Wednesday, September 23, 2015

Yogi, The Love Fot You Ain’t Ever Gonna Be Over

Yogi Berra said it ain’t over til it’s over. It’s over. Yogi died last night at age 90. With him goes one of the last notable links to an age of innocence, charm, civility, dignity and quiet heroism.
Heroism. That is a concept so often overused, and just flat-out  misused in sport. Having a great game after an off-field controversy, be it an arrest or locker-room contra-tempts, is often labeled the stuff of heroes. 
Try fighting for your country. Like so many from The Greatest Generation, Yogi did just that, participating in the invasion at Normandy, combing  beaches for the wounded and dying who fought on D-Day. That is heroic. Winning, and winning, and winning as a ballplayer, that was icing on the cake that made his legend as a Hall of Famer and Yankees great complete. 

HOFers Yogi Berra and Gary Carter

Yogi was a national treasure, larger than life, because of his contributions to his country and the game, and, not to be forgotten, the American lexicon, thanks to his many Yogi-isms. 

You know Yogi if only because of his Yogi-isms, many of which grace “Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations.

  • "On his approach to at-bats: ``You can't think and hit at the same time.''
  • On selecting a restaurant: ``Nobody goes there anymore. It's too crowded.''
  • On economics: ``A nickel ain't worth a dime anymore.''
  • On the 1973 Mets: ``We were overwhelming underdogs.''
  • On how events sometimes seem to repeat themselves ``It's deja vu all over again!''
  • On baseball attendance: ``If people don't come to the ballpark, how are you gonna stop them?''
  • On a slipping batting average: ``Slump? I ain't in no slump. ... I just ain't hitting.''
  • On travel directions: ``When you come to a fork in the road take it.''
  • On pregame rest: ``I usually take a two-hour nap from 1 to 4.''
  • On battling the shadows in left field at Yankee Stadium: ``It gets late early out there.''
  • On fan mail: ``Never answer an anonymous letter.''
  • On being told he looked cool: ``You don't look so hot yourself.''
  • On being asked what time it was: ``You mean now?''
  • On being given a day in his honor: ``Thank you for making this day necessary.''
  • On a spring training drill: ``Pair off in threes.''
  • On his approach to playing baseball: ``Baseball is 90 percent mental. The other half is physical.''
  • ·On death: ``Always go to other people's funerals. Otherwise they won't go to yours.''
  • On learning: ``You can observe a lot by watching.''
  • On his team's diminishing pennant chances: ``It ain't over `till it's over.''
  • On the fractured syntax attributed to him: ``I really didn't say everything I said.''

Yes, Yogi, there was truth in most everything you said. You cannot argue the logic. It’s Yogi’s logic, crytic and fall-down funny at the same time. Proud to say that I heard two: “Home openers are exciting, whether they’re at home or on the road,” and “the runs and rains were pouring in buckets!” Oh, Yogi, so true, so true. ...

Yogi transcended sports because of moments in which he turned heads and made us laugh, then think, then laugh, again. He left an indelible imprint on a nation’s heart, and did so with grace, wit, sincerity and humility. He was a most improbable-looking athlete, yet a great one who simply collected rings the way Elizabeth Taylor collected husbands. He was the charming good luck charm for an otherwise cold, killing maching that was The Bronx Bombers, a loveable Yankee who defied being demonized.

And, forget Ruth, and DiMaggio and Mantle. Berra, an 18-time All-Star and 10-time World champion,
made you wonder, how did the Yankees ever win before, or after him?

There never has been one quite like him, and like there will never be one, again. 
Yet, he was, in many ways, this slight man in a tiny compact package with a never-fading smile was a giant in my eyes for much more personal reasons. For Yogi simply was someone who refused to look down on any human being and, because of that, he welcomed this reporter unlike any manager I ever covered. 
No manager made me feel more immediately comfortable in his presence. Here he was, a Hall of Famer, a legend who could, on any given day, give Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford a run for their money on the popularity scale at a Yankee Stadium Old Timers game. Yet he  made an unknown reporter from a distant land (Hartford, Ct.) feel  at home every single day I was assigned to cover his team. I never once felt that I was in the company of royalty, which many a Yankees legend does to this day. Yogi was always, always, always a down-to-earth person, the antithesis of “celebrity.” That made his stardom all the brighter in my eyes. I cherished his friendship, which lasted from the moment I met him at the start of the turbulent 1980s til the end. 
I think one of the things that awed me the most about Yogi was this well-kept secret of his, revealed only when the eyes twinkled. He knew stuffbut was so comfortable in his own skin he did not feel the need to prove the intelligence within. And believe this: Yogi was wise beyond what the popular narrative will have you believe. Yogi may not have been the had the most dexterity when it came to verbal game-play, but he was far from being cartoon character that was his public persona, someone filled with unintended witticisms rather than wisdom. 
No. For those who bothered to listen reveled in how Yogi turned that accepted belief on its ear. Yogi participated in panel discussions that his wonderful museum that bears his name on the campus of Montclair University in New Jersey. Even when not on panels, Yogi was often seen in the wings, hanging on every word, absorbing, listening, learning. He loved to quiz you in conversations, about journalism, especially. And his recall about every aspect of his career was simply amazing. And that career spanned most of the 20th Century. Remember, he passed away 69 years to the day that he made his major-league debut with the Yankees (Sept. 22, 1946).  
Yogi Berra, Ralph Branca and Roy Campanella
Quite often, Yogi’s museum, under the wonderful guidance of David Kaplan, would mirror the issues of the day. One of my favorite moments at the site occurred when the displays saluted the contributions of African Americans in baseball, and Yogi toured the museum with Larry Doby, his fellow Hall of Famer and Montclair neighbor. The two friends witnessed the breaking of the color barrier in 1947, by Jackie Robinson in the National League, and Larry Doby in the American League. Yogi was one of the players who never saw color, and welcomed the destruction of the game’s color barrier. He and Doby and their families remained friends for decades after, the shared pride of Montclair. The lessons taught that day were as invaluable as they surely were in ’47.
The wonderful thing about a day of remembrances is that so many will talk and write lovingly about Yogi in ways that would likely make Yogi smile, but shake his head in wonder. He might wonder, too, when the salutes will finally end, but to that I say, “Yogi, they won’t. This time, the love and affection for you ain’t ever gonna be over.” 
God bless. Thank you for everything, my friend.  

Thursday, April 16, 2015

Jackie Robinson’s contributions to baseball and country live on

Major League Baseball’s first-ever Civil Rights Game on Jackie Robinson Day was a match made perfect when it was set in the hands of the Dodgers.

Jackie Robinson’s powerful legacy, the Dodger team history, and baseball’s lead role in shattering segregation in this country are inextricably linked. For Robinson’s story can no more be limited to its importance to baseball than can the history of the Civil Rights movement overlook the tremendous impact made by Robinson’s becoming a Brooklyn Dodger, and the first African American player in the modern Major Leagues, on April 15, 1947.

