Results tagged ‘ retrospective ’
Duke Snider: 1926-2011
Photo courtesy of Google Images
As children in Los Angeles, the Dodgers made sure we knew the team’s history – especially where they came from. For those of us born after their arrival from Brooklyn, that history began in 1947 with the arrival of Jackie Robinson.
Yet, one year was a mandatory lesson: 1955. That was the year the Dodgers became immortal. Though they dominated the National League after World War II, the Dodgers only mustered one World Series championship before packing everything up for Exposition Park.
By the time the Dodgers won their first National League title since moving into their new home, there were only a few players left from that 1955 ballclub. Though Los Angeles fans were looking for new heroes for their chapter in Dodger history, they looked to a native son as a shining example of the great ball clubs of the 1950s.
Edwin Donald Snider was the first Dodger to come home with his team from Brooklyn. He made a name for himself as Duke being the clutch center fielder with a deadly long ball. Ebbets Field suited him well as most of his 407 homers and 1,333 RBis occurred on his side of the Brooklyn Bridge. Decades before, Duke was a prospect out of Compton High School who had the eye of Branch Rickey before going off to fight in World War II. Upon returning from serving his country, Rickey remembered him – and brought him back to the Dodgers.
The rest, you might say, is history. Except, when Snider did return to his hometown, he began to not be the potent threat he used to be. His knee wasn’t as healthy as it was in 1955. Not to mention the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum proved to difficult a field to play on for him. Duke did make it into Dodger Stadium in 1962. At the end of the season, he was gone – back to New York with the Mets. He hung up his cleats in 1964 after a tough final season with the enemy San Francisco Giants.
Los Angeles and New York weren’t the only places Duke had a deep legacy with. His two stints in Montreal with the minor league Royals provided an opportunity to become one of the English language broadcasters for the Expos from 1973 to 1986.
The Hall of Famer would always be the link between Ebbets Field and Dodger Stadium. A man who enjoyed the game with great enthusiasm even as he delivered a low key account of Expos baseball or coolly pitched Ovaltine.
God Bless the Duke of Flatbush.
What To Do With This Stuff?
All photos by Randy Stern
I am not much of an autograph hound. Nor am I a memorabilia collector. I get these things as something that was a good idea at the time, but what use do I have of them? I have an autographed baseball by Ferguson Jenkins – I’ll keep that. A bobblehead from the Madison Mallards (a friend gave me that one) – I’ll keep that, too.
But, the photo above signed by Bob Feller at the 2008 TwinsFest? I gave up getting a frame for that one…
Then, I was working a trade show this past week when Jack Morris and Tim Laudner showed up to sign autographs. Everyone knows who Jack Morris is – or, I hope you do. Hall of Fame ballot every year, former Detroit Tigers and Minnesota Twins pitcher – two World Series championships! Currently on the radio side of the Twins broadcasts (though he bitched about being down to 20 broadcasts this season…poor baby!).
But, who’s Tim Laudner? Hey, I didn’t grow up in the Twin Cities! OK, Laudner was a long-time Twin, played in the 1987 World Series. He’s now with Fox Sports North doing commentary prior to Dick and Bert calling the game.
As a fool – I got them. When I got home, I realized one thing: “What do I do with them?!?”
So…they’re up for grabs! You can have ‘em! Comment or e-mail me (resedabear@yahoo.com) so you can have ‘em!
I’ll even throw in this one, too!
Chuck Tanner: 1928-2011
Photo courtesy of blackandgoldworld.blogspot.com
Somewhere amongst us is a “greatest managers of all-time” list. We may agree on some names, disagree on others. We’ll even argue as to the standards and benchmarks on what makes a great manager.
In my case, it comes down to three criteria: Championships, managerial style and impact. Two out of three is fine by me. Sometimes, there were exceptions to the rule if a manager meets some criteria – especially involving an indelible memory in my baseball life.
Charles William Tanner was never known as a great manager. Until 1979, he was pretty much looked at as a manager who let personalities run the show instead of him taking charge. This is not exactly true. He was truly a leader.
Tanner was a leader with strategies and buy-ins towards accomplishing goals. Tanner also smiled on the job. That smile was deceptive knowing he was the smartest guy in the room, even as Willie Stargell awarded the stars to be put on the pillbox caps.
