
apologists – both in the press and among Red Sox fans – who sought somehow to
explain away the franchise’s long-standing recalcitrance and failure to put a
black ballplayer on the field. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Most
recently, in the wake of John Henry’s desire to see Yawkey Way renamed, some
have chosen to revisit an issue the Red Sox organization has long viewed as
decided. In one example, Yawkey biographer Bill Nowlin recently told the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston Globe’s </i>Nick Cafardo, “I never
once found any evidence that Yawkey was personally racist... I looked for a
smoking gun, and couldn’t find one.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Time and
again, others have asked this same question, as history has tended to place the
blame squarely upon Yawkey, the man at the top and the one figure in the
franchise who could have integrated the Red Sox in an instant, yet did not. They
argue that not only was Yawkey not personally bigoted, but that the failure lay
elsewhere, either among the organization’s scouts, the structure of its
southern-based minor league system, or upon others in the organization, from
general managers Eddie Collins and Joe Cronin, to manager and general manager
Pinky Higgins. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">There is
a long tradition of Yawkey defenders. In 1986 the late <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston Globe</i> sportswriter Will McDonough rushed to defend Yawkey
after coach Tommy Harper filed a successful suit with the EEOC, writing that,
“They smear the man and his memory with the legacy of Pumpsie Green and Tommy
Harper.... I knew Tom Yawkey, the Man to whom they trace all of this alleged
racist history. I never thought he was racist. But I wasn't as close to him as
Joe Cronin and Dick O'Connell were. These two former Sox general managers knew
him as well as anyone in Boston. Over the years, I asked both if Yawkey ever
suggested they do anything racist. The answer was no." In 1991, after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Globe</i> reporter Steve Fainaru authored a
three-part series on race and the Red Sox, McDonough again distilled the issue
down to the matter of who within the organization "was racist," as if
that was the only question worth asking. "Was it late owner Tom Yawkey, or
his widow Jean who now controls the organization, was it a series of general
managers–Joe Cronin, Pinky Higgins, Dick O'Connell and Lou Gorman? Are we to
believe it is the scouting department...? Once again, no names....”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">A little
more than a decade later, following the publication of “Red Sox Century,” a
history of the club this author co-wrote with Richard Johnson that addressed
the racial issue head on, McDonough again went on the offensive, calling me at
home. "The only problem the Red Sox have ever had with blacks," he
said to me, "was finding blacks who could play, alright?" <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">A few
years later Howard Bryant’s book “Shut Out,” a comprehensive look at the
question, appeared to be final word on the subject, pointing out the long-term
impact, including the teams’ continued recalcitrance even after Yawkey’s death
to sign African American free agents, a pattern that has ended under Henry.<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"> </b>Yet some still hold Yawkey blameless
and continue to ask “Where is the evidence, the smoking gun, the definitive act
or statement the exposes Tom Yawkey as a racist?” Yawkey himself rarely spoke
about the matter himself on the record and did not leave a written record of
his attitude in regard to race. They prefer to focus on anecdotes that speak to
his private interactions and the charitable contributions the Yawkey Foundation
has made long after his death rather than the indisputable comportment of the
organization under his leadership, as if one cancels out the other. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">I have long
believed that the only evidence that mattered was in plain view on the playing
field for every day of the fourteen years between Robinson’s tryout and Green’s
appearance. But for those who disagree, consider Jack Mann’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sports Illustrated</i> feature, “The Great
Wall of Boston,” published on June 28, 1965. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Mann,
who died in March of 2000, was a staff writer at <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sports Illustrated</i> and offered that the main reason the team had
recently failed to compete for a pennant was because the Red Sox, as a
franchise, had sought to build a team to take advantage of the wall and were
therefore unable to win on the road. But Mann admitted other possibilities, such
as Yawkey’s misplaced loyalty, which caused him to hang onto favored players
for too long and hire old cronies as scouts, many of who simply received checks
and did no scouting at all.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">But Mann
also broached the question of race with Yawkey directly, something local sportswriters
historically neglected. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">“One
way to win,” wrote Mann of the Red Sox, “is to have the best players. The Red
Sox did in 1946, but coincidentally that was the year Jackie Robinson—who had
been tried in Fenway Park and found wanting—played his first year in organized
(white) baseball. In the parade of Larry Dobys and Roy Campanellas and Elston
Howards that followed, the Red Sox brought up the rear… It is easy now for
Bostonian critics, seeking a policy man behind such a self-defeating pattern,
to point fingers at Mike Higgins, an unreconstructed Texan with classically
Confederate views on Negroes, but it is too easy. Higgins, who did not become
field manager until 1955 and did not take a desk in the front office until late
1962, could hardly have been the Caucasian in the woodpile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
owner responded with statements both telling and damning:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt 0.5in;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">"They
blame me,” Yawkey says, “and I'm not even a Southerner. I'm from Detroit… I
have no feeling against colored people,” he says. “I employ a lot of them in
the South. But they are clannish, and when that story got around that we didn't
want Negroes they all decided to sign with some other club. Actually, we
scouted them right along, but we didn't want one because he was a Negro. We
wanted a ballplayer."<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">That statement
is telling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Yawkey
first assigns blame to his Southern employees, intimating that because he was
born in Detroit, he is obviously not a racist, and that because they are from
the South, they presumably are. But he doesn’t stop there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">He next
offers that he has no feelings against African Americans, citing the fact that
he employs African Americans on his 20,000 acre South Carolina estate, a former
plantation. But that is hardly the equivalent of putting a ball player on a
major league field, and as late as 1959 the Sox employed none in any capacity
on or off the field, not even as vendors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">But if
you need one, then comes the first smoking gun: “But they are clannish,” Mann
quotes Yawkey as saying of African Americans, “and when that story got around
that we didn't want Negroes they all decided to sign with some other club.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">No
single sentence could be more revealing. First Yawkey clearly believes that all
African Americans share the same characteristic – in this case, being “clannish,”
the kind of dubious stereotyping that has been used to provide a moral
justification for segregation. But when he states “when that story got around
that we didn't want Negroes they all decided to sign with some other club,” he
is in fantasy land, blaming the African American ballplayers themselves. He is saying,
in effect, that “because African Americans erroneously thought we were racist,
they refused to sign with us.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
notion that an African American ballplayer in the late 1940s and 1950s would
turn down an offer to sign with any major league team for any reason sounded
spurious to me, and in a survey of the Negro League history books I could find
no such accounting. But I wanted to be sure and since then have broached the
question to a number of baseball historians asking, “Are you aware of any Negro
League players, from the time Robinson signed to the late 1950s, who turned
down offers from major league teams to remain in the Negro Leagues?” and if any
had heard of such a claim in regard to a player refusing to sign with the Red
Sox. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
answer is “no.” None could recall a single instance of a player turning down an
offer to sign with a major league team when such an offer was made – before
free agency no player of any color could choose their employer. Wrote Lawrence Hogan,
Professor of History at Union College in New Jersey, one of the foremost Negro
League historians in the country and the author of “Shades of Glory,” published
by National Geographic and the National Baseball Hall of Fame, “I have never
heard even the slightest suggestion of either thing you mention happening... I
cannot imagine any Negro League player turning down an offer, other than on the
normal personal grounds of not enough money being offered, or wanting to get on
with life in a non-baseball way.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Yawkey’s
final statement - “We scouted them right along, but we didn't want one because
he was a Negro. We wanted a ballplayer," - might be the most telling. For
if we follow Yawkey’s logic – “We looked for black ballplayers but we wanted
talent first and foremost” – then consider that from the time of Robinson’s
signing to July of 1959, the Red Sox neither put an African American player on
the major league field that they signed themselves nor even traded for one
already in the majors. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The
conclusion is inescapable: Against all evidence to the contrary, Yawkey and his
organization refused to admit that any black ballplayer had enough talent to
play for the Red Sox. This, despite the fact that they were playing on every
other team in baseball, and that by 1959 nearly nine percent of all players in
MLB were African American, winning championships, winning Cy Young awards and
MVP awards and playing on All-Star teams, players like Henry Aaron, Willie
Mays, Ernie Banks, Don Newcombe and many, many, many more. None, apparently,
were good enough for Boston. “We wanted a ballplayer,” indeed. And the result of
that was on the field, and in the standings for decades. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">There, in
his own words, if you need one, is a “smoking gun” Decades after they were
first uttered, the echoes still resound around Fenway Park.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">[Note: Adapted
and condensed from a 2009 blog post which appears in slightly different form
here: </span><a href="http://verbplow.blogspot.com/2009/11/tom-yawkey-race-and-smoking-gun.html"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><span style="color: blue;">http://verbplow.blogspot.com/2009/11/tom-yawkey-race-and-smoking-gun.html</span></span></a><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">. Further information on the Red
Sox organization’s racial history and sources cited can be found below.] <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Howard
Bryant, Shut Out: A Story of Race and Baseball in Boston (Boston, 2002)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Glenn
Stout and Richard A. Johnson, Red Sox Century (Boston, 2000)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Glenn
Stout. “Tryout and Fallout: Race, Jackie Robinson and the Red Sox,”
Massachusetts Historical Review, Volume 6, 2004.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Will
McDonough, "Ticket Increase at Fenway Shouldn't Raise Fan's Ire,"
Boston Globe, Dec. 2, 2000 (contains McDonough’s and John Harrington’s
criticism of Red Sox Century and defense of Yawkey).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Will
McDonough, "Sox Racist? Says Who? Harper Case No Proof," Boston
Globe, Apr. 17, 1986.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Glenn Stout is series editor of </span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">The Best American Sports Writing<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">. www.glennstout.net<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-30593074955342872932017-03-03T05:02:00.001-08:002017-03-03T05:02:22.479-08:00WRITING A BOOK PROPOSAL ... AND NOT JUST TALKING ABOUT IT<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I recently consulted with an established narrative non-fiction writer on a potential book publishing project. As we talked, he said “I can write the book proposal... that’s not a big deal,” and began to speak of other issues. I stopped him almost immediately and asked “Have you ever written a book proposal?” He admitted he had not.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, this is biggest impediment most writers face in the book publishing process, and one that is usually the difference between just having an idea for a book and actually having one published.<br />
<br />
The purpose of the proposal is two-fold. One, it helps a writer clarify and identify the book they intend to write, to push the concept forward from “I’d like to write a book about X” toward something more specific and coherent. Here’s an example: Several years ago as the 100th anniversary of the building of Fenway Park approached, I knew I wanted to write something about that – I had the authoritative background to do so. But I also knew that the anniversary was certain to inspire a number of titles on Fenway Park. How could mine stand out? And how could I do something different?<br />
<br />
Although I knew I wanted to write about Fenway’s history, simply saying I wanted to write a book about the history of Fenway Park was not nearly specific enough – all anniversary books would in some way try to do that. I needed an organizing principle, one that could be distilled into a single sentence that was clear, concise and unique. A lifetime of writing and more than a dozen successful proposals for single books and series had taught me this.<br />
<br />
I was driving to my local town dump one Saturday when it hit me: instead of trying to tell the entire 100-year history of Fenway, I would tell the story of only its first season, from groundbreaking in the fall of 1911 through the 1912 World Series, which culminated in a world championship for the Red Sox. I knew that as I told the story of the ballpark’s construction and first season that would give me the opportunity to write about its larger history as well – the first home run hit over the left field wall would allow me to write about the Green Monster. My idea could then be easily distilled to a title and a single sentence: <em>Fenway 1912, the building of America’s most beloved ballpark and its first championship season.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
When I returned home, I sent a one paragraph description to my agent and he was immediately enthusiastic. I had written more than a dozen successful proposals before, and consulted on a number of others, so I was familiar with the format and intention. But having a well-defined idea was essential, and made the proposal itself a relatively straight-forward process. I had a finished proposal within a week and received an offer almost immediately. That book, eventually entitled <strong><em>Fenway 1912: The Birth of a Ballpark, a Championship Season, and Fenway's Remarkable First Year</em></strong> was easily the most successful of what eventually became nearly 20 books written in response to the anniversary, making best-seller lists in New England and winning several awards.<br />
<br />
But that’s just one aspect of the proposal – just as important is recognizing that the proposal is a sales document. If a writer does not have an agent, the next goal of the proposal is to attract an agent, and then, in turn, a publisher. A writer needs not just an idea, but then needs to know how to frame and present that idea in a way that underscores both his and her own abilities, but also the marketability of the manuscript, to show its appeal to a well-defined readership.<br />
<br />
Unlike what the writer believed at the start of this post, this is actually“ a big deal.” In fact, It’s actually a HUGE deal, for even a great idea, poorly presented and executed, is easy to reject. Every year publishers are hit with millions of book ideas. The whole idea is to make it impossible for them to say “No.”<br />
This is a skill, one that can be taught and learned, and something I now do professionally, both privately and in workshop settings. If one wishes to become a professional author, learning how to write a successful proposal is absolutely essential. How essential? One more short story.<br />
<br />
Three weeks ago I was speaking with a publisher. A basic book idea came up in conversation, but one that, due to timing, had a relatively small window to succeed. Within 24 hours I had taken that basic idea, drilled it down to something clear, concise and unique, and completed a basic proposal and forwarded it to my agent.<br />
<br />
A few days later, my agent and I reached agreement with a publisher on a contract.<br />
<br />
<em>Glenn Stout is the author and editor of more than 90 books. He will be teaching <strong>a three-day workshop entitled “Writing the Non-Fiction Book Proposal... Not just talking about it” at the Archer City Story Center in Archer City, Texas</strong> this summer (<a href="http://archercitystorycenter.org/professional-workshops/" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank">http://archercitystorycenter.org/professional-workshops/</a>), and giving<strong> a one-hour presentation “The Book Proposal: What Agents Want”</strong> at the New Hampshire Writer’s Project “Writer’s Day” on April 1, 2017 (<a href="http://www.nhwritersproject.org/content/writers-day-1" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank">http://www.nhwritersproject.org/content/writers-day-1</a>). He also does private consultations on longform narrative non-fiction, book proposals and book manuscripts. For more, see <a href="http://www.glennstout.net/" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank">www.glennstout.net</a> </em>Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-48453314777550926162017-01-26T11:21:00.002-08:002017-01-26T11:26:02.609-08:00THAT TIME I REALLY, TRULY, CROSS MY HEART AND HOPE TO DIE VOTED ILLEGALLY<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I must confess. I knowingly once committed voter
fraud. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">And my co-conspirator was the lunch lady.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">In June of 1976 I was 17 years old and had just
graduated from high school in a small town in Central Ohio.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On primary day, June 8, I looked forward to
exercising my right to vote for the first time. Although at 17 I was not yet
voting age, anyone who would turn 18 by Election Day in November was eligible
to vote in the presidential primary.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
rest of the ballot was off limits. To vote for anything else was strictly
illegal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">For a 17 year old, I was reasonably politically aware.
