Long Live Daylight Savings Time

I adore Daylight Savings Time. OK, maybe adore is a bit strong, but I'm definitely a fan of the springtime practice of setting clocks ahead one hour, even if it does create a minor, temporary hardship for a day or two.

I learned this weekend on Twitter that I'm clearly in the minority, or at least those who don't like DST are much more vocal about it than those who do. And, considering my reason for liking DST, it's actually a bit surprising so many somewhat like-minded people hate it. 

First, I can understand some of the grumbling. If you work Sundays, or otherwise have somewhere to be in the morning, losing that one hour of sleep is certainly a drag. Also, if you have kids (as I do...well, I have a kid), modifying bed time can be a royal pain-in-the-ass. 

But, the reason I'm a fan of daylight savings time is baseball. Not Major League Baseball, of course. Not necessarily even organized baseball, for that matter.  

Adding an extra hour of daylight to each evening allowed me as a kid to play ball with my friends down the street until sometime around 8:30ish, when our moms would start calling for us to come home, or when one of us would totally lose a fly ball in the gray sky, or when the batter could barely make out the incoming pitch. 

That extra hour would also allow Little League games to start at 6pm, so dads (or moms) who were coaches could get there in time after work, or it simply would allow parents to feed their kids and get them to the game in time. 

That's what daylight savings time came to symbolize for me as a young baseball player, even if baseball was far from the reason for DST's existence. 

And that's also how I'll choose to think of DST as a parent. It will give me time to throw the ball around with my son after dinner and, if he chooses to play baseball (fingers crossed) to make it to his games in time. 

So, the struggle to move up bed time by an hour, while certainly not an enjoyable part of DST, is well worth it, in my opinion. 

Long Live Daylight Savings Time. Because...well, Baseball. 

Back to Black Friday (aka "An Ode to the Record Store")

Next Friday (November 29) is, of course, Black Friday. Personally, I've never set foot anywhere near a shopping mall on that day, but judging by the hordes of people who descend on major stores to fight over fantastic deals, I guess I'm in the minority. Still, for those of you like me, here's an alternate way to spend Black Friday.

If you followed that link, you know it took you to a news item regarding a special "Record Store Day" Black Friday promotion. While we're on the subject, I thought I'd re-run the most viewed post in this blog's history (below, or click here to add to the aforementioned post's hit count).

An Ode to the Record Store

My first favorite record store was Record World in the South Hills Mall in Poughkeepsie, New York. As a young teenager, I also sometimes purchased records at department stores such as Caldor, but Record World definitely had the best combination of price and selection around.

It was at Record World that I'd flip through the discographies of bands like Blue Öyster Cult, Rainbow and Judas Priest, trying to determine which of their older albums were worth taking a chance on.

It was at Record World that I would purchase a mediocre EP by a band called Cintron, after seeing them as an opening act at the Mid-Hudson Civic Center. But, of course, purchasing records that didn't live up to your expectations was all part of the process back in the pre-Internet days.

It was also at Record World that I hemmed and hawed over paying $8 for a full-length LP, rather than a more reasonable price of $5 to $7.

Record World is now a pet store, or something like that. It hasn't been in the South Hills Mall for years...actually, decades. In fact, the South Hills Mall has basically been rendered obsolete by the nearby mega-mall, the Poughkeepsie Galleria.

I've moved around a lot since those days, and I've had plenty of new favorite record stores, and eventually those record stores became CD stores, but I've continued to call them record stores.

Even long after I stopped buying new records—I'm not one of those music collectors who's remained a vinyl junkie, although I admire those folks—I still maintained a relationship with old-fashioned record stores.

First, I went through a phase where I scoured countless used record stores—fairly successfully, I might add—in search of every record that Neil Young never released on CD. Then, these stores became my destination for the purchase of albums so that I could frame and hang the covers on my wall. I suspect I own at least a dozen records that have, in fact, never been listened to by my ears.

But, over the years, there's only one record store I've held in as high esteem as Record World. That destination would be a place called Rock Bottom Records in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I lived in New Hampshire for only one year—from spring of 1996 to spring of 1997—but after moving to Boston, it still remained a frequented destination when I was in the area or just passing through.

