Notes #20

NOTES FROM THE SHADOWS OF COOPERSTOWN
Observations from Outside the Lines

By Two Finger Carney (carneya6@adelphia.net)

#20 June 27, 1993

Week Twelve: June 21 – 27

WHO WAS THAT LADY I HEARD YOU WITH LAST NIGHT?

A question I wanted to ask Gary Cohen, after tuning in the Mets for a while on June 5th, and hearing a distinctly female voice doing the color. Not a word in my paper the next day, but this is Utica, and it may take a week for news like that to show up here. (No, Wednesday AM, Baseball Weekly will arrive.)

Conditioned by forty-some years of hearing only male voices, apart from the occasional visit by an owner or celebrity, I was stunned, and turned up my transistor so my whole family, gathered ’round the TV, could hear. I know how to make enemies quickly.

It got me thinking, down paths I hadn’t trod in a while. (I still tred; I’m sure my kids roller-blade in their minds.) In almost a year, to be exact. Last June, about this time, I attended the Fourth Annual Symposium on Baseball and the American Culture (we thought baseball was the culture.)

There, in the old Otesaga Hotel, within walking distance of Cooperstown’s Hall of Fame (the HOF’ers all stay there on Induction Weekend, but I bet none walk to the ceremonies) I listened to three days’ worth of fascinating presentations, mostly by academics. I’ll spare you a full report (for now). I bring this up because the hottest topic by far among the hundred or so gathered, was Women in Baseball .

I suppose that if there were more minorities in attendance, the controversy would have been over Racism in Baseball ; if more homeless, Greed in Baseball ; if more active players, Greed in Baseball (the Owners, natch) ; and so on. But this was a fairly mixed group, with a number of women presenting, and A League of Their Own was bursting out all over (it was June) — and so it went. (When I mentioned this to Barbara Gregorich, who just published Women at Play , she was not surprised — it was the hot topic at White Sox seminars last summer as well.)

I was familiar with the Pam Postema case, and the Melissa Ludtke case (I had to look that name up, Roger Angell’s fine article in NYer, Sharing the Beat , 4/9/79). I knew there was a women’s league in the war years. And I knew Baseball (meaning Major League brand) was somewhat slower than the dinosaurs when it came to adapting to change. What was new, to me, at the Symposium, was the heat of the arguments.

NFSCreaders may recall the excerpt from Dear Patrick in the March 17-21 issue, describing my 3?-year-old daughter Mary Ellen throwing out the first ball for Roger Kahn’s U-Sox. Well, it was in DP that I started wondering, why baseball was popular with women, when it excluded them systematically from so many roles. (The same question can be asked of many religions, or should I say, many other religions?) I even wondered if I’d give the sport so much attention, if I were a woman.

As I stengel again (looking it up), I see that I shouldn’t have been surprised (see next page) — I had warned myself, but forgotten!

* * * * *

“And then there is the issue of women. They didn’t show up much at ball parks until the early years of this century. Once drawn into the sport by Ladies Day promotions (and later by radio broadcasts), they’ve really had difficulty with baseball.

“Just one woman has cracked into its priesthood of high-level umpiring, after more than a century. And that was not so long after women were finally admitted as journalists to locker rooms. That gives you some idea about how far off the first woman player may be, barring a Veeck-type promotion. So baseball cannot crow too loudly, while the national pastime still permits half of the population, with few exceptions, to get no closer to the sport than the All-Star ballot box.

“[This is a] perfectly good hot-stove league question, to kick around between seasons. Baseball fuels conversations — but be prepared for the heat it can generate!”

— from Of Dice and Men — and Women , Dear Patrick

* * * * *

BASEBALL IN UTOPIA

Am I changing the subject? No. A short story (or book or play or whatever) in my On Deck circle focuses on a baseball game, played in the 1860’s (like Snoozer ), about an hour’s drive from Utica — no, not in Cooperstown, but in a village to the west, in the shadows of the Mansion House of the Oneida Community.

The Oneida Community was founded by John Humphrey Noyes (and Company) about 1848, and held together til about 1881 — not bad, if you know about the usual staying power of religious cults. OC’s population peaked at 300-something (it had a few satellites, but its center was the Mansion House, still standing and in use (!), which housed 250 or so.

