What Every Little Boy Knows

Because of baseball.

A beautifully written, neat little essay by T.R. Heally: "Chin Music"

My recommended reading for the month of September. (See sidebar.)

Slow Trains and Baseball

If you haven't figured it out yet, I like thinking about baseball, talking about baseball, reading about baseball, writing about baseball, watching baseball, playing fantasy baseball, and pitching Wiffle balls to my 3 year old. (He hit one over the carriage house into the alley the other day.) I've written numerous posts on Dirt Bombs about baseball. I "collect" and devour baseball scenes from fiction and poetry--even ones that are bad. I'm just a sucker for them. (My favorite baseball scene is probably in The Old Man and the Sea, and Don DeLillo's Underworld also has some great baseball writing.)

A while back, I found a literary journal that has a whole section of baseball stories. I haven't read it in a long time so when my fantasy baseball season ended suddenly and unexpectedly without making the playoffs--my boys just folded in the final week of the season and lost the last playoff spot by one game--there was a deep void in my life. I've had to find other ways to get my baseball fix. If you're like me, you'll love Slow Trains's section "On Baseball." The stories, some good and some bad, are amazing. Check it out and let me know what you think.

And if you know of any other stuff like this, please, LET ME KNOW about it. I love this stuff!

Big John and Matthew

Uncle Matt

I'd like to take this opportunity to welcome my nephew, Matthew, into this wonderful world. My li'l sis had a precious baby boy on August first. All of us who love her and her fantastic husband are bustin' buttons with pride. Especially me. I'm gonna be the best uncle--since ever (to use a line from my favorite new music group). I know I have some tough competition out there.

Take a minute to send some love out to your family today.

The Iron Horse: Lou Gehrig's Farewell Speech

For the last two weeks you have been reading about the bad break I got. Yet today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of this earth. I have been in ballparks for seventeen years and have never received anything but kindness and encouragement from you fans.

Look at these grand men. Which of you wouldn't consider it a highlight of his career just to associate with them for even one day? Sure, I'm lucky. Who wouldn't have considered it an honor to have known Jacob Ruppert? Also, the builder of baseball's greatest empire, Ed Barrow? To have spent six years with that wonderful little fellow, Miller Huggins? Then to have spent the next nine years with that outstanding leader, that smart student of psychology, the best manager in baseball today, Joe McCarthy? Sure, I'm lucky.

When the New York Giants, a team you would give your right arm to beat, and vice-versa, sends you a gift--that's something! When everybody down to the groundskeepers and those boys in white coats remember you with trophies--that's something! When you have a wonderful mother-in-law who takes sides with you in squabbles with her own daughter--that's something! When you have a father and mother who work all their lives so you can have an education and build your body--it's a blessing! When you have a wife who has been a tower of strength and shown more courage than you knew existed--that's the finest I know!

Gehrig died within a year of his retirement from baseball. His speech, one of the finest I know, was pieced together using first hand accounts, brief audio clips and video footage, notes that people scribbled down on the spot. The fans and writers who were sitting in the stands, in attendance on that glorious day, heard what Gehrig said and passed it along.

This is the stuff myths are made of.

Bookie Jones

We have a new member in our family since I last wrote. His name is Chipper Jones, or "Bookie Dawg" if R.L.'s being silly. He's an 8 month old Flat-Coated Retriever from Cahaba Flat-Coated Retrievers in Birmingham.

Last year, I read the novel The Story of Edgar Sawtelle by David Wroblewski. The story is a retelling of Hamlet set in rural Wisconsin and revolves around a family of 2nd generation dog breeders and their mythic, "homemade" breed of dogs. Their son, Edgar, is a mute boy, especially gifted in "dog whispering," who runs away after his father dies, escorted by a litter of loyal puppies that he has raised and trained all by himself. Edgar, like Hamlet, suspects that his Uncle Claude has murdered his father, Gar, to be with his mother, Trudy, and to take over the family business. (Personally, I love the character names.) If you've read Hamlet, it's not a big secret what happens, but it's still riveting and even surprising how it all unfolds. I highly recommend it. The book is FILLED with beautiful and insightful characterizations of dogs--their movement , their motivation, even their thoughts and intuitions.