The key to his leadership was the word “guide.” In every post-mortem, you will read that Tanner “guided” the 1979 Pittsburgh Pirates to winning their last World Series Championship. But, that’s OK. There’s always room for “wommats” – the Wolof word for “guide” – in baseball.
As a result, Tanner came to the Southside of Chicago and brought them close to a AL West crown in 1972. How short memories often forget about that.
Yet it was in Pittsburgh where Tanner was indeed a wommat – a player’s manager who worked with a group of veterans to lead young players towards an inevitable conclusion. As close as they came in 1978, the light turned green for the Battling Bucs of 1979.
Before Game 5 of the 1979 series, Tanner had another issues to deal with – the death of his mother. In her memory, what could have been a Baltimore Orioles cakewalk that year, turned into one the biggest comebacks in World Series history. In seven games, the Bucs won – and Tanner dedicated the series win to his mother.
That would be my memory of Chuck Tanner – a wommat for a group of players hungry for a championship. He facilitated their ascent into history as guided by spirits. Tanner never had any ego in his soul during the years he spent in the game – at least detectable to the most observant fan.
Rest in peace, Chuck. And, thank you for one of my finest memories in the game.
Blue Genesis: The Origin of The Heirloom (Conclusion)
Photo by Randy Stern
Forgiveness is a powerful thing.
We’ve seen the power of forgiveness with Texas Rangers’ Manager Ron Washington after a drug test proved positive during Spring Training. He asked for forgiveness from his team. Being redeemed provided the route to the World Series for Washington.
When I left my native state of California in 1996 for the Nation’s Capitol, I left behind many things. I packed what I truly needed into four large bags as I flew on a red eye from LAX to Dulles at the turn of December of that year. That was my way of cutting off everything that was my home state.
It took another ten years to return to my hometown. It was ten years away from my brother and his family. Ten years apart from friends, both old and recent. That gap hurt a lot.
Making friends along the way was fine, but I was constantly reminded of where I came from and why I was somewhat of a stranger to their world.
So I asked what was missing in my life? By turning my back on my hometown – let alone my home state – I realized that one could not have a future without honoring the past. Yet, I was not in the position to consider that point at that time.
I tried to, though.
While I was able to live without my hometown, I had a hard time living without baseball. I was spoiled for most of my life – living in Major League markets. Washington, DC was still years away from the arrival of the Montreal Expos when I lived under the second Clinton Administration. I had the minor league teams closer than I would if I rooted for the Baltimore Orioles – in Potomac, Bowie and, on a couple of occasions, Richmond. I did manage one game at Camden Yards – a sad occasion for a Peter Angelos-ravaged ballclub.
During my time in Madison, Wisconsin in the early 2000s, I was able to make it to Miller Park a couple of times for my Major League fix – with the Milwaukee Brewers. Sure, it’s over an hour from Mad-Town to Brew-Town, but those adventures were worth it when the mood was right. I also had my minors fix in Wisconsin, thanks to the Wisconsin TimberRattlers up in Appleton, the Beloit Snappers and the Northwoods League’s Madison Mallards.
On one of those occasions to Miller Park, I went to see to see the Dodgers. It was odd that I have never seen the team of my youth and upbringing away from Chavez Ravine. They were in Wisconsin – a reminder of my childhood.
When I left Miller Park, I didn’t feel a thing. I couldn’t figure out why. I went to a ballgame and felt no significance in doing so. They were not the Dodgers I grew up with. Not the Dodgers of Barbara Jean (Bloom) Stern! They were some early 2000s facsimile of a team that donned a familiar hue of blue with the “L” and the “A” crossed together.
Yet, something needed to happen in my life. Wisconsin was not my home. My mom’s side of the family settled in Beloit, south of Madison around the time of her birth – but it was not enough to consider forgiving the past to move forward in the world.
My move to the Twin Cities in 2004 was the sea change I needed. I always said about the Minneapolis-St. Paul area that it was a conglomeration of every place I lived in my life. There were bits of the Los Angeles Basin, the San Francisco Bay Area, the Washington, DC and Madison areas wrapped up in this Upper Midwest metroplex. My current neighborhood is almost like the one I grew up in. This is why I felt right at home in the Twin Cities even before I moved there.
