Volume One:Frozen Ropes and Dying Quails

When Campy Campaneris played all nine positions in a game. When Pete

Rose demolished Ray Fosse he was never the same. 31 wins and an album

on Capitol for Denny McLain. So long ago, so long, Pastime, are you

past your prime? The DiMaggios, Shoeless Joe, Minnie Minoso, Yo La

Tengo. Luis Aparicio and Nellie Fox made the Sox go go. The sideburns of

Pepitone and Oscar Gamble’s afro. So long ago, so long, Pastime, are you

past your prime? One thing you can say about time is that it always passes.

One thing you can say about the game is that it’s not getting any faster.

You can get tangled up in a ball of rubber bands and twine, the cowhide

and pine tar, snuff, spit and chalk dust lines. Two round-trippers and a nohitter,

that’s Rick Wise (not Bobby Wine). So long ago, so long, Pastime,

are you past your prime?

Everyone’s so kind and humble. Don’t you know that I can see right

through it? Keeping all their comments down. You know it ain’t a boast if

you can do it.

And everyone says "Say Hey!" And everyone says "did you

see that kid play?"

I’ve got to give the kid a hand but there’s nothing that he

can do better than I can. I’m Ted Fucking Williams!

People say it’s hard to like a man who doesn’t fail and show he’s a human.

But failure’s not a sign of grace. It only means you don’t know what you’re

doing.

And everyone says "hey Mick!" Mantle this, Mantle that - it makes

me sick.

It’s just so hard to see. Why do they like him better than me? I’m

Ted Fucking Williams!

And everyone says "hey Duke!" like everything I did was some kind of

fluke.

I gotta give the Duke a hand but there’s nothing that he can do better

than I can. I’m Ted Fucking Williams!

Now everyone’s walking like they’re rolling in dough. Throwing all their

money around just for show. Acting like everything is coming to them and

knowing that more is just around the bend. But I’m the one who paved the

way and laid my body in the road so you can walk on it today. I stood right

up when they tried to put me down. You’re so high up, you forget to look

down!

You call that gratitude?

I’m the well-paid slave and the roads that I paved took my career, that’s just

what I gave. Five years later they were rolling in clover but nothing for me,

my career was over. If I’d been born just a generation later I could have

settled up with an arbitrator. I’d be wearing fur coats if I were rich with a

"bum-bum-bitty-bitty-bum"

You call that gratitude?

On the day that I died and they laid me in the ground where was

everybody? They couldn’t be found. I’m gone and they don’t know my

name. No plaque, no speech, no hall of fame. A-Rod, Zito, Tejada, Posada,

Johan, Maddux, Manny, Mussina. Who’s the one who paved the way with

blood? Go say my name-it’s (Flood!) Curt Flood!

You call that gratitude?

We all need to gain the upper hand. An edge to do even better than we

can. No one seemed to care when it brought back the fans. It’s a broken

record, strike up the band for the broken man. A crowd so loud and a son

so very proud. The powers that be counting money, handing me a crown.

Only now they decide that it’s time to take a stand. It’s a broken record,

strike up the band for the broken man. You can say I cheated; prop me

up defeated. Take a swing at me and the others too, if you’ve got nothing

better to do. There’s a street not far away that’s named after me. But my

present and future is a gated community. Leave your past behind if you

really want to understand. It’s a broken record, strike up the band for the

broken man.

Satchel Paige said, "Don’t look back. Something might be gaining on you."

Satchel grew up in a shotgun shack, and he had a pile of shotguns too.

He carried so many bags on a pole that he looked just like a satchel tree.

Satchel Paige and the Brown Bambino - that’s an everlasting battery.

And we don’t look back. We don’t carry on (in society). And we don’t

sit still or we might rust, but at the same time, we don’t run. And we don’t

look back.

Satchel Paige said "I could never be late. They could hardly start the

game without me." Satchel Paige didn’t get riled up, though his stomach

surely had the miseries. So if you follow these few simple rules, you might

have a long productive run. Satchel pitched about a million games. No

one ever did what he has done. And we don’t look back . . .