Long before music stores came up with the idea of in-store listening stations, Rock Bottom had an area with racks of hundreds of used CDs and a few portable CD players with headphones that patrons could use to preview albums.

I remember vividly in April of 1997 when both Son Volt's Straightaways—their eagerly anticipated followup to Trace—and The Jayhawks' Sound of Lies—their first album of the post-Mark Olson era—came out on the same day. I previewed and purchased both of them at Rock Bottom, and, for some reason, hearing them in the record store for the first time was a goose-bump-inducing moment.

On another occasion, I was going about my business, listening to various used CDs there, when the album playing on the in-house stereo system caught my ear and really grabbed my attention. I asked the store clerk what it was, and he responded with such enthusiasm that it was the solo record by Smashing Pumpkins' guitarist James Iha. Let it Come Down may never have become my favorite guilty pleasure album if not for Rock Bottom Records.

Another night, as I was leaving the store, I was overhearing a discussion between the store clerk and another customer, as he tried to explain who England, Dan & John Ford Coley were. He was trying to identify their most recognizable song, showing a little frustration as he admitted he was drawing a blank. As I opened the door to the street, I turned in his direction and said, "I'd Really Love to See You Tonight." After a several second double-take, he realized I was identifying the song rather than asking him out.

Unfortunately, Rock Bottom Records has been out of business for quite some time. Other than Newbury Comics, a regional chain of stores that remains a model of success in a fading industry, I haven't had a favorite record store since.

And, as that previous sentence reminds me, I really hope this post is more than just an ode to a dying breed.

Good Night, Captain

I headed down the street on the afternoon of August 2, 1979 to hang out with my friends, as I would do pretty much every day during the summer. At this time of year, the primary activity would be a two-on-two game of baseball—or maybe I should call it tennis ball—in the street.

On this particular day, I showed up at the home of my friend Victor, who broke the news to me Thurman Munson had just died in a plane crash. At first, I didn't believe him, for a couple of reasons. For one, he was not a Yankees fan, and secondly, this was the type of joke that was not beneath him to tell. I may have been considered an easy target as well, I'll admit.

I went inside his house to ask his mother and turn on the television. Both sources confirmed the devastating news. This was far from the saddest news I'd ever heard—both my grandmothers died when I was nine—but, as a 12-year old not wanting to cry in front of my friend, I struggled to hold back tears.

Just prior to the 1976 season, Munson was named the first captain of the Yankees since Lou Gehrig retired in 1939. As much as Derek Jeter currently embodies the qualities that make him stand out as one who is truly worthy of the honor, so did Munson. In fact, although a few of my favorite players—Graig Nettles, Willie Randolph, Ron Guidry—also held that role, in my opinion there are only four men in history worthy of the Yankee captaincy: Gehrig, Munson, Jeter and Don Mattingly.

In considering the previous statement, I asked my dad who would have been the most likely candidate to hold such a post between the Gehrig and Munson years. His feeling was either Yogi Berra or Phil Rizzuto would have been the top choices, but neither seemed to possess quite the leadership ability as the aforementioned four.

Until Darryl Kile died of a coronary blockage during the 2002 season, Munson remained the last active player to lose his life during the regular season, so the moving tributes paid to him in the games that followed still stand as indelible memories to me.

On August 3, in the first game following his death, the Yankees starters took the field to begin the game. All of them, except catcher Jerry Narron, that is. Following a prayer, a moment of silence, and Robert Merrill's rendition of "America the Beautiful," the Yankee Stadium crowd burst into a ten-minute standing ovation. Narron remained in the dugout for the entire time, as television cameras focused on his teammates' reactions, and his empty position—or, should I say, the spot vacated by Munson—behind home plate.

Three days later, the entire team attended Munson's funeral in Canton, Ohio, then flew back to New York to play in that night's game. Bobby Murcer, after delivering a eulogy that afternoon, drove in all five runs—including a three-run homer and walk-off two-run single in the 9th—in a 5-4 Yankees victory.

