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John Ritter's Blog: Touching Base
Guest Blogger: Asa Dusa O'Rourke, from Dublin
February 2012
As those who follow my blog can see, I'm way behind this month (Feb 10 already!!). I'm preparing for a big Fenway Fever promo tour, so this month I'm turning over my blog post to a guest blogger, Asa Dusa O'Rourke, from Dublin, who was one of my early readers for Fenway Fever and has a few good words to impart. Of course, following Asa's post, you will find, as promised, Chapter One of Fenway Fever, to be followed by Chapter Two next month.
Take it away, Asa!
Thank you, Mr. Ritter, my good man, for this rare opportunity to connect with the literary baseball crowd across the pond. I dare say, my message today, actually has much to do with your new novel. This is to say, the portion of the tome dedicated to flying high, dedicated to the upliftment of humankind out of the slavery of war, pollution, disease, and poverty. The book jacket alone is enough to send my heart soaring. To think, old chap, that the End Times are upon us and, marvel of marvels, they are not catastrophic! They are, as you so deftly describe, uplifting.
And so it has been prophesied by many of the aboriginal cultures for millenia. That is, the pure belief systems of yore, unmarred by the aberrations that have penetrated the major religions, have often spoken of our divided families coming together in peace and love at last. Sadly, some of these, such as the Mayan prophesies, have been changed to accommodate the beliefs of the various persons involved, and as you know many interpret the end time as the end of the world and a time of destruction.
This is simply not so! This year, 2012, marks the completion of a major galactic cycle, true, but this year also marks a new beginning of an era of joy, peace, comfort, and abundance not seen on our globe in over thirteen thousand years.
Exciting times! But for the fact that many creative ideas have been deliberately suppressed, we would have been well into the age of abundance already. Very soon, however, a mass of new ideas will be released, and many, for instance, are variations of devices that supply free energy. That in itself will solve some really pressing problems that are causing so much poverty and low standards of living.
Threats of war still rumble on, but despite the sabre rattling, new wars will simply not be allowed, and all old wars are winding down. Their time is past. So please do not succumb to the fears. It is up to us to think of peace and love and place our energy where it will do something positive. The financial situation continues to occupy the headlines, but it will soon resolve, and we will witness the start of a completely new approach to banking and the whole nature of finance. Debt will be eliminated and never again shall we be burdened with it beyond our means. As Mick and the boys from our side of the pond once sang, “Let the good times roll!”
Please accept my gratitude, John H. Ritter, for allowing me to post this guest report. I am Asa Dusa O'Rourke, leaving the station and reminding all, 'tis a wonderful time to be alive, to be a part of such a grand event as Planetary Ascension. All aboard!
Fenway Fever
by John H. Ritter
CHAPTER ONE The pregame street scene rivering past Papa Pagano’s Red Sox Red Hots hot dog stand, just outside the gates of Fenway Park, had grown loud and tense.
A certain fear hung in the air.
“No, no, I’m telling you,” one Red Sox fan bellowed at his buddy. “Orbitt should not be pitching. After four straight fiascos, why is he starting? He should be in the bull pen. And I mean the one down in Pawtucket.”
“Like I said before, Mr. Beer-for-Brains, he’s had some weird luck, is all. The Spacebird is still the man. You’ll see.”
“Weird is right. I got twenty bucks that says Billee Orbitt, the space cadet, won’t get out of the first inning.”
“You’re on!”
All afternoon, from his station at the back of the handcrafted wrought-iron hot dog stand on Yawkey Way, statistical whiz kid Alfredo “Stats” Pagano had taken these friendly quarrels in stride.
Tonight’s match, the third of a four-game series pitting the Boston Red Sox against their arch rivals, the New York Yankees, had the streets and bars around Fenway Park packed and punchy, even three hours before game time.
“Hey, was that guy right?” asked Pops Pagano, a burly man with a husky voice. He plopped a fresh-grilled Smokey Joe wood-fired dog onto a toasted bun. “Billee’s on the hill tonight?”
“Last I heard,” said Stats, who tended two steamy kettles next to Pops’s grill. “Unless they make another change.”
And even though the Red Sox had dropped the first two games to the so-called “Evil Empire” from New York—or maybe because of it—Stats could hardly wait to head inside and catch the action.