Yo trabajo en Chavez Ravine donde mi gente perdieron sus casas vente anos

pasado. Y ahora todo el mundo me quiere pero nadie sabe lo que yo hablo

despues del partido.

Fernando, Fernando! Te necesitamos ahora.

Dicen que fue un mania--Fernandomania! Y por que me quiere tanto

cuando hoy no le gusta mi gente cuando no estan jugando el juego

Americano.

Le gente dicen, "devuelvense" y por que cuando hemos vivido aqui por

tantos anos.

Pero en ‘81 me quiere, me quiere y ahora que ha cambiado. Quiero saber.

The summer game has let me down, standing lonely on the mound. A

crossroads only I can see between oblivion and destiny. My mind and body

say I’m done but something says I must go on. Conventional wisdom does

implore you give it all and then give some more.

Summer slowly turns to fall. It’s so hard to walk away from it all long

before my time.

My agent says I need to move. What do I have left to prove? I falter when

I hold my ground. For a couple of bucks you can keep me around. You’re

only young just once, I know but history will always show you pad your

best days with the chaff--A faded tarnished photograph.

Dandy Don and Warren Spahn tell me that I must go on. I must go on, I

can’t go on, I must go on, I can’t go on.

If I ever get the chance I’ll let them know just how I feel. I’d like to speak

my mind but that just wasn’t in the deal. It’s never easy being first to walk

down any road. I’d trade the glory just to crawl out from this heavy load.

You should hear the things they say behind my back and when I turn the

other cheek, they only sharpen their attack.

If I ever get the chance I’ll let them know just how I feel. I’d like to speak

my mind but that just wasn’t in the deal. I run the race but now it seems

the race is running me. I try to keep my cool but all this heat won’t let me

be. No matter how hard or well I played, I can tell you that I never had it made.

I only want to play the game. I only want to make my name for others who

never had the chance. Laid out like some sacrificial lamb, a long and lonely

road until I steal my way back home again. If I ever get the chance I’ll let

them know just how I feel. I’d like to speak my mind but that just wasn’t in the deal.

And here’s to you, Mr. Robinson!

It’s 1965. Me and my Dad, Mac. 50 miles to Candlestick in our green

VW van. A Giants-Dodgers pennant race. Mays and Koufax face to face.

Sometimes I dream of Willie Mays and tell him I was there. Sometimes I

dream of Willie Mays, and the sun comes out and the fog lifts and he’s there.

Now it’s 1973, right across the bay. Playing right field for the Mets, a

ball goes through his legs. I cheer the A’s to victory, but that was something

I never wanted to see. Sometimes I dream of Willie Mays and tell him I

was there. Sometimes I dream of Willie Mays, and the wind dies down, and

the sun comes out, and the fog lifts, and he’s there.

In 1954 I was born into this dream The kind that’s always black and white,

like an old news reel I’ve seen. A mile away in the Polo Grounds, he pulls it in and

spins himself around. Sometimes I dream of Willie Mays and tell him I was there.

Sometimes I dream of Willie Mays, and the wind dies down, and the sun comes

out, and the scoreboard works, and the fog lifts, and he’s there. And I’m there.

Sometimes, hungover, he might lose a pop fly in the glare of the

Washington sun. And yes, he swung at bad pitches, and let the Irish in

him sharpen up and boozy-bloat his tongue. Nights on the road he led a

bachelor’s life, with the bright short blaze of a shooting star. But he soaked

some homers—yeah, four in one game--when the ball was dead and the

fences far. Big Ed don’t let them weigh you down. Big Ed don’t let us

weigh you down.

In July 1903 he was hitting .333; for him that was a little bit under par.

On the 2nd he jumped the team and jumped a train from Detroit to New

York, went straight for the dining car. He was boozing it up good, they say,

making trouble, cursing, shouting, Delahanting in the bar. At Fort Erie,

Ontario, he was bumped from the train, wandered out on the bridge but he

didn’t get too far.

The night watchman said he’d seen a man, ended up wearing his bowler

hat; he heard a splash but he didn’t see him fall. For a week no one found a

clue of him. What good’s it do to question death when it makes a bad call?