Coming off back-to-back World Series victories, the Yankees' 1979 performance had come back down to earth even prior to Munson's death, although at 58-48 (.547), the season was hardly a lost cause. It may be coincidence the team would have to wait until 1996—Jeter’s rookie season—to climb back atop the baseball world. But, then again, it might not be.

Regardless, 34 years later, Thurman is still deeply missed.

The Tear-Stained Quarter

Since it's been over two weeks since my last post, I was looking for something I could re-post from several years ago. Originally, my intention was to find a post from a previous May 17, but in the process of looking for one, I came across this nostalgic story, which originally ran on May 13, 2010.

I've previously written about my fascination with the 1982 Milwaukee Brewers, but the first team other than one of my own that captured my interest was the 1977 Denver Broncos. Not surprisingly, it was their "Orange Crush" defense that really caught my attention, which included five Pro Bowlers—defensive end Lyle Alzado, linebackers Randy Gradishar and Tom Jackson, and defensive backs Bill Thompson and Louis Wright.

For some reason, though, my favorite player was explosive punt returner Rick Upchurch, who led the league in 1976 with 4 TDs and 13.7 yards per return. His 1977 wasn't quite as spectacular, but he still led the NFL in return yards while averaging 12.8 yards a pop. Whether true or not, I always felt Upchurch was overshadowed by Billy "White Shoes" Johnson. He certainly didn't have as great a nickname. Incidentally, both players rank in the top ten all-time in punt return yards and touchdowns, while neither is in the top ten in number of punt returns.

The fact I developed an interest in the Broncos in 1977 probably points more to my frustration with the Giants than to some early interest in Cinderella stories. I had become a fan while Big Blue were in the midst of an 18-year drought of not making the playoffs. They had gone 3-11 in 1976, didn't show many signs of impending improvement, and frankly, I was spoiled by the Yankees' recent success.

As had become tradition, our family visited my Uncle Joe and Aunt Kay on New Year's Day of 1978. Uncle Joe and Aunt Kay weren't really my aunt and uncle, but they were basically my dad's family, since he didn't have much of a real family. His father had abandoned he and his mother when he was just a little boy, and my grandmother wasn't really up for the role of raising him on her own, so Dad ended up being passed around from family to family during his childhood. As a result, I had three grandmothers, with the longest surviving being my dad's godmother, with whom he lived for six of his childhood years.

Uncle Joe was about 10 years older than my father, and he had taken him under his wing during his young adult years. Dad worked at Uncle Joe's service station and rented an apartment in Joe and Kay's house for some time. Needless to say, Joe was like the older brother my father—who was an only child—never had, so the fact my sister and I called him Uncle Joe was for much greater reason than because he didn't want to be referred to as Mister.

On New Year's Day 1978, the Broncos defeated the defending Super Bowl Champion Oakland Raiders in the AFC Championship, while the Dallas Cowboys earned the trip to their fourth Super Bowl by dominating the Minnesota Vikings in the NFC title game. The year before, Uncle Joe and I had begun a practice of betting a quarter on the Super Bowl. Of course, he let me pick my team, and I usually did so with my heart and not my head.

I chose correctly for Super Bowl XI, picking Oakland over Minnesota, but this year I was picking the overwhelming underdog. I had faith, however. After all, I was 10 years old.

As you probably know, Dallas defeated Denver rather handily, 27-10. But, I wasn't convinced the superior team had won. So, when I mailed Uncle Joe the quarter I owed him, accompanying it was a note outlining all the "what-ifs" that, had they happened differently, would have resulted in a completely different outcome.

Uncle Joe sent the quarter back, with his own note explaining why he couldn't accept my "tear-stained quarter." I was upset, of course, because I had lost the bet fair and square. I may have been making excuses for why my team had lost, but in no way was I trying to renege on the wager.

Uncle Joe died several years ago. Sitting in the funeral home, waiting for my turn to pay my last respects, an idea popped into my head. I reached into my pocket and found not just any coin, but a 1977 quarter. That tear-stained quarter will spend eternity in the breast pocket of the suit Uncle Joe was laid to rest in.