I loved the novel, and the more I read it, the more I missed having a dog in the family. I'm talking about a strange sort of deep, inner tug-toy desire for a new dog. H and I have had a dog or dogs for the vast majority of our nineteen years together, and after a year and a half of dog free living--a nice break by the way--that void was starting to howl. So by the end of the novel, I had researched every breed known to God and man, from the Nova Scotia Duck-Tolling Retriever to the weenie dog, and settled on FCR's. All the info out there sounded too good to be true. I read How to Raise the Perfect Dog by Cesar the Great cover to cover, twice. I got all the props ready--crate, bully sticks (one of Cesar's favorite tricks), Kongs. I started saving tennis balls left over from matches and tournaments. I bought squeeky toys. H and I brainstormed the "name list" for a couple of months. (Chipper wasn't even on it.) I interviewed veterinarians. I mapped out and practiced walking routes in the neighborhood, and I designed my own, original training and thinking exercises. I left no water dish unturned.

We've had Chipper Jones for over six months now, and he's been a dandy addition to our home and family. I don't think I've invested this much of myself into any family pet ever--and that's probably saying something. And after several rough patches through puppyhood and puberty (like the time I ran over him on the four-wheeler at the cabin--he wasn't hurt...), the hard work is starting to pay off. Chipper is turning into the mature, responsive dog that I had envisioned. He's R.L.'s best friend and companion, sparring partner and mischief accomplice. And H has only just begun to work her special brand of magic with him. (She has a way with dogs that I can only attribute to her Cherokee side. It's a marvel to witness her when she gets down on the floor to caress and whisper in a dog's ear.) He's even helped me lose twenty pounds.

So, Chipper and I have started preparing for dove season. I've been shooting .22 blanks off at every meal before he eats and taking him out on the boat a lot to make sure he's cool on Labor Day weekend. My buddy even stuck a dove in the freezer for me for live retrieving and "lost bird" exercises. He's coming along nicely and should be ready to go Saturday, September 3rd. It's gonna be a big day for us. Hopefully one where we begin to establish a bond only understood by very few, lucky hunters and their good ole dogs. I've observed it between my Dad and his Yellow Lab, Wheat, and between Dad's friend Nathan and Jack the pointing English Setter, but I've never had it myself.

Last week, on Lake Maumelle during an early morning fishing trip/dog training session, I let him jump out of the boat for a refreshing dip, and he swam all the way UNDER the boat--went down on the starboard side and came up on the port side. I kid you not. Damnedest thing I've ever seen a dog do in my life.

I've thought for a while that when he gets a little more distinguished and mature that I'm gonna start calling him Mr. Jones. You're well on your way Bookie Buke.

Proud Tigers

Mario and I attended the Arkansas Tennis Association's annual awards banquet last night. He is a student in my Senior English class and an occasional doubles partner. My men's tennis team was recognized for winning the Southern Sectional Championship and finishing second in the nation. Mario won the Herschel Friday Outstanding Junior Award, in recognition of "ability and excellence in junior tennis, and achievements in sportsmanship, character and citizenship."

When asked about his most memorable match (at the podium in front of 300-400 people) Mario said something like, "My most memorable match was the finals of the high school state championships. It was an honor to carry on the 11 year winning tradition at Central High." Can you say dynasty?

Good job Mario. All of us at Central are very proud of you. You got me wanting to coach the team again...

Chang vs. Lendl

Boots

Lake Ouachita Fog

Well the fog's so thick you can't spy the land. -Bob Dylan

The compass fails and leads the boat in one, sweeping circle. We putt along, marking time, waiting for it to lift so we can find our way home to Poison Ivy Island. Now and again, we are within twenty yards of the shore and don't know.