The presidential race that year was the first post-Watergate, and President Gerald
Ford was facing a strong challenge from former California Governor Ronald
Reagan for the Republican nomination. Yet much to the consternation of my
father and most other relatives, I considered myself a Democrat, a rarity in
our community, and had followed the Democratic primary closely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">No fewer than fifteen Democratic candidates vied for
the nomination that year, ranging from the eventual winner, Georgia Governor Jimmy
Carter, to California Governor Jerry Brown, a half a dozen Senators including
West Virginia’s Robert Byrd, Indiana’s Birch Bayh, Henry Jackson of Washington,
Frank Church of Iowa, Texan Lloyd Bentsen and Oklahoma’s Fred Harris, plus former
ambassador and Kennedy crony Sargent Shriver, Utah Representative Mo Udall and
Alabama Governor and noted segregationist George Wallace.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I considered myself a Harris supporter, intrigued by
his call for “economic democracy,” his early opposition to the Vietnam War and
his populist approach – he stayed in voter’s homes during his campaign. But in
a primary season that began in January, Carter surprised by taking command
early.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harris dropped out in March and
many others soon after. By June 8, the last date of the primary season, Carter’s
nomination was a foregone conclusion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Still, I was determined to exercise my right to vote.
By then, I liked Jerry Brown, but he’d been a late entry and wasn’t on the ballot
in Ohio. I grudgingly decided to back Mo Udall.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">On the day of the primary I dutifully drove to the
polls in the township building at my old elementary school, a small rural school
that catered to farm families and where the fall harvest was a legitimate excuse
to miss class. Everyone knew each other, and I remember that when I walked into
the polls that day, the first face I saw was that of matronly Mrs. Huggett.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She came from a farming family and was a
local institution.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She was everybody’s
grandmother, the smiling “lunch lady” at our school, responsible for doling out
the tater tots, pizza burgers, canned peas and morning milk. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">She greeted me warmly. “Hi Gary, let me check you in.
Nice to see you back from school.” The other women and men working the poll smiled
their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What-a-nice-young man</i> smiles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Gary? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
Glenn. Gary was my brother, older than me by four years and who I vaguely
resembled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think he’d just finished
college in Minnesota and was celebrating by hitch-hiking all over Europe.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Before I had a chance to respond, she crossed Gary’s
name off the rolls and steered me toward a bank of voting machines that
contained the full ballot rather than the single machine reserved for 17 year
olds.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I said nothing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Who was I to question Mrs. Huggett, who had fed me every school day for
six long years? <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">The automatic Rockwell voting machine was a
self-contained steel contraption on wheels with a built-in curtain that closed
when you entered.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Before me were lists
of names, separated by office, each with a tiny black lever that registered the
vote.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I was thrilled.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Maybe now I’d get to vote against our local congressman, the one with a
name right out of Sherwood Anderson’s “Winesburg, Ohio.” That was Chalmers Pangburn
Wylie (pictured above), a longtime, ultra-conservative, do-nothing rubber stamp of a Republican.
His lone moment in the national spotlight would come a decade later when he
attached an amendment to a bill that cut funding for the Library of Congress in
the precise amount the Library spent producing the braille version of Playboy.
True story.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Alas, he wasn’t on the ballot. I then realized that,
this being a primary, I was only allowed to vote for candidate of a single
party. I dutifully pulled the lever that activated the Democratic slate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There wasn’t much to choose from.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As far as I can determine the only primaries other
than that for presidency was for the U.S. Senate and the state supreme court.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Still, the my lot was cast and there was no turning
back. After some hesitation and a sentimental moment considering whether to
write in either Fred Harris or Jerry Brown, I skipped over Carter and Jackson
and Church and George Wallace and pulled the lever, first for Udall and then
for the slate of delegates and alternates that supported him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I committed, that’s right, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">voter fraud</i>, pulling the lever for
Howard Metzenbaum for U.S. Senate, and some name for each of two openings for
the state Supreme Court.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Barely a minute after in entered the booth, I pulled
back the curtain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My co-conspirator,
Mrs. Huggett, waved a cheerful goodbye.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Fortunately, the statute of limitations for my
offense has long since expired and democracy survived my moral transgression.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Still, I apologize. Especially to Mrs. Huggett.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"> </span></o:p></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-86916401517648003922016-09-08T07:31:00.001-07:002016-09-08T13:43:27.417-07:00NINE MONTHS AT GROUND ZERO: THE WORKERS WHO LED THE RECOVERY EFFORT AT THE WORLD TRADE CENTER<strong><big><em>From </em>Nine Months at Ground Zero </big></strong><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>[ In 2006 I co-wrote and published Nine Months at Ground Zero with Charlie Vitchers and Bobby Gray, two of the hundreds of construction workers to respond after the 9/11 attacks. The book was built from nearly 100 hours of interviews.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Even today, most people believe the cleanup was accomplished by members of the police and fire departments; it was not. Most first responders rotated through the site in shifts of a few weeks while hundreds of construction workers put in 18 and 20 hour days for months, beginning to end, determined to find remains and provide closure for families.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Although the book was not a particular commercial success, a substantial portion of the proceeds were donated to charity. It remains the only book which documents the contribution of the workers on the ground and helped inspire legislation that provided medical coverage and other benefits to Ground Zero workers, many of whom still suffer the effects of their service today. Although not in print in hard copy today, it remains available as an e-book and used copies can be acquired from online booksellers. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Vitchers and many other 9/11 workers continue their work today through the New York Says Thank You Foundation. To thank them, see <a href="http://newyorksaysthankyou.org/">http://newyorksaysthankyou.org/</a> for more information. To skip the author’s note and got directly to Chapter One, scroll down.] </em><br />
<em></em><br />
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<br />
<em></em><br />
<strong>Authors’ Note: </strong><br />
<strong> </strong><br />
<strong>To Charlie Vitchers, Bobby Gray and other construction workers in New York, the attack on the World Trade Center and subsequent collapse of the Towers was a sucker punch to the gut. </strong><br />
<strong>They knew thousands of innocents had been killed, that their city and their country had been attacked. Their outrage did not stop there. Something they had built with their own hands had been taken down. Their work had been destroyed, their legacy ruined, the collective memory of their industry wiped off the map. Not only did almost everybody working in construction in New York know someone who worked at the Trade Center – a neighbor or a cousin, a co-worker or a friend – many had worked there themselves, either when the buildings were first built or later, as other buildings went up in the complex or floors of the Towers were retrofitted for tenants. They took the attacks personally.</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>The World Trade Center complex were not just two of the largest and best- known structures in the world, they were the signature buildings of the New York construction industry, the epitome of what it could create. Over the course of their construction, which began in 1966, thousands of union tradesmen had worked on the Towers, and their success sparked a new era in New York hi-rise construction. In a city which hadn’t seen its skyline change dramatically in years, after the Towers were built there were suddenly cranes everywhere. Over the next few decades New York’s skyline would take on an entirely new silhouette. </strong><br />
<strong> </strong><br />
<strong>The Towers themselves were so enormous that their construction inspired logistical innovations never before used in New York construction. Each of the 200,000 steel columns, panels and joists was etched and stenciled with a code. None were fabricated on site. Each was a unique piece of an incredibly complicated puzzle. The steel itself was lifted in place by a method developed in Australia, what were known as “Kangaroo cranes,” or “tower cranes,” cranes attached to a tower fixed to the structure, that jacked itself up and rose with the building. Despite their novelty, New York tradesmen had easily adapted and both had since become more or less standard in high-rise construction in New York and elsewhere.</strong><br />
<strong> </strong><br />
<strong>The construction workers who built the Towers carried the experience as a badge of honor – they had built the biggest and the best, succeeding spectacularly, a once in a lifetime opportunity. Since first breaching the New York skyline, the Trade Center was the touchstone against which all other jobs were compared in scale and complexity, still discussed during coffee breaks and over beers after work. As older workers passed away, it was not uncommon to find a line in a newspaper obituary that noted that the deceased had helped build the Towers.</strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>But when the Towers were attacked and then fell, the sense of pride and accomplishment the construction workers felt was cut off at the ground. The buildings were down, and in some strange way, though through no fault of their own, they had failed because what was never meant to fall somehow had. In response, the had an instinctive reaction. Before anyone articulated the need for their skills, thousands of them knew that now another job was calling them out, one that only they knew they could do. The rough logic of their own experience as ironworkers, laborers, carpenters, electricians, crane operators and dozens of other trades told them that just as only they had once built the Towers, they were now the only people in the world equipped for the task ahead. They had the skills, and more importantly, they felt an obligation, a duty. Their response was simple and uncomplicated; anything they had built, they could take down, because before anything else could be built in its place – and they believed it would – they had to erase what had just taken place.</strong><br />
<strong> </strong><br />
<em><strong>With that realization a new challenge began to take shape. From a pile of rubble so immense that it resisted description, they would restore order. That was the only job that mattered now. </strong></em><br />
<em><strong> </strong></em><br />
<em><strong>Chapter One: The Attacks</strong></em><br />
<br />
<em>It is a story now heartbreakingly familiar. An invigorating September morning, crisp and blue and perfect. New Yorkers across the city were sitting down with the </em>Daily News <em>or the</em> Post, <em>making breakfast for their kids, returning from their jog, grabbing a cup of coffee, getting ready for the day ahead. Some were already on their way to the subway. And at least one particular group of New Yorkers was already at work. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>Construction workers start their days early. On the morning of September 11, 2001, the building site at the corner of 59th Street and 6th Avenue was already in full swing. The old St. Moritz Hotel was getting a full makeover.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>It was an interesting job, a meticulous job. The exterior of the St. Moritz — a landmark building — was made of carved terra-cotta and decorated with gargoyles and rams’ heads. All of the ornamental stone work was being taken down, piece by piece, and reset by stonemason subcontractors. The upper floors were completely enclosed by scaffolding. At the top of the building, the crew was putting up ornate brickwork on the exterior of the edifice that housed the cedar water tower. It was the last of the architectural façade work to be laid back onto the building. On the interior, renovation and rebuilding were under way on every floor.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>One of the half-dozen supervisors on the site was Charlie Vitchers. A native New Yorker, Vitchers had worked construction for thirty years and was now a superintendent for Bovis Lend Lease, one of the world’s largest construction management firms.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>At 8:45 A.M. on that peerless September morning, with a cup of coffee in his hand, Charlie Vitchers was a content man. Three of his kids were grown and out of the house. The other three were still in school, living with their mother on Long Island. It was a beautiful fall day, the kind that makes New Yorkers fall in love with their city all over again. And while he was looking forward to opening his own bait and tackle shop, the building in which he now stood was coming along nicely, and the stone work truly was exceptional.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<em>One minute later, at 8:46 A.M., American Airlines Flight 11 smashed into the World Trade Center Number One, the North Tower, and for Charlie Vitchers — and everyone else in the city, indeed, for all Americans — life changed forever.</em><br />