But I don’t think he killed himself. I think some strange notion drew him

to Niagara Falls, across the curve of day and night, like the perfect arch of a

high fly ball.

May 26, 1959 in Milwaukee on the mound. Harvey Haddix of the Pirates

was mowing ‘em down. 27 up, 27 gone. Nine innings in the book and not

a man had gotten on. Now, in history only 17 have thrown a perfect game.

A most exclusive club and a most exalted fame. But after nine the Pirates

hadn’t scored. A perfect game and still old Harvey had to pitch some more.

David Wells, David Cone, Sandy Koufax, Cy Young, Jim Bunning, Tom

Browning, Charlie Robertson. Don Larsen in the series in 1956. Why don’t

we add old Harvey to that list?

10th inning down, 11th inning down, he moved on to the 12th. Three

straight outs and the fans were pinching themselves. The best game ever

pitched and still a scoreless tie! Poor Harvey had to carry on and give it one

more try. Thirteen’s never lucky so you can guess the rest. Harv gave up a

hit and then he lost the whole contest. I wonder how he slept that night

knowing how close he came to a most exclusive club that should include his name.

David Wells, David Cone, Randy Johnson, Addie Joss, Kenny Rogers, Mike

Witt, Dennis Martinez. Don Larsen in the series in 1956. Why don’t we

add old Harvey to that list?

The search for perfection is a funny thing, at least as I’ve been told. It drives

you nuts, it makes you curse and eats away at your soul. Sometimes better

isn’t better, sometimes justice just ain’t served. Sometimes legend isn’t laid

where it’s most deserved. But humanity is flawed as the losers will attest.

We’re drawn to tragic stories, the ones that suit us best. But for 12 innings

on that fateful day, old Harvey was a God. A perfect game if nothing

else because perfection’s always flawed.

David Wells, David Cone, Lee Richmond, Monte Ward. Len Barker against

the Jays and Catfish for the A’s. Don Larsen in the series in 1956. Why

don’t we add old Harvey to that list?

He’s a friend of the Smithereens, an old pal of Eddie Vedder. For a good

few years there weren’t any pitchers better. He loved R.E.M. and he played

a Rickenbacker guitar, but for a night on the town with Mike Mills you get

hit pretty hard.

Mike and I met up with Dennis Diken and Black Jack somewhere. As

this was New York City, you may have heard they have a few bars there.

Jack loved the Replacements, and we drank enough that we became them.

Two guitars, bass and drums--yeah our line-up was the same then.

He was crowned the Yankee Flipper by the foul ball of fame. He gave

50,000 fans the finger, but we’d like to share a little bit of the blame. It was

Spike and Mike and Black Jack and me.

I’m told Jack ended up on the cold tiles of the floor, with his mom who

was visiting banging on the bathroom door. Next time he took the mound

was not a pretty sight, and I’ve always figured it had a lot to do with that

night.

The photos filled every front page of the morning editions. Now he’s the

poster boy for a grand baseball tradition. Templeton, Tejada, Billy Martin

and Albert Belle--from old Hoss Radbourne all the way to David Wells.

I sit on my ass and watch the game like everybody else. And when it’s on

the line, that’s when they pull me down from the shelf. You think this kind

of pressure is easy? You’re just kidding yourself. All my heroes had colorful

names and a bad attitude, short-lived fame and an even shorter fuse.

Everything to gain and plenty to lose.

If you’re only in it for a little while you’d better make it count. If you can’t

stand the heat you’re gonna have to get out

I’d pitched 5 days straight. They didn’t want to bring me in. My arm was

hamburger meat. They didn’t want to bring me in. Bases loaded, nobody

out, they had to bring me in. Some hot-shot rookie! They didn’t want to

bring me in. Switch-hitting batting champ! They didn’t want to bring me in.

MVP! Strike 3! My work was done again.

If you want to hate my guts, that’s all right by me. If you think you’ve got

my number, that’s all right by me. But you’re gonna have to stand in against

me, and then we’ll see.

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