OC was based on Bible communism, or “perfectionism” — John H. had the notion that people could taste heaven on earth — instead of waiting for, well, heaven . He preached the equality of all men — and women. Marriage was unnecessary in the community, besides, it made folks exclusive, when the gospel clearly advised loving everybody. (OC was not a “free love” commune, however.)

Sex was a positive (it’s not, in some religions). OC practiced birth control (successfully) till it was on its feet economically, then “the best (morally) and brightest (spiritually)” were permitted to “breed” (30-some were born in this eugenics experiment). OC was big on adult education and the arts, its youth were sent away (!) to the best ivy-league schools (John H. was a Yalie himself, I think), the community was wide open to visitors (its Gilbert & Sullivan plays drew trainloads of patrons; so did the strawberry festivals.)

There are plenty of good books available on OC — I have a bibliography, if anyone’s interested. OC published a newsletter (you gotta like them for that) and kept journals and minutes and diaries, and it’s too bad they didn’t do drugs or have an arsenal socked away, so they could be famous, like the Waco B. Davidians, because they were lots more interesting!

AND THEY PLAYED BASEBALL!OK, croquet was their big sport (they had a terrific lawn for it — still do). But baseball had burst on America, and this community was into experimenting, and someday I want to stengel in their archives, and see if I can find John Humphrey in a box score.

“Quite a list of names was soon made out and yesterday afternoon the first game was played. We asked a usually quiet, undemonstrative youth if he intended to join in the amusement. `Yes, indeed!’ he replied with energy, and added that it was the most fascinating game he knew of. And so it appears, judging from the enthusiasm with which men and boys enter into it.”

— OC Circular , Sept 30, 1858

The reason for this apparent digression into history is this: I figured that if the game was going to be played anywhere in a way that was fair for both sexes, it would have been at OC. Remember, they were fanatical about sexual equality, and they liked baseball.

My initial research turned up no mentions of women doing anything but watching and writing about it, but I seem to recall there was more, from the reading I did on OC back when I was a rookie in Upstate NY.

Anyway, I think you’ll all agree that OC is a fascinating setting for a baseball story, even if the women (who wore pants) warmed the benches or cooked hot dogs, or like Kitty Casey fifty years later, stood up and made the gang sing, at least in the seventh inning stretch!

THE EXPANSION ISSUE

I’ve corresponded outside the lines of NFSC with some of you about my mulling over the expansion of NFSC’s circulation. I now take the question to the floor, sort of. I’m considering cutting back my mailing list to include only editors. (And I ask of you editors, do you know other editors who might enjoy NFSC, whom I might add ?) Anyone else who wants to stay on the list, I will ask to donate at least postage stamps. Does this seem fair? No change til the All Star Break, so you all have time to respond.

A FIRST, REAL REVIEW FOR ROMANCING!

OK, so it hasn’t made the Times yet. McFarland sent me a review that appeared in the May-June The SportsBook File — I’ll have to look that up in my library, too. Anyway, Romancing rated three stars (out of what? Three or four, I hope!) Much of the review was made up of excerpts from various poems (not the poems or lines I’d have picked, but then, no two people likely would pick the same ones.) The final comment: “Many more delightful poems. Many poems can be appreciated by ten year olds as well as adults.”

My son had to memorize a poem for his sixth grade class recently, and I was flattered that he searched for one in Romancing (which he hasn’t read, and won’t, unless it gets on TV.) He likes Little League Mom — he did read that one — but selected another one — the shortest one he could find. That’s my boy?

I had tried to interest him in the classics: Ogden Nash’s Line-Up for Yesterday , or Baseball’s Sad Lexicon by Franklin P. Adams (the one better known as “Tinker-to-Evers-to-Chance.”) Or even Who’s On First . Or Casey . Yeah, right , Dad. Maybe one of the card companies, desperate for novelty, will start drawing from Baseball Lit 101 for the backs of their holographic gems.

STREAKS AND SLUMPS

We all should be so lucky as to have a barber or hairdresser who talks baseball. Leo, my barber for over a dozen years, is a rabid Dodger fan. (It’s nice that he’s in another Division.) He has one of those magnetic boards with a team logo magnet for each club (no Rockies or Marlins yet), and updates the standings almost daily. His walls are also filled with baseball & Dodgerstuff.