<em></em><br />
<strong><big>Charlie Vitchers</big></strong><br />
<strong><big></big></strong><br />
I was working on a thirty-seven-story project. From the ground up to the twenty-second floor, the St. Moritz was going to remain a hotel, but from the twenty-third floor up it was going to be residential condominiums. The building had deteriorated over the years and we were taking the top off — the twenty-eighth floor up to the thirty-seventh floor had to be removed, demolished, and rebuilt. From the twenty-second floor down, we were doing a complete gut, taking out all the walls and rebuilding each floor.<br />
<br />
Work starts at 7 A.M., so I’d normally take the E train from my apartment in Chelsea and get there between 6 and 7. I rolled in that morning at about 7 o’clock, grabbed coffee, and did my normal routine. It was a typical day.<br />
<br />
I got into the Alimak, an exterior hoist on the building similar to an elevator, and had coffee with the hoist operator, a guy named Smitty. He brought me all the way up to the roof. I generally start each day on the job with a safety walk-through. It’s the superintendent’s responsibility to make a quick run-through of the building to make a safety assessment, to make sure that all the nets and other safety systems are in place, and if they’re not, to report by radio to whoever’s responsible for the safety of the job. You have to make sure that all the safety rules spelled out in Article 19 of the New York building code are followed.<br />
<br />
I started at the top and walked down. You hit every floor where guys are working. At about the twenty-fifth or twenty-sixth floor, just before 9 A.M., Smitty came back up on the hoist and said, “A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center.”<br />
<br />
I said, “What kind of plane?”<br />
<br />
“I don’t know,” he said. “We just heard it on the news.”<br />
<br />
We went up to the roof but didn’t have a view of the World Trade Center from that building. We even climbed up on the ladder on the outside of the water tower to get another twenty feet higher. But we still couldn’t see the Trade Center. We were blocked by most of the tall buildings in and around Times Square. We couldn’t see anything downtown at first, no smoke, nothing.<br />
<br />
Some of the guys had a radio and heard reports that a plane hit the building. A lot of guys, including myself, were thinking it must have been a student pilot that flew out of Teterboro. A freak thing.<br />
Then we started to see smoke above the skyline. Now I’m thinking, “Holy shit. That must be a major fire.” Then I saw this flash, a bright orange fireball explode out to the east. It created a plume of smoke that shot straight out horizontally and then just disappeared. I figured the plane that had hit the building had blown up.<br />
<br />
Then I got word from someone that a second plane had hit the second tower. At that point, I knew something was up. I got a call on the cell phone from Jon Kraft, the general super on the job. At Bovis, the general superintendent is a formal title for the super in charge of a project worth over $60 million or more than a million square feet, and this job was that big. I was a superintendent working under the general super.<br />
<br />
He said, “Charlie, we’re evacuating the building. Something’s going on downtown.” I called my foremen and told them to tell everyone to leave, then I walked from the top down to make sure everyone was gone. I walked all the floors, went into all the mechanical rooms, went into all the machine rooms and checked, just in case there was a guy in there listening to headphones while he’s screwing a motor together or something. I found a couple of steamfitters having coffee and told them to get out.<br />
<br />
I still didn’t really know what was going on. I walked down the stairs, went into the operator’s shanty. In there were about twenty-five guys all staring at a television watching the second plane go into the South Tower.<br />
<br />
<em>Just south of Charlie Vitchers’s work site, another man was watching the same scene. His name was Bobby Gray.</em><br />
<em> </em><br />
Gray is an operating engineer, a crane operator. So is his older brother. So is his younger brother. His father was an operating engineer, as well. It’s a tradition; it’s in the blood.<br />
<br />
On September 11, 2001, Bobby Gray was perched in a crane fifty stories up, at a building site on the edge of Times Square. A member of Local 14 of the International Union of Operating Engineers, Gray is certified to operate virtually all heavy machinery, though for the last twenty years he has worked almost exclusively on the behemoth machines known as climbing cranes. He is a second-generation New Yorker. His father was born in Hell’s Kitchen and raised his family in Yonkers.<br />
Construction is a sophisticated business. The level of complexity involved in raising a seventy-story superstructure is staggering. One of the most important — and nerve-racking — jobs on a skyscraper build is that of crane operator. Gray will tell you it’s also the most fun. After all, Bobby Gray quit college because he felt more comfortable sitting on a piece of heavy machinery than sitting in anatomy class<br />
.<br />
Working with ironworkers, Bobby, as operating engineer, must ensure that each steel beam — and all other material too big or too heavy to go in the hoist — is raised safely to the top of the building and then set precisely into place. When the job is done well, no one notices — a building rises slowly on the horizon. When it is not, it becomes a headline. There is no margin for error; errors get people killed.<br />
<br />
At 8:45 A.M. that morning, as he maneuvered a bucket full of 31/2 cubic yards of concrete 600 feet in the air, a streak across the sky broke Gray’s concentration.<br />
<br />
<strong><big>Bobby Gray</big></strong><br />
On September 11, I was working just west of Times Square on 43rd Street and 8th Avenue, across the street from The New York Times building. The crane was at the top of the building, fifty stories, 500 or 600 feet, off the ground, what we call topped out, meaning we weren’t adding any more floors. The crane always sits higher than the building so the crane deck can swing around 360 degrees without obstruction. The boom of the crane reached up another couple of hundred feet.<br />
<br />
The night before there was a Monday night football game. I remember having maybe one beer too many and waking up a little bit later than I should have. I was supposed to be in the crane for a 6 o’clock start and I was running late.<br />
<br />
Going to work I remember thinking it was going to be a great sunrise — the sun came up at about 6:30 A.M. I usually wear boat shoes and shorts to work and then change, put my work shoes on, and climb up the crane. The morning of September 11, I didn’t have time to do that. I climbed the crane wearing a pair of deck shoes, a pair of shorts, a T-shirt, and a sweat shirt. It was my favorite weather. It was cool, kind of crisp, not a cloud in the sky. My younger brother, Michael, was also on a climber crane, maybe fifteen, twenty blocks away. I could see his crane clear as a bell.<br />
<br />
Then about 8:45 A.M. a jet flew over. I was like, “WOW! Holy shit, this guy is low! What’s he doing so low?” I had <em>never</em> seen a plane that low in Manhattan.<br />
<br />
I was lifting up a bucketful of concrete to pour a floor deck and turned back to pay attention to what I was doing. Then my girlfriend called me on the cell phone and told me a plane had hit the Towers. I had a regular AM/FM radio in the cab and I started listening. I put it on the PA system so everyone on the roof deck could hear. I looked out the window of the crane downtown. I could see about half of the North Tower and just a sliver of the South Tower behind it and could see the smoke pouring out. Because of my perspective, I wasn’t sure which building had been hit.<br />
<br />
At first they were reporting it was a small plane and for a few minutes I didn’t even put it together that the plane that hit the North Tower was the plane that flew right over us. Then everyone on the roof looked at each other and went, “Holy shit — that had to be the same plane.”<br />
<br />
We could all see the smoke pouring out and blowing to the east. That’s when the South Tower got hit. We could only see just a little bit of it, but we actually saw this fireball blowing out of the side of the South Tower. I thought that maybe something inside the North Tower had ignited and caused the fireball, maybe the plane hit the mechanical room and it caused some kind of explosion. We didn’t realize that another plane had come in from the south. And then of course that came in over the radio. And everybody was just stunned. Just absolutely stunned.<br />
<br />
<em>Gray’s assumption was correct. The plane that passed over his head was Flight 11. After taking off from Boston at 8:00 A.M., Flight 11 was hijacked en route to Los Angeles and turned south, roughly following the Hudson River toward New York, and entered air space above northern Manhattan, far uptown. Less than forty seconds later, tracking almost due south at nearly 500 miles per hour, the 767 passed over Times Square. Twenty seconds after Gray first saw the plane, it smashed into the façade of the North Tower. The nose of the plane entered the building at the ninety-fourth floor, more than 1,000 feet above the ground, and was swallowed up in a quarter of a second. Fourteen hundred people were working above the floor of impact. None would survive. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Seventeen minutes later, at 9:03, United Airlines Flight 175 similarly violated the South Tower, World Trade Center Two. Only forty-six minutes would pass between the moment of impact and that of collapse. Approximately 8,500 people were already at work in Tower Two. Of those who worked below the point of impact, the vast majority would survive. Above the point of impact, most would perish.<br />
<br />
The world watched with growing horror as billows of black smoke spread over downtown Manhattan. Soon flames could be seen in the furious clouds of ash. Debris and worse began to rain onto the plaza. In those early minutes, shock, paralysis, and fear gripped the country; such an abomination could not happen here.<br />
<br />
Stunned with incomprehension, New Yorkers struggled to react.<br />
<br />
<strong><big>Charlie Vitchers</big></strong><br />
<strong><big></big></strong><br />
I stared at that TV in disbelief. At first everybody on the site was stunned; nobody knew what to do.<br />
Port Authority was closing the bridges and tunnels. New York was shutting down. We sent home about 300 people — everybody who wasn’t on our Bovis payroll, all the subcontractors, electricians, steamfitters, carpenters, plumbers, and masons. The only people that stayed were a couple operating engineers we needed to run the hoists and our own staff of supervisors and laborers. Maybe a couple dozen people. The general super sent the whole project team into the main office on the third floor. Jim Abadie, a VP with Bovis, was going to get back to us at 1 o’clock to let us know who was staying and who could go home.<br />
<br />
Every fire truck…every police car was blowing like thunder downtown. The streets were just loaded with people walking. Hundreds of thousands of people not saying hardly a word, all heading in the same direction, all just getting out of New York City. There was no panic. People were just walking away.<br />
<br />
When I first saw the footage of the Towers on fire on TV, I didn’t know those buildings were going to come down. I thought the sprinkler system might extinguish the flames. But after seeing that fireball and knowing the construction of those buildings, there was no doubt in my mind that if the floors above started to collapse — they would be the first ones to go because of the heat — they would just drop down on top of each other. If every floor above the fire suddenly collapsed, there was no way that building was going to sustain the weight of all those floors collapsing from above.<br />
<br />
<strong><big>Bobby Gray</big></strong><br />
<strong><big></big></strong><br />
I climbed down from the crane and walked up 43rd Street into Times Square. They had a shot of the Towers on the big Jumbotron television and I saw the South Tower fall. Even with all my experience in construction, I never, never ever, <em>never ever</em> imagined it was going to fall.<br />
<br />
Some people were still going about their business — I don’t know if they didn’t know what had happened or what. I remember thinking of the casualties and almost not being able to breathe. Just to see it, the way it came down, knowing that place, having been there, having worked down there, I thought we had just lost 60,000 people.<br />
<br />
I was like most New Yorkers; the Trade Center was a place you knew. I worked Seven World Trade Center when it was being built, and then I worked on it for months and months and months on a rehab, which is when you refit floors or portions of a building for a new client, or have to lift and install new mechanical systems. I knew the underground PATH station and the shopping malls underneath there. When I worked in Battery Park City we used to go to a bar after work on the forty-fourth floor of one of the Towers. It was great because you could look out the window and see the job you were working on.<br />
<br />
That’s why I was thinking the number of casualties was going to be catastrophic, horrific. Core columns are denser and heavier and more robust than exterior columns because they carry the load of the building. I’ve worked with single columns that weighed more than 90 tons. There were massive, massive columns in the Towers and the destruction they would cause in a collapse would be horrible, which turned out to be true. They were rectangular, maybe four foot by a foot and a half, about two stories tall, and weighed 60 tons each. And there were hundreds of them.<br />
I walked back from Times Square. By this time the job was pretty much shut down. I grabbed my partner, Hughie Manley, and another guy, Dutch, and another engineer named Jerry. We all laced up and said, “We’re going downtown.”<br />
<br />
I wasn’t thinking about running cranes down there yet. I just knew they were going to need help, period. Especially once the North Tower collapsed.<br />
<br />
Once we started to walk downtown, we passed a building that had a cherry picker out front — a small mobile crane. One of the guys said, “Let’s hot-wire it.” I went up to a cop and asked, “Do you mind if we steal it and take it downtown?”<br />