He took a second Smokey Joe from Pops and began to wrap them both. “They skipped over Billee last time around. So he should be up.”
His older brother, Mark, who at fifteen towered head and elbows over Stats, called from the cash register up front. “Skipped over him? They sunk him just because of a little bad luck.”
“Ahh,” Pops growled, as he slapped a half dozen more hot dogs onto the grill. “He’s a tough kid. He’ll bounce back.”
Stats boxed the Smokey Joes and slid them forward.
Mark caught the box and passed it to a shirtless fanatic everyone called Announcer Bouncer—a guy with a voice so loud you could hear it from home plate to the Green Monster seats high above left field. Rainbowing across his bouncing belly, he’d painted Billeez Boyz! in white, blue, and red.
“Here you go, Bounce,” said Mark. “See you inside.”
“I’ll put it on my calendar,” he barked.
Mark shook his head, laughing. “Get outta here. Next!”
Up stepped a white-haired man in a rumpled dark business suit, sans tie. “I’ll have two Teddy Ballgamers, kraut, no mustard, two Smokey Joes, mustard, no ketchup, three Chili Billees, and one foot-long Hit Dog with everything.”
Pops, in his high-top chef’s hat, looked up from his grill. “Got it, buddy! Hey, is that for here or to go?”
The man arched his eyebrows. “What?”
Pops was always using that line on new customers, just to bust their chops. Here or to go? What could the guy say?
Mark waved his hand. “I’ll take that as a ‘to go.’”
Stats had already grabbed two Smokeys and set them aside, then he fished two regular dogs and a footer from his saltwater kettle. He put the regulars inside fresh Boston rolls atop blue paper sheets stamped “Teddy Ballgamer” and dropped the footer onto a soft steamed bun.
Next, Stats sprinkled onions and diced tomatoes on the foot-long Hit Dog, which actually measured 12.5 inches, because, as the sign for this one promised, You get Mo for your money.
He slid all five down the side counter to Mark, who dumped a ladle of sauerkraut on the Ballgamers, finished wrapping them, and started a box.
“Waiting on the Billees,” called Stats.
“Can’t rush magic,” said Pops.
Stats knew that, as did all loyal Red Sox fans. Magic can take a long time.
It had taken until 2004, in fact, for the Sox to win their first Major League World Series in eighty-six years. And they did so in magical Red Sox fashion, mounting a surge from three games down in the League Championship Series to stop the New York Yankees in seven (becoming the first team to ever do such a thing), then swept the St. Louis Cardinals in four to win the World Series and break baseball’s longest running bad luck streak, the legendary Curse of the Bambino.
Sparked by the sale of Red Sox ace pitcher and long-ball hitter, Babe Ruth, the Great Bambino, to the Yankees (of all teams!) way back in 1919, this phenomenal curse had spanned several generations, breaking millions of hearts along the way.
But those days were long gone now, Stats felt sure.
Seeing Mark take the customer’s money, Stats started his mental stopwatch—a game he often played while waiting on Pops. Mark punched the register, scratched out the change from his coin bins, added a few bills, and handed it all over. Then, using his hip, he clanged the cash drawer shut and pulled the food box close, shot a thick river of mustard on both Smokeys, spooned a scoop of relish on the footer, added ketchup and mustard, and folded each into their wrappers.
All in nine seconds! Not a record, thought Stats, but still remarkable by any measure.
Being younger, and a bit less coordinated in the hand and eye department, Stats never begrudged Mark his dexterity and athleticism. Having been born with a damaged heart, Stats had long ago resigned himself to the world of mental gymnastics. The only thing that really irked him was when people would note that he was “rather small” for a boy his age.
Well, maybe he was, which any boy born with a balky heart might be. Still, he regarded such comments as “rather rude” and had learned to respond politely, but firmly.
“Actually, I’m not small for my age,” he would say. “The truth is, I’m rather old for my height.”
This, he found, usually shut the errant observers rather up.
He gave each of his kettles a stir. In one, he boiled several kinds of hot dogs in saltwater brine. In the other, he stewed fresh organic chili, which he ladled onto the all-veggie Chili Billee dogs, filling them full of beans, as promised, “just like their namesake.”
