Requiem for the Bleachers

In the winter, when it is cold and dark and the snow is blowing and blotting out the far shore of Lake Champlain in northern Vermont, where I now live, and I think of summer and Fenway Park, I do not think of 1967 or 1986 or 2004 or any other season best known for either victory or loss.

I think of 1982.


I had graduated from college only a year earlier and had been in Boston only a few months. Unemployment was pressing ten percent and there was no work worth doing. For only a few pennies more than minimum wage I spent most days doing crossword puzzles and reading the Herald as a security guard at the Harvard Medical School.

But I lived in Kenmore Square, and that meant I was neighbors with Fenway Park. That winter and spring my walk back and forth to work each day brought me past Fenway. I would tip my cap, nod a ‘hello” and with each step summer was a little bit closer.

I had first seen Fenway Park sixteen years before, when I was all of eight years old. My mother was a native of Newfoundland and we were, somewhat improbably, driving there from Ohio on vacation. My father had piled us all into the old Pontiac station wagon one summer afternoon and then drove non-stop through the night. As the sun peaked over the horizon at dawn, we entered the outskirts of Boston. I remember nothing of the city as we drove through but the light towers of Fenway Park looming over a distant horizon.

I had never been to a major league ballpark before and held out little hope of doing so anytime soon. My traffic adverse father frowned on trips to either Cleveland or Cincinnati, much less Detroit or Pittsburgh or Chicago, the other cities within a reasonable driving distance from central Ohio, meaning I missed opportunities to see most of the classic ballparks of the age – Crosley Field, Tiger Stadium, Forbes Field, Wrigley Field, Comiskey Park. Even Cleveland’s rusting Stalinesque Municipal Stadium, not really a ballpark at all, eluded me.

So when I moved to Boston nearly two decades later Fenway Park was both a reason for my pilgrimage and a destination. This time I promised myself would do more than drive by with my face pressed against the car window. I planned to spend the whole summer in my neighbor’s backyard, Fenway Park. . .

[You can read the rest of this essay appear in Richard Johnson's fine new heavily illustrated book about Fenway Park, Field of our Fathers. If you are going to buy one book on Fenway Park, make it Fenway 1912. But if you are buying two, please consider Richard's book. Esaay copyright Glenn Stout, 2011, all rights reserved.]

On the Radio . . .

Because I had written Fenway 1912 I recently received a call from National Public Radio's "All Things Considered" and was asked to write an essay on the end of the baseball season, something evocative, a sort of an elegy.

I poured a glass of wine, went down stairs, and after a few false starts, came up with something that felt genuine and seemed appropriate. It was accepted a few hours later, and the next day I went to Vermont Public Radio to record it. It evetually aired a few days later, on October 31, 2011..

I had been to VPR before. Bill Littlefield has been kind enough to have me on his show, Only a Game, several times, but Sam the engineer warned me that All Things Considered was pretty particular about recording their commentaries.

I have to say I wasn't worried. I usually write to sound, meaning that I write as much in regard to the sound of the word as I do to sense, a habit left over from the days when I wrote only poetry and often read aloud at various forums in college and later, in and around Boston. Besides, when I was younger I did a bit of theater. Although making a cold call for an interview gives me anxiety, public speaking has never bothered me at all.

They had me read through the entire piece twice, then had me re-read selected lines. The whole process took about twenty minutes.

The entire time I was reminded of the days when I was ten or twelve years old, and would go over to my old friend Richard's house for sleepovers. He was an electronics whiz and in his basement had effectively created a radio station, linking together several turntables and tape recorders, that did everything but broadcast over the air. We - or rather he - would make radio shows. I was just a reader and writer. We would re-enact and read and tape Mad Magazine parodies and until our bellies hurt, and wrote our own parodies and gossipy news bits about our elementary school classmates. We even published an occasional "underground newspaper," just having fun.

I've often thought of those days, because now I write for a living and Richard, to no surprise, is a radio and broadcasting techno genius, formerly NPR’s Master Control supervisor and technical director, and currently oversees Strategic Technology Applications for NPR labs.

Not that I know what any of that really is, but I suspect that,at its core its not all that much different than what he was doing in his basement some forty years ago, just as thew writing I do today is not all that much different. We were just having fun then, and, I suspect, we're both still having fun now.

Here's a link to the essay:

http://http://www.npr.org/player/v2/mediaPlayer.html?action=1&t=1&islist=false&id=141789780&m=141881232

A Two-For

This morning Fenway 1912 was number #7 on the Boston Globe nonfiction hardcover bestseller list. The Best American Sports Writing 2011 was #8 on the nonfiction paperback list. http://http//www.boston.com/ae/books/blog/2011/10/boston_globe_be_84.html

I'll be back in Boston in December to sign more books, and at the Barnes and Noble in Burlington, Vermont on November 26.