The surviving icons of the successful integration of baseball  -- Rachel Robinson and daughter, Sharon; Dodgers 1949 rookie of the year Don Newcombe; Hall of Famers Sandy Koufax, Frank Robinson and Vin Scully -- were at Dodger Stadium to honor the husband, the father, the teammate, the friend, the mentor that was Jackie Robinson.

Frank and Barbara
Robinson, Dave Winfield
and Lloyd McClendon.
Robinson was baseball’s first black
manager. McClendon is baseball’s only African American
manager this season.
That unique extended royal family of Dodgers and fellow barrier breakers were joined by other greats, such as Hall of Famers Dave Winfield Jaime Jarrin, and baseball’s hierarchy, including Commissioner Rob Manfred. All figuratively linked arms with present-day uniformed personnel -- the Dodgers and Seattle Mariners who saluted No. 42 from the baselines on the diamond in Chavez Ravine, and the other 750 Major Leaguers who, on this day donned Jackie’s number, 42.

In a goose-bump-raising pre-game ceremony, Mrs. Robinson was escorted to the mound by Mr. Koufax as -players from both teams looked on, warmly applauding.
Rachel Robinson and Sandy Koufax

By serving as a proverbial honor guard for Mrs. Robinson, the army of No. 42s at Dodger Stadium that included Don Mattingly, Lloyd McClendon, Jimmy Rollins, Robinson Cano, Clayton Kershaw, King Felix Hernandez, were a living testament that Robinson lives on.

He is burnished in all our memories, either through real-life witness, or through the benefit of the many clips showing No. 42 running like a Olympic sprinter, sliding like a freight train, slashing historic hits. Still shots of his signing the contract offered by the visionary club owner Branch Rickey,  shots with teammates who were willing allies are indelible.

Pee Wee Reese, Ralph Branca, Roy Campanella, Newcombe, Jackie hugging, shaking hands, or simply standing on the field with arms around each other’s shoulders, showed a nation what was possible.  They defied and silenced racists. Their successes at living and playing as equals pulled the nation one major step closer to the Civil Rights era and this country’s last successful battles of the Civil War.

Every day, not just April 15, is Jackie Robinson Day in baseball, as far as I am concerned. And every day, he can be as young and vital and iconic as he was in 1947, as long as the game takes time to pause, remember and remind every youngster that comes into the Major Leagues what sacrifice, commitment and the indelible love of a cause as well as a game can produce.

Wednesday, March 04, 2015

“Let Them Wear Towels"

I wanted to share a fine documentary created a couple years ago, because it features some of the greatest sports journalists of the last 5 decades. That these journalists happen to be women gives it a perspective we’re not often asked to share.  The documentarians capture well the rough history, and how far we’ve come, as well as why we fought for the basic right to do the job we loved. Enjoy!

And I dedicate this posting to Alison Gordon.

“Let Them Wear Towels.”

Friday, February 13, 2015

Alison Gordon: Friend, Mentor, Hero, Legend

Today, I experienced a roller coaster of emotions upon learning of the sudden death of my friend and mentor, Alison Gordon. Shock and tears soon followed, then the comfort of the common ground of admiration found within journalism circles began to soothe away the initial sting. Finally, came the laughter that most every anecdote about the sassy Ms. Gordon invariably brings began to remind how, if not why, she would want to be celebrated. 
Alison simply brought out the best in all around her, whether through humor, wisdom or a show of defiance and grace under fire. Back then, on the first front lines of the battles to break down barriers to female sports reporters, all those attributes were needed. All those attributes were found in that one dynamo known as Alison Gordon. 
With her death Thursday, at age 72, we were reminded of just how important a pioneer and barrier-breaker was the legendary reporter for the Toronto Star.
Now, as a wrote for, I am often referred to as a pioneer. While flattering, I know that I was in the second wave, and that I benefited mightily from those braver souls who went before me, journalists like Alison. The daughter of a Canadian diplomat and someone who called the world her playground as a child, Alison was built to be bold, to make a statement. She was a natural to follow her heart, no matter how rough the road, in the proud tradition of press box pioneers Melissa Ludtke, Wendell Smith and Sam Lacy.
"To me she is a treasured friend and a great comrade at a time when I needed both," said Ludtke, the-then Sports Illustrated reporter who sued the New York Yankees for access in 1977, and won the landmark decision a year later, opening doors for all women reporters on the professional level. "She was funny and fierce and a damn talented writer and reporter who wanted nothing more than to do her job of reporting on Major League Baseball for the Toronto Star."
I don’t have to list an endless number of "firsts" rather than accomplishments on my resume, thanks to Alison. their resumes. Because Alison, like Melissa before her, took care of some pretty big ones for the franchise.
Photo: David Cooper, Toronto Star
Who was the first woman to cover a Major League Baseball team, full-time? Alison, when she took over the Toronto Blue Jays beat-writing duties for The Star in 1979. 

Who was the first woman accepted into  the Baseball Writers Association of America, as old and established an Old Boys’ Network as there was back in the day? Alison. She walked through that once fiercely manned virtual drawbridge marked BBWAA just as boldly as she had every press box that was adorned with signs reading "No Women Allowed. And, when and if she faced push-back, she usually disarmed with well-turned witticism or a laugh, showing those more "prone to be horrified" not to ever take themselves, or the troglodytes, so seriously.
Humor was her hidden strength, the art of writing her sword. A noted humorist before moving to the baseball beat, Alison became an accomplished fiction writer after leaving sports. Who could not see the witty, mischievous author in Kate Henry, the reporter/sleuth and heroine of Alison's baseball-themed murder mysteries? One could sense there was twinkle in her eyes even as she named her novels -- "Dead Pull Hitter," "Safe at Home." Brilliant!
It was that human touch that made the litany of achievements but a small part of Alison's story. Toronto was a safe harbor because of Alison, the person, Alison, the friend, Alison, the mentor. Her razor-sharp wit taught me so much, especially how to shrug off the louts with a "didn't land a punch attitude. Our conversations were not pity parties, but wonderful opportunities to compare notes, laugh at the insanity of certain portions of certain clubhouses. And behind the humor was an immense resolve. And when she did not cave or sink to the level of those who tried to torment her, she made all of her peers proud.
"I saw how a certain Detroit Tiger treated her and lost respect for him for life," said Mike Downey, formerly a columnist for many a newspaper, including the Los Angeles Times, Chicago Tribune, Chicago Sun-Times and Detroit Free-Press. "Alison had all the class he lacked."
Those Alison covered saw the depth of character and strength, as well.
"She was relentless," former Blue Jays outfielder Lloyd Moseby told the Toronto Star. "A lot of women that are in the profession right now should be very thankful for what Alison did and what she went through. She took a beating from the guys. She was a pioneer for sure."
Moseby told the Star there was a core group of players that always resisted. Such could be said of every team in the early days. Back then, though, demonstrating your disdain of women was tolerated, if not encouraged, by certain franchises. So, yes, it could be so lonely, and frightening, at times, because the possibility of physical threat often seemed barely contained by the angry, ugly words that were often spewed in your direction.
"We had four or five guys that really rallied around not letting her in the clubhouse, but I don't think Alison gave a damn, to tell you the truth," Moseby told The Star. "She could have very easily taken the words that a lot of guys said and took it to heart and went back to her bosses and said, 'I'm not doing this. I don't get paid to take abuse.' But she never did. She kept showing up. And it was amazing, really. I'm just proud to have known Alison."
I join Moseby in that sentiment. Countless journalists are doing the same today, as well.
"I just remember being so happy when the Blue Jays came to Yankee Stadium; her energy was infectious and just having her there made my step a bit lighter," said Ludtke.
Even after leaving the beat after five seasons, Alison still could rock the SkyDome, and the sports world. For it was her view from the seats that led to the eye-witness account of a couple having sex behind the wide-open windows of the SkyDome Hotel, which overlooked the Blue Jays' outfield.
"He was corpulent, hairy and nude," Alison famously recounted in The Star in 1990. "She was blonde, buxom and wrapped non-too-securely in a towel. They were both old enough to know better than to sit in arm chairs pulled up to the window.”