Resting his stainless steel ladle against the black kettle rim, Stats slipped his hand into his front pocket and anxiously fingered his two game day tickets. Still there. His heart boomed.
These, you see, were not your ordinary everyday baseball passes. These were family heirloom tickets—season tickets—seats his grandfather, Papa Pagano, founder of the Red Sox Red Hots stand, first purchased for himself and his new American bride seventy-two years ago. Front row, field level seats, just past third base on the edge of the outfield grass.
“Heaven on earth,” Stats liked to call them.
Some days, Pops might pass the tickets along to various associates of the family hot dog stand, and sometimes they might end up in the offering plate at St. Francis of Assisi’s or dropped through the mail slot of a homeless shelter in Southie. But today, the seats belonged to him and Mark.
And on such days, as soon as they heard “The Star Spangled Banner” from their stations at the sidewalk stand in the shadow of the ruddy brick walls of Fenway, they’d slip off their long white aprons, wipe the mustard from their hands, sing out, “See ya, Pops,” and dash inside.
Needless to say, Stats and Mark Pagano were, by all decent and acceptable standards, the luckiest boys on planet earth.
This, however, was about to change.
Comments? To write John, replace the (at) with @ and send an e-mail to: cruzdelacruz(at)earthlink.net.
2012 Is Upon Us
and There's Nothing We Can Do About It
January 2012
This is it, folks. This is the year we've all been waiting for—whether you know it or not. And for those who don't, you soon will.
The magical year of 2012 is upon us! And my latest novel, Fenway Fever, due out in April, is based upon the inspiration, the majesty, the excitement, and the prophetic expectations of this emotion-laden year and all it has in store for us.
And what better place for an uplifting and emotional story to take place than within the hallowed walls of Fenway Park in Boston, Mass—a magical ballyard which not coincidentally celebrates its 100th year in April 2012.
Bill “Spaceman” Lee, the ace Boston Red Sox pitcher from the 1970s, once called the sacred confines of Fenway a cathedral. In my novel, Bill Lee (known in the story as Billee Orbitt) takes a starring role and partners up for a special mission with a young boy who believes his family's long held front row seats down Fenway's third base line are “heaven on earth.” Both are right, as we come to find out, and in deeper ways than we may at first suspect.
In fact, the heavenly nature of this century old downtown ballpark plays a central role in my story. For as the book opens, it seems that someone—maybe even the Red Sox themselves—may have inadvertently reignited the ancient and dreadful Curse of the Bambino, which they had deemed vanquished, over-and-done-with, and kaputt, back in 2004 when the Sox won the World Series. And again in 2007. Ah, but then came '08, '09, '10, and the devastating September of 2011. And as I wrote in my October 2011 weblog post, in the early morning of September 29, 2011, out of the mouth of a Babe, a shrill and tortured cry went up through all of Red Sox Nation.
“Curse on!”
Enter Billee “Spacebird” Orbitt (yes, there is also a dose of Mark "The Bird" Fidrych, in the mix) and his young ciphering sidekick, Freddy “Stats” Pagano, who hope to get to the bottom of the mysterious bad luck streak and once again restore balance to the fens and bogs of Boston Town.
So let me take you there, for a sneak peek inside my upcoming novel, Fenway Fever, right to the very big inning, as it were, Page 1, Chapter Zero, the start of it all, and you can see for yourself what these guys are up against.
(And please come back next month for Chapter One, to be followed each month with another chapter until the book hits the stands on April 12, 2012.)
Fenway Fever
by John H. Ritter
CHAPTER ZERO
It was the last of times, it was the first of times.
It was the old ending. It was the new big inning.
It was the magical year of 2012.
And among the fens and bogs of Boston town, something was amiss . . .
Let’s face it, baseball fans, no ballpark on earth holds as much legendary drama, karma, curses, heartbreak, and hope as Fenway Park at number 4 Yawkey Way in Boston. Sure, you got your Wrigley Field in Chicago town with its ivy-covered walls or the old coliseum out Oakland way or the big blue sea of seats in Dodger Stadium in L.A. A lot of greats have passed through their gates, no doubt, but when it comes to legends, no ballyard anywhere holds a candlestick to the ol’ Fen.