For those readers in New York, I am scheduled to appear on "Morning Joe" on MSNBC the morning of November 4, and then will be doing a signing at the Red Sox bar, Professor Thom's, 219 second Aveue at 6:00pm that evening. This might be your only NY chance to have abook signed for the holidays.

Beer and chicken will be optional.

Let's Play Ball

It was a little over eight years ago that we moved up here to the border, and a few months after we arrived, Sappho, our beautiful Lab/Shepherd./Chesapeake/God knows what/ mix of a dog who ruled me died of complications from epilepsy. I was out of town when she got sick and she died at the vets just after I got back.

When you work at home, all the time, the living things around you are really important. There’s no one down the hall to grab a coffee with or talk about the game to, no diner for lunch to sit in and watch girls out the window. But there was Sappho, a ball to throw with and a world to explore, some ears that always listened and a look that always said “What the hell are you talking about? Can I have something to eat?” So you walk and play and ruff the neck and hand out a treat and then get back to work, falling into the comfortable patterns that mark the day as sure as coffee.

I was a mess after she died. Telling my daughter, only seven then, who had never known a world without her, was gut wrenching, but it got worse; I never realized how important it was having another physical presence around, how the sound of footsteps and heavy breathing and the rattle of her rabies tag on the collar creates a little soundtrack that says you’re not by yourself.

I lasted about a week, found an ad, and then we piled in the car and drove into Quebec and came back with Sam, the goofy Golden Retriever puppy. Soon we created our own pattern, the daily walk and ball toss that for the last eight years kept me from living entirely in my head, and something I’ve written about several times before.

He died in the back of my truck yesterday on the way to the vet. I somehow knew he was going the previous day, made sure the girls said goodbye when they left for school, called the vet anyway, put his bed in the back of my truck and lifted him in. I was almost there when I looked in the rear view mirror, saw his head slump down and disappear and knew.

We already have a second dog, Scamper, a Shetland Sheepdog, so there are still sounds and patterns around and walks to take.

But there is still that certain silence.

Just Sayin'

A review from one of the heavyweights:

“Stout, who edits the annual volume of “Best American Sports Writing,” takes as his subject not Fenway today. . . but Fenway as it came into existence in the winter of 1911-12 and as the scene of five games of the 1912 World’s Series (as it was then called), one of the most thrilling in the long history of what sportswriters call the Fall Classic. It’s a fascinating story, and Stout tells it very well.” - Jonathan Yardley, The Washington Post

Yardley - a past winner of the Pulitzer Prize in criticism - makes you earn it, and doesn't often give such an unbridled thumbs up. I'll take it.

In fact, I love the fact that Yardley writes "It's a fascinting story and Stout tells it very well." For as I told Alex Belth in a recent interview [http://http//www.bronxbanterblog.com/2011/10/12/bronx-banter-interview-glenn-stout-2/]: "In prose, I aim for transparency. In many instances I almost want my actual writing to be completely invisible, so submissive to the story that you don’t notice it. I want the readers’ first reaction to be “great story” and then realize that it was the writing that delivered that experience."

That's exactly what Yardley recognized. It doesn't mean that I don't try to write without style, but there are times you just have to stay out of the way and let the story speak. I like to think there is some artistry in that.

The Rain on the Parade

As the author of comprehensive histories on BOTH the Red Sox and the Cubs, I think I have some perspective here. Chicago fans, pay heed, because in Theo Epstein you have no idea what you are getting. Consider this:

“For the past 19 years or so I’ve had suspicions, some stronger than others, but to sit here today and say I played on even one team that was totally clean would be denying reality… I played pretty much my entire career in the Steroid Era.” Curt Schilling, May 8, 2009

Those words were pretty damning. Although Schilling went on to stridently proclaim his personal innocence, denying he ever used any PED in any form, and called the notion that Boston’s two most recent world championships were tainted “a load of crap,” his admission provides evidence to those who feel otherwise.

Personally I find virtually every championship from about 1989 over the next two decades, if not tainted, then certainly tarnished. And even Schilling, although he is loathe to admit it outright, has since agreed, telling The Sporting News on July 7, 2011 that “There isn’t a team in the last 20 years that has won clean.” And not winning clean means winning dirty. No matter how one personally feels about the subject, given statements such as these it is impossible not to recognize that the Steroid Era did leave a taint, one that may not diminish the accomplishment of any one team but certainly does leave a mark upon certain individuals.

Make that every individual. No one in the era, either in the clubhouse or the front office, comes away untarnished, and that includes every manager and – are you listening Chicago? – every general manager whose team benefited from the performance of players on PEDs. Even the virgins in the whorehouse, the “see no evils” who looked the other way, benefited – quite a few of those home runs won some pretty big ballgames. But virtually everyone involved he kept his suspicions to himself while accepting the glory – and the championship rings, and the adulation, and, significantly, the checks – that might not have been acquired totally on the square. While Schilling, like most players, states in effect that so many guys were using it all evens up and even though he had suspicions he never actually saw anyone take anything, and gosh darn it, you just can’t accuse someone because of some darn suspicion.