Not only did she land on Page One, the next day, but in headlines around the world. Priceless! 
So, thank you, Alison Gordon. Thanks for the laughs, thanks for lighting the way. The torch you helped kindle shall never dim as long as reporters of all stripes smile at the barriers while kicking them down.

Saturday, January 31, 2015

Going Home: Chicago Bids Fitting Goodbye To Mr. Cub

Hall of Famers Lou Brock, Billy Williams, Henry Aaron and Frank Robinson filled the middle of an All-Star roster of mourners Saturday, as baseball royalty joined Chicago and national dignitaries in saying goodbye to Ernie Banks.

Hall of Famers Ferguson Jenkins and Joe Torre, were also in attendance at the services in the vast Fourth Presbyterian Church. They were and joined by sprinklings of Cubs players and personnel from several generations, as the one and only "Mr. Cub" was remembered by friends and family. For a second day, baseball fans also were drawn to Mr. Banks’ closed casket adorned with a flag bearing his No. 14, needing, wanting one more chance to say thank-you and farewell to their hero, who would have turned 84 today.

"His durability and consistently made him a constant the hey days of guys like Henry Aaron, Willie Mays and Frank Robinson," said Torre. But the Hall of Fame manager, like other speakers, spoke of the man, allowing his numbers to speak for themselves. "His story doesn't revolve around baseball," Torre said, adding later, "Ernie Banks is living proof that you don't have to wear a championship ring on your finger to be a pillar baseball and of life."

Torre, as he often does, summed up perfectly how wonderfully intertwined are Mr. Banks and the concept that is The Cubs: He made the confines of Wrigley friendly," said Torre.

The services Saturday featured many other speakers, of course, befitting Mr. Banks’ place in Chicago and baseball lore. Politicians did their due diligence. So, too, did The Rev. Jesse Jackson, who grew up in a city where Mr. Banks’ smile helped smooth baseball’s often rough passages to a more equitable America in the mid-20th Century.

Mr. Banks was the first African American to play for the Cubs, arriving in 1953 after the Cubs purchased his contract from the Negro Leagues powerhouse Kansas City Monarchs for $10,000. He broke the barriers that remained within the confines of the North Side team’s locker room six years after Jackie Robinson’s advancement to the Dodgers broke the major-league color barrier.

The efforts of all such pioneers, including Mr. Robinson, who shares a birthday with Mr. Banks, could not be overlooked. Chicago, The Second City, embraced Mr. Banks. And he embraced Chicago, making it is own. His arrival signaled a celebration of change, thankfully. But we should not forget: This was no small fete. As Jackson reminded the attendees. :Smiling faces can sometimes conceal what’s deep within,” he said, describing Mr. Banks’ demeanor as a thermostat that “helped control the temperature” of his times.

Mr. Banks transcended more than just a racial divide. He exuded an ability to love unconditionally, something generation after generation of Cubs fans, and players, needed to learn merely for purposes of survival.  Mr. Banks made the losing hurt less. He made the dream of winning shine through forever. He made being a Cub, and a Cub fan, reason enough to smile.

"People not only here in Chicago but people around the world recognize the type of individual he was,” longtime teammate Billy Williams said. "It's beginning to sink in now -- I've lost a great friend, you've lost a great friend."

Thus, the emotions that spilled over, as expected, along the route traveled by the funeral procession that carried Mr. Banks on his final journey to Wrigley Field. The procession, which  passed Daley, passed fans decked in Cubs hats, coats, blankets and tears,  ended at the iconic North Chicago ballpark on the corner of Clark and Addison.

So, so, so fitting, that last trip to Wrigleyville: for Mr. Banks graced that hallowed ground for two decades and made it clear with every declaration, right to his dying day: there was no place else he would rather be.

But now he graces a higher league, where games will never have clocks, where the sun shines for all eternity. As Joey Banks, one of Mr. Banks' twin sons, said, "move over, Honus Wagner, there's a new shortstop in Heaven."

Thursday, January 29, 2015

The Second City Prepares To Say Goodbye to Mr. Cub

The details of the Home-going ceremonies and parade in honor of Mr. Cub, Ernie Banks, are now set. And it appears that The Second City is prepared to send off its most beloved First Son of the baseball diamond in fine fashion.

The Saturday events will be held eight days after the beloved Hall of Famer died of a heart attack at age 83. They will include a memorial at Fourth Presbyterian Church and then a procession that will pass Mr. Banks’ statue in Daley Plaza and Wrigley Field.

I am thinking that this baseball-loving city by the lake is going to turn out, big-time.

Among those expected to speak during the church services are:
  • Tom Ricketts, Chairman of the Chicago Cubs 
  • Joe Torre, Chief Baseball Officer, representing MLB 
  • Billy Williams and Ferguson Jenkins, Mr. Banks' Hall of Fame teammates 
  • Lou Brock, Hall of Famer and Mr. Banks' one-time roommate 
  • Bruce Rauner, Governor of Illinois and Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel 
  • The Rev. Jesse Jackson 
  • John Rogers, Friend of Mr. Banks', and Jerry and Joey Banks, twin sons of the Hall of Famer
The fans of Mr. Banks, and baseball, will play a role, as well, thanks to the scheduled funeral parade. Because of the construction where the Wrigley Field bleachers used to stand, mourners are being prepared for detours in and around the legendary North Chicago ballpark. Guaranteed though, no matter the burden, Chicagoans will manage. Because Mr. Cub will pass that way -- along Waveband, Addison, Clark, Sheffield -- but one more time before joining the eternal All-Star game on high.