And no one knows that better than Alfredo Carl “Stats” Pagano, who’s spent half his life (that’s six out of twelve years or, more precisely, 73.5 out of 147 months or, expressed as a batting average, an even .500 of this baseball lover’s lifetime) gathering stats and data on the Boston Red Sox and their quirky hundred-year-old ballfield.
And during Fenway Park’s hundredth anniversary, in that legendary year of 2012, the place went bonkers. Banners flapped from bridges. Billboards told the tale.
100 Years of Cheers and Tears! they read. Catch Fenway Fever! others proclaimed. It’s a Fan-demic!
Old pros and Hollywood celebs alike recorded Jumbotron testimonials recalling what the ballpark had meant to them. Centennial posters hung in bookstore windows, while “First Fen-tury” flags adorned the walls of sports bars everywhere.
Ah, but deep beneath all the festivity and hooplicity, there crept the foreshadows of a calamity that no one in town, from the sea captains of Gloucester to the philosophers of Harvard University, seemed to notice.
Luckily, one small and brilliant boy and one rather strange Red Sox pitcher saw the signs and decided to step up to the plate and swing away.
What happened next was out of this world.
Comments? To write John, replace the (at) with @ and send an e-mail to: cruzdelacruz(at)earthlink.net.
A Holiday Snapshot via Fenway Fever
December 2011
There is one scene from my soon-to-be-released novel, Fenway Fever (Penguin, April 2012), which I'd like to talk about this month. It's not a Christmas scene—in fact, it takes place on Father's Day. But as I look back into my boyhood, I find what I remember most about the Christmas season is the way my father, despite his sorrows, never failed to bring gifts and cheer into our motherless home.
The novel spotlights a family of three. Pops Pagano, a second-generation hot dog vendor outside the hallowed gates of Fenway Park in Boston, and his two sons, Mark, 15, the athlete, and Stats—our hero—a soft-spoken cerebral child of 12, who was born with a balky heart.
Reminiscent of my own dad, Pops Pagano is a gentle giant, often exuberant, even charismatic, except when it comes to speaking to his sons about their mom. It has been four years.
Here we go. Chapter 24 from my latest, Fenway Fever:
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Sunday, June 17, was Father’s Day, and as they had done for the past three years, Mark and Stats took Pops out to lunch at Angie’s Ristoránte for her specialty, spaghetti and pork chops.
On the way there, they passed a neighborhood regular, Frazzled Harry, who tended to haunt the alcoves of vacant storefronts while subtly “asking” for money.
“Good day, Mr. Pagano. Say there, boys.”
“Frazzey Harry,” said Pops with a lilt in his voice, “you’re out bright and early this fine day. Any sure bets coming up at Suffolk Downs this season that a fellow might ‘invest in’?”
Harry squinted into the sunlight. “No, no. None yet.”
Years ago, Frazzled Harry trained thoroughbreds at the famed racetrack in East Boston and had produced several winners. Then he hit a rough patch “down the stretch,” as Pops called it.
“Well, good luck to you,” said Pops, who extended his hand. Harry did the same. They shook.
Stats could not figure out when Pops had managed to palm a folded twenty-dollar bill, but somehow in the last few steps, he had done exactly that. Upon hearing paper rustle, Stats caught a quick glimpse, as Pops slipped Harry the money during the handshake.
Nothing new there. Pops rarely missed a chance to help a guy out who had hit a rough patch. In fact, he had always told his sons to “take care of your family—that’s why God gave them to you.” The only problem Stats could see with Pops’s philosophy was the size of his family. Even now, when he knew he was deep in debt, anyone he met was automatically in it.
At the restaurant, Angie was all smiles, as if she’d been waiting for them to appear. Of course, she had been, since Mark had stopped in the day before to set things up.
“Happy Father’s Day,” she said, while hugging her black vinyl menus against a silky red top. “Your favorite table is all set.” She led them to the front window.
“Angelina,” said Pops, “every table in here is my favorite.”
She beamed, then passed out the menus as everyone took a seat. “Tell me now, Mr. Pagano, how is it coming with the dog pockets? I am ready for a new batch to bake.”
The hot dog pockets Pops had been trying to perfect were often test-baked in Angie’s commercial oven, to give him an idea of their quality in a large run.