The Metrodome was by no means a replacement for Dodger Stadium. However, I would attend just as many games there as I would anywhere else I saw a ballgame. Game 163 in 2009 would be the tipping point between Chavez Ravine and that Teflon-roofed monstrosity once briefly ruled by Brett Favre – before the roof caved in.
Target Field is by no means Dodger Stadium. It is more comfortable, more accessible and enjoyable than my old ballpark. Still, something was missing there, too.
What transpired during my life in Minnesota would change my thinking about the world – and my life.
In 2006, I returned to my hometown. I blessed it. I even drove up to Chavez Ravine to see the old ballpark again. It was a form of closure – a point of forgiveness. I was former Prime Minister Kevin Rudd apologizing to the Stolen Generations of Aboriginal peoples and the child migrants from Britain, the “Forgotten Australians.” There was indeed a satisfaction of fulfilling my apology to my hometown for abandoning it for petty and adolescent reasons.
It would be an affront to my mother’s grave to say that the Twins of today are like the Dodgers of my youth. It would not be fair to balance Joe Mauer against Steve Garvey…or Steve Yeager.
This summer, the twain shall meet at Target Field. It is my hope that I will be there. Or, perhaps, to go home again.
Blue Genesis: The Origin of The Heirloom (Part 3)
A point of reference to a rivalry. Photo courtesy of the Orange County Register.
There were two words that described Dodgers baseball in the 1970s: Boring and Predictable. Using the word “boring” would be too emotive. In fact, it was my “out” of being a Dodger fan by the end of the 1978 World Series. “Boring” seemed too demeaning – and, to a point, incorrect.
On the other hand, “predictable” was more like it. Tommy Lasorda had a strategy and philosophy that centered on the long-time infield of Steve Garvey, Davey Lopes, Bill Russell and Ron Cey. The addition of Dusty Baker, Steve Yeager, Reggie Smith and Manny Mota in this strategy augmented the core of the Dodgers lineup. You knew how Don Sutton, Rick Rhoden, Doug Rau and Charlie Hough were going to pitch, but where Lasorda had to be creative was the second starter slotted in between Sutton and Rhoden/Hough. When Tommy John left the Dodgers to fulfill the surgery that now has his name on it, Lasorda was given the gift of Burt Hooton by 1978.
If you’re a student of baseball history, you know that the Dodgers were a strong unit built on farm system-bred veterans. Every acquisition was calculated for long-term results – not just a one-year-to-win-and-see-ya strategy. When Rick Monday came to Chavez Ravine, he didn’t just contribute to the 1981 World Championship – he stayed in the organization beyond the end of his playing years. Moreover, each addition to the Dodgers during the Lasorda years augmented and complimented the core of the club.
Lasorda did accomplish his World Championship goals twice. Something my mom lived to see.
After the 1979 season, I ended up going a few more times. If I recall, I once went with a friend, once with my brother and maybe another by myself. My memory is kind of foggy of that time to recall whom the Dodgers played and when.
Except, there was one specific day at Chavez Ravine I’ll never forget.
By 1982, I was already a Giants’ convert. I was too hung up on wanting to get out of L.A. and making a life on my own, that I began converting myself to being a San Franciscan. A recent reflection hammered a point home: I wanted to be like my father. That is the only regret I had in my life was to follow the footsteps of the one key person in the world who never gave a damn about me.
It was the summer of 1982 – right after graduating Reseda High. I was with a friend and saw a Dodgers-Giants day game. I knew I lived dangerously by wearing that Giants’ jersey. I’m shocked I’m still alive. Back then, you had more chance of getting carted out in a stretcher wearing anything Dodgers at Candlestick Park than you would wearing Giants’ stuff at Dodger Stadium.
I knew I was asking for trouble when I drove the big Oldsmobile with a “Billy Ball” sticker (when Billy Martin managed the Oakland A’s), a 49ers sticker (I was more into the ‘Niners than I was the Giants) and some radio station either in L.A. or up north.