Redbank: 1958

Papa knelt before Turkey Creek and lowered his arm and cupped his hand and drank from it while the boy swung the pendular axe by the throat and knocked the arch of his boot with the pole of the axe. Papa opened the pouch of chewing tobacco and pinched it, chewed it and spat then rose and returned to the fell. The boy clasped the saw, moved the choke to half, and drew the cord. The saw fired and surged, and he handed it to his father who set the choke back with his thumb, pinching the throttle, and knelt in the heap of saw chips and cut the wood. He lifted and carried and pitched the logs as Papa partitioned them. When the fell was all cut, the boy asked,

“Papa, may I split the logs?”

“Like I showed you,” Papa said.

His father stood over him while he centered the toe of the bit onto the near ledge of the oak log and spread his feet to shoulders' width. The swell knob rested off the heel of his left palm, and he watched his breath. Then, he wheeled and caught the throat of the handle in his right hand and delivered it in line, letting the weight of the bit crack the log and sink into the chopping block. It was a clean first swing that hurled the halves end over end in the crepitant leaf-litter.

“Nice swing young man.”

Fat Pine: 1983

Papa knelt before the hickory embers and wielded the spatula that he cached along with the grill grating in the hickory tree above the fire pit, and he flipped the beef patties. Strewn around in the sandy dirt lay a bow saw, the morning’s newspaper, some ground peppercorn, garlic salt, a hatchet, and a tin of minced onion flakes. The smoke from the embers wafted over to Dad and finally him and on through the clearing into the mother-naked hardwoods.

After lunch, he led his grandfather to the spring for a drink. The glistering frost on the leaf-litter winked and melted in the noonday effulgence while they walked down the drive, the boy watching his breath and balancing on the rib of grass splitting the sandy ruts. They descended the embankment and crossed another trail into the cedar glade where the inky cypress boards constructed a coruscating box of water in the ground. A tarnished ladle was hooked over the backboard, and they both knelt and dipped it in the water and drank from it.

“It’s good Papa.”

“It is good. Mmm. Best water in the world.”

“Where is Dad?”

“He is at the ravine looking for fatwood.”

“Why didn’t he come for water?”

“There is Pepsi Cola in the truck. And work to do.”

“May I help Papa?”

“We need your help.”

“Good. How big is a hundred acres Papa?”

“You know that.” Papa held out his arm and pointed it across the woodland above them. “From the upside-down pine to here, at the spring, and from the far side of the ravine to Turkey Creek.”

“Is that big?”

“Not especially.”

“How many is all of South Carolina Papa?”

“Too many to count.”

They found Dad down in the ravine kneeling before the pine stump digging out the roots with the fold-shovel, brow and forearms beading sweat. His father didn’t stop digging and picking as they drew near. Papa stepped in front of the remnant and wrapped his arms around it and wobbled it, but the stump was not yet free. Papa knelt and his father handed over the shovel.

“How was the spring?”

“It is the best water in the world Dad.”

“Good. Take that shovel from Papa and dig out around those roots.”

He picked and dug, making a small tunnel under the stump, and then he started at it from the other side. Papa lifted his arm and pulled the chewing tobacco out of the shirt-pocket and opened the pouch and pinched it and chewed it. The boy stopped and watched.

“Do you want some young man?”

“No. I won’t be able to dig.”

“No sir?”

“No thank you sir.”

“I’m going for the peach baskets,” his Dad said.

“Will you bring him a Pepsi Cola?”

“Yes sir, you want one?”

“Not now, I’m alright.”

Papa knelt before his grandson and watched him work at the stump. It was almost free. Papa told him to shake it, and he did, but it wouldn’t come. So he handed his grandfather the tool and stood up while Papa finished the business. When Dad returned from the truck, the fat pine lay on its side next to the hole, and he was striking it with the hatchet.

“I smell turpentine! You got it."

“Yes he did.”

The slivers of wood fell before the stump, and the men stacked them into the baskets filling each of them. Then they walked away from the oddment and out of the ravine carrying the baskets and set them in the truck bed.

“Can I feed the fire Dad?”

“Ask your Papa.”

“May I feed the fire Papa?”

“Yes you may. Saw up that hickory branch.”