And his magazines include some I never otherwise see, Sports Illustrated , for example. Last time there, I read an article that complained that baseball language was being watered down by words like offense ( vs hitting and running) and defense ( vs fielding and pitching), military or (worse) football terms. Pitchers are said to have good location instead of control, or velocity . I guess it’s an issue worth tucking in the freezer till the stove’s hot again. But I like to see new words born and used. Streaks and slumps? They’re baseball words — with much wider application!

REVIEWS, REVIEWS

I knew they were out there, because I’d been hearing about them from those of you who got yours “early.” My Cooperstown Review and The National Pastime (SABR) arrived the week of June 8. All of a sudden I could use a day off! These are too good for the freezer, and I’m sure I’ll devour them both, legs propped up on the cold stove.

I’m not familiar with the old SABR Review of Books , so I can’t compare. I’ve met Paul Adomites, and hope to work with him someday, and CRonly fans the flames of that hope — a nice-looking job that seems well- conceived and well-organized. Don’t worry, I’m not going to do reviews of reviews! But if you have your CRhandy, check out “Ladies on the Field” by Darrell Berger, for a nice continuation of reflections on this issue’s theme.

TNP, I know, and have collected a couple of old issues, and they are in my freezer. The winters don’t seem long enough for me to get to everything … but they keep. And if you have your TNPhandy, read my poem (on the last page), after you’ve finished the rest of “The Tennis Court” — and listen for echoes!

FIRST FIELDS … from JOHN ROCA

The field of happiest memories was smack dab in the middle of a housing project on Puerto Rico, a huge expanse of concrete. We could only play when its basketball court was not in use — the unwritten rule was Hoops kids have First Dibs .

Home was the post to one of the hoops, first base was a concrete bench, second the intersection to four concrete slabs, and third, a metal transformer box. The key ground rule was that someone had to be positioned in front of Dona Eulalia’s flowers. And ball into the flowers was gone — basketballs included.

The guard of the flower zone often had to perform acrobatic feats of fielding, because Eulalia sat on her porch in wait for invaders. Of course, the races for balls between us and Eulalia antagonized her greatly. I recall times when she used broomsticks as weapons, to offset our advantages in speed and gall.

When Eulalia won the race — and she must have acquired at least five balls over the years — our league would shut down for about a month, til we came up with money for a new one. The league ended when Eulalia set aside broomsticks for scalding water. After a few burns, no one wanted the challenge of being “flower fielder.” Damn, she was a mean old lady.

John thanked me for “dredging up” that memory for him — but his story dredged one up for me, too. I lived across the street from a “Eulalia” who took glee in keeping balls hit into her gardens. I remember that we all felt real sorry for her husband. — G.C.

THE TENNIS COURT — PART THREE

Oddly enough, although I must have played hundreds of games at the Tennis Court — naturally, it was also our football field — I remember other events better.

Just behind second base was a pole, maybe eight feet high, a leftover from the original tennis court. One summer, it became the home for a nest of wasps. On a sunny afternoon, one of them stung Jimmy Kerr, whose face puffed up so much that in a few minutes, one of his eyes was closed, as if he had been punched by a heavyweight boxer. First severe allergic reaction that any of us had ever seen. He was whisked off to a hospital, and survived, and soon after, the wasps were gasolined and torched out of their pole, and the pole was taken down, so they wouldn’t try that again, not on our field. Actually, it wasn’t our field at all, and to this day, I have no idea who owned the property. As you know, today it’s all over-grown with weeds.

Bill Lerach and I would never have let that happen. We were not only players, we were grounds-keepers. We treated that sorry excuse for a field like it was the 18th green at Augusta, nurturing its crabgrass, raking out its rocks, even laying down lines of lime between home and first, and home and third. In our yards at home we were useless, but the Tennis Court — that was different!

We kept an old canvas paint tarp handy along behind first base, and rushed it out to cover the swamp-prone second base area, when the rains came. Eddie Dunn, the head groundskeeper of Forbes Field in those days, would have been proud of us. Our own shelter from the elements was a nearby picnic table, where we lunched on days when we started playing soon after dawn, until suppertime. In a storm, we’d crouch under it, along with the daddy longlegs and grasshoppers, and learn patience.