Monday, January 26, 2015

Clayton Kershaw’s Very Impressive Double Slam Dunk

What’s more impressive than a pitching resume that garners not only a league’s Cy Young Award, but an Most Valuable Player Award?

A pitcher who seems truly humbled not only by the honors and grateful for the recognition by peers, fans, but insistent upon thanking the writers who voted him this rare double slam dunk.

Such is Clayton Kershaw, who came to the annual banquet of the New York Chapter of the Baseball Writers Association of America to pick up his impressive catch of trophies.

Now, we writers are used to no-shows. We are used to reasons for declining to attend that are far less impressive than Kershaw’s would have been. Derek Jeter, for instance, set to receive the chapter’s biggest honor -- The Joe DiMaggio Toast of the Town Award -- said no. Period. Oh, well. ...

Kershaw could have bailed, too. He did not, however, arriving in New York on Saturday for the evening event just one day after being with his wife, Ellen, as she gave birth to the couple’s first child in Texas.

Kershaw intended to travel back in order to return to his wife and baby daughter immediately following the dinner. But his sense of what was right and in the moment, led him to spare a few hours to say thanks.

He was tired, but almost giddy, accepting handshakes from children to Hall of Famers. When he thanked Ellen for the huge role she plays in his life, Kershaw’s California-cool cracked for a moment and he choked up. He apologized to the audience, reminding he had, after all, just had a baby. “She makes it all worth it,” he said in a near-whisper.

Can you say “standing ovation?”

What was just as amazing was how the arguably dead-on-his-feet pitcher mesmerized the audience. His speech was simply one of the best I’ve heard on such a platform. If it was given at Cooperstown upon his induction into the Hall of Fame, it would, by now, be the stuff of legend.

Kershaw had us at hello, of course, especially after the awards' presenter, Sandy Koufax, dazzled us with tales of Kershaw’s character and content. And, oh, yes, that singularly spectacular season, in which he went 21-3 with a 1.77 ERA in 27 starts. 

Kershaw then proceeded to cause jaws to drop and hearts to melt, one after another, as he proceeded to thank every human being who participated on a daily basis in preparing him for the season of his life. Clubbies. Trainers and others on the medical staff. Weight-room attendees. Coaches, both of his hitting and pitching, and fielding (he is an infielder waiting to be discovered!). Front-office personnel and owners were shown appreciation.

He thanked Don Mattingly, joking first that he’d see Donnie Baseball everyday exiting the weight room following one of his “old man” workout routines. The New York crowd, fully familiar with the Don Mattingly who warmed their hearts for so long, roared with laughter. Then Kershaw spoke in terms that showed how much Mattingly means to him as a friend and skipper: “To Donnie, thank you for staying the same. When I want to flip out or lose my cool, you’re always there to talk me off the ledge.”

Then came the roster. One by one, Kershaw thanked his fellow Dodger players from 2014. Didn’t matter if they’ve now exited left. Matt Kemp, Dee Gordon, every single reliever, every fellow starter, his bullpen catcher, his infield, his outfield. He made the crowd laugh again when he thanked Yasiel Puig for doing things on the field he’d never seen before. Then he gave everyone pause by saying Puig is the most amazing talent he’s ever seen.

Perhaps the most intriguing, and surprising thank-you came at the end. Kershaw thanked the St. Louis Cardinals, the playoff nemesis who’ve hung four losses and a 7.15 ERA on Kershaw in their last four postseason encounters. "Thank you for reminding me that you're never as good as you think you are."

That may have been true in a bad stretch or two in October. But, as Sandy Koufax said after extending apologies to the other pitchers on the dais, Clayton Kershaw is the best pitcher in the game right now. And he’s not to shabby a person, either.

Talk about a solid-gold double slam dunk!

Thank you for playing

Jeff and Debbie Trout, with Angels GM Jerry DiPoto
There is a river of cynicism that runs through every journalist. You get paid to look at most everything through a jaundiced eye. It’s the nature of the beast if you’re dissecting everything in order to keep ‘em honest!

So when a Mike Trout sends word that he is too sick to collect his American League Most Valuable Player Award from the New York Chapter of the Baseball Writers Association of America, your first instinct is to smirk. ... Until he sends his parents in his place!

That is what the flu-ridden Trout did Saturday night. And, promised his linebacker-like dad, Jeff; and resolute mom, Debbie; Trout was, indeed, really, really, really ill!

Must have passed the age-old kiss-to-the-forhead test. You know, the one that moms administer to check your temperature. Imagine if he’d failed you would have heard the admonishments all the way from their South Jersey home. “Michael Nelson Trout, you get out of that bed right now, Bubba!”

Thoughts of the summer game on a snowy day

After several years’ absence, I had the privilege of attending the New York Chapter of the Baseball Writers’ Association of America’s annual banquet.

The reasons for the return of the prodigal former chapter chair were three-fold:

I miss my fellow ink-stained wretches, from whom I learned so much about the craft and life these last 35-plus years. I miss writing for newspapers. I miss the organized chaos of the press box that builds and builds, then settles into intense quiet as gifted reporters pound out prose, hour after hour, day after day, game after game, season after season. Most people can hardly take the pressure of preparing even a page of an annual budget. Writers and photographers hit deadline around the clock, thanks to The Internet. Electronic journalism is electrifying. So, too, is print. Hope the world remembers that before it is too late.

The second reason for my return I can sum up in two words: Sandy Koufax.

Third, I once again was lucky to see baseball’s magic as it appears through the prism of a young child’s eyes -- my beautiful young nephew, Emery. More, much, much more on Emery’s banquet debut in a moment!

As for Mr. Koufax ... One of baseball’s greatest pitchers was one of the honorees, joining Vin Scully and former Cubs pitcher Bob Hendley as winners of the “Willie, Mickey and The Duke" Award.

Sandy, being ever the reluctant superstar, insisted beforehand that he was not there to collect, but to give, presenting the NL MVP and Cy Young Awards to Clayton Kershaw. But the audience coaxed him from his seat so that he could recount the game that inextricably linked him to Hendley and Scully -- the perfect game he threw, and won, in 1965, fending off Hendley, who merely tossed a one-hitter. The one-hit game remains a major-league record for offensive futility -- and brilliant pitching.

Personally, Sandy matters so much to me, and has since he caught my attention in 1965. That October, the best pitcher in the game led his Dodgers to the World Series by unfurling a second straight Cy Young Award campaign (he led the league in wins (26), ERA (2.04) and strikeouts -- 382; the highest modern day total at the time). Sandy then he stunned the sport when he declined to pitch the opening game of the Fall Classic because it fell on Yom Kippur. Sandy is Jewish, you see, and though not devout, he felt an obligation to honor his heritage, its history, its people. The world took note, and never forgot.