<br />
He told us to go ahead, but then the contractor showed up and freaked out so we just kept walking. Down in Greenwich Village somewhere, I said, “Look, we better get something to eat because once we go in…There’s nothing there anymore.”<br />
<br />
I’ve always been laid back. I never tell anybody what to do or anything like that. But while we were sitting at this pizza place I said to every guy with me, “You really better think about whether you want to go in or not. You’re going to see things you’re going to remember the rest of your life.”<br />
I don’t know what compelled me to go, but I knew that I had to. I just wanted to help.<br />
<br />
It was a time of such chaos and indecision. I was single and didn’t have a family to worry about. My girlfriend Jo-Ann was in South Jersey and I couldn’t get there anyway. All I knew was that I had to go there and damned if I wasn’t. The cops weren’t going to stop me; no one was going to stop me.<br />
<br />
<strong><big>Charlie Vitchers</big></strong><br />
<strong><big></big></strong><br />
All of the people that I was with had already made up our minds: we were going downtown. But we were told to go back over to the St. Moritz and hang out and wait to hear from our boss at Bovis, Jim Abadie.<br />
<br />
About 1 o’clock Abadie called. Bovis was already working on a hotel near the Trade Center in Battery Park City, doing the final fit outs and finish work, getting ready for the grand opening in just a couple of weeks. Abadie wanted to know who was willing to go down to the Trade Center and help out. He said there was a bus for Bovis leaving from the Javits Center over by the Lincoln Tunnel, and for us to get down there, look for the group of Bovis guys, and then just follow whatever directions.<br />
I just grabbed my knapsack and said, “I’m ready, man. I’m out of here.”<br />
<br />
I walked over to the Javits Center but there was no bus. Nothing was set up yet. But everybody there was like “one for all, all for one,” and started walking downtown, either individually or with whatever group of guys they came with.<br />
<br />
I walked down West Street toward the Trade Center but the Military Police stopped me. They said, “You can’t go this way.”<br />
<br />
I go, “I’m with Bovis, I have my hardhat.”<br />
<br />
They said, “We don’t care who you’re with, you’re not going any farther.”<br />
<br />
So I said, okay, and started heading east where I ran into more MPs. By about 5 o’clock, I was about a quarter mile away from the Trade Center. I had a clear view down Washington Street of Building Seven, which was on the north edge of the site. All forty-seven stories were on fire. It was wild. The MPs said the building was going to collapse. I said, “Nah, I don’t know.” And then all of a sudden I watched the building shake like an earthquake hit it, and the building came down.<br />
<br />
And I just said, “Holy shit.”<br />
<br />
The MPs that had been there were no longer there. The demarcation line that was set up was gone. So I kept walking.<br />
<br />
I saw a guy with a Bovis hat that I didn’t know and he told me, “We’re supposed to meet here, we’re waiting for Jim Abadie.” By now, it’s around 7 o’clock. It was starting to get dark. I had spent six hours just walking the streets.<br />
<br />
Finally someone came down with Bovis letterhead stationery and cut out the letterhead, put it in a little plastic I.D. tag, passed them out and told us the Bovis trailer was set up at One World Financial Center, on the southwest corner of the site.<br />
<br />
“Try and get down there,” was what they told us.<br />
<br />
<em>All morning, all through the afternoon and into the evening, virtually the entire population of lower Manhattan streamed silently away from the Trade Center. Thousands of New Yorkers trudged northward, glancing back nervously to stare in disbelief at the growing cloud of smoke hanging over the city, wondering if there were still more attacks to come. The rest of the nation — indeed much of the world — huddled before their televisions, as coverage of the carnage looped again and again and again. </em><br />
<em></em><br />
Thousands, however, made their way in the opposite direction, pushing against the tide, dodging the hastily assembled security cordon. They were firemen and policemen, emergency services personnel, construction workers. And there were hundreds, perhaps thousands, of average citizens, driven by an innate need to do something, anything. To respond.<br />
<br />
What they found was devastation beyond comprehension. It was bedlam.<br />
<br />
<strong><big>Bobby Gray</big></strong><br />
<strong><big></big></strong><br />
Up around Greenwich Street, north of Chambers it was a mess. There were probably thousands of people there. You could hardly see. There was paper and dust on the streets, all the fallout from the collapse of the Towers.<br />
<br />
At the corner of Chambers and West Street, about a quarter mile north of the North Tower, the FDNY had set up a temporary command station under the pedestrian bridges — just a couple of fire trucks and some FDNY commanders. They were wearing white shirts and were surrounded by firefighters, so I knew they were in a position of authority. Down by the Trade Center, I could even see some columns from the Towers impaled in the ground.<br />
<br />
There was more chaos than control. People were frantic, but except for the fire radios, I remember it being pretty quiet. Firefighters were walking into the area from the Trade Center, covered with dust.<br />
I spotted Mike Marrone from Bovis Lend Lease. He had been the general super when I had worked on the Trump Tower, the tallest residential building in the world. He saw me and said, “Stick around. I’m going to need you.”<br />
<br />
Suddenly we saw firemen running and yelling, “Seven’s going to go, seven’s going to go!” Seconds later, Building Seven is gone.<br />
<br />
I watched the southeast corner of the roof kind of buckle and then the building came straight down. Clouds of dust rolled and blew down the side streets like a hurricane going horizontally. A lot of people ran. I couldn’t. I was standing on the street about two blocks away, frozen.<br />
<br />
<strong><big>Charlie Vitchers</big></strong><br />
<strong><big></big></strong><br />
When I finally got to the Trade Center my initial reaction was to see if I could find anybody alive. But instead I did my own walk-around assessment and went completely around the whole site. I couldn’t find Albany Street, where the Bovis trailer was. Nothing looked the same. I didn’t recognize anything south of Vesey Street. The bridge over West Street that connected the World Financial Center to the Trade Center was down. Steel columns — what we call “sticks” — from Tower One were impaled right in the middle of West Street, sticking 60 feet up out of the ground. Nothing was recognizable. Everything was just one big pile of debris and there was almost no ambient light, just a little from some emergency lights in buildings around the site and from police and fire vehicles on the perimeter. You couldn’t even tell where the open plaza was that had been between the two Towers. It just didn’t really seem real. I just walked around and said, “Where the hell am I?”<br />
<br />
Firemen were already up on the pile. There were thousands of people there, bucket brigades with a couple hundred people in them snaking all over the place.<br />
<br />
I tried to find Albany Street because I knew where the 1010 Firehouse was from working down there. But I couldn’t find it. I mean it was there, but I couldn’t find it. On Liberty Street I saw a taxi cab completely covered with debris, impaled with stone and steel from the Tower. Half of the front was crushed into the debris pile. The rear end of the taxi was sticking up in the air and the left tail light was blinking.<br />
<br />
And the smoke. You couldn’t see your hand in front of your face. The wind would blow and all of a sudden you’d be in a cloud of dust and smoke, you’d have to stop and crouch down low to figure out where the hell you were walking.<br />
<br />
When night fell, it was totally disorienting, eerie. It was like looking at downtown Manhattan in a blackout.<br />
<br />
There were no streetlights.<br />
<br />
There was nothing.<br />
<br />
<small>Copyright © 2006 by Glenn Stout</small>Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-43777631542123624582016-09-02T09:50:00.002-07:002016-09-02T09:50:20.168-07:00One Swing: From Big Pfft to Big Papi<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">(This column appeared in the July edition of Boston Baseball)</span></div>
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<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">They say
success has a thousand fathers and failure is in orphan, so I guess it makes
sense now that everyone claims Big Papi as their own flesh and blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ortiz came to the Red Sox as a free agent in 2003,
absolutely unheralded, one of about eight or ten players thrown up against the
lineup card on the dugout wall to fill the club’s DH slot, but at the time he
was hardly the consensus pick – guys like Jeremy Giambi, Shea Hillenbrand and a
host of others that spring seemed more likely to stick. Ortiz did not win the
job so much as it fell to him in May through the failures of just about
everyone else, particularly when the first ever round of PED testing began to
winnow the field. If he hadn’t started hitting the Sox might have let their
pitchers bat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Of
course, we all know now what happened next.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Ortiz didn’t just hit, but that summer hit like he had never hit before.
And ever since then a lot of those fathers have boasted their DNA made the
difference. Theo Epstein, Grady Little, Josh Byrnes, Dave Jauss, Bill James,
and any other number of scouts and lesser known number crunchers have claimed
clairvoyance in anticipating that Ortiz was destined to become something akin
to the second coming of Yaz, Ted Williams, and the Bambino. Wisely, these thousand
fathers have since forgotten their advocacy of guys like Giambi, Hillenbrand and
the other orphans they abandoned on the curb. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Well,
the fact is that in reality no one saw anything because, well, there was
nothing there to see. In parts of six seasons with the Twins, covering 52 at
bats at Fenway Park, Big Papi was more like Big Pfft. He collected only 11
hits, his batting average a paltry .212, with, ahem, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">19 strikeouts.</i> A small sample size, to be sure, but not entirely
insignificant.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Ah, but
the power!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That’s what they must have
seen, right?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Papi probably knocked a lot
of seat backs out in those 11 hits, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Uh …
no.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From the start of his big league
career in 1997 thru 2002, before joing the Red Sox Big Pfft hit (drum roll,
please) …. ONE home run at Fenway Park.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">That solitary
dinger came on September 7, 2000, as the Sox desperately (not really) tried to
catch the Yankees and keep pace with Cleveland for the wild card berth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You might recall that the Sox, under Jimy
Williams and Dan Duquette, conceded the division title to the Yankees on
September 11 that year and started playing rookies, only to see New York win
only three of their last 18 games. Boston then finished only two and a half games
out, missing out on a division title theirs for the taking. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Ramon
Martinez pitched for the Sox that September afternoon, and Pedro’s older
brother was not enjoying his sibling’s success. In fact, he often couldn’t get
out of the first inning. In his previous four starts he had given up TWO
first-inning grand slams.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">This day
was no different.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No major league
pitcher had ever given up three first-inning grand slams in a season before,
and Martinez took aim at the record from the start, opening the contest by
giving up singles to Jay Canizaro, Cristian Guzman, and Matt Lawton, legends
all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next came Ron Coomer, who folded
under the pressure of sending Ramon to Cooperstown and struck out.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Up came
Big Pfft, his Mighty Casey moment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Martinez
managed to throw four pitches that stayed in the park, bringing the count to
2-2, before reaching for immortality.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
next pitch was a fastball, belt high, tailing back over the plate. Ortiz swung
and the ball sailed high and far, landing about 390 feet from home, three rows
deep in the right field belly, Sox outfielder Darren Lewis tumbling into the
crowd as he tried to make the catch. Yet when recently asked about it by a
colleague, Ortiz drew a big fat blank. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Huh?</i>
Even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he</i> doesn’t remember it. But on
that day, Big Pfft became Big Papi in Fenway Park for the first time, a blast
which not only set a record for Ramon, but was also the first grand slam in
Ortiz’s career.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Somewhat
improbably, Martinez gave up yet another home run, this time to Corey Koskie,
putting the Twins up 5-0. Then, his place in history secure, Ramon retired 16
of the next 17 hitters. The Sox stormed back and he left the mound to a
standing ovation as Boston went on to win, 11-6.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">And Big
Papi? Certainly, now that he found his range in Fenway, he must have struck
fear in the hearts of Boston pitchers. That’s the reason the Sox plucked him from
the scrap heap after the Twins released him following the 2002 season, right?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Nah. Papi
went hitless the rest of the game and started something of a streak
himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After that first inning home
run, until he stepped in the batter’s box as a member of the Red Sox three
years later, in his next 25 at bats as a visitor in Fenway, he was back to being
Big Pfft.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">He
collected only one more hit at Fenway Park, and in 2002 struck out in 8 of 11
appearances, his worst record, by far, in any ballpark over that time period.