As usual, the drives were crowded around the ballpark. I blew life lesson number 24 – never look at anyone in traffic at any time! Somehow I made contact with an old drunk dude who started yelling at me (we would call it bullying these days). I must’ve said the f-word when he wouldn’t shut up (I cursed more back then than now – think Joe Pesci). He got out of his Volvo, yelled some more, kicked my driver’s door and got back in his car.
I forgot there was a police baton in the trunk. Had I known, I could’ve used that on the guy. Then, I would’ve spent some time at L.A. County Jail…and so forth.
After finally finding a way out of Dodger Stadium, I was still freaked. I made a decision to never go back to Dodger Stadium ever again.
That incident also cemented my feelings towards the Dodgers and my hometown. It was rebellion with an added layer of anger. The move to the Bay Area in 1987 was a summative action to jump physically on the other side of the rivalry.
With many rivalries, there were no gray areas involved in the Dodgers-Giants one. You were on one side of the other – nowhere in-between. The rivalry not only focused on the teams themselves, but every aspect of each city’s life. San Francisco was seen as more down-to-Earth, countercultural and communal. San Francisco’s stars were of culture and urban lifestyles. Their diversity was tied into the closeness of each other’s neighborhoods. Los Angeles was about distance, glamour, glitter, moderate-to-conservative values and suburbia.
Today, I can refute the stereotypes and images of each region and point to its flaws.
Oddly enough, I went to more Oakland A’s games than Giants ones. The only explanation I can give was to the ease of getting to the Oakland Coliseum over Candlestick Park. That has since changed thanks to AT&T Park and its pristine bayside location and investment in infrastructure for placing MUNI and CalTrain right near home plate.
Was I wrong for turning my back on my birthright over a baseball team? It certainly played a huge part of what I was going through in the 1980s and early 1990s.
However, this tale is not over.
Blue Genesis: The Origin of The Heirloom (Part 2)
Photo courtesy of the Los Angeles Times
The Dodgers were an old school organization that fitted perfectly with the old Los Angeles.
The “old” Los Angeles would be seen in the guise of the Pacific Electric interurban trains, Aimee Semple McPherson attracting thousands to her revivals and the old Hollywood studio system. It was quite a conservative place when the Dodgers arrived from Brooklyn. It suited Walter O’Malley well.
Yet, the Dodgers knew this was a city in transition. They kept on breaking barriers at every turn. The Dodgers were one of the first ball clubs to have their games broadcasted in English and Spanish. They embraced as many communities as possible to Chavez Ravine – even though it took longer for some to gain traction as part of the Dodger family.
Keep in mind that the Dodgers ran the same way Walter O’Malley did when it was back in Brooklyn. The surroundings may be 1962 modern, but that was fine for an old school baseball man such as O’Malley. He expected loyalty from his organization – something O’Malley had to amend when the team moved west. You stayed with the organization forever. The greats stuck around as long as they could.
There were a few exceptions. Don Drysdale wanted to get into broadcasting, so Gene Autry hired him to do the Angels games in the 1970s. He would come back to work the Dodgers broadcasts after several seasons doing baseball coverage on the national and local level.
Then, there was Glenn Burke. He was promising ballplayer who tried to keep his homosexuality a secret. According to various stories, Tommy Lasorda could not accept any ballplayer being gay and ostracized Burke – eventually having Al Campanis trade him to Oakland.
Being a traditional ball club, they did what they can to create a baseball paradise in a carved out piece of hilltop above Chinatown, Echo Park and a swath of the city northeast of downtown Los Angeles. It had to be the perfect baseball park. That was O’Malley’s dream manifested in Chavez Ravine.
And, we came to the stadium. We filled its seats, ate Farmer John’s Dodger Dogs and heard Helen Dell’s organ prompting us to cheer for the guys who could never be called “Bums.” It was the first place where I witnessed a ballclub attracting three million fans in a season. That was a feat I never thought possible.
Mom used to pay $3.50 for a field box seat in 1977. In 2010, those seats cost $50.00 a piece. I doubt if those seats are ever available for sale on an individual game basis these days.
My first recollection of being in Chavez Ravine was around 1970. It would be the only time both of my parents, my brother and I would attend a ballgame together. I often forget the reason why we returned to the stadium as a nuclear family – though the story of my father having a heart attack was often mentioned. I’m still trying to recall that moment or confirm it.