For that, and many other reasons -- such as a remarkable humility, priceless insight into an ever-evolving game, as well as sweet but whip-sharp wit and a gentle soul, Sandy Koufax is my 1-A hero to Jackie Robinson’s No. 1.

Jackie, Sandy, Larry Doby, as well as Ernie Banks and Tony Gwynn (the latter two Hall of Famers we lost during, then after the 2014 season) are cut from the same cloth. They represent all the right reasons adjectives like “class,” “character,” “charm,” “courage” should attach to any human being, whether famous or not.

So if you tell me there is one more opportunity to appear in the presence of a hero-turned-friend, I will be there.

Now, for the beauty of seeing this all reflected in the eyes of a child.

I used to love taking my boys -- son, Joshua; godsons Christopher and Troy, nephew Will -- to these events. They’ve grown up, and grown away, though, and I miss their company. But I do have a new baseball buddy -- my 12-year-old nephew, Emery, a sweet little guy with an old soul, who not only likes baseball, but devours its history. He made his banquet debut Saturday and, perhaps sensing his depth and sincerity, most every baseball figure I introduced Em to took to this sharp youngster like an old friend.

Mr. Koufax, Clayton Kershaw, Buck Showalter, Bobby Valentine, Frank Robinson, Brett Gardner, Terry Francona, Bud Selig, Hall of Fame President Jeff Idelson, all carried on conversations and asked of Emery if he played baseball, and why; what are his positions, what team does he follow (the Yankees, the resident of Harlem and starting center fielder for
Clayton Kershaw and Emery
the Harlem Little League team said). 

When Jeff asked Emery who his favorite Yankees were, the response -- Babe Ruth and Yogi Berra -- was met with an impressed smile. Marty Noble, the veteran baseball writer, upon hearing Emery’s answer, high-fived my nephew. As I said, there’s definitely depth in this young man!

Buck Showalter
Emery got thumb’s ups on his position choices -- center and short. Gene Michael certainly approved. Bud Selig gave me a knowing smile when I said “Money Ball!” 

Buck Showalter’s comment: “You must have some speed! Run track?” “Yes,” said Emery. Ca-ching! 

When told that Emery had already competed on the national level, in chess tournaments, Francona pretended to pout, saying “brains, too? Not fair!"

One more Emery story, and it still sends chills through me:

Willie Mays was my father’s favorite player, so, too, my brother, Hawk’s. So Emery -- Hawk’s son -- upon hearing that Willie Mays would also attend the banquet, made it is mission to meet the all-time great and get an autograph. Now there are a couple things Willie Mays does differently than other stars at such events. He does not hang out in the VIP room beforehand. Nor did he demand a seat at the dais after requesting a ticket (same with Frank Robinson). 

Instead, two of the four Hall of Famers in the sat room  sat in the audience of approximately 1,000 (Sandy and Cal Ripken Jr. and soon-to-be HOFer John Smoltz were a part of the program and therefore on the dais). 

Willie Mays 
Willie spent most of his downtime at his dinner table, attracting hundreds of fans. Surrounded by security, he signed what the plain-clothed and uniformed guards accepted from children-only. Needless to say, No. 24 was swamped, rivaling the crowd that gathered in front of the dais seeking, and receiving Sandy Koufax’s signature!

Now, Willie does not sign paper, only baseballs. Emery was only equipped with an autograph book, however. Not knowing Willie's policy, Emery went forward in about 10 different waves, only to be turned away when Willie tired. Emery would walk back to our table, ever-watchful, then queue up, again, when he saw Willie starting to sign, again. Still, one fail after another. Still, one attempt after another. He remained stoic, and determined. Talk about a mission!

Not til his final attempt did he get a real chance, only to be told he needed a baseball.

As he turned to walk away, Marty Noble took Emery’s arm and walked him back to Willie and introduced him to the Hall of Famer. Willie, who wasn’t making much eye-contact with anyone, looked up, then started to chat with Emery. When told about the baseball dilemma, Willie pulled a bankroll out of his pocket ("Hundreds and fifties and tens," Emery told me in amazement.)

Willie peeled off a $10 and said he'd sign that for Em. Em, bless him, said he could not accept because it was too much. So Willie pulled out a $1 and signed it. Then the two center fielders continued to talk ball. Emery's one regret: he was so excited he forgot to tell No. 24 that his Harlem Little League team plays very near where the old Polo Grounds -- Home to Willie's old New York Giants -- used to stand. Talk about kindred spirits!

Emery also listened as well as talked. He hung on every word that the adults said to him. About baseball tools, about school, about life. 

He listened intently as ALS “Ice Bucket” crusader Pete Frates accepted a humanitarian award for his part in raising $100 million in donations last August. Frates spoke to a still crowd from a wheel chair and through a computerized speaking apparatus. I watched Emery as he watched the scene unfold on one of the large screens. Transfixed was the word that came to mind. As I said, an old soul in a young body. 

Lastly, like his parents, I was very proud that Emery refused to take the $10 bill. The smile he wore the rest of the evening, as he showed the likes of Tito and Buck the dollar bill, well, that was worth much more than $10. It was priceless! 

Balance To Life -- Ernie Banks

Friday, January 23, 2015

Game Called on Account of Tears: Mr. Cub is gone

AP Photo/Jim Prisching"

Such beauty, in a smile, in a swing, in the conduct of a life well-lived. Ernie Banks had it all. Not even The Curse, nor a career devoid of a single postseason game could obscure the fact that when Ernie Banks stepped from the Negro Leagues to the Major Leagues in 1953, a bright, shining star was born.

Mr. Banks, who became a fixture on The North Side, died Friday, mere days before his 84th birthday. Now, the man who always saw the possibility in the bright light of day, who always thought two games were preferable to a mere one, will play no more.

In baseball, there is a saying that you can rest in the off-season. Mr. Banks, there is no game today, just eternal rest, and the gratitude of a game and a nation.

Mr. Banks, signed by the Kansas City Monarchs as a 19--year-old before World War II, served two years in the military before making the transition from the Leagues of Cool Papa Bell and Josh Gibson, to Wrigley Field. He was not the first to help shatter stereotypes and push the national pastime away from its shameful segregation policies. There could only be one Jackie Robinson, and thankfully only one game-wide color barrier to smash.

But Mr. Banks was the first African American to play for the Chicago Cubs,  putting the National League team on the  right side of the ledger in The Second City's baseball history. He then crafted his legacy by using his bat with the skill of a surgeon, his glove with the deftness of an artist, and his personality with more congeniality than found in a thousand beauty contests. He was a perfect teammate for sweet-swinging Billy Williams and Ron Santo. The three future Hall of Famers were inextricably linked, not because of the Cubs' futility, but because their charm and talents made all those near-misses and canceled parades tolerable in a city that never tired of dreaming. 
The tale of the tape, chronicled from debut to Cooperstown, includes Banks 11 All-Star Games, more than 500 home runs and back-to-back MVP honors, a National League first. He was elected into the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1977, his first year eligible.