The men watched him work down the length of the branch with the bow saw. He stopped once to rest and to watch his breath. When he finished he carried the sticks and stacked them next to the fire pit. He went to the truck bed and removed a few pieces of the fat pine from one of the peach baskets and returned to the embers and stirred them with a piece of the lightwood. It lit off straightaway, and he positioned it and the other slivers over the glowing coals, and then he crosshatched the sticks of hickory around the resinous blaze. The flame spread swiftly to the hickory. He plodded back to the truck bed and held out his arms.

“Load me up please.”

“You want a fire, do you not?”

“Yes sir. A big one.”

The boy lugged the split logs and stacked them next to the fire pit. He looked at his father, then propped the logs over the hickory.

“Like a teepee, right Papa?”

“That is right young man.”

“It is a good fire son.”

“It is getting warm Dad.”

“It is a fire son. On a deep bed of coals.”

They stood around the fire pit and watched the wood burn. Then Papa told him the story about the cemetery across the road. Once some boys in the Sunday school class were camping there in the clearing, and they went to the cemetery at dark to look around. An especially ornery boy was pining for something to supervene, and when he sat down and leaned back against the headstone, the grave marker shifted and groaned, and the boy shot hell-bent out of the cemetery hurdling the fencerow and didn’t look back and didn’t let up until he made camp.

Not Charlie Brown Too!

Grits

I don't care who you are.  Read the directions when you cook grits.

Horse Whisperer

Advice to My Son

by Peter Meinke

The trick is, to live your days

as if each one may be your last

(for they go fast, and young men lose their lives

in strange and unimaginable ways)

but at the same time, plan long range

(for they go slow: if you survive

the shattered windshield and the bursting shell

you will arrive

at our approximation here below

of heaven or hell).

To be specific, between the peony and the rose

plant squash and spinach, turnips and tomatoes;

beauty is nectar

and nectar, in a desert, saves--

but the stomach craves a stronger sustenance

than the honied vine.

Therefore, marry a pretty girl

after seeing her mother;

speak truth to one man,

work with another;

and always serve bread with your wine.

But, son,

always serve wine.

Thirsty Bears

I was in the back with the luggage, leafing through the jagged terrain of Waterton Lakes Park, Alberta while they drove.  Up ahead, there was a marvelous castle built on the mountainside facing south over the lakes into the lower forty-eight.  

“Let’s stop in real quick and take a look around.”

 “Looks interesting.”

 “I want some guacamole.”

The Prince of Whales Lodge was an architectural triumph.  As we entered the lobby, a delicate and defiant mosaic of guitar plucking and slapping echoed off the lofted ceilings. A glass wall opposite the entrance exhibiting a vista deep down the spine of the Rocky Mountains into virgin wild land was the only mortal concept that could have survived next to her voice.  I thought I saw Baja California.  

We hovered across the room to the couch where she hunched over her ebony, acoustic Martin and dropped into the cushy sofa right next to her.   I forgot the view through the black side of my eyelids. 

When she finished, they opened.  Then she got up and stuck the guitar in its case and started for the door.  I was paralyzed. 

Jay skipped across in front of her causing her to studderstep by.  “Hey now?"  Head down she swept around him and continued for the door.  Her midnight hair swooshed around and masked her brown visage.  So he wheeled around and jumped in front of her again.  “Hey, wait.  I’m sorry, stupid, American—hey!”  He bent under her, looking up, and actually brushed her hair back with both hands rather delicately and held her by the elbows.

“Excuse me!”  She reared up and slugged him on the arm.

“Could you just hold on one second?  Slow down.”

“You slow down you freak,” but she couldn’t help smiling.  She brushed him aside and started out the carved double doors.

“We’ll be at the campground down on the lake tonight!  Come see us, if.”  And she was gone.  The heavy doors shut with a whump.  I thought I caught a whiff of sage.

We nosed around the lodge for a while.  It was spectacular.  But we liked being outside.  The guy at the desk told us that her name was Rose and she worked summers in the park leading nature walks and guiding trail rides on horseback.  Some evenings she played for tips in the lobby. 

At the campsite we started fighting over her.  “Would you care to make a wager?  And shake on it like a gentleman, Mr. Falls?”  Will asked. 