Then, in 2003, he put on a Boston uniform and something miraculously and
magically changed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Must
have been that dirty water.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">Glenn Stout’s latest book i</span></i><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif";">s The Selling of the Babe. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">See www.glennstout.net.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-4439905861922327372016-05-10T04:35:00.001-07:002016-05-10T04:35:16.303-07:00GAME OVER(<em>from 2003)</em><br />
<em></em><br />
Funny, how this game grows on you.<br />
<br />
This spring I followed in a long tradition of paternal guilt and helped coach my daughter’s seven and eight-year-old softball team, although I’m not sure if either “coach” or “softball” were the right words, at least at the beginning. But there was no question about one thing; those girls were definitely seven and eight-years-old.<br />
<br />
I realized this immediately at our first practice. For the first time ever, I was surrounded by players who had longer hair than I did and wore butterfly earrings and sparkly sneakers. Two, maybe three, put the glove on the correct hand every single time and held the bat with the knob end down. These were obviously our “cagey veterans.” Another tip off was that these grizzled few chewed bubble gum, wore braids and didn’t have to ask what a shortstop was.<br />
<br />
For some reason, in our town little girls bat against live pitching (thrown by the coaches), whereas the boys, with their delicate constitutions and big league dreams, hit off a tee.<br />
<br />
I was sure this spelled disaster. After all, I had spent the spring pitching to my daughter and then picking up the ball after she missed it and ran around the bases anyway. The kid can read Harry Potter like a fiend but thrown objects seemed like something from another planet.<br />
<br />
But that first day she dug in and swung at the first pitch and hit the enormous bright yellow ball with all her might – directly into her face.<br />
<br />
A scream, then tears, and, I was certain, psychological damage that would someday cost me thousands. But then a funny thing happened. Peer pressure. She got back in and that was the only time all year a tear was spilled on the field. Well, almost.<br />
<br />
After a few “practices” (although it was really impossible to call them that since practice denotes improvement), the big day arrived. Uniforms! And a parade!<br />
<br />
Up until then the girls spent most of their time standing around looking bored and waiting for a ball (“Please, God”) to be hit. But put uniforms on them and march them in a parade and the real goal, giggles, start right up. I canceled the time-share for the psychiatric couch.<br />
<br />
Then the games began. Everybody bats and plays all over the place and when the last batter hits, everybody gets to race around the bases, which all they really want to do anyway. No one keeps score – a good thing – since not even Bill James can add that fast.<br />
<br />
But even when you are seven and eight-years-old, you get up for the game. In practice, no one had ever fielded a ball and thrown a runner out. On the rare occasion when both fielding and throwing took place, the rest of the equation, a never before seen skill called “catching” was also required. I figured the odds of all three happening in succession, at the right base, before the runner got there, were about on par with the Red Sox winning the World Series.<br />
<br />
This too, may now be a possibility. For in the heat of the game, these little girls who couldn’t run, catch, throw, field, hit or hit with power, all had the that unspoken sixth tool, the really big one that makes the all others seem really dumb. They played. And then they made the plays, hitting, fielding, catching, and throwing, just like real players.<br />
<br />
Okay, not very often, but often enough so at the end of the first three-inning game, which only took approximately seventeen hours during a driving rainstorm while I tried to stay upright and awake, my daughter said, “Daddy, that game seemed like it only took a minute.”<br />
<br />
She was right, of course, because when you are seven and having fun and cheering and running around the bases and wearing a uniform and BEAMING every time you do something right, like stop at first base, time does fly. That’s what happens when you PLAY ball, which is something each one of these kids could do better from the start than any of us could have hoped to teach them.<br />
<br />
But we were moving away and had to miss the last week of the season. That made me sad, because I liked seeing all those smiley faces and tying all those shoes and making bad jokes while giving everybody “high-fives” from the coach’s box. And along the way every single time they played they all got better and even better than that, had more fun.<br />
<br />
It wasn’t until after our last game that anyone cried again. The girls knew we were leaving and somebody made a cake and brought brownies and soda and all the girls signed one of those big yellow softballs in their very best handwriting and gave it to me.<br />
<br />
I was afraid my daughter might start bawling, but she had fun to the end, giggling and still playing while saying goodbye to friends she would never see again, little girls that I will never, ever forget.<br />
<br />
I didn’t let them see, but the only tears were mine.Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-24626192938478047262016-05-09T09:37:00.003-07:002016-05-16T04:58:40.621-07:00Save: Baseball<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">by Glenn Stout</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">(From Boston Baseball May 2016)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It is a balm, it is a salve, it can save.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">This is what baseball does.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When we need it most, when there is pain, or
fear, or even just loneliness, there is baseball, always baseball.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">April to October, it is the best friend on the other
end of the phone, across the table, at the other end of the couch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s that letter in the mailbox, the email
from the past, the text, the call from someone forgotten that says “Watcha
doing? Wanna hang out? Why don’t ya come over? We can watch the game.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">When everything else is overwrought and overbearing,
baseball is not. Baseball is quiet, even in the cheering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the world is fast, when the clock spins
too quickly and life careens out of control, baseball just unfolds. It lolls on
the ground, warms up and plays catch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It
steps out of the box, looks around, paces, shakes off a sign, knocks dirt from
its shoes, adjusts its cap, claps its hand and spits, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>waves to the pen, checks the infielders, puts a
hand up to call time, takes a deep breath, steps off and re-sets. And when the
world is slow, when days and hours drag, baseball marks time, starts with
infinity, jogs to position, plays pepper, shags flies, turns two, chases after fungoes,
makes the lineup, throws through, goes around the horn, plays ball, bears down.
It fills the scorebook, the line score, moving station to station, pitch by
pitch, strikes and balls and interminable fouls, station to station, one base
at a time, the lineup turning over, the innings adding up, the shadow moving
across the diamond, 27 ticks to a side until it ends in a score, a result, a
win or a loss and then, the instant it is tallied, baseball starts again.
Tomorrow is the next starting pitcher and no matter what, the game starts out as
a tie, the tally 0-0, and anything can happen. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It lives at night, in the air, on the dial, on
cables’ upper channels, in black and white and color, and in the minds’ eye,
memory, always glorious and green. It’s there in the morning, in the paper, on
the screen, hidden in the box score, whispering from the crawl at the bottom of
the screen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Sometimes it stays up late, talking, shuffling
cards, playing solitaire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It takes a
nap, follows the sun, chases the seasons, stops for naps, stirs, then gets up
for a sandwich. It lets you talk, allows attention to slip, puts up with
conversation, with a kid on your lap, a dog at your feet, ice cream on your
chin, with a warm beer, with sunburn, with the lawn being mowed, the grill
firing up, the sun setting low and the fire flies flashing. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It pops cups in the stands, mouths out the anthem,
catches the peanuts, and razzes the ump. It speaks Spanish on one side,
Japanese on another, a mother, a father, a sister, a brother, a slide and a
scuffle, a catcall, a curse, a slur and a cheer.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">It sits in the library, in yearbooks and guides, tablets
and programs, newsprint and gamers, in clips and on cards, in a box in the
basement, a shelf on the wall, a ball in the glove and a bat in the corner. Blood
on the elbow, grass on the knee, dirt on your hands and gum on your cap. It
smells like pine tar and popcorn, hot dogs and home, neatsfoot and leather,
horsehide and dirt, fastballs and curves. It’s a sore arm, a stinger, a
strawberry, or a scrape, a Charley horse or scar.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Hold it in your hand, it holds you right back and
never lets go.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: "times new roman" , "serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Glenn
Stout is an author and editor. His website is www.glennstout.net<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-75766023071115610412015-04-14T10:27:00.000-07:002015-04-14T10:27:15.692-07:00Waiting for It ... or What the Dog Dragged In
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
I’m waiting to see it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>We’ve all been waiting to see it.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
I’ve been looking most of the last month, really.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every time I get in the car, I look for it.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
Oh, I can hear it sometimes, on the radio, when the weather
is right and the station comes in and I remember that it’s on, and I’ve been
able to see it on TV a few times while channel surfing, from Florida.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve even been able to read about it in the
papers and online, Big Papi popping off, phenoms being sent down, bad elbows
being sent to Dr. Andrews.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But I haven’t
found it yet myself, not in person.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
Baseball. </div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
It usually doesn’t hide this long.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ve always seen it by now, a least a little
bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A knit hat exchanged for a ball cap,
a Carhartt coat for a windbreaker, a kid throwing a whiffle ball instead of a
snowball, a boy walking down the street with a bat on his shoulder.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
Not this year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s
April 1 as I write this, April Fool’s Day, but believe me, this is no
joke.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The ground outside is still frozen,
four, maybe five feet down, frost so deep my neighbor’s well froze up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There’s still snow on the ground and the sap
in the maples has just started running.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’ve yet to see a single robin and the puppy we got last fall, which is
now almost fully grown, looks at the stray chickadee like he’s never seen a bird
before because, well, he sort of hasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Southern New England got the snow, northern New England the cold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One day this winter, my truck froze fast to
the ground. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I think the snowplow is permanently
rusted on. I ran out of wood for the stove last night and when I saw a
half-dozen wood bats leaned up in the corner of my basement, I swear my first
thought was “kindling.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
I drove by the school the other day up here, past the
ballfield where I used to coach Little League, but no one was on it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mud season hasn’t even started yet, much less
baseball season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>People are still skiing
every weekend and skating, and it’s only been the last week that they finally
stopped driving across the lake to ice fish. Hockey leads off the nightly news.
Hot dogs?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hamburgers? Popcorn? Grilling?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Are you kidding? We’re still making pea soup,
chili and stew, drinking more whiskey than beer, and buying chain saw oil instead
of sun block.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
I even went south, six weeks ago, to Florida to see my
daughter in school and couldn’t even find it there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Spring training hadn’t really started and
even though it was 70 degrees warmer than here, it was still jacket weather.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t remember a year like this before, or
a spring, and I’m old enough now that when I say that, it means something.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
Last year seems so far off I can’t remember it anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Who did Jon Lester sign with, anyway?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wasn’t he supposed to come back? Does Boston
have a third baseman yet? Did the manager get fired? Is Dustin Pedroia still
hurt? Why is Derek Jeter not playing shortstop for the Yankees? Where did the Sox
finish, anyway, first place, or last?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Damned if I know.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
I haven’t seen a Street and Smith’s at the drugstore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No pennants for sale at the Dollar General.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No six-year-old boys in “Little Slugger”
jackets. No packs of baseball cards.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
pink hats.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
So today I bundle up, down vest under leather jacket, wool gloves
and knit alpaca hat, and take the dogs for a walk across the frozen
tundra.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s all new to the little one,
and he ruffles in the weeds beneath the trees, sniffing out smells and getting
burrs stuck to his snout.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then he
suddenly takes off, something hanging from his mouth, something he knows he
shouldn’t have which is why he wants it, and we’re off. We tear through the
back yard, him playing a game and me hollering and getting madder, figuring
he’s found a dead mouse or part of rabbit or something else that didn’t survive
the winter, up and around the garden and the house, through the pines and
sumac, until he finally drops it and runs away to find something else, tongue
hanging out pink and happy.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
I go to see what it is. It’s mostly round, sort of gray, damp
and heavy, kind of stringy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then I see
them, dim red stitches, and a flap of loose leather. Something lost some summer
a long time ago, and now, at last, found in spring.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
I pick it up, and there it is again. Baseball.</div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glenn Stout is
Longform Editor of </i>SB Nation<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> and
author of Fenway 1912. He lives in Vermont and is still freezing his ass off</i>.