It took a few years after the divorce was final until mom decided to treat us to several ballgames. Just as Lasorda replaced long-time manager Walter Alston, it was her chance to bring us to Chavez Ravine. It was just the three of us in that big Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight using the Stadium Way approach into the ballpark.
That was in 1977.
Once we got into the stadium, dinner was served in the form of those Dodger Dogs – the foot-long forms of processed meat of various origins warmed our hearts even on the warmest of nights. Our entertainment came with a lineup all too familiar to Dodger fans: Davey Lopes, Ron Cey, Steve Garvey, Bill Russell, Steve Yeager, Dusty Baker, Reggie Smith and Rick Monday. The starting rotation was historic: Don Sutton, Tommy John, Rick Rhoden, Charlie Hough and Doug Rau. Though Hough bounced between the rotation and the bullpen – he was a Dodger regular through a chunk of the 1970s – an unforgettable arm at that.
From the bench came some of the finest utility players of the time. Manny Mota was the best pinch hitter in the game. His role was to be a clutch player when the Dodgers needed it the most. Every time he came to bat – something amazing happened. Johnny Oates and Lee Lacy provided opportunities to jump in when needed. Oates was a terrific catcher behind Yeager and Lacy could play anywhere. Not to mention he’s really a nice guy.
It was either in 1977 or 1978 when Baker and Lacy did an autograph session at a Northridge sports fan shop. While Baker simply bolted at the end of his session, Lacy hung out and talked to a few of us. One time, while getting gas in Westlake Village, we saw Yeager pumping gas into his supercar – probably a Ferrari or Corvette of the time. It was those chance moments that you rarely get these days for the common fan. It was sort of a rarified air that you get a chance meeting with a Dodger. They were as equal as celebrities from the entertainment business to us.
It was through those excursions into Chavez Ravine that I learned the game of baseball. I was just watching, observing and noticing the nuances of the game – and the teams. I was able to see the differences between the Dodgers and its opponents – understanding the styles of the Philadelphia Phillies, Cincinnati Reds, Chicago Cubs, Atlanta Braves…and so on.
Though the Dodgers won the National League in 1974, fans were hoping for a new kind of winner out of Lasorda’s squad. They had not won a World Series since 1965 and felt that 12 years was too long in-between championships. They won the NL West effectively ending the Big Red Machine’s domination of the decade. After a tough NLCS against the Philadelphia Phillies, the Dodgers faced the New York Yankees for the marbles. Little did they know that they would end the season giving up the dream of many Losangelinos for George Steinbrenner’s first World Series title.
Given personal recent sports history (i.e. the Minnesota Vikings), one would think that would end everything. Not in Tommy Lasorda’s world. He bled Dodger Blue and will not let a six-game Series loss on the bat of Reggie Jackson prevent him from delivering what he wanted to achieve. Nothing less than a World Series championship will ever satisfy the fire inside of the Dodgers’ skipper.
Since that season, Dodger baseball took on a different look – one fitting for a city in constant change. It would embrace the diversity of the city while upholding the values of a prevailing conservative community.
That’s my mom’s Dodgers.
Blue Genesis: The Origin of The Heirloom (Part 1)
Photo courtesy of ladodgerssgv on Photobucket.com
Where do I begin…?
If you follow this blog for some time, you know that The Heirloom was inspired by my mother, Barbara jean (Bloom) Stern. She carried the love of baseball from summer days at Crossley Field in Cincinnati through the Bloom’s family move west to the Fairfax District of Los Angeles. They lived just blocks from the Gilmore complex, where the ballpark housed the Pacific Coast League’s Hollywood Stars. Mom got into the Stars as she did the Cincinnati Reds and hero matinee idol, Hank Greenberg of the Detroit Tigers.
When she married my father, she discovered that he didn’t like sports. He could care less about them. It would be a while between visits to Gilmore Field, the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum and Dodger Stadium to share her love of the game with her family.
I’m glad she did.
One issue I had in my life was reconciling my relationship with my mother. Well…both parents. It took until about six years ago after several discussions with my brother to parse out the truth about my parents. I felt I was in the wrong for how I felt about them. In the end, I embraced the love my mother gave when she couldn’t physically do so in the last 13 years of her life – debilitated by her second stroke, unable to speak and walk properly. A month after my move from Reseda to the Bay Area in 1987, she ended up having her right leg amputated above the knee.