“I’m hoping to get you another batch this week,” said Pops. “This time I’m adding rye flour. I read it helps the ingredients bond together better. Hold their shape more.” He rolled his fists around each other.
“Umm, this process sounds to be so scientific,” she said, nodding, matching Pops in her earnestness.
She stepped back. “I bring the water.” She left.
“Pops,” said Mark. “I think Angie’s got a crush on you.”
“Yeah,” Stats teased, “you’re so scientific.”
“Hush, hush, now, with all that.” He looked toward the kitchen to judge Angie’s distance. Satisfied, he turned back. “She comes to this country, opens her own place, just like your grandfather, eh? You gotta admire that. And she—she simply appreciates a fellow entrepreneur.”
And though he knew perfectly well what he wanted, Pops puzzled up his forehead and gazed down at the menu to signal this discussion was now finito.
“Well, her English is improving,” said Stats, not sure what else he could say.
“Yeah,” said Mark.
“Which reminds me of a story,” said Pops.
Mark made a moaning groan. “When does something not remind you of a story, Mr. Scientific?”
Pops shook his finger. “I tell them to you boys, so you will not go stumbling out into this world completely ignorant of how things work.”
“We know, we know,” said Mark, who loved to needle Pops, but also had a great sense of when to pull back.
They sat a moment while Angie set out the water, took everyone’s order, then grabbed the menus and whisked away.
“Anyways, your grandfather,” Pops began, “had a hard time with English, too. Once I remember complaining about not being able to get a pair of these sneakers, Jumping Jacks, that all the other kids were wearing.”
“Jumping Jacks?” Poor Mark could not resist.
“Hey.” This time Pops sent him “the look.” It froze Mark, as Pops held him with magnum eyes, then followed with “the nod.”
Mark lowered his head.
Order restored, Pops went on, allowing himself a smile.
“Anyways, I put all sorts of pressure on him. I gotta have these shoes, this and that. But you know, things were tight. Even so, I get to where I think I’m wearing the poor guy down, and he finally goes outside to talk it over with the neighborhood family, the other paisanos on the block there, to get some advice. So the next time I bring it up, how I had to have the Whiz Kids model Jumping Jacks because every one of my pals was wearing them, Papa comes back with, ‘Markangelo, if everyone you know was going to jump off a boy named Cliff, what would you do?’”
Pops roared out a laugh at his own story. They all did. “That’s what he said! A boy named Cliff. Papa, he didn’t quite have the English down so good yet.”
He laughed some more.
“Great story, Pops,” said Mark, with a big smile. “I like to hear all that old-time stuff.”
“Ah, geez, times, they are so different these days. But back then, you know, that’s how it was.”
That’s how it is now, too, Stats wanted to say, for he sincerely believed it. Love is love. Honor is honor. And family is family, no matter who they are.
“Tell us another one, Pops. Tell us what it was like the first time you walked into Fenway Park.”
Pulling back, Mark shot Stats a fierce-eyed glare, one that basically said, “That was probably the dumbest thing you could’ve asked.”
Stats knew what Mark meant, since Pops no longer attended games, but he disagreed. He wanted Pops to reminisce, to remember the good times, the magic, and to one day actually come back and sit in his rightful place inside the ballpark he loved so much.
Pops brought his water glass close and took a sip. “Ah, you’ve heard that one before.”
“Yeah, but, not in a long time.”
“Maybe later.” He swiveled to look at the back of the room, toward the sound of the swinging kitchen door, and held his gaze until Angie appeared tableside with the entrees and began passing them out. She then reexamined the table. “All right. You boys, all set?”
Without waiting, she hastened off.
From out of left field, Pops said, “Reminds me a little of your mother.”
He received two soft, uncertain, hums in response.
Pops dabbed at his mouth with his red cloth napkin, then rested his fork and knife.
“I know I don’t say too much about her.”
Stats could feel Mark hunch over, tensing his arms. Neither boy dared look.
“But I should,” Pops continued. “You boys need to grow up knowing about her, not wondering about her.”
He re-clenched his knife and fork. He began to cut. “I’ve been meaning to, you know, but . . .” He rested his hands, fork in the left, knife in the right. “What can you do?”