True enough. But he and everyone else might as well be wearing one of those “Stop Snitching” t-shirts that were all the rage in gangland a few years ago. Because personal consequences be damned, a person of conviction might have stood up and taken a stand, either publicly or privately and proclaimed long and loudly that the game was dirty and something should be done. Such a whistle blower, either on the field or in the front office, may have become a pariah among his peers, but he could have looked himself in the mirror without doing a moral back flip. But they all stayed silent, took the money, looked the other way and became adept at the same kind of self delusion that allows corruption to flourish in any institution.

At its core, that’s what the Steroid Era represents – corruption. Everyone agreed to go along to get along because the turnstiles were spinning and the contracts were getting bigger and more lucrative every year and fans were so swept up in the spectacle that no price was too high to pay for the privilege of watching. And everyone who knew better and stayed silent are no better than the residents of any community that look the other way as criminal syndicates or gangs act with impunity. Only no one was going to kill a ballplayer for speaking out – they just wouldn’t get asked to dinner, and would have to live off their substantial savings. The corruption of the Steroid Era floated all financial boats. Only a sucker would have turned down that, right?
In that sense uber GM like Billy Beane and even Hall of Fame managers like Tony LaRussa, Joe Torre are also tarnished. After all, who is Billy Beane minus Giambi and Tejada, or Joe Torre without Pettitte and Clemens, or Tony LaRussa without Canseco and McGwire?

Theo Epstein and Terry Francona without Manny and Ortiz, that’s who. They are simply two more names whose personal success is so inexorably bound up with the Steroid Era that, like Schilling and Manny and Ortiz, it is impossible to measure their accomplishments with any certainty. Just ask yourself, would any of these men have won a ring in an era without steroids? That is what, in the end, taints everything and everyone. We will never, ever, ever know.
And neither will they. As much as the Red Sox recent collapse, I think that explains why both Francona and Epstein “chose” to leave the Red Sox at the same time. Each benefitted mightily from the era, both financially and in terms of their personal legacies. And each reaped the harvest of credit for two “world championships.” Unfortunately, the veracity of those two world championships will never, ever be known.

Deep in their hearts, each man knows that themselves, even if the sycophants that surround both figures won’t dare utter those words. Terry Francona may believe he is one of the more capable managers of his time, but he doesn’t really know because his record as Boston manager provides far too murky a gauge, while his record at Philadelphia is pedestrian. And Theo Epstein has no idea if he is any good either. Truth to be told, neither do the Cubs, who are buying a resume they already must know to be false. Neither Francona nor Epstein can look at the record of either the 2004 or 2007 Red Sox without certain uncomfortable questions creeping in. Both succeeded during an era when spectacular performances were often delivered by a syringe.

That is why both men, if either is to create a true legacy that stands up to the scrutiny not just of others, but of themselves, needed to leave Boston and take on a challenge elsewhere. Only this time each will have to do it on the square. And this time, win or lose, at least each will be able to look at the image staring back in the mirror without blinking and glancing away, ashamed.

For Theo Epstein, the greatest challenge is not whether he delivers a world championship to Chicago, but whether this time he can look in the mirror and know his success is deserved and authentic, and that his resume is not inflated by the contents of a syringe.

Oh, Yeah! A Great Review (and small clarification)

In a terrific review in the Boston Globe and on Boston.com, the esteemed Chad Finn says some terrific things about Fenway 1912, all of which I appreciate. There is, however, one point he makes about the book that is not entirely correct - and perhaps I don't make the point clear enough in the text. So I thought it best to clarify in the event a reader might take issue.

He accurately notes that I make the point that Fenway's distinctive shape does not stem from the configuration of the surrounding streets. He then notes that the reason is because the dimensions of the Huntington Avenue Grounds were retained when Fenway was built.

The larger point is true, but not for the reasons cited. Fenway's distinctive shaped stems from the shape of the plot of land, - the park was built inward to use all the space and easily could have been symmetrical, or nearly so, had that been important. It was not, however, because the game, as it was played when Fenway was built, did not reach the borders of the property. Over time, the game grew out and the city grew in to surround the park, meaning that the shape of the field area (the basic footprint for which was accidentally created when new seats were built for the 1912 World Series) evolved over time.

Fenway was NOT built with the same dimensions as the Huntington Avenue Grounds. However, it WAS built to retain the same orientation in regard to the sun, which made Lansdowne St. the border in left field. Although no one at the time thought this confined left field in any meaningful way, the accidental result, over time, became Fenway's most distinctive feature - the Green Monster.

Thanks to Chad for a terrific and considerate review. Come see me tomorrow at 1:00 at the Back Bay Events center for the Boston Book Festival. See the review at the link below:

http://www.boston.com/sports/baseball/redsox/articles/2011/10/14/book_focuses_on_the_history_of_fenway_park_as_it_prepares_to_turn_100/