@GlennStout</div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-36179830650318676442014-04-04T11:35:00.000-07:002014-04-04T11:35:38.081-07:00The First Game<br />
<h2 class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
THE FIRST GAME</h2>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
by Glenn Stout</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqE3rhav3s3xC-qrrqpsDIznw_k6KPpruPLzWthAS_xgujQChsUwhd11dIh0hW6AFcqY8EPZeG-1EmwVgZ0ErcWcA-YCb0I7eUUO3_4BGIHD-PSNh88NeBXFOsI79yKCHS5HtOAqBHc26Z/s1600/Jet+Badge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqE3rhav3s3xC-qrrqpsDIznw_k6KPpruPLzWthAS_xgujQChsUwhd11dIh0hW6AFcqY8EPZeG-1EmwVgZ0ErcWcA-YCb0I7eUUO3_4BGIHD-PSNh88NeBXFOsI79yKCHS5HtOAqBHc26Z/s1600/Jet+Badge.jpg" /></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I don’t remember the score. That’s the funny thing about
your first big league game -- the score is usually the least important thing
about it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I grew up outside Columbus, Ohio, at a time when trips to
big league towns like Cincinnati or Cleveland were long journeys far beyond the
family budget. But Columbus had the Triple-A Columbus Jets of the International
League, a farm team of the Pittsburgh Pirates, and that usually made up for it.
We’d go a half a dozen or so times a year – if you were under 12 you could buy
a “Jet Badge” for $1 that got you in free with an adult, not a bad deal. The
Jets were almost always good – I remember seeing Richie Hebner, Fred Patek, Manny
Sanguillen, Bob Robertson, Dave Cash, Al Oliver and a host of other players who
went on to pretty good major league careers. Johnny Pesky even spent a few
years there as manager in the late ‘60s.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">We usually sat in general admission seats, but the man who
owned the concrete company my Dad worked for, Ralph Anderson, was also
president of the Jets. He liked my Dad, and once a year we got to sit in his
box on the roof. There was nothing “luxury” about it but the view – lux boxes
had yet to be invented. It was a simple wood box with a window covered with
chicken wire to keep you safe from foul balls.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Still, it wasn’t the big leagues, and by the time I turned
10 my parents knew that, eventually, they were gonna have to take the kid to a
real ballgame.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Back then, most major league teams still barnstormed their
way north, playing exhibitions as they travelled. Sometime late that winter an
ad appeared in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Columbus Dispatch</i>
announcing an exhibition between the Reds and Detroit Tigers just before
Opening Day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To this day, I don’t know exactly how it happened, but
somehow my Dad scored four tickets. Not just any four tickets, either, but four
tickets in the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">third row behind the
Tigers dugout</i>, enough for the entire family. I almost wore the tickets out,
looking at them ahead of time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It didn’t matter that it was an exhibition game and even
then I already hated the Reds – these were <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">major
league players</i> whose names I already knew – Rose, Perez, Lee May, and a
catcher named Johnny Bench who was the Rookie of the Year in ’68, a team that would
soon be known as the Big Red Machine. And the Tigers, my Dad’s favorite team, were
Word Series defending champions – Bill Freehan, Dick McAuliffe, Norm Cash,
Denny McClain, Mickey Lolich and my Dad’s favorite, Al Kaline.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">In a surprise, it was warm that day, and sunny, and for once
we went early, hours before the game, to try to get autographs and watch batting
practice. I’d never been able to do either before, but damned if some of the
Tigers didn’t come out of the dugout to sign, and while roaming under the
stands my brother and I kept running into players. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Most were nice, and even when they weren’t, they were
memorable. I saw Tony Perez speaking to someone in Spanish, a language I don’t
think I had ever heard before. I interrupted, and asked him for his autograph.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">He turned and looked at me – a real live major leaguer
looking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> in the eye. And then he
spoke, saying something else I’d never heard before: “Go f*** <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>yourself, kid.” Some language is universal,
and I got the message.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It didn’t matter. Everyone was in a good mood. I got to eat
as many hot dogs and “Jet Bars” – orange Creamsicles – as I could. Even my
mother had fun, laughing herself to tears as an older woman behind us got drunk
and spent the whole game thinking the Tigers were the Red.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I can’t remember who pitched
for either team – probably some minor leaguers, because the Reds opened the
next day in Cincinnati and Detroit at home a day later. But I do remember Al Kaline
hitting a home run – someplace, we have a slide of him slowly running the bases
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>– <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and at one point in the game Willie Horton came
out of the dugout and handed out both parts of a broken bat – some kids on either
side both had longer reaches than I did, so I missed out. And after the game,
we gathered around the buses carrying member of both teams, passed them our
scorecards and both came back covered with signatures, Kaline and Freehan, Cash
and McLain, Horton and Lolich, and Bench, Rose, Gary Nolan, Lee May -<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>even my new language instructor, Tony Perez.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So who won that day? That’s easy…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I did.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> <em>This column first appeared in Boston Baseball, April 2014</em></span></o:p></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-81365510922739314052013-10-30T05:32:00.000-07:002013-11-07T07:38:25.640-08:00The WORST World Series: 1918<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<o:p></o:p> </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Before the start
of the 1918 "Worlds Series" there was joy in Boston and Chicago, but little
interest elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Due to the war in
Europe many baseball fans viewed each team with cynicism, ballclubs that
crassly tried to buy pennants with cash with players who dodged military
service while their countrymen gave their lives on the battlefield.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Still, the Cubs
were a powerhouse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anchored by Jim
“Hippo” Vaughn, the Cubs had the best pitching in the National League and were
no less successful in the batter’s box, featuring a lineup that feasted in
war-depleted pitching staffs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite
the presence of players like Babe Ruth on the Boston roster, most observers,
like Red Sox partisan Paul Shannon of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston
Post</i>, gave the edge to the Cubs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Shannon was right.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Cubs <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">should
</i>have won the 1918 World Series.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
as modern observers know, in regard to the Cubs, “should win” and “won” are not
part of the same language.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Although
virtually everything tilted the Cubs way, it would not be enough.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They would squander every advantage,
beginning with their home field edge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>With the series scheduled to begin with three games in Chicago, Cubs ownership
got greedy and asked the White Sox for permission to use Comiskey Park rather
than Weeghman Park due to its larger seating capacity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both the home field advantage and the
offensive advantage they gained from their home park were gone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Both clubs had
plenty of time to prepare and set their pitching rotation for the series did
not begin until September 4, almost a week after the end of the war-shortened
regular season.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The big surprise
in game one was that the Sox chose to start Babe Ruth on the mound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’d won only 13 games in 1918 and the smart
money believed the Cubs were much better against left-handed pitching.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But Ruth had been Boston’s best pitcher down
the stretch and due to Ruth’s recent trouble hitting left-handers, Sox manager
Ed Barrow didn’t intend to use him in the Series in the outfield.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead he decided to go with minor league
journeyman – and right-handed hitter – George Whiteman.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Neither Hippo Vaughn
nor Ruth was sharp at the start of game one, but neither team scored until <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the fourth inning, when Boston finally broke
through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dave Shean walked, and after a
botched sacrifice attempt, George Whiteman and first baseman Stuffy McInnis
both singled, scoring Sheen and giving Boston a 1-0 lead.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
In a contest the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tribune</i> termed “monotonous,” that was
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Cubs mounted a mild threat in
the sixth, only to have Whiteman end the rally with a running catch to secure
Boston’s 1-0 victory.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Game two was far
more engaging as Cubs coach Otto Knabe provided the entertainment, taunting Red
Sox coach Heinie Wagner.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After <st1:city w:st="on">Boston</st1:city> went down in the second inning, instead of
returning to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Boston</st1:city></st1:place>
bench, Wagner came looking for Knabe.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Before anyone
realized what was happening, Wagner was in the Cub dugout throwing
haymakers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Cubs folded in over the
two men before Boston‘s reinforcements could cut across the diamond and come to
Wagner’s rescue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After some delay,
Wagner emerged muddied but not bloodied from the confrontation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Baseball
Magazine</i> later reported that “fans who could see it [the fight] declared
that when they heard two Germans were fighting, they merely encouraged them to
beat each other up.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The battle did
ratchet up the intensity of the Series, and the rest of game two was played as
if baseball were a contact sport.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the
<st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Chicago</st1:city></st1:place> third,
the Cubs broke through against Sox pitcher Joe Bush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With one out, Freed Merkle walked, and then
Charlie Pick laid down a bunt and beat the throw to first.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Third baseman Charlie Deal popped up a failed
bunt attempt, but Bill Killefer proceeded to double to score one run and then
Tyler helped himself, driving a single to center that scored Pick and Killefer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:city w:st="on">Boston</st1:city>
threatened in the ninth when Strunk and Whiteman hit back-to-back triples, but <st1:city w:st="on">Tyler</st1:city> held on for the 3-1 win as Ruth stayed on the <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city> bench and the Cubs
knotted the Series.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
A victory in game
three was critical for <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Chicago</st1:city></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Manager Fred Mitchell brought back Vaughn on
one day’s rest, while Boston countered with submariner Carl Mays.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Vaughn pitched
well, but Mays was even better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the
fourth <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Boston</st1:place></st1:city>
scratched across two runs after Vaughn hit Whiteman and the Red Sox added four
singles, not one of which was hit hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Chicago’s best chance came in the bottom of the inning when Dode Paskert
nearly hit a home run only to have George Whiteman, Boston’s best player in the
Series, grab the ball out of the front row.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The Cubs scored one run in the fifth on a couple of hits, but May
stopped them after that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Red Sox
won, 2-1.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
A few hours later,
at eight o’clock, both teams boarded the same train for the twenty-seven hour
trip to Boston.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Normally, the two clubs
would have had little to do with one another, particularly after the bad blood
in game two, but the long journey caused tempers to cool and players from both
clubs finally had a chance to look over some documents distributed by the
National Commission.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time they
reached Boston they were spitting blood.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Baseball’s ruling National Commission had changed the distribution of
World Series money.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Each team was playing
for a whole lot less than they thought they were.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Before 1918 the
players had shared 60% of Series receipts but in 1918, the Commission, acting
on behalf of the owners, changed the distribution to only 55.75% of the
receipts, and then only from the first four games.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That amount would also be shared with the players
on the teams that finished second, third and fourth and players would be forced
to “donate” another ten percent to war charities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>By the time the two team reached Boston the
player of both teams were united and talking about going on strike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The next morning player representatives told
the commission that they had no intention of playing and requested a formal
meeting to air their grievances.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were
put off and reluctantly decided to play game four.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The Cubs, in
particular, had reason to play.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
night before, as the train chugged its way into Boston, schedule game four
starter Babe Ruth had decided to have a little fun punching out straw hats on
the train.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Ruth either
miscalculated or punched through a hat and straight into the steel wall of the
train, or else someone resisted and Ruth responded with a real swing that
missed its target and lost a battle with that same wall. The result was that the
middle finger of Ruth’s pitching hand was swollen to twice its normal
size.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If he was hampered by the finger,
or couldn’t pitch at all, the advantage tilted toward the Cubs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Ruth had the
finger drained but convinced Barrow he could pitch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He started the game with the finger stained
with iodine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He could pitch,
but just barely.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately for the
Cubs, Boston’s defense kept bailing him out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Then in the fourth, after Cubs pitcher Lefty Tyler walked Shean and
Whiteman, Ruth came up with two outs.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He fell behind 3-0
then watched two strikes pass by as if he realized he had only one good swing
left and was determined to wait for the perfect pitch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
He got it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston Post</i> reporter Paul Shannon wrote,
“A report like a rifle shot rang through the park.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twenty-five thousands rose as one man, and
while the bleachers shrieked in ecstasy, the Cubs right fielder [Flack] taken