Everything I did was in rebellion. A rebellion I did not understand. Maybe it was a longing to be free of everything entrapping me in a lifestyle of a semi-failure. I figured success meant getting out of Reseda and forging a path of my own – without my family. That rebellion meant rejecting the Los Angeles Dodgers as the sports franchise of the household.
Six years ago, I concluded that my father couldn’t care about anyone he was married into. His children included. That should’ve been received as a message when I took him to a Giants-Pirates game at Candlestick Park in June of 1979. I also concluded that I shouldn’t have rejected the rest of my family as I did. Through various friends over the year, I found the meaning of what family truly is.
Sometimes, families disagree with each other or keep secrets from each other enough to sustain one’s perpetuation of life. Some families are dysfunctional to the point of disowning each other due to some serious chasms that keep them together. Homosexuality is perhaps one of the biggest cases for severe family dysfunction. I was lucky that my mother never disowned me for any reason. Then again, I never had a chance to truly come out to any of my parents. They died too early for me to do so.
I knew the one thing that was missing in my equation was my own blood family. Since 1992, it was just my brother and I. Now, my brother has been happily married for the past 20 years with two wonderful teenage children.
Through the experience of reconciliation, I began to embrace the love of my mother – 12 years after her passing. This reconciliation brought me closer to my brother and his family. Though, we still have our distance – over 1,500 miles between Minneapolis and Southern California.
I’m grateful she passed on her love of baseball to both my brother and I. My brother has passed down his love for the game to his family. My brother recently stepped down as president of his local Little League – the same one his son played in. On Facebook, my brother’s family posted photos of their excursions to Angels Stadium, Dodger Stadium and Chase Field this past season. I can’t confirm this, but I suspect my brother got that idea from me – going on a trip somewhere and taking in a game.
My mother’s love for baseball wasn’t the only thing I reconciled with her memory. She also believed in community service. Certainly that part was inside everything I did in the 1990s for my community. Since then, it was a learning process. There was some ostracizing by some of the people I was involved with, which was similar to what my mother experienced when she did her community work. Recognizing that aspect of our common traits helped in closely completing my reconciliation process. Today, I find myself being a small voice for forms of grassroots advocacy towards equality of all American citizens. Heck, I’m doing social media marketing for one of the local vocal ensembles for my grad school residency.
The last chapter of this process was to reconcile with the Los Angeles Dodgers. There were many reasons why I turned my back on my hometown team as a form of teenage rebellion. Some were rooted in some family history. Others were a reflection of the reality Bowie Kuhn, Marvin Miller and Curt Flood created for the game in the 1970s.
This is where the story picks up next…
2010: It’s Over, Somewhat
Photo by Randy Stern
In the realm of baseball, if I had to point to one thing that made my 2010 season, it would be one thing: Target Field.
Never in my lifetime had I ever celebrated the opening of a new ballpark. True, I’ve in ballparks that were open before and during my lifetime, but to be there from construction through its grand opening and the conclusion of its first season of operation was indeed special. Even more so, having this new ballpark right in my own backyard was indeed an experience that I’ll never forget.
This season in Target Field was spent over the course of an Open House, a guided tour, several visits to the clubhouse store and ticket office – and five Twins games. Overall, it is currently the finest facility in the game – striking a balance between serving premium customers and those visiting the ballpark without a game in progress.
The ballpark’s not perfect by any means. Yet, I have never been disappointed with a seat I’ve gained access to and any of the concessions available around the park.
This home season yielded four Twins victories out of the five games I attended. That is a better winning percentage than any season I spent in the Metrodome. Maybe it was a lucky seventh season after all.
Another thing that made coming to a Twins’ game an even more enjoyable experience were the constant crowds in attendance. The Twins scored a record at the gate with standing room only on several dates. For once we feared that the ballpark would not be worth the investment the taxpayers of Hennepin County will be making for years. However, the fans here in The Cities will continue to be a part of these overflow crowds in at least the next few years to come – paying back the county in bushels, especially if the ballpark lands the All-Star Game in 2014.