Best of 2012 Playlist

I've been putting together a year-end compilation ever since I started my annual best albums list in 1996. For the first four years it was a cassette, of course, which requires a lot more effort than creating a playlist in iTunes, inserting a disc, and clicking File > Burn Playlist to Disc. Then, I skipped 2000 completely, for no better reason than the dilemma created by Richard Buckner's The Hill. It was one 34-minute track and I didn't know of any software for editing it down at the time.

From 2001 on, I've been using the CD format, which has the added advantage of allowing me to create my own "cover art," which usually consists of a photo of me drinking a beer. It's been suggested in recent years that CD is an outdated format, a fact I'm not going to try to deny. In fact, I'm generally the type who tries to stay current with technology, but there are still things I try to cling to, mostly for nostalgic reasons, but sometimes because I'm frugal.

I don't really feel this way about mixed CDs, though. The mix tape is really the format that inspires a feeling of nostalgia in me. But, when that no longer was a viable alternative, the CD mix became its logical extension.

Now the question is who really listens to CDs anymore? I'd be willing to guess most of the friends I've burned CDs for in recent years just rip them to mp3. I'm sure some of us have a stash of CDs in our cars, particularly those who have cars without mp3 capability. KJ and I have a 2010 Toyota Highlander with an mp3 player jack, but we still prefer to have a rotating selection of prior years' compilations on the 6-CD system, in addition to the children's music, of course.

But, I already admitted I have a tendency towards clinging to outdated ideals. Am I alone? Probably not, but I'm prepared to render that question a moot point, as far as the aforementioned dilemma is concerned.

I've only handed out three 2012 CD compilations so far this year, and I didn't give out that many more last year. By comparison, my list used to be in the 20-25 range. Part of this has to do with logistics. I stopped mailing them a couple years ago, mainly due to time constraints. But, I suppose it could also be attributed to laziness. Or maybe that's just me being hard on myself. Either way, now I only give them to people as I see them. That is, when I remember.

What this is all leading up to is saying I've produced a Best of 2012 Spotify playlist. Most people are using Spotify it seems, at least the free version on their computers, so I think this makes sense. I'm still going to continue making the CDs, and handing them out at least as sparingly as the last couple of years, but I'll also produce them by request if asked.

But, the playlist format does afford a little more flexibility, allowing me to not have to worry about fitting all my favorites onto a couple 80-minute discs. So, this playlist has three distinct differences from the CD format: the inclusion of the 16-minute "Walk Like a Giant" instead of "Born in Ontario," from Neil Young & Crazy Horse's Psychedelic Pill; and an additional song each from Spiritualized and Of Monsters and Men, in keeping with my old, but sometimes broken-by-necessity, tradition of including two songs from each of my top ten albums.

One potential drawback is not every artist/label has licensed with Spotify, but that doesn't apply to 2012's list. If it does in the future, I'll deal with it then.

Long Lost Brouthers

I've written about this story a couple times here in the past few years, but its origins actually go back about 25 years.

My second summer job during my high school and college years was always umpiring local baseball games. During one of those summers, I was working a Little League All-Star game in a neighboring town to mine, at a field I didn't even know existed.

It just so happens the field was called Brouthers Field, which didn't mean anything to me until I arrived and discovered a monument to 19th-century slugger and Hall of Famer Dan Brouthers (pronounced Brew-thers). Now, I'm quite sure I was only vaguely aware of Brouthers at the time, and I certainly had no idea he was born and raised in the county where I grew up.

But, I was pretty sure my good friend Joe knew of him. This is the same Joe who currently chairs SABR's Overlooked 19th Century Baseball Legends Project. But, Joe wasn't even aware of SABR's existence back then, I don't think. He was just a college kid like me, but one with an unusual interest in, and incredible knowledge of, baseball history.

Joe and I were just becoming really good friends around that time, so I was just becoming acquainted with his encyclopedic knowledge. [Years later, he would point out errors in individual players' counting stats, as displayed in the Baseball Hall of Fame.] We were friends through mutual friends for years, but it was during breaks from college that we discovered our shared obsession with baseball. As our friends would drink $1 Heinekens at happy hour at a place called Bertie's in Poughkeepsie, we would annoy said friends by challenging each other with obscure trivia questions...while drinking $1 Heinekens*, of course. I'd say Joe had about a 55-45 advantage in those days, but I held my own.