Banks was awarded the Presidential Medal of Freedom, the highest honor awarded to civilians in the United States, by President Barack Obama in 2013.

Even that seems like to little. Thank you for your service, and your belief in us all, Mr. Banks. Thank you for making us smile while always wishing for just one more game.

Wednesday, January 07, 2015

Piazza, Bagwell And The Puzzlement Our Time

On Tuesday the BBWAA announced its body had voted Randy Johnson, Pedro Martinez, John Smoltz and Craig Biggio into the Baseball Hall of Fame. The secondary newser was about who didn't make it.

Roger Clemens and Barry Bonds -- the poster children of the Steroid era -- remained stuck in neutral and well off the pace, chasing in vain the needed 75 percent for election. Mark McGwire, well-ensconced on the poster, as well, continues to spiral down in the annual vote. Sammy Sosa, another prominent fallen home run hero now buried in the revenge-filled PED muck and mire, came within one percentage point of being lopped off the ballot forever.

Then there are Mike Piazza and Jeff Bagwell.

These two players, arguably the best catcher in the history of the game and one of the best-ever first basemen, respectively, did not make the cut. Piazza drew 69 percent, Bagwell came in the mid-50s. Both are gaining ground, but the fact that the weren't elected made headlines.

As for Piazza and Bagwell, I voted for neither, fitting in neatly with the voters being pilloried for being swayed by the large cloud of innuendo and suspicion that both built their careers using banned or illegal substances.

On Tuesday, I was asked by peers in New York and Houston to justify my non-votes.

My answer to both havens where Piazza and Bagwell made their names is this: I simply need more time and clarification of the era and what occurred in all quarters. I think of Bagwell as one of the most impressive players I’ve ever seen and, like Biggio, I reserve the right to say yes in the remaining years of eligibility he has left to him.

People -- impassioned and infuriated fans -- have to remember that there is a reason each player is given a 10-year window, so that the passage of time can better shape his legacy, and the history of the era in which he played. The debates among writers never cease; they are impassioned and heartfelt. We listen and learn from each other, and massage our thought processes each and every election.

As for many on this ballot, there is no doubt that the era put a cloud over a great many extraordinary players, many of whom have never been charged, accused, or failed drug tests. Sosa fits in that category. Piazza, too. So, too, does Bagwell.  

How this era ultimately fares will likely hinge on how Piazza fares next year. If he is elected, the floodgates will open and the impediments, suspicions and otherwise, will fall away. Quite frankly, Piazza is the best hope, not only for Bagwell, but conceivably Clemens and Bonds, too.

Personally, I have another year to think about it. And both Piazza and Bagwell, have much, much more time on the ballot. They have time to use their numbers to make their arguments, to turn around more voters than just mine. I hold comfort in that. I truly do, because I believe in the process that allows for the evolution of thought rather than a rush to judgment. Remember, many greats did not come close to being elected in the first year, the first decade of eligibility. If Cy Young, with his 511 wins, didn't get voted in on his first ballot (had to wait a year), then other players can and will stand the test of time, too.

As for the "Era," I will say this: it's time for without indication of any stance by The Hall to take a stance on whether Bonds, Clemens, etc., are welcome. It's time for the HOFers to speak of their feelings openly and frankly about the issue of having tainted Steroid-era players join them. Their opinions count -- for a lot. Many speak angrily about the modern players' actions, but they leave it to the BBWAA writers to articulate the atmosphere, and animosity, in The Hall.

I already vote for Clemens and Bonds, have every year for the simple reason thatI believe they compiled HOF-worthy numbers well before they lost their minds during the Steroid era. I am wavering on others, though, not because of their pleas, or plights, but because of the lack of leadership from those already in The Hall.

Without that input, I find myself inexorably drifting towards the laissez-faire attitude that grips Cooperstown. I'm starting to take the silence up there as a green-light, or hands-off when it comes to the tainted era.

Maybe all the already-enshrined want us to do is look past the era, and simply judge the talents of the seven-Cy Young Award guy, the five-time MVP dude, the stars of the Mac and Sammy Summer. If the Hall of Famers don't care, why should we voters? Especially when we also know that everyone, including the media, turned blind eyes.

The whole sport enabled, and profited. If everyone was guilty, then everyone should be ineligible -- players, managers, GMs, owners and a certain commissioner. Or everyone should agree it was an ignoble era, like the spitball era, the pre-integration era, when cheating and unethical and inexcusable, unforgivable behavior was ingrained and accepted, when the otherwise noble and righteous went quiet. Frame it as such, on individual plaques, or whatever, and move on.

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

“The Redhead Up North” congratulates fellow Frick Award winner

How cool is this? Ford C. Frick Award winner Dick Enberg taking a congratulatory phonev call from Vin Scully! Two of classiest acts in our universe! (Picture by Hall of Fame).y and 

Enberg lauded radio immortals in his acceptance news conference today, but saved the greatest show of respect and gratitude to the man he called “The Redhead up north."

Velvet prose, velvet voice earn Enberg, Gage HOF berths

Lovely start to the third day of Winter Meetings as Hall of Fame announced that the great Dick Enberg is the recipient of the 2015 Ford C. Frick Award for outstanding announcing. Said an emotional Enberg: "When I think of this honor today … ‘Enberg, you hit a grand slam.’” 
Indeed! Congratulations, Mr. Enberg. To use your signature line, “Oh, my!”
Enberg, who will turn 80 on Jan. 9, was a long-time tennis play-by-play announcer for ESPN, calling the majors, such as Wimbleton, the US, French and Australian opens.
He has 22 years of experience broadcasting Major League Baseball, the last five as the television play-by-play voice of the Padres.
He will be joined in the spotlight by Tom Gage of the Detroit News, the BBWAA’s recipient of the 2015 JG Taylor Spink Award for outstanding contributions to baseball writing/reporting. 

Tom could not be at the meetings. The paper he’s graced wrote the following: 

Gage, The Detroit News' Tigers beat writer since 1979,  has covered countless Hall of Famers in his career, and next summer in Cooperstown, New York, Gage will be joining them on stage as the winner of the J.G. Taylor Spink Award.
"We're thrilled for Tom to win this honor," said Jonathan Wolman, publisher and editor of The Detroit News. "He's been a master storyteller from the ballparks of America and he's made the Tigers come alive for our readers. We tip our Olde English D to his terrific coverage, and to the others who were on the ballot. Tom was in strong company from the day of his nomination to the day of his election."
"It has been a great ride, which has included literally years of shared life in Lakeland during spring training," said Detroit News baseball writer Lynn Henning, who first met Gage at Tigertown in 1979, when Gage was a rookie on the beat, and Henning was at the Lansing State Journal. They were colleagues at The News months later.
"I've seen through the years how Tom's steady passion for his work has kept him fresh and galvanized to his beat."
Gage, known in press boxes for wearing his baseball caps and his creative leads, figures he's covered games in 54 ballparks, and written more than 11 million words and covered more than 5,000 games — including five no-hitters — plus one night game in Boston, after undergoing a root canal in the morning.
In 1989, he famously wrote only an act of God could save the San Francisco Giants in the World Series against the Oakland A's. The next day, an earthquake suspended play for 10 days.
"Extremely happy for Tom," said Dave Dombrowski, Tigers president and general manager. "Cannot think of a more deserving individual. Tom is a true professional in every aspect."
Next July, Gage will become the first Detroit News writer to enter the Hall since the late Joe Falls in 2001.