Target Field wasn’t the only place where I spent my love for the game at. My short travels took me to Des Moines for the Pacific Coast League’s Iowa Cubs and Eau Claire, Wisconsin for my annual Northwoods League adventure with the newly crowned league champion Express. These experiences augmented the keystone (or, rather the Kasota stone) that made the season for me.
Outside of attending games, 2010 was memorable for the season the Twins gave us here in the Upper Midwest. Despite some times of frustration, fans recognized how much General Manager Bill Smith has changed the club’s approach to making the acquisitions necessary to keep the team in contention. If it weren’t for the contract extension of Joe Mauer, the message to the rest of baseball was clear: The Twins are growing out of its middle market status. If you can bring a winning team in front of overflow crowds and have the ability to pay its players to the level of the richer clubs, then the team has a chance to keep competitive for years to come.
The game also got a postseason to remember. The San Francisco Giants landed their first World Series championship since 1954 – this being the first since moving to the West Coast. To have improbable teams battling for the Commissioner’s Trophy made this an even special Series to watch. It wasn’t pretty, but entertaining nonetheless. Making this Postseason special was the appearances of the Giants, Texas Rangers and Cincinnati Reds alongside today’s powerhouses, such as the Twins, New York Yankees, Philadelphia Phillies, Atlanta Braves and Tampa Bay Rays. Brian Sabean has a formula now that takes retreads discarded from around the Majors and making them serious contributors in a contender. Maybe it’s something even gutsier General Managers might want to follow.
In terms of the Blog itself, it was also a benchmark year in terms of content and temper. This year featured all original material written this year – instead of retreads from prior blogs reposted as was the first two seasons. For years, I was concerned that using my cultural identity as part of the message of The Heirloom would have consequences. A lot has happened beyond the ballpark that has sparked some of the postings this year. I had to find a way to navigate through the perceptions I had of the game and the people around it to speak my mind on several subjects – and keep it within the context of this blog.
A lesson in doing this blog: Leave my fears behind and go for it! If my fellow bloggers can write and post photos of anything that would not be considered normal in mainstream sports blogging, than I felt right in using the license to discuss how being gay can co-exist within the game my mother handed down to me decades ago at Dodger Stadium. To my surprise, I received a positive reception to this effort. It was encouraging considering the climate of divergent voices that transpired this year. I’ve always said that I live my life without having to constantly remind others of my cultural identity – and that baseball is foremost in this arena. However, there are still constant reminders out that one must speak up when absolutely necessary. My only intention is to say simply “Yes, I am different than most fans and writers in the stands, but we continue to share common ground in the game.”
I’m not ready to fold my tents just yet. Award season is coming up. Plus, there are deals that are happening before players show up at their respective spring training sites. The game continues to be a year-round operation. Some of us are still in the game, even when other spectator sports dance in front of our eyes.
One final note – I cannot thank you so much for making The Heirloom one of the blogs you read for some form of perspective on the game we love. To name those who helped make this season a special one would take up a lot of bandwidth to accomplish. I’m in awe of the support I received this year through making this blog one of those worth reading.
Here’s to the end of the third year in the trenches of the Blogosphere!
Ask The Heirloom – The Result
So, how’s the “Ask The Heirloom” thing?
Well, so far from here and Facebook, I only got one. And, it’s a good one…
Tom N. of St. Paul, MN asks via Facebook: I heard about this guy in the Negro League. He was so fast rounding the bases he could get hit by his own ball. Is that true and what was his name?
Tom, I had to research this one, as my knowledge of the Negro Leagues is not as good as some around here. Believe me, I love hearing stories about the Negro Leagues – and wished Buck O’Neill was still around to tell them. The answer to your question was one of finest Negro League players ever – James “Cool Papa” Bell. A member of the Baseball Hall of Fame since 1974, he was indeed one of the fleetest of ballplayers of his time. The story about Bell getting hit by his own ball as he was sliding into second is legend, but believable. For being a slender fella, Bell was indeed one of the quickest guys to run the bases. We lost him in 1991 at the age 87 leaving a legacy of baseball spanning from 1922 to 1950.
There it is…a question was asked and answered. Now, don’t we have a pennant race – or several – to watch?