At that point, all three attacked their meals with vigor. They cut and stabbed and chewed and swallowed, working in a vacuum of silence, until two of them had cleaned their plates and the third had done his best, finishing up with a few last dabs of sauce and garlic bread.
Then, as if answering the question he’d left hanging, Pops said, “What I gotta do is take care of this bill collector situation first. Need to get that ironed out.”
Mark rested his forearms on the table edge and sent Pops his own rendition of “the look.”
“Whatever you decide, Pops, we’re with you. It’s a family matter. So whatever we need to do . . . we’ll get it done.”
That seemed to surprise Pops as much as it made him glow. He sat back and took them both in. Mark first, then Stats. With a grin and a huff, he reached over and grabbed each boy by the back of the neck and jostled them.
“I know we will,” he said. “You are your mother’s sons.” He looked around again, as if for Angie, as if he suddenly needed to pay the bill.
“It’s all taken care of, Pops,” said Mark. “Remember?”
“Ah, geez.” Pops waved a hand. After a quick sniffle, he slid from his seat and cleared his throat, coughing a bit louder than necessary.
“Okay, okay,” he rasped. “Let’s go. Game’s coming on. I’ll make the popcorn.”
* * *
Every Sunday during baseball season, Dad made us popcorn in a huge black skillet while we scrawled out on the davenport and chairs to watch the Major League Game of the Week. We three boys, like Stats and Mark, grew up motherless with a father who struggled mightily, especially during the holiday season. Unlike them, however, we had an older sister who helped to ease our loss of feminine presence, guidance, and wherewithal. It is to her, our sister, Carol, I have chosen to dedicate Fenway Fever. Merry Christmas, angel.
And Merry Christmas, all. May the love and light of this new beginning, personified so many times over the decades by my big sis, shine upon and within each of you, lifting our Mother Earth high into the heavens for now and forever.
Much love,
John
Comments? To write John, replace the (at) with @ and send an e-mail to: cruzdelacruz(at)earthlink.net.
The Big Inning Is Near!
November 2011
Have you ever wondered why the most phenomenal aspects in life are the most difficult to replicate? Consider chance communication with spirits and bottom-of-the-ninth game-winning home runs. Both involve surges of energy the sources of which are not easily defined or called upon at will.
On Friday, November 11, 2011, often referred to as 11-11-11, expect another surge. Expect it to be big. Combine all the energy generated by every Big Papi-style walk-off homer in history, every come-from-behind miracle victory, every first kiss. It will be bigger than all of those by a thousandfold.
To each of us.
Personally, I have always been wary of people who will not entertain a leap of faith. They are the ones who would hold me down. For in many cases, faith in the unfathomable was all I ever had. From the time I was nine and rooting in the schoolyard via transistor radio for the underdog Pirates to bounce back in the seventh game of the 1960 World Series, I have been shown the rewards of faith. The truth is, there are far more unexplainable things in this universe than the officially explainable. Ask a light hitting second baseman named Bill Mazeroski. Ask a Wall Street Occupier whose mild-mannered actions have fired up the nation's imagination of what could and should be. There are days in which the meek do inherit, and we are now in the midst of those potent and mysterious days. Mankind's problem has always been that we would rather explain away a mystery in simple terms than consider a benevolent theory beyond our ken and comfort.
So in faith, I go. Leaping onward, upward, open to the energy of the day. And beyond.
November 11 will come and go. But I do believe the good energy coming with it will grow. Love will finally win out. Of course, each of us has a choice. Please take from here what rings true for you. Be calm. Be at peace.
With much love, I write from the source of all imaginings. All is well. 
Another Curse Brewing in Boston Town?
October 2011
Oh, what a night.
Late September back in oh-one-one (the song will go), what a day and what a night.
I guess that must be why they call it the Wild Card, right? On Wednesday, September 28, the final day of the 2011 season, four teams went into four different games tied for the chance to be the Wild Card in their respective leagues. In the early morning hours of 9/29, only two remained. There would be no ties, no Wild Card play-off games. The issue was settled. But it was all done by magic.
And in Boston they will tell you, it was black magic. This, of course, is a town whose populace retains a sharp knowledge of the curséd crafts. Remember Salem? What about the Curse of the Bambino? Is it possible that the fates have delivered yet another Red Sox curse?