We were rolling out our groundpads and sleeping bags.  Jay clanked around outside the tent whipping up some grits for dinner while we finished setting up camp.  

“It's over.”

“You really think it’s over?”            

Jay flew horizontal through the open flap and caught me reaching up to secure the tent attic, caught me in the ribs with his shoulder like one of The Flying Zamboni’s, ramming me into the tent wall.  The tent flipped up on its side, ripping up the stakes he had just hammered in.

“Dusty Rhodes, The American Dream!  Off the ropes,” he was flying around the tent, “CLOTHESLINE!  ELBOW!  BELLY TO BELLY SUFLEX!”

I flipped backwards in his bear hug slamming into the mat and jumped up to my knees disoriented but in full character as Rick Flair, held up four fingers, fluffed my hair, “Whoooooo!” caught him with a chop across his wooly chest and got him in the figure four.

He was writhing around when Will came out of nowhere, “Oh no!  Not the metal chair!” and he clocked me in the face with his heavy feather pillow, jolting me enough for Dusty to break loose.

“Ladies and gentlemen!  Tonight’s main event, The Three’s a Crowd, I Surrender All, Last Man Standing, Tent-cage of Death-Match between The Flying Bull, Manny Ramiraz, Rick Flair, and The American Dream, Dusty Rhodes!  Hold on to your hats!  It’s going to be a wild one!”

By the time it was over, we all lay exhausted and panting and laughing hysterically, wrapped in a tangled mass of rainfly, broken poles, and guy lines.  The teapot on the stove was at full whistle when a pair of women’s boots stepped in our field of view.  She looked down over us shaking her head.

Jay sprang to his feet sending Will and me into a deathroll out of the tangled mass and into the dirt.  His hair was standing all up everywhere.

“Some folks that work here in the resort are having a little get together tonight at the stables.  A bonfire.  Go take hot showers and lather up a few times and meet us at The Thirsty Bear at nine.  I’ll introduce you to some good people.”     

Up the Creek at Oaklawn

JB and I spent Friday afternoon at Oaklawn watching the horses run.  We had a great time visiting with a couple of friends of mine that work at one of the betting booths.  We learned how to place some new kinds of bets, and we got some pretty good tips--in hindsight--if we had known how to listen to horse betting tips.  By the end of the eighth race, with one race to go, we were about $70 in the hole between losing bets and $5 beers.  

I had missed a golden opportunity in the 5th race.  I go to my friend at the booth and say, "$2 for the win on 2 and $2 to show, the 8."

  

And my buddy at the booth says, "Have you turned gay?"  

I didn't have a clue what he was talking about, and I said, "Yeah, I want to play this one conservatively." 

"Then put your money in your pocket if that's what you want to do."  He handed me the ticket, 2 to win, 8 to show and mumbled, "betting a show on a short field."

The 8 won the race.  It paid $58.  I won $7 for my show bet.

Before the ninth race, I studied the card.  M had given me a hot tip right when we had arrived earlier in the afternoon, "the 3 and the 12 in the 9th race," he had said, almost before hello.  Luckily, I had subconsciously grabbed a pen B was holding out toward me and circled the two while I introduced JB.  

B had said a couple of things throughout the day that were starting to get to me.  "Bet your lucky numbers.  Bet the names you like."  He's worked there for years.  "You can beat a race, but you'll never beat the track."  I needed a win badly.  I had never dropped so much money on gambling before and wondered how I would explain it to H.  I looked in my wallet--$2, I cashed in the winning $7 ticket from the stupid "show" in the fifth, and I called the bet out to B. 

Dollar amount first, then type of bet, and then the horses last.  "$6 exacta box on the 3, the 12, and the 2."  

B nodded his head and smiled.  First time he had done that all day.  When we heard the bugler, JB and I ran outside to watch the last race.  He got set up to take a picture of the break.  For the mile and a sixteenth, the starting gates were directly in front of our spot on the track.  At the bell, J squeezed off the beautiful picture below.  In it, you will see the 2, Uptstream, getting out of the gates well ahead of the rest of the field.  Also, closest to you in the photo is the 12, Indian Moonshine.  Upstream led the race wire to wire, and Indian Moonshine came from second to last with a stormy charge down the stretch to finish second on a photo finish as I danced alongside them screaming, "They're gonna do it, they're gonna get it, they got it, they did it!" 