unawares dashed madly for the center field stands.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shean and Whiteman scored easily and Ruth
slid into third for a triple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Boston</st1:city></st1:place> led, 2-0.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
But Ruth still
wasn’t right and in the top of the eighth, the Cubs finally got to him, tying
the game and ending Ruth’s scoreless inning streak in Series at 29 2/3 innings.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Cubs’ pitcher Phil
Douglas took over for Tyler in the eighth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Boston catcher Wally Schang led off with a single and advanced to second
when a Douglas pitch got away from catcher Bill Killefer.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harry Hooper then laid down a bunt, which
Douglas fielded and promptly threw away, and Schang came around with the winning
run.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Sox hung on and now the Cubs
trailed in the Series three games to one.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
As soon as the
game ended, however, the players again took up their grievance with the
National Commission.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harry Hooper,
Heinie Wagner, Leslie Mann and Bill Killefer, went together to the Copley
Plaza. Once again the Commission brushed them off like piece of lint.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Later
that evening, however, they decided to try to meet once more with the
commission the next morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unless the
issue was resolved, they were determined not to play game five.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
By this time word
of the snafu was becoming public knowledge.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The press was four-square on the side of management – the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Chicago Daily Journal</i> referred to the
players as the “bolsheveki of baseball.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The next morning
the team of revolutionaries went to the <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:placename w:st="on">Copley</st1:placename> <st1:placetype w:st="on">Plaza</st1:placetype></st1:place>
once again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Commission again sent
them away, saying they could all meet again after game five.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
The players knew
better.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If Boston won game five, the
point was moot - the Series would be over and there would be no meeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The representatives went to the ballpark and
explained the situation to players of both teams.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They were all in agreement. As far as they
were concerned, there would be no game five.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Meanwhile, the
commission celebrated their victory over the players in the bar of the Copley
Plaza.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But as game time approached and
some twenty thousand fans began to pour into Fenway Park, the players remained
in the clubhouse, on strike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the
Commission found out they gulped down one last drink and hustled over to the
ballpark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 2:45 the commissioners met
Hooper, Dave Shean, Mann and Killefer in the umpire’s room as a handful of
sportswriters squeezed in behind them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The players were ready for a sober discussion of the issues.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The commission was incapable of having a
sober discussion about anything.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
American League
president Ban Johnson, drunk and in tears, was in no condition to negotiate
anything.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He played the patriotic card,
imploring the players to take the field for “the soldiers in the stands,” some
of whom were, in fact, now on the field, pressed into service to try to prevent
the crowd from rioting.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Reporter Nick
Flately of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Boston American</i>
captured the tone perfectly in his story about the meeting.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>According to his description, Commissioner Gerry
Hermann piped in, saying, “’Let’s arbitrary this matter Mister Johnson,’ then
he launched forth into a brilliant exposition of the history of baseball’s
governing board.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Expert reporters took
notes for a while, then quit, befuddled.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
So did the
players.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was no sense arguing with
three men who were seeing double and slurring every word.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boston Mayor John Fitzgerald, president
Kennedy’s grandfather, took the field and announced to the crowd that the
players “have agreed to play for the sake of the public and the wounded players
in the stands.”<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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The crowd booed
lustily, and when the players took the field they fielded insults from every
direction. Some fans just left, disgusted.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
Then came the
game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Boston fans took their anger over
the strike out on the Red Sox, cheering Cub pitcher Hippo Vaughn the whole
game, and the Red Sox responded by making outs early and often.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Cubs scored a run in the second and two
in the eighth, and just over one hour and forty minutes after it started, game
five was history.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Cubs won, 3-0 and
trailed the Red Sox three games to two.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The <st1:city w:st="on">Chicago</st1:city> press thought it was a great
game while <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Boston</st1:city></st1:place>
sports writers were less impressed and all but wrote that the Red Sox had
played to lose.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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The end result was
that no one cared anymore who won Series anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The strike, which the public didn’t understand,
soured the public on the Series.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><st1:placename w:st="on">Fenway</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Park</st1:placetype> was only half full on the
afternoon of September 11 when <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Tyler</st1:city></st1:place>,
on one days’ rest, squared off opposite Carl Mays.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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There was little
glory for the Cubs or anyone else not named George Whiteman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The journeyman hit a line drive in the second
that scored two runs and in the eighth inning made a tumbling catch to save the
game.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He left the field to a rousing
ovation with a wrenched neck as Ruth trotted out as a meaningless defensive
replacement.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One inning later the Boston
Red Sox were champions of the world and the Cubs looked to next year. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most fans yawned at the result.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> There was only a small subdued on field celebration by the Red Sox as a few hundred die-hard cheered them on. </span>By the end of the series only a few dozen
fans were showing up on the streets outside the Chicago newspaper office to
watch the game being replayed on the big board.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Daily Journal</i> reported
glumly that “interest was plainly at zero…baseball is not an essential during a
time of war.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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George Whiteman,
not Ruth, was heralded as the hero of the Series.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The right-handed hitter had feasted on <st1:city w:st="on"><st1:place w:st="on">Tyler</st1:place></st1:city> and Vaughn while
catching everything hit in his direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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Depending on which
newspaper one believed, the Cubs earned either $574.62 or $671.09 each, while
the champion Red Sox took in $1001.52, and each still had to donate a portion to
the war charities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both figures were the
lowest in Series history, as was the total of nineteen runs scored in the
Series, ten by the Cubs and only nine for <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Boston</st1:city></st1:place>.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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Perhaps the worst
World Series in history was over.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Baseball took punitive action against the players over the strike and withheld their World Series medallions, the equivalent of today's rings, until 1993. </span>At the
time no one could envision that decades later Boston fans would look back on it
with nostalgia, for the Red Sox would go 86 years before winning another
championship and that Cubs fans, who are still waiting, would one day look back
at 1918 as one of the first of many lost opportunities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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Within days after
ended it ended it was almost as if the Series had not been played at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soldiers returning from Europe carried with
them Spanish influenza and a few days after the Series scores of people began
dying in Boston as the pandemic took hold.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Among its victims would be Series umpire Silk O’Loughlin, and several <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Boston</st1:city></st1:place> sports writers who
covered the Series.<o:p></o:p></div>
<br />
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The disease spread
rapidly to <st1:city w:st="on">Chicago</st1:city>, probably due to the return
of soldiers to the <st1:placename w:st="on">Great Lakes</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Naval</st1:placename> <st1:placename w:st="on">Training</st1:placename>
<st1:placetype w:st="on">Center</st1:placetype>, or, perhaps, by fans,
sportswriters and players returning to <st1:city w:st="on">Chicago</st1:city>
from <st1:place w:st="on"><st1:city w:st="on">Boston</st1:city></st1:place>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In October alone more than ten thousand
Chicagoans would die of the disease, and by the time the pandemic finally ended
in the spring of 1919, more than a half million Americans were dead, 20,000 in Chicago and another 6,000 in Boston.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
There was some
good news, however.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On November 11, the
Great War came to an end. In 1919 baseball would soon return to normal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Unfortunately for the Red Sox and Cubs, “normal” no longer
meant what it once did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Another World Series victory would prove elusive for both teams</span>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><em>Adapted from Red Sox Century and The Cubs, copyright Glenn Stout and Richard Johnson. @GlennStout, <a href="http://www.glennstout.net/">www.glennstout.net</a></em></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0.5in;">
<o:p> </o:p></div>
<br />
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<o:p> </o:p></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-13332769714275459132013-10-29T06:22:00.005-07:002013-10-29T10:39:56.392-07:00FIRST TIME FOR EVERYTHING<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN9Gxds9ibf4nh82uqwfdD16tnNL_okfCzo2ykGRgvf4HL-vxeEhEx4SG8IrXryZgKEoTHqR4sPoOcxwrhyphenhyphenTmkUsH0ducZ8aGjatHdsvtd1A8f4Ky1HjeRxsn8d4688gQ1ziFUmRyJ4Ne0/s1600/fenway+insurance+map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN9Gxds9ibf4nh82uqwfdD16tnNL_okfCzo2ykGRgvf4HL-vxeEhEx4SG8IrXryZgKEoTHqR4sPoOcxwrhyphenhyphenTmkUsH0ducZ8aGjatHdsvtd1A8f4Ky1HjeRxsn8d4688gQ1ziFUmRyJ4Ne0/s320/fenway+insurance+map.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ah, the post season. Maybe this one, in the long run, will
mean more. Maybe this one will be different.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Because, you see, it’s always something with this club,
something that, no matter the final score, has always taken the shine off a
championship in ways no other team has ever faced. The end result is that
Fenway Park, the oldest ballpark in the major leagues, has never, never ever <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i>, been the site for a full-blown
championship celebration.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Take 1903, when Boston won the first World Series. Hunky
dory, right? Well… do the math. That one wasn’t played at Fenway Park, but at
the Huntington Avenue Grounds, and even then only a few more than 7,000 people
turned out for the finale as the crowds had come to the conclusion the who
thing might have been rigged (and it looked like it might rain) so you can
cross that one off.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ok then, 1912, an eight-game victory over that other pesky New
York team, the Giants. Except for the fact that Sox fans rioted on the field, a
couple Sox players (at least) punched each other out, a game or two might have
been fixed and that by the end of the Series Fenway Park was half-full and nobody
in Boston gave a damn, it was great. Really.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">But what about 1915 and 1916, those two glorious back to
back championships under manager Bill “Rough” Carrigan? Well, they were
satisfying enough, I guess. I mean, the Red Sox won, but unfortunately, they
didn’t play an inning of either Series in Fenway Park. The 1915 Series ended in
Philadelphia, and the 1916 Series in Braves Field, where the Sox also played home
games in the 1915 Series. Why? Greed mostly. Braves Field was bigger than
Fenway and besides, the temporary stands they built for the 1912 Series,
responsible for giving Fenway Park the shape it has today,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>were already starting to fall apart.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That brings us to 1918, another (in)glorious year. You see, just
before the Series the powers that be decided to screw the players out of some
post-season dough. They almost went on strike and even though they didn’t, in
the wake of WWI the crowd considered most of them slackers who dodged military
service and once the Sox won the Series in a half-full Fenway Park. You could
look it up.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Alright, but what about, what about … Hmm, when <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did </i>they play in the World Series next? Oh
yeah, in 1946 against the Cardinals. Ted Williams got hit on the elbow in a
meaningless exhibition just before the Series and it swelled up, and then Pesky
held the ball (except he didn’t, but nobody was paying attention) and… <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i> I remember. The Cardinals won in
seven, ending the Series in St. Louis.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The Sox almost made it back to the Fall Classic two years
later, except for the fact that they fell in the infamous playoff game versus
Cleveland when manager Joe McCarthy spun the scotch bottle (or something) and
surprised everyone by picking Denny Galehouse to pitch (including Galehouse
when he was told the night before).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">With Ted and Doeer and Pesky and a host of other stars,
everyone expected the Sox to make it back the Series for each of the next four
or five years, but alas, DiMaggio and the Yankees generally thwarted that. Then
came the long decline til 1967.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Ah, 1967. The Impossible Dream and still the best Fenway
celebration ever as fans rushed the field when they clinched the pennant and
Jim Lonborg was carried off on their shoulders, losing his shoestrings in the
process (true story). Then everybody woke up and St. Louis took the Series. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The playoffs started a few years later and while eventually
this would give the Sox more reason to dream – and keep interest in seasons
otherwise lost -- the World Series remained a distant hope, til 1975, when it became just another excruciating loss punctuated by Fisk's meaningless, (in the end) home run.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Boston finally made it back there in 1986, playing the
