Notes From the Shadows of Cooperstown: Down the Stretch

CAREFUL-WHAT-YOU-WISH-FOR DEPT.            

After I wrapped up Burying the Black Sox and started talking about the book to groups, I was often asked, “What’s next?”  And my reply was, that my research suggested the need for at least two books: one, a biography of Hugh Fullerton, who is not exactly a hero in the B-Sox story, but maybe he came closer than anyone else; the other book would be a dual/duel biography of Charles Comiskey, the Sox owner, and his nemesis Ban Johnson, baseball’s czar for the first two decades of the last century.

I’m currently reading a book by Mike Lynch that just might fill the gap of that second suggestion. Harry Frazee, Ban Johnson and the Feud That Nearly Destroyed the American League (McFarland, 2008) covers a lot of the same ground that a dual biography of Commy & Ban (or Ban & Commy — sounds like a sitcom, either way) would cover.

In researching and writing Burying — and especially in editing it into something digestible — I was, at times, bothered that I was skimming so much. I know it may not look that way, but it’s true, I really did summarize and skim a lot. If you read Mike Lynch’s book, you must agree, because he treats in much more depth, events I mention only briefly, then refer readers to the Seymours ’ history or some other source. I tried to cover all the bases, but did not stay on any of them as long as I might have.

It’s an odd feeling, sitting at my old computer, and looking at the B-Sox library on the shelves just above the monitor. When I started, there was no library, just the books scattered among all my other baseball books, with more or less info on the B-Sox. Then I became a collector, filling a shelf and spilling the B-Sox fiction over onto another. Adding Burying the Black Sox to the shelf was gratifying. But now, I’m finding books that refer to Burying , or build on it, and that is even more satisfying. I think that’s because I see Burying as not at all the final word on the B-Sox, as Eight Men Out seemed to be for so long, but the first words in a new stage of B-Sox research, a sketch of a blueprint, one more guidebook on the trail. I hope Mike Lynch’s book is the first of many more, forcing me to add a new shelf.

FEVER

Pennant Fever has been with us as long as pennants, I suppose, and there is no reason to doubt that the virus has mutated much over the last century or so.

The Fever infects fans who have been following their team for decades, as well as rookie rooters. Cases can be just as serious for those infected in August or September, as for those who have carried the bug since spring training. Why medical journals have ignored The Fever is a mystery.

One symptom is an insatiable appetite for scores. Not all scores, but scores with a bearing on the races . A mild fever will manifest itself by a pajama-clad scan of the sports page (before the other sections are touched), or suspiciously casual conversation at work. What did they do last night?   Full-blown, the fever drives the afflicted to go out of their way not only for scores that will determine the playoff picture in October, but for scores from that other league: Might meet ‘em in the Series, y’know?

Pennant Fever, as it runs its course, either fades away (as the victim’s team slides slowly out of it ), or intensifies as the end of summer nears. In the latter case, as the fever peaks, the hunger for scores becomes increasingly urgent. Waiting for the morning paper or news at work is impossible. Insomnia can be a problem when the crucial scores are three time zones away.

Some astute historians credit The Fever with inspiring the technology that resulted in the invention of the telegraph, telephone, radio, TV, and the space program (satellite communications).  Waiting for homing pigeons to bring home the scores was maddening for Morse, and Bell was known to suffer fits of agony waiting for dots and dashes to be decoded. Edison , of course, was possessed with a vision of night baseball. None of these (and other) geniuses ever paid public homage to The Fever, but their journals all make its role clear.

Pennant Fever can be highly contagious, infecting whole cities. Ordinary citizens who previously could not tell a baseball from a golf ball, find themselves reciting tonight’s starting lineup, and the records of the opposing pitchers. This secular form of glossolalia (speaking in strange tongues) is well-documented, with the best examples seen annually in taxi drivers, waitresses and cashiers.

The most dangerous symptom of The Fever is delirium, which can lead to a wide variety of irrational behaviors. At the ballparks, painted people arrive regularly, while others are possessed to bring wildly-worded banners, brooms, outlandish headgear, large styrofoam objects, and often “charms” suggested by broadcasters. This mass hysteria can spread via television. The Center for Disease Control has been searching in vain for an antidote for fans who imagine their arms have become tomahawks, and find themselves unable to speak in anything but a moan.

Jobs have been lost due to this peculiar insanity, marriages broken, productive lives disrupted. Fortunately, the late-stage madness is normally confined to only a few cities each year, affecting a limited number of industries, and sparing the national economy.

To the unaffected, The Fever seems superficial, no more serious than an ingrown toenail. But this is hardly the case. The pains of losses down the stretch, especially when coupled with victories by the team nearest in the standings, are quite real and sometimes debilitating. In most Fever victims, the pains are sharp and wincing, most comparable to hunger pangs or bee stings. In extreme cases, the pains can cause loss of interest in food, sex, and TV sitcoms.

The “Magic Number,” mesmerizing the afflicted and often appearing prominently in their dreams, functions as a kind of thermometer for The Fever. When the Number at last vanishes, leaving Fever victims with sweaty palms and a shortness of breath, The Fever has broken. Survivors are either cured, or euphoric. The cured will do best to rest at least six months, if they are to fully recuperate before another season begins. The Fever remains present in the bloodstream, like malaria, and may recur in future summers without any warning signs.

For the euphoric, The Fever has simply been a prelude to Octoberitis, another virus in the same family, and a disease only slightly less consuming. Octoberitis often passes briefly, as we saw last fall in Boston , New York , Los Angeles and Denver ; the virus may have some affinity for larger metropolitan areas.

Octoberitis, as its name suggests, will run its course by Halloween. Its symptoms are very similar to The Fever, but can be much more intense, although less suspenseful. The pain of defeats for those with Octoberitis is somewhat softened by the euphoria which is the residue of The Fever. This good feeling practically immunizes Fever victims against the more virulent and vicious strains of Octoberitis, which are strong enough to drive the unprotected to suicidal tendencies and self-destructive actions.

In the days before expansion, those wishing to avoid The Fever (or return bouts) often fled the northeast, moving to Arizona or Florida , often under the guise of retirement. Some Fever victims complain for years about the loss of interest in anything except the pennant races, or the absence of any memories unrelated to baseball, while they were in The Fever’s grip. A lingering heartache can be misdiagnosed as heartburn. But most Fever victims recall their illness with a distinct pleasure. The experience is commonly remembered as, in the words of one of the songs inspired by The Fever, “a lovely way to burn.”

The above is an excerpt from Issue #457 of Gene’s Notes From the Shadows of Cooperstown. To read the rest of the issue (or past issues), click here.