*A quarter century or so later, I suppose $3.50 would be about the equivalent price, but I still think paying $1 for a bottle of Heineken is not a good deal.

It was also during these years that our tradition of heading to Cooperstown for Hall of Fame Induction Weekend was born. There was a lot of cheap beer involved in that story as well, but I'm not going to get into it right now.

Anyway, after sharing my discovery of the Brouthers monument with Joe, I learned he didn't know of it either. So, of course, we headed together to Brouthers Field.

Brouthers Field [c. 1987]

Even if Dan Brouthers was hardly Babe Ruth (although by 19th century standards, you'd have to give that distinction to either him or Roger Connor), it was still pretty amazing that a monument to a Hall of Fame player existed less than 10 miles from where we grew up, and we might not have known about it if not for one random umpiring assignment.

Fast forward to the summer of 2009. KJ and I had been dating less than a year at that point, and on a weekend visit to my hometown, we decided I should take her to see the monument. But first, we swung by the cemetery where Brouthers is buried to view his gravestone.

I know what you're thinking. How romantic. Either that or it's amazing this woman actually agreed to marry me. But, she was just as interested in this little adventure to pay tribute to one of two no-doubt Hall of Famers—Eddie Collins is the other—who grew up close to where I did.

We found Brouthers' final resting place at St. Mary's Cemetery in Wappingers Falls, but the monument and the field were gone. Its whereabouts became a mystery that wasn't fully solved until this past weekend.

Brouthers Field [June 2009]

We later learned, thanks to Hudson Valley magazine, the statue had been restored and relocated, but the follow-up to that article was rather vague as to its exact location. During a previous visit, my dad, KJ, Little Chuck (he wasn't much help) and I went looking for it, unsuccessfully.

The aforementioned article referred to it being located on Main Street in the Village of Wappingers Falls, "just a stone's throw" from the cemetery where Brouthers is buried, but that's all. The photo in the magazine showed it near a tannish cinder block building with a central air conditioning unit nearby. Obviously a business, not a residence. Which, of course, makes sense, although if I was asked to allow a statue of a Hall of Famer to be located on my property, I'd say yes in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, though, most of the buildings near the cemetery are houses, and none came close to fitting that description.

This past weekend, we expanded our search, and discovered the statue located in a pretty obvious place: in front of a bike shop about a half mile from the cemetery. Seriously, though, it was in a fairly obvious part of town that we hadn't looked for no other reason than we were fixated on locations closer to St. Mary's.

Let's just say even Tim Keefe couldn't throw a stone that far.

Dan Brouthers monument [Feb. 2013]

Paul O'Neill's Final Game at Yankee Stadium

Every time a significant player participates in his final home game, I'm reminded of what was perhaps the greatest impromptu send-off by the home team's fans ever, which happened to occur 11 years ago today:

Whether you're a Paul O'Neill fan or not (and I know he has his detractors), you really can't argue that was a special moment.

Figgy, Thiggy, Michael Jack and Rags

Back in July, I wrote about the one no-hitter and two near perfect games I've seen in person and offered my opinion as to why being there for a no-hitter is much better than witnessing a milestone.

I suppose it's possible I'd think otherwise if I'd been in Atlanta for Hank Aaron's 715th home run—I'm not one of those folks who claims Barry Bonds is not the all-time home run leader, I just think Aaron's moment seemed more special—or Pete Rose's 4192nd hit (even though, in hindsight, he had broken Ty Cobb's hits record with his 4190th hit).

But, that's a moot point, so I can't possibly know for sure what it felt like to be there for those moments. But, I do know how it felt to be present for these, my personal top five baseball milestones/moments:

5. September 30, 1978: Ed Figueroa becomes the first (and only) Puerto Rican born pitcher to win 20 games in a season.

I've always thought adding this to a list of milestones is a bit of a stretch, that it only qualifies because I don't have anything better to replace it. But, thinking about it further, Figueroa is the only player from his native land to ever win 20 games in a season. And, it's not like he's from Sweden either. Puerto Rico has produced the fifth highest total of major leaguers, behind only the United States, the Dominican Republic, Venezuela and Canada. On the other hand, it's never really been much of a pitcher factory, as Javier Vazquez is the country's all-time wins leader.