I proudly went to see B at his booth and collected $78.  M had put me on the 12 horse before I had stood inside Oaklawn for five minutes.  And I picked Upstream because, well, I was up the creek at that point and needed a miracle.  Right before the bell, JB leaned over," "You picked that horse cause you're a fisherman."  

I said, "Goin' Upstream, where no one else wants to walk." 

The bell sounded, and he snapped his best photograph of the day. 

#36 Robin Roberts

When Big J was a boy, Papa and Perky gave him a weekly allowance of 25 cents.  He started his Brae Springs Train Fare Fund with that money, and over a period of several years, he saved up the $17 or $20 necessary to purchase a train ticket from Columbia, South Carolina to Philadelphia, Pennsylvania to visit your great, great grandparents, Lee Leslie MacLellan (Dad Mac) and Irma Baker MacLellan (Mom Mac) at their home in Bethlehem, PA.  (I met Mom Mac several times when I was very young.  I called her Mom-mom.)  When Big J was 9, he purchased the ticket, Perky and Papa put him on a train in Columbia, and he made the trip up the East Coast all by himself.  At a changeover in Richmond Perky's sister, Aunt Sally, met him for a hug and a snack.  Then Dad Mac picked up Big J in Philadelphia when he arrived and drove him back to Bethlehem to their home, Brae Springs.

That week, Dad Mac and Mom-mom paraded their first grandson all over town.  Big J went to work with Dad Mac.  He and and his brother, Uncle Alden, owned Plymouth car dealerships in Bethlehem and Allentown.  They visited the Bethlehem Steel Company farm, the owners of which were Dad Mac's and Mom-mom's good friends, to see their champion Labrador Retrievers straight from Scotland--one of the original Lab bloodlines to come to the United States.  They frequented the storied Saucon Valley Country Club where Dad Mac and Mom-mom golfed and socialized with Pennsylvania's educated elite.  And Dad Mac took Big J to his first professional baseball game in Philadelphia to see the Phillies and the Chicago Cubs.

The game was at Connie Mack Stadium (formerly Shibe Park), by that time a decrepit old place.  Big J called it a "barn,"  even though when it was built in 1909 it had been America's first concrete and steel stadium.  He said he sat behind a post because "there weren't many seats in Connie Mack that weren't behind posts.  You were lucky if you didn't get a splinter in your ass, too! [from the weathered wooden benches]"  That ballpark witnessed 7 World Series and 2 All-Star Games and was the site of the first night game in the history of professional baseball.  Your Dad Mac and Big J watched the great Philly pitcher, Robin Roberts, defeat the Cubs 3-1.  The only run he allowed was a solo home run off the bat of Cub-great, Hall of Famer, Ernie Banks.  Your grandfather said he left the stadium "thrilled cause our team had won."

#36 Robin Roberts.  6-00, 190.  Throws right.  Switch hitter.  The Phillies' greatest right-handed pitcher ever.  In his 19 year, Hall of Fame career, he won 287 games and had an ERA of 3.41.  The game's toughest pitcher for most of the 50's, he had 6 consecutive 20 win seasons.  He worked with a great fastball and incredible control.  He challenged hitters, keeping the ball over the plate, so he gave up some runs.  Roberts claimed that he never slept after a loss.  He'd watch the sunrise, the pitches, hits, and runs playing out over and over in his mind.  Critics say he hung on a little too long.  The end of the career was rough.  Several seasons of lack-luster ball hurt his stats, but there aren't many folks around who don't believe he was one of the great right-handed pitchers of all-time.  Big J is convinced.

Gangsta's Paradise

Here's an update on a previous post:

Big G was expelled from school last week for bowing up to a security officer who was conducting a random scan and search in the library.  When they finally immobilized and searched him, they found nothing.  He had already used his last chance.

He had a B in Senior English Literature and Composition; data strongly suggests he'll be in prison by the time he's 25.