Monday, December 08, 2014

Baseball Tonight kicked off its Day 1 coverage of the Winter Meetings today. Manning the Desk at 11:30 PT:, from left to right Jayson Stark, Buster Olney, anchor Karl Ravech, Tim Kurkjian and Keith Law. Next show: 6:30 PT.

Kevin Cash, Welcome To the Winter Meetings' Mgr. Scrums

Kevin Cash, new manager of the Tampa Bay Rays, led off the annual roundup and interview scrum for the men on the dugout's hottest seat. He appears to the right of Rays Baseball Ops President Matt Silverman.

The only news made here: Cash said all the right things, and he appears to be 15 years old. I feel rather ancient today!

No Room for Dick Allen, Tony Oliva As Both Fall Short

Only one percent of the professionals who played in the Major Leagues are in the Hall of Fame. It is a tough road, as well it should be. It is the Hall of the greatest, not the Hall of the Very Good, as Jim Kaat once said.

Well, today, the Hall's 16-member Golden Era Committee considered more than a handful of their
contemporaries and decided that none rose to the category of Hall of Famer. No nominee reached the required 12 votes (75 percent). Still, the announcement drew emotions as it was announced that Dick Allen and Tony Oliva each received 11 votes from the panel.

So, so close. Allen's son, Richard; on hand and hoping, showed the human side of such decisions, valiantly answering questions about his father's near-miss. 

Jane  Forbes Clark, CEO of the Hall, fielded questions on the Veterans Committee procedures in light of another shutout of candidates. She said the staff ad board continuously examine the procedure. She said "it's not a matter of a trigger, it's matter of our general operating procedure."  

Veterans Committee Decision Looms

Here in San Diego, it is the quiet  before the storm at Baseball’s Winter Meetings. John Lester continues to occupy the lead role in the ever-wonderful free-agent drama this off-season. But the first orcer of business is but 30 minutes away as we await the Hall of Fame’s Veterans Committee announcement on whether any former legends have been selected to join the immortals in Cooperstown.

The list of candidates:

Dick Allen
Ken Boyer 
Maury Wills
Gil Hodges 
Jim Kaat
Billy Pierce
Tony Oliva
Minnie Minoso
Luis Tiant

Who, if anyone, will emerge as a Hall of Famer? Time will tell!

Monday, December 01, 2014

Career Or A Limp?

One of my favorite stories as told by Don Baylor was about the dueling suitors he had in his senior year of high school: The University of Texas football team and the Baltimore Orioles. 

Don, born and raised in the Austin, Texas, area, always wanted to play for the Longhorns. But the bird-dog baseball scout sent by the Orioles won out after he asked Don a simple question: did he want a career or a limp?

I wonder what the 2014 version of that question is? 

I can only pray that health is still in the equation, and that in this day and age, it is the athlete and his or her family pushing the issue, demanding to know, precisely, what institutions pledge to do to prevent head injuries. Because limps have got nothing on concussions.
Kosta Karageorge

The death this weekend of Ohio State University football player Kosta Karageorge brought that into clear focus as never before. The 22-year-old’s body was found in a dumpster near campus, police said Sunday. The player, who was reported missing Wednesday, appeared to have died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, according to authorities.

Last week, Karageorge’s family told police that the young man had suffered multiple concussions and was being plagued by periods of confusion. Wednesday morning, he’d texted his mother, cited the head injuries and wrote: "I am sorry if I am an embarrassment.’'

The real embarrassment here is that organized sports at the highest levels had to be dragged into this fight against arguably preventable injuries by lawyers rather than doctors. Sadly, no matter how many millions in damages will be won by the walking wounded or their survivors going forward, there is not enough money in the world to right the lives of athletes already permanently damaged. 

We've read the stories, seen the interviews, heard the eulogies. The human toll is stamped on the world-weary faces,  reflected in the frightened, lost eyes of broken gladiators, buried with haunting murder-suicides. Heartbreakingly, the well-documented sagas continue to mount. How many other under-reported results -- nerve and brain damage, concussion-related Alzeimer’s and Parkinson’s -- we may never know.

Players, be they in Pee Wee football, Little League baseball or the highest professional tiers in the world, should be assured by their sporting bodies that every precaution is being taken to protect what is arguably the body’s most precious organ. 

Parents -- remember the dance? -- should ask the toughest of questions. Equipment manufacturers should be made by law to make the toughest, not the cheapest, protective gear. The medical profession, even the portion represented in the team-doctor class, should always vow that “do no harm” will always trump “win at all costs.” 

Protocols need not only be written on paper. They should be chiseled in stone, in every clubhouse, locker room and stadium. And those protocols should drive policy with an authority a thousand times stronger than that of the most prestigious coach in the land.

Lastly, any team, university or professional league that knowingly cuts corners or plays loose and free with an athlete's health should face the harshest penalties. If that means criminal as well as civil litigation, so be it. Because the victims of neglect, deceit or, most ominously,  medical malpractice, need the ability, and deserve the right, to hit back as hard as they were hit playing mere games. 

Friday, November 28, 2014

Hello, it’s been a long time.

Thanks to, I can identify just how long my period of hibernation has lasted. My previous post was in 2010. That’s a minute. That’s a writer’s block. That’s over.

So much has occurred since I tucked away to abilities to put words together, abilities that defined me for much of my career. Very much included in those events were life-altering scenarios, some I can proudly say made me stronger, some not so much. But there are constants that I am convinced will never change, no matter how long the dormancy. I suppose that the love of baseball -- one of those constants -- will follow me to the grave.

So what do you say that I come back to one of my loves. If there is something to say, bear with me as I attempt to regain my voice and say it.

Missed you. God bless. Play ball.

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Slick: A Good and Noble Man, By Fay Vincent

The following is an essay penned by Fay Vincent, the former commissioner of baseball, as he salutes his good friend, Slick Surratt, the Kansas City Monarch who passed away Tuesday at age 87.

Slick: A Good and Noble Man

By Fay Vincent

Alfred "Slick" Surratt died the other day and I am saddened to the core. He was my friend and it is no hyperbole for me to admit I truly loved him. Slick had played baseball in the old Negro Leagues, helped clear the airfield at Guadalcanal as an Army bulldozer operator, and came home from war hoping to play baseball. But he was the wrong color and so he spent some 50 years working on the line at the Ford Motor plant in Kansas City. The first time we met I asked him how he had come to be called "Slick". He looked at me with a broad smile and replied, "Commissioner, I don't know you well enough to answer that question." I still laugh when I think of that line.