Figueroa is tied for fifth with Juan Guzman on that list, trailing Juan Pizarro, Jaime Navarro and Joel Pineiro, in addition to Vazquez.

I was pretty young at the time, so all I really remember is we sat on the lower level, just beyond first base, and I was aware of the history—insignificant or otherwise—I was witnessing, unlike a couple of the moments that follow. Oh, and I missed CCD to go to the game, and my classmates were envious...even while they were being taught not to be. 



4. September 15, 1990: Bobby Thigpen becomes the first pitcher to save 50 games in a season.

My buddy Joe and I road-tripped to Chicago to see old Comiskey Park in its final season. Joe drove from Hartford to Syracuse to pick me up, and the next morning I drove almost the entire distance from Syracuse to Dubuque, Iowa. You see, this adventure included a little side trip to the Field of Dreams, during which Joe and I had a catch in the outfield, then wrote our names on the baseball and chucked it into the cornfield.

We also got robbed in Chicago when we naively handed a $20 bill to some street kid we thought was a parking attendant. When he literally ran to get us change, we knew we'd been had.

The interesting thing about this milestone is we knew Thigpen had 49 saves and had already broken Dave Righetti's all-time record (for what that's worth) going into the game. But, we weren't fully aware of one of the three rules of save eligibility: the one that awards a reliever a save for pitching one inning with a lead of three runs or less. I was under the impression, at the time, that the rule which requires the tying run to be in the on-deck circle applied to such a situation—meaning the lead would have to be one or two runs—but I was wrong. My recollection is Joe had it wrong too, but I really can't speak for him 22 years after the fact.

3. May 28, 1989: Mike Schmidt's final game

Two of my college pals and I embarked on a cross-country trip immediately following graduation. In hindsight, I'm disappointed to say we only hit two ballparks on that 3 1/2-week long trip: Wrigley Field, on our way out west, and Candlestick Park. We were going to hit Anaheim as well, but we never made it, although I can't remember why.

My friends were both Phillies fans, so it worked out well that we got to see them play the Giants in San Francisco.

Mike Schmidt was closing in on his 40th birthday and struggling, especially by his Hall of Fame standards, as his batting average barely hovered above .200 and he wasn't making up for it with his usual power (6 HR in 41 games).

Schmidt had a rough game that day (0-for-3 with an error in the field, his 8th on the season), but honestly my most lasting memory was of how cold Candlestick was. We had just come from seeing a game in Chicago, of course, but I was convinced they should call San Francisco the windy city.

The next day, we were watching ESPN in our motel room, which is how we learned Schmidt made the decision to hang it up after the game. No farewell tour, no final goodbye to the hometown fans. This was it. He'd played his final game, and we learned after the fact we were there to witness it.



2. April 18, 1987: Mike Schmidt's 500th homer

I went to college at Penn State. There used to be a time when people asked me if the school was in Philadelphia, but as a result of recent events, everybody pretty much now knows that it's in the middle of nowhere. The exact geographic center of Pennsylvania, in fact: 2 1/2 hours from Pittsburgh and almost four hours from the city of brotherly love.

I'm going to stereotype a bit here, but the folks I met from "the city of brotherly love" didn't generally treat their western Pennsylvania brethren like siblings. There was definitely a rivalry between natives of the state's two largest cities and I have to say folks from Philly I knew were generally more insulting and, therefore, annoying about it. I'm sure that statement won't be controversial among baseball fans who've interacted with fans from both cities.

But, I digress. The point here is I had friends who were Pirates fans and friends who were Phillies fans. So, it made sense that when we planned to road trip to a game, it was to a Phillies-Pirates game. This particular time it was my first visit to Three Rivers Stadium.

Schmidt began 1997 at 495 home runs, five short of the milestone, so when we purchased the tickets, we knew there was a chance we could witness his 500th. But, the game was the Phillies' 11th of the season, so it seemed unlikely he'd get off to that fast a start.