Near third base was another pole — shorter, a pole that once must have supported a tennis net. It was cemented into the ground, or else we’d have removed it. I grit my teeth even now, remembering how my friend Bill, running into third base, head down, ran beyond the base and into a bolt sticking out from that pole — puncturing the top of his head and producing the bloodiest mess I’ve ever seen.

We stuffed a shirt or two onto the bright red geyser, and marched off to Bill’s house, which was fortunately close by. His mother gasped, then stuck his head in their basement “stationary tubs” (heavy-duty sinks that preceded automatic washing machines, for laundry.) I took in the entire event, wide-eyed, wondering if anything could stop the flow. Bill was whisked off to a hospital, and survived, with a bald spot shaved out of his blond curls, to make room for a bandage, a white badge of courage.

I earned my badge a few years later. I was in the outfield racing to my right and reaching out to backhand a line drive. But the ball ricocheted off that fair/foul elm in left, into my face, gashing me below my left eye. Earning me the only stitches I’ve ever needed. And another scar, but neatly covered a few months later, when I myself became a kid who wore glasses! (I had been the last holdout for “two-eyes” in my family, as you are in yours.)

Band-aids, slings and crutches are great when you’re young, and everything is temporary. They draw attention, and there’s nothing like a lot of attention to make you forget your aches and pains.

A few times, our games were interrupted by a deer straying by. Usually our clamor kept all animals out of sight, but maybe on a prolonged, silent ball search, someone would look up — and there it was. Word spread rapidly, in whispers, and awestruck, we’d crouch and creep and crawl, Indian-like (don’t snap a twig), to see how close we could get to this amazing creature. We were city kids who had never hunted anything but lost baseballs, so this rare chance to stalk was tremendously exciting stuff. When at last we were sensed and the wild animal bolted off, we cheered — and resumed the harder pursuit.

The summer that I turned twelve, the ex-Brooklyn Dodgers and ex-New York Giants played their first season in California. It was a terrible turn of events for residents of that immense city, a tragedy I cannot begin to imagine. Had the Pirates moved west — well, I guess my life would have been quite different!

Young Pirate fans with radio curfews on nights before school days felt only a sliver of inconvenience. Those games from the Coast started when the games in the East were ending. However, when school was out in June, on through until it started up again in September, those late-late night games provided our neighborhood with some very special adventures. We’d play our usual ball at the Tennis Court until dusk, when the odds of finding lost balls dropped as low as the sun on the horizon. But instead of heading home, we’d unpack our sleeping bags, and gather wood for an all-night campfire.

I’d camped out overnight at our parish’s summer retreat in the Laurel Mountains, a couple of times, but that was with plenty of adult supervision. No counselors at the Tennis Court: Kids Only.

The red bricks that lined the thirdbase/home corner of the field (to prevent rollers over the hill) were converted into a small wall, encircling the pitcher’s mound (which was never very high.) The two-foot by six-inch piece of board that we had nailed into the clay to serve as a rubber was removed, and that’s where our fires were built — on the mound, the center of our universe.

Our bags were strung out like spokes around that inner circle, close enough to the flames to lean our sharpened branches on the bricks and toast marshmallows — while we laid safely inside, tucked away from mosquitoes and no-see-ums.

At eleven, my trusty RCA portable transistor radio was clicked on, and our ghost stories and fireside chatter took second place to Bob Prince and the Pirates’ game. Paradise could not have been much better, for Pittsburgh teenagers.

More often than not, the batteries would fade. Off went the radio, to let them rest up. Click — back on, to catch a critical at-bat or a new score, and so on, into the deep night.

As the batteries died their slow death, we’d take turns pressing the radio against our ears, trying to squeeze out pieces of vital information. We definitely didn’t want to wait until the morning newspaper’s arrival to find out who had won. And if the box from California was late, we’d have to wait until the afternoon paper!

At daybreak, the birds would wake us up. We’d douse any remaining sparks and coals, scatter the ashes, and rebuild the roller barrier, if the bricks were cool enough to carry. Then we’d trudge home, smelling of smoke, to take baths and go to bed — resting up for an afternoon game, perhaps, back at the Tennis Court, where every game was a home game.