surrogate Yankees -- the Mets -- and the celebration got underway at Shea
Stadium as the Sox won the Series in six games… er, check that. Stanley,
Gedman, Buckner, Death, Pestilence, Disease, etc., etc., etc. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That just made 2004 even sweeter, right? And 2007 was just
the cherry on top, wasn't it? Remember however, that both those victories also came
elsewhere, in St. Louis in 2004 (when the Cardinals conveniently forgot to show
up), and in Denver in 2007 against the storied Rockies.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Unfortunately, that’s not the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">whole</i> story. There is that pesky PED problem that we have since
learned had wrapped itself fully around a certain dreadlocked No. 4 hitter, and
kinda sorta grabbed No. 3 too, and may have caused a whole bunch of other guys
to sort of slink away never to be seen or heard from again. I mean, wherefore
art thou Mark Bellhorn? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Most Sox fans may be loath to admit it, but that stuff
matters. Now, even though we know the testing program is a joke, there is at
least the possibility of something approaching redemption, and, at last, a
worthy and well-earned celebration in Fenway Park. Perhaps even one that
sometime in the future will cause fans to look fondly back upon 2013… and
wonder just what the hell the deal was with those beards, anyway?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Glenn Stout is Series Editor
for </i>The Best American Sports Writing<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">,
author of </i>Fenway 1912<em> and edits
longform journalism for SB Nation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For
more see </em></span><a href="http://www.glennstout.net/"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;"><em>www.glennstout.net</em></span></a><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em> This story first appeared in Boston Baseball, October 2013. Details on the circumstances in 1912 are discussed in my book Fenway 1912. The circumstances in 1918 are discussed in detail in my book Red Sox Century.<o:p></o:p></em></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span></o:p></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-83776990964333761712013-10-22T07:09:00.001-07:002013-11-07T07:39:10.482-08:0015 Ways to Survive as a Freelancer<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYQ6xagxEkdGpirc4nzVKuJVpKKQn-at7WEvBgYW_7o6mc-ID84uydGE1tPB1PLB9eveHBB8i53Mesu5Na81VpUU8SwZvqzZA0RpqvdiyFc-dnB1ySpuBjwnyGst7l1lmtMBl3I7ZQ09c1/s1600/BASW+2013.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYQ6xagxEkdGpirc4nzVKuJVpKKQn-at7WEvBgYW_7o6mc-ID84uydGE1tPB1PLB9eveHBB8i53Mesu5Na81VpUU8SwZvqzZA0RpqvdiyFc-dnB1ySpuBjwnyGst7l1lmtMBl3I7ZQ09c1/s320/BASW+2013.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span> </div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">1) <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Get up
early and write first. Don't let the day get in the way of what you have to do,
and by getting up early,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>if someone asks
you to do something later in the day, you can, because you've already done your
other work -- you don't have to say you'll get to it tomorow. And if you have a
day job, do your freelance work first - if your day job starts at 8 AM, start
writing at 5 AM. The romantic notion of a writing lifestyle is meaningless
unless you do the work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">2) At the start, and for a long, long time after, say
“yes” to almost everything. You never know where that might lead, and if you're
any good, you can learn from just about any assignment. Example: I was once asked
to write one little work-for-hire book.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I sorta didn’t want to, but I said yes. Over the next decade that turned
into another 38 titles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">3)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ass in chair. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Let me say this again: ASS IN CHAIR. You don’t
get anything done going for coffee every hour. Most of the time, this isn’t
easy or fun. The job is ass in chair, alone for hours. It’s cool to say you’re
a writer when asked at the bar, but the rest of the time, it’s ass in chair. You’re
not a tortured artist, you’re a day laborer, like the people waiting for
assignments from Manpower.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">4)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You never "make it." Every
time you kick down one door, there is another one, and life is spitting out new
writers every day. Some will work harder than you will, some are better than you
are, and some will have better connections. You can only control your own
effort, so make sure that’s not the problem. It’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hard </i>to make it, and I know writers that have “made it” then got
lazy and watched it fritter away. It’s hard to get back in, so don’t relax. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">5)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Hit deadlines. Don't <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever </i>give anyone a chance to dump you
based on this, because that reputation lingers. I’ve hit tight deadlines while writing
the morning of a funeral, taking care of an infant full-time, and writing with
a broken finger before getting it stitched – real blood on the keyboard that
day. Make a personal deadline in advance of the real one, so you don’t turn
things in rushed and unfinished. Recent lesson: I was asked to write an essay,
one of about a dozen writers asked to do so - 500 words – and given two weeks.
I wrote a draft that day, then finished it and turned it in the next day,
before anyone else did.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That allowed me
to stake out my approach before another writer wrote something similar, or got
the editor’s ear. My essay ended up leading the piece, and setting the theme.</span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">6)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Learn to re-package, to write the same
basic topic, in different ways for different markets. Easier than you think,
but don’t self-plagiarize, or ever even get close to that. When I re-package, I
also re-research, and then, at the end, compare with what I’ve written earlier
and make sure that language and quotes are not duplicated<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">7)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Always be ready to write, and always be
on the lookout for a story. I was on vacation once, running on the beach, and something
strange happened. I knew it was a story before I’d finished the run.</span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">8)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Don't be obnoxious, glib, or too
familiar with an editor, particularly at the start. Be committed, and have an
idea, but don't give them a reason to call someone else, or to conclude you’re
more trouble than you're worth. And don’t blow them off, or otherwise waste
their time. I’ve seen this from the other side, assigning stories and even
issuing contracts only to have writers disappear, or quit on the story. I won’t
ask them for work again.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">9)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fulfill the assignment, then do a bit
more, then ask if there's anything more you can do. </span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">10)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Social media may make you more popular
but it won’t make you a better writer -- you only have so many words -- don’t
waste them and don’t let social media suck time and energy better spent writing.
Think about this: All of Shakespeare would fit on about 70,000 tweets. </span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">11)
Check facts, spelling, and grammar. Don't make avoidable dumbass mistarkes – er
mistakes.</span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">12)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If asked what you charge, ask for more
money than you think you're worth. Sometimes they say yes – I once sold a poem I’d
have given away for free for $350, just because someone asked me how much I
wanted for it. But also be prepared to accept less than what you think you’re
worth if there’s a chance it could lead to something more. Waiting for the big
payday is playing the lottery and about as likely. Careers are built from the
accumulation and momentum of many assignments.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">13)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Try to work in a day a week without
words, and find something you like to do that doesn’t involve looking at a
screen at all. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">14)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Pay your quarterly taxes, and if you
don’t know what these are, learn. Set aside 1/3 of all you make to account for
this, and learn all about “Business Use of Home” and “Expense Deductions” on
your taxes. Expect your income to vary wildly month to month, year to year.
That’s a given. If you can’t live that way, don’t try this.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">15)
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lastly, no excuses. Not the economy, not
your relationship, not your day job, not your upbringing, not your education,
not anything. The “free” in freelance refers to your time - you control that, something
most people can’t say, and that’s extremely valuable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div align="left" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-align: left; text-indent: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;">People
who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">don’t write</i> have excuses. And the
only real difference between people who write for a living and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">those wanted to write for a living but don’t</i>,
is that at some point those people lifted their ass out of the chair, walked
away and quit. </span><span style="font-family: "Cambria","serif"; font-size: 12pt; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-559615914946962130.post-36723098710946414142013-08-31T09:42:00.000-07:002013-09-03T07:38:04.001-07:00Good Work at Little Fenway<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYmEjtxa8hSeJ6yTpk1AwXtmpuYISfaDEFUDSoiJZhTRAjp-q9uVijO23s6fP03H9bvqUjJgHmFmah1-5f7TPSfPr0NEUq9m5H4nz9gZ1yys_lKBIFx2Xsade2nuvOoB-rBZnvYKN3n5rI/s1600/031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYmEjtxa8hSeJ6yTpk1AwXtmpuYISfaDEFUDSoiJZhTRAjp-q9uVijO23s6fP03H9bvqUjJgHmFmah1-5f7TPSfPr0NEUq9m5H4nz9gZ1yys_lKBIFx2Xsade2nuvOoB-rBZnvYKN3n5rI/s320/031.JPG" width="269" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span> </div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">It rained all day until the minute I turned off the main
road onto the dirt one, and then wound my way up the hill, following the signs,
until I finally found the driveway and turned onto the lawn to park. Then the
sun came out. Of course.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was at Little Fenway in Jericho, Vermont, last month for
the annual Travis Roy Foundation Wiffle Ball tournament, and if you haven’t
heard about it by now, after Konner Fleming’s diving catch into the bullpen
went viral, you must be off the grid. But there is more to the
tourney than one catch. Seeing Little Fenway for the first time is not much
different than seeing the real thing—you’ll never forget it. Same beautiful sun-lit
grass, same Green Monster, same scoreboard, even a Citgo sign, only all of it one-quarter
size. With the Green Mountains towering in the background, it’s as if the real
Fenway Park has somehow run away to summer camp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">And, of course, Travis was there. It was almost 18 years ago
that during his first shift for the Boston University hockey team, 11 seconds
into his college hockey career, that he slid into the boards and has been
confined to a wheelchair ever since, a quadriplegic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Well, confined isn‘t quite the right word, because while
Travis might be in a wheelchair, he doesn’t seem very confined by anything. He
spends his time raising money and giving motivational talks and he’s rolling all
over the place at the Wiffle Ball tourney, greeting players, families, fans,
giving out fist bumps and smiling and talking to everyone. His foundation, now
in its 12<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> year, gives out research grants and helps others with
spinal cord injuries pay for things like vans and other adaptive equipment, making
the little miracles possible that can make a big difference in a life, and can
turn confinement into something else.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Travis’s dad, Lee, is there, and so is Pat O’Connor, who
hasn’t just built Little Fenway, but Little Wrigley as well, and there’s a
Little Field of Dreams in in the works, complete with corn field. None of this
was planned, really, it just happened. Back in 2001, following a blueprint he
drew on a napkin, O’Connor just started building his model park, and ever since
then what has happened with this tournament, with the Foundation, and with
Little Fenway is pretty special. Almost every weekend people come from all over
to play Wiffle Ball and raise money for all sorts of good causes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">That’s the real miracle I guess, that after raising all of
$2500 the first year they held a Wiffle Ball tournament here for the Travis Roy
Foundation, this year they raised more than $500,000. In Vermont. For <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Wiffle Ball</i>.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The reason is Travis… and Fenway Park. I’ve always believed
that there are actually more fans of Fenway than the Red Sox, and it sure seemed
that way at Little Fenway. Everyone – and I mean everyone, from little kids to the
volunteers to the media, just kind of wandered around the whole weekend in a
daze, smiling so hard that at the end of the day they need a medical tent to
treat sore jaw muscles.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Let me say this: I’ve been to hundreds of ballgames and I’ve
played in hundreds of ballgames but I’ve never had as much fun as I did playing
in the tournament’s inaugural game this year, playing for the Celebrities
versus the Sponsors. I’m not a celebrity, but this is Vermont and not Hollywood,
after all, so I somehow found myself on the same team with real Vermont celebs,
like UVM basketball and European league star Taylor Coppenrath, the LPGA’s Libby
Smith, Alexander Woolf of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sports
Illustrated</i>, Middlebury basketball coach<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Jeff Brown, local<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>broadcasters
and others far better known here than me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I was on the mound to start the game, the first I’ve played
any kind of baseball in about ten years, and it showed. I’ll spare you most of
the details, but if there is ever a professional Wiffle Ball League, trust me,
make Libby Smith your first round pick. I had a couple of cheap hits and gave
up one run in two innings, but I’ll never forget it, because now I know how every
other pitcher who has ever taken the mound at Fenway Park feels – the Green
Monster is too damn close. One of my pitches so sailed far over the net it might
even have bounced off the Citgo sign. I know this because they livestreamed the
game and now it lives out there somewhere on YouTube, me throwing, someone
swinging, the ball disappearing over the wall and then me putting my hands to
my head… and smiling, while everyone on both teams cheers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Just wait til next year – then <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m</i> going deep. But believe me, giving up a bomb has never felt so
good, and I’ll never make a more meaningful pitch. Hope to see you there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">For more information on
the tournament and the Travis Roy Foundation, visit http://www.travisroyfoundation.org
<span class="MsoHyperlink"><span style="color: windowtext; text-decoration: none; text-underline: none;">and www.littlefenway.com</span></span>. And remember, you
don’t need to wait ‘til next year to make a contribution. Glenn Stout is Series
Editor for </i>The Best American Sports Writing<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">, available in October.</i></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><em>[Note: In the print edition, the author misspelled the names of both Pat O'Connor and Taylor Coppenrath. They have been corrected in this online version - apologies to both]</em></span></div>
Glenn Stouthttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02065198875722388746noreply@blogger.com0