He hit his first and second homers of the year on April 10 and 11, in games three and four, providing us a glimmer of hope. But, he hit just one in the next six games and was sitting at 498 with just the Friday night game to play before our Saturday trip to the park.

Of course you know what's coming. It's not like there's any way I could build any suspense around this story. We woke up from our drunken haze on Saturday morning to learn Schmidt had belted #499 the night before. So, there was definitely some excitement in the air that afternoon, and as you know, Michael Jack delivered:



1. July 4, 1983: Dave Righetti's no-hitter

[The following is excerpted from the post I wrote back in July, which essentially inspired this one.]

Early summer after my high school sophomore year, my best friend and next door neighbor's dad offered to take us on the 1 1/2 hour trip from our Dutchess County, New York neighborhood to the South Bronx. My dad was also invited, but he declined, so it was just the three of us.

We had pretty mediocre seats down the left field line, but it didn't matter, of course. We were at Yankee Stadium, and pretty soon the excitement of just being there was surpassed by the suspense of a chance for what certainly seemed like, and probably was, a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

I don't remember if we talked about the fact a potential no-hitter was in progress. I suspect we did, as we were two teenage boys and an adult who wasn't quite fanatical enough to buy into the superstition that we could actually jinx the thing.

What I do remember is that the buildup to the game's ultimate moment was just as suspenseful and exciting as game seven of just about any World Series I've seen, and that the final out—Dave Righetti's second strikeout of Wade Boggs on the day—was surreal.



Looking back at the box score, I realized Righetti walked Jim Rice twice in three at bats. Looking further, I also noticed Tony Armas didn't provide much protection for Rice in the order. On the day, he struck out and grounded into a double play in three at bats. More importantly, he was in the midst of a frustrating first season in Boston, in which he would hit 36 homers and drive in 107 runs, but with a .218 batting average and a paltry .254 OBP.

Upon returning home, I wondered if my dad realized what he'd missed. He hadn't watched the game on television so he didn't know, but honestly didn't seem as disappointed as I expected. You see, dad grew up only a subway ride away from Yankee Stadium and, in fact, had previously witnessed one of Allie Reynolds's two no-hitters in pinstripes.

Good Night, Captain

I returned home from school camp? (see comments below) on the afternoon of August 2, 1979 and immediately did what I would do every weekday at that time. I headed down the street to hang out with my friends. At this time of year, that would usually involve a two-on-two game of baseball—or maybe I should call it tennis ball—in the street.

On this particular day, I showed up at the home of my friend Victor, who broke the news to me Thurman Munson had just died in a plane crash. At first, I didn't believe him, for a couple of reasons. For one, he was not a Yankees fan, and secondly, this was the type of joke that was not beneath him to tell. I may have been considered an easy target as well, I'll admit.

I went inside his house to ask his mother and turn on the television. Both sources confirmed the devastating news. This was far from the saddest news I'd ever heard—both my grandmothers died when I was nine—but, as a 12-year old not wanting to cry in front of my friend, I struggled to hold back tears.

Just prior to the 1976 season, Munson was named the first captain of the Yankees since Lou Gehrig retired in 1939. As much as Derek Jeter currently embodies the qualities that make him stand out as one who is truly worthy of the honor, so did Munson. In fact, although a few of my favorite players—Graig Nettles, Willie Randolph, Ron Guidry—also held that role, in my opinion there are only four men in history worthy of the Yankee captaincy: Gehrig, Munson, Jeter and Don Mattingly.

In considering the previous statement, I asked my dad who would have been the most likely candidate to hold such a post between the Gehrig and Munson years. His feeling was either Yogi Berra or Phil Rizzuto would have been the top choices, but neither seemed to possess quite the leadership ability as the aforementioned four.

Until Darryl Kile died of a coronary blockage during the 2002 season, Munson remained the last active player to lose his life during the regular season, so the moving tributes paid to him in the games that followed still stand as indelible memories to me.