Game Review: Eau Claire 6 vs. Waterloo 1
All Photos by Randy Stern
So, I was ready to talk about Kirk Gibson’s ascension to the manager position with the Arizona Diamondbacks. I was going to kick the carcass of A.J. Hinch a few times in the process…but, I needed to fill my jones for some live baseball.
Therefore, A.J. and Kirk will have to wait.
Last year, I talked about the Northwoods League, a summer-long short season series featuring collegiate talent to further hone in their baseball basics. In St. Cloud, I saw that there was a true love of the game for their local players, though one would be disappointed in the quality of play overall. The approach to attending a low-level, short-season game is to set aside all Major League pretentiousness and just watch the game for what it is – pure baseball.
On July 4th weekend, I decided that, instead of futzing around on StubHub for Twins-Tampa Bay tickets, I’ll do another baseball road trip. This one will have to be within a couple of hours from home – so no overnight accommodations will be used. It came down to three choices: Rochester (the reigning Northwoods League Champions – an hour-and-a-half drive), Willmar (the newest member of the league – two hours from home) and Eau Claire (the site of this year’s All-Star Game for the league – and another hour-and-a-half drive away).
I arrived at the decision simply: Parking sucks in Rochester at the ballpark (it’s a downtown stadium, so you use nearby ramps…er, garages…for optimal parking – though you can park at the ballpark’s miniscule parking lot) and I couldn’t get anyone on the phone at Willmar regarding tickets. Eau Claire was the choice – thanks to a nice young woman named Emily who got me a good seat for $8.00.
Going into this game, the Express sat pretty on top of the Southern Division, just a half-game off of the Wisconsin Woodchucks, based in Wausau. Two other teams were within proximity of the Express in the division: Green Bay and this evening’s opponent, the Waterloo Bucks. The Bucks were a game-and-a-half off of Eau Claire’s pace in the division.
There is a twist to the Eau Claire story. Fifty-eight years ago, Eau Claire hosted the Class C farm club for the Milwaukee Braves. The Bears had a very special player come through on his way to one of the greatest careers the game has ever witnessed. He was just a kid from Mobile, Alabama who enjoyed his first success in the game he loved. His name was Henry Aaron.
Because of the legacy of The Hammer, there is a dedicated group of baseball fans committed to the preservation of this history surrounding Carson Park. The Eau Claire Baseball Hall of Fame Committee administers the plaza in front of Carson Park dedicated not only to Aaron, but to those who played for Eau Claire’s minor league teams (Aaron, his brother Tommie, Andy Pakfo. etc.), or have grown up in the Chippewa Valley who made an impact on the game of baseball (namely Tom Poquette). During the game, the committee raises funds to maintain the plaza and the Hall of Fame’s activities through a 50/50 raffle. They were nice enough to introduce me to the Express’ owner, Bill Rowlett. Good folks in Eau Claire, indeed!
Saturday night’s game itself was pretty good – perhaps one of the best Northwoods League games I ever seen. There seems to be a poise that the Express had that night. Maybe for the first inning there were flaws, but once everyone settled down, the Express went right to business. I was transfixed on how well the Express played on a level that could be seen in a full-season Single A league. They certainly capitalized on Waterloo’s mistakes.
Another interesting observation I must share after previous discussions about the state of umpiring in the Major Leagues. We often take for granted how this game is officiated. We also forget that umpires have to work their way up to get those few precious spots in the Major Leagues. As the players in the Northwoods League hone in their baseball skills, the umpires are also learning how to do their jobs on this level as well. A few mistakes were allowed, but not on the scale of Joe West’s continued feign ignorance. Then again, with training, these guys could eventually replace West in the Bigs.
Tell that to the man sitting right by the Express’ dugout who had the home plate ump’s number. And, kudos to the home plate umpire for being professional enough to ignore the heckler – even though said patron appeared to be a prominent figure in the Chippewa Valley area.
In the end, the locals won, 6-1. The score was important, but not as important as being in a spot where history and the future converge. Rarely do you get an opportunity to be in such a place. Set aside Fenway and Wrigley for a moment – and consider Carson Park. All it takes a moment in time to bridge 1952 with today’s budding collegiate ballplayers.
Now…Kirk Gibson…the D-Backs lost badly last night, didn’t they?
Randy Stern
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