We met at a weekend event Joe Garagiola and I organized to honor the alumni of the Negro Leagues who had been so badly treated by their country and by baseball. In 1991 we arranged to bring some 75 former players and their wives or significant others or family members to Cooperstown to the site of the baseball Hall of Fame to celebrate their contribution to baseball by continuing to play the game in a professional setting during the years when they were precluded from playing in the major leagues.

We were reminding them that by keeping the game alive in the black community they made possible the big league careers of such super stars as Henry Aaron, Willie Mays, Bob Gibson, Frank Robinson and Ernie Banks, along with the hundreds of other players of color who have graced the game.

The weekend was a total joy and one of the many benefits was my friendship with Slick. Even at that time, long after his playing days, he looked like he could still out run a rabbit When I asked if he could bunt, his anser was, "Commissioner, if it hops twice, ain't no point in you picking it up 'cause I'm already there." He was as slim as a pencil, and the build of a greyhound. But it was his smile that set the tone. He was always smiling and he always seemed happy. He always seemed to be having fun and he was fun to be with.
Over the first few years after we met, I made sure he and some of his baseball colleagues were included at all star and world series games and after several such occasions, when I knew he had been having a wonderful time, I would approach and ask him if I were getting to the point where he would explain where he got the name Slick. "Oh you gettin' very close Commissioner. Very close." But of course I never got there.
One night Larry Doby, the first black to play in the American League, and a dear pal of both Slick and mine, explained to me. "Commissioner, if you are as smart as you are supposed to be , you should have figured it all out by now."

I think I had.

We had kept in touch by telephone so I knew things had turned bad but whenever we spoke, he always sounded upbeat and that smile came through. He was not one to complain.The thing I never will forget about him was his total lack of bitterness. The travails of growing up in the severe segregation of his native Arkansas were dismissed . He pointed out the licence plate of Arkansas has the slogan on it--Land of Opportunity. "Well', explained Slick, " at the first opportunity, I left." Similarly, he never complained at the denial of any chance just to try out for a big league team.

He was thrilled for Jackie Robinson and Larry Doby but he accepted the restrictions Fate had imposed. When I reminded him of those tough days at Guadalcanal when he had to lift the front of his bulldozer to ward off Japanese bullets, his only comment was a regret his all black engineering unit had never received any recognition for their work. But that was it. The sense of anguish he had to have felt when he came home as a member of the victorious citizen Army but was not able to play baseball in the major leagues was never expressed.

"I see no point in being bitter, Commissioner. It won't do no good for no one." I will not forget the lessons I learned from this good and noble man. I will miss him, but I will never forget the joy of being in his company. If there are reserved seats where he is, I hope he keeps me in mind.

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Claire Smith: Baseball Around the Horn: A great and good man passed today

Claire Smith: Baseball Around the Horn: A great and good man passed today

A great and good man passed today

Slick Surratt died today.

It is likely a name you're not familiar with, so it is my great privilege and pleasure to introduce you to this brave, kind man who epitomized The Greatest Generation.

Slick, born in Arkansas in 1922, served his country without fail, on the battlefields of Guadalcanal, on the assembly lines of Ford Motors for over 60 years.

Slick also played pro ball, teaming with some of the greatest players to ever toe a mound or swing a bat.

Slick was a member of the Kansas City Monarchs, a Negro Leagues player who called Satchel Paige and Jackie Robinson teammates, and Buck O'Neil "Skip."

Slick, like most African Americans of his era, bore the pride of having survived in the Jim Crow south, but never hid the scars caused by that spirit-rending segregation. He lost a brother because no hospital in rural Arkansas would treat a black child with a burst appendix. Slick apologized to no one for his limited education. You see, unless you could attend the one high school dedicated to African Americans in the Arkansas of the 30s and 40s, your schooling came to an end after sixth grade.

It was the law. It was a way of life best left in the dregs of history. Yet, as Slick said, these slights did not break him. As he liked to say, the license plates in Arkansas proclaimed that start "The Land of Opportunity and the first opportunity I had, I got out."

Slick became a member of an all-black unit within the Army'c Corps of Engineers, drove a bulldozer that helped build an airfield while under bombardment on The Canal.

Slick survived the war, and the indiginities of a segregated military. Then he came back to a country that once again tried to pigeonhole him as a second-class citizen. It failed.

Instead he proceded to carve out a career at Ford that lasted over 60 years. He played ball with a passion and joy in the leagues that would have him.

He could bunt, run, hit. If a grounder hit by him bounced more than once, he joked, you might has well put it in your hip pocket. It was a hit, pure and simple.

Slick's fondest memories involved his two-man barnstorming tours with Paige, the "money" player teams would bring in to boost the gates across America. Slick often drove the back roads of the nation as Satchel's chauffeur and companion.

Oh, the stories that emerged from those trips. Slick's fear at being pulled over by a country sheriff only to see that lawman step back in wonder as Satchel won him over with one of the autographed baseballs the pitcher kept in the glove compartment. the sheriff got the ball and Satch and Slick got a police escort all the way to their destination as sheriff after sheriff cleared traffic for these baseball VIPs.

Paige's love of speed - and Surratt's reluctance to temp fate, again - often led to Paige relentlessly teasing Slick as he asked again and again why wheel barrels kept passing them by.

Speaking about Satchel always made Slick laugh. Those who had the privilege of having heard their telling no doubt are smiling at their memories today.

I met Slick when we became members of the Fay Vincent Fellows, a merry group that included Joe Black and Larry Doby. The former commissioner and his band traveled from college campus to campus, speaking to students about The great contributions black America made to the Greatest Generation. Today, Fay and I comforted each other in that our trio of friends are now all gone. Then came the laughter, the gratitude and the love of our friends as we remembered the memories left us.

Slick's lessons were models of grace, tolerance and love of a country that often didn't love him back, but could not shake him in his belief that things would always get better.

Slick often spoke about working in the Ford plant when the news of Jackie signing with the Dodgers broke. Slick cheered as loudly as his fellow workers. It was like a holiday, he said.

Slick would never get that call. But he never let go of that day, because, in his heart, Jackie's victory was always his victory, as well.

In the end, how Slick lived, how this most patriotic, optimistic society within a society lived, was their gift to us all. What Slick, what Larry, what Joe Black, what my parents and my parents' parents taught me was this: The burdens borne, the wrongs suffered do never relieve one of his or her duties to country, family, self.

Thank you for reminding me of that each and every day spent together, Slick. Thanks for the opportunity to know you, to be your friend. I will miss you. Travel well ... and let not one wheel barrel ever pass you again.