Well, let's see. First of all, full disclosure. I believe in magic. At least, in baseball magic. I believe there is a built-in cosmic force which pulls on all of us, but especially on baseball players, so that we may attain during our lifetimes a deeper understanding of the universe and our place in it.
Some call this force balance. Some call it karma. Casey Stengel called it managing the Mets. (“Does anyone here know how to play this game?”) Nevertheless, curses are a part of it, a part of the cosmic pull. And how we handle them, I believe, helps determine how far up the spiritual ladder we climb.
Let's look first at the Cinderella Cardinals of St. Louis, one of the Wild Card Four. They simply won their game, beating the Astros 8-zip. But they had to wait and see what the Braves did versus Philly. A Braves victory would mean a play-off tomorrow, Braves v. Cards, to determine the National League Wild Card team. And the Braves were winning...until the ninth, when the Phils, who were already assured a spot in the post season, tied it up, 3-3. The Braves, however, are cursed as well. This one would go 13 innings (naturally), and the Phillies would prevail.
Meanwhile down in Tampa-St. Pete, the Yankees, who had also earned a spot in the postseason, were busy dispatching the upstart Tampa Bay Rays and doing the Boston Red Sox—of all teams!—a big favor by beating the Beantowner's only impediment to the postseason, and doing it so neatly, so sweetly and completely, leading 7-0, in the 7th. Okay, but hold that thought—for this one was far from over.
At the same time up in Baltimore, the Boston Red Sox were leading the Orioles, 3-2 in the 7th. Freeze both of those scores, in Tampa and Baltimore, and the Red Sox would not only avoid a playoff game versus the Rays tomorrow, but could waltz into the playoffs as the American League Wild Card—putting an end to the horrendous slide they suffered thus far in September, having lost two-thirds of their games for the month.
Ah, but then it began to rain in Maryland. The Sox v. Os game would freeze all right, for over an hour. But the Yanks and Rays would continue to play.
Imagine now, if you will, the entire Boston ball club gathered in the visitors' clubhouse at Camden Yards watching the NY-Tampa game on TV, confident of their prospects, as the Rays enter the 8th inning, down 7 runs—and proceed to load the bases. They even score a run. Then two. Then three. A little late for a comeback, but with two outs, they are climbing back into the game. I can see Big Papi elbowing Ellsbury, saying, “Hey, kid. No problema,” and giving him a wink. That would be right about the time Evan Longoria steps up and belts a three-run homer.
Overall, the Rays score 6 runs in the eighth and now trail only 7-6. The Sox are still watching...and hoping and praying...all the way to the bottom of the ninth, where it's two outs, two strikes on the batter, Dan Johnson, the Rays last chance. But, by pure “coincidence,” this is the same guy who has already blasted two game-changing, season-altering home runs vs. the Sox, one in 2008 and one in 2010. The Red Sox hold their breath as Yankees reliever, Scott Proctor, faces Johnson and delivers a 95 MPH fastball. And Johnson yanks it down the line, where it just barely clears the fence! Tie game, 7-7 after nine full innings. Okay, hold that thought too. For this one will go 12.
Meantime, the rain stops in Baltimore. The Sox retake the field and get through the 7th and the 8th, still ahead by one. In the 9th, they put runners on first and third, no outs, with Big Papi and Adrian Gonzalez coming to bat...and they fail to score.
No sweat. No curse. Still ahead. And in the bottom of the ninth, their ace closer, Jonathan Papalbon, strikes out the first two batters he faces. So far, so good. Then bang, a double puts the tying run on second. Still no worries, as Pap gets two strikes on the next Orioles hitter. He bears down and hurls a 96 MPH four-seamer. Ah, but it was not enough. Bang again, another double. The Os have tied the game, 3-3.
Okay, Papal-visit blows the save, but he has not lost a game all season. And that record holds all the way until the next batter singles, driving in the runner on second. Game over. Orioles win, 4-3.
Curse on?
Maybe not, maybe not. Down in Florida, the Yankees can still beat the Rays, which would force a Red Sox v. Rays playoff game tomorrow (now today, since it's after midnight) for the AL Wild Card berth.
Back again the Red Sox slog into the visitors’ clubhouse. The TV has the Rays game on, but not everyone is watching. Not everyone is even inside yet. For within three minutes, that game, in the bottom of the 12th, becomes history too. On a one-out, bases empty, two-and-two count, Evan Longballia goes long again, as he delivers the final blow to the Red Sox season—a shot heard 'round the whirled series of baseball on this fateful night! The Rays win, 4-3. They will go to the playoffs. The Red Sox will go home.
A-cursed?
When the month of September started, the Red Sox led the Wild Card standings by nine games. However, after winning a double header on August 27, the Sox did not win as many as two games in a row for the rest of the season. In September, they lost 20 out of 27. No playoff contender in history had ever fallen so far in the season's final month.
And as the sun rose the next morning over the Gate of Heaven cemetery in New York, baseball fans everywhere could fairly hear none other than the spirit of the Great Bambino, George Herman Ruth, born and raised in Baltimore, call it out.
"Curse on!"
Oh, what a night.
Macleod's Cartoons (9-27-11): "Boston's Thoughts Turn to Curses Old and New"
For more great cartoons, go to macleodcartoons.blogspot.com.
Comments? To write John, replace the (at) with @ and send an e-mail to: cruzdelacruz(at)earthlink.net.
Where My Stories Come From: Desperado
September 2011
Not every “hero” is a hero; not every “outlaw” is a coward. In many cases, the very opposite is true.
I’m often asked, “Where do your ideas come from?” and my response is generally along the lines of, “I write about what bugs me or about an injustice I’ve uncovered that I want to shine a light on.” The Desperado Who Stole Baseball was a story I felt I had to write when I realized that certain historical knowledge had been buried for decades and most people “in the know” were happy to keep it that way.
I’m not speaking of the Billy the Kid injustice I cite in the book, though a lot of what I relate about him is information of which many people remain unaware. Nor am I alluding to the great human injustices of the California Gold Rush. I hope to address these aspects in a future post. For now, I want to shine a bit of light on the main reason for writing Desperado in the manner I chose.
Everyone seems to know the story of Jackie Robinson and how he “broke through the color barrier” and became the first man of known African heritage to compete at the Major League Baseball (MLB) level since Moses Fleetwood Walker in 1884. But very few people can tell you who, what, why, when, or how African Americans were banned from the MLB in the first place.
Enter Desperado. Make that, desperados. In the novel I single out the most blatant co-conspirators: Chicago “White Stockings” (later to be the “Cubs”) owner William Hulbert; team leader, Cap Anson (who actually did vow never to walk on any baseball field a black man stood upon); and future club owner, Albert Spalding, of sporting goods fame.
Each of these men worked diligently to ban ballplayers of African heritage from participating in the MLB. Each worked to hide the “gentlemen’s agreement” which kept black players out of the majors for 65 years, claiming no such rule existed—that blacks were simply inferior. And each man is currently enshrined in the National Baseball Hall of Fame, receiving the highest honor the game of baseball can bestow.
Why? What accomplishments did they achieve that overshadowed or mitigated the harm they caused to the game, to the country, to countless young ballplayers over the decades by stealing baseball, the real, unadulterated game, from all of us for all those years? None I can see.
So I wrote Desperado. And I set it in a fun-loving Mexican-American town founded by a black man, giving rise to the legendary de la Cruz family of ballplayers (one of whom I celebrate in The Boy Who Saved Baseball) whose mixed brotherhood is much easier to find in the game today.
And I did it not just to juxtapose the vices and virtues of America’s most notorious gunfighter with the thieves of baseball. Nor did I do it just to juxtapose the defilement of the land during California’s Gold Rush with the defilement of baseball these men perpetrated in the same spirit: for the money. I did it to shine a light on a part of history you will not find in the school books, a part of history that does not fit neatly into the whitewashed Jackie Robinson story, where this “color barrier” seems to have popped up out of thin air, a mere product of the times.
I wrote The Desperado Who Stole Baseball to suggest that we must continually challenge our assumptions, even today, especially when it comes to our national identity, our national priorities, and our national pastime.
Not every “hero” is a hero; not every “outlaw” is a coward. In many cases, the very opposite is true.
Comments? To write John, replace the (at) with @ and send an e-mail to: cruzdelacruz(at)earthlink.net.
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