On August 3, in the first game following his death, the Yankees starters took the field to begin the game. All of them, except catcher Jerry Narron, that is. Following a prayer, a moment of silence, and Robert Merrill's rendition of "America the Beautiful," the Yankee Stadium crowd burst into a ten-minute standing ovation. Narron remained in the dugout for the entire time, as television cameras focused on his teammates' reactions, and his empty position—or, should I say, the spot vacated by Munson—behind home plate.

Three days later, the entire team attended Munson's funeral in Canton, Ohio, then flew back to New York to play in that night's game. Bobby Murcer, after delivering a eulogy that afternoon, drove in all five runs—including a three-run homer and walk-off two-run single in the 9th—in a 5-4 Yankees victory.

Coming off back-to-back World Series victories, the Yankees' 1979 performance had come back down to earth even prior to Munson's death, although at 58-48 (.547), the season was hardly a lost cause. It may be coincidence the team would have to wait until 1996—Jeter’s rookie season—to climb back atop the baseball world. But, then again, it might not be.

Regardless, 33 years later, Thurman is still deeply missed.

No-Hitters Are Better

No-Hitters Are Better Bumper Stickers Should Be Issued.

The opening and closing quotes here are paraphrased lyrics from two different songs. Let's see if anyone can name both songs and the artist(s) who played them. I'm guessing I know the most likely person to answer correctly and he happens to be mentioned frequently in this post.

I've always had a fascination with no-hitters. It's probably not all that unusual a fascination, to be honest. But, for as long as I can remember, my personal rule when at a ballgame I'm not personally invested in is to root for both pitchers until they give up their first hit. Because, honestly, there's nothing more exciting than witnessing a no-hitter in person.

I was in Pittsburgh for Mike Schmidt's 500th home run in 1987. No doubt it was a fantastic milestone to witness, and it's a mark that has only been reached by 25 players, but it wasn't entirely unexpected. My college buddies and I had tickets, and he happened to hit his 499th the day before, so we knew there was a decent chance (a little better than one-in-five maybe).

In contrast, 275 no-hitters have been pitched since 1875, making the feat 10 times more common. But, it's still a much more unexpected occurrence, considering over 200,000 games have been played in that time span.

Milestones can be chased, as my pal Joe and I did when we traveled to Oakland for the first four games of the 1991 season, with Rickey Henderson two stolen bases away from tying Lou Brock's career record. Henderson stole one base and got thrown out twice in the the first two games of the series, then missed the final two because of injury.

But, although our attempt to witness history failed, the point I'm trying to make is that no-hitters are always a surprise and, therefore, are the ultimate ballpark experience.

So, this post will be dedicated to my experience with no-hitters and near misses I've been lucky and/or unlucky enough to say I was there for.

July 4, 1983 (Red Sox @ Yankees)
Early summer after my high school sophomore year, my best friend and next door neighbor's dad offered to take us on the 1 1/2 hour trip from our Dutchess County, New York neighborhood to the South Bronx. My dad was also invited, but he declined, so it was just the three of us.

We had pretty mediocre seats down the left field line, but it didn't matter, of course. We were at Yankee Stadium, and pretty soon the excitement of just being there was surpassed by the suspense of a chance for what certainly seemed like, and probably was, a once-in-a-lifetime experience.

I don't remember if we talked about the fact a potential no-hitter was in progress. I suspect we did, as we were two teenage boys and an adult who wasn't quite fanatical enough to buy into the superstition that we could actually jinx the thing.

What I do remember is that the buildup to the game's ultimate moment was just as suspenseful and exciting as game seven of just about any World Series I've seen, and that the final out—Dave Righetti's second strikeout of Wade Boggs on the day—was surreal.

Looking back at the box score, I realized that, as a gentleman named Dave LaPointe pointed out to me on Twitter, Righetti walked Jim Rice twice in three at bats. Looking further, I also noticed Tony Armas didn't provide much protection for Rice in the order. On the day, he struck out and grounded into a double play in three at bats. More importantly, he was in the midst of a frustrating first season in Boston, in which he would hit 36 homers and drive in 107 runs, but with a .218 batting average and a paltry .254 OBP.

Upon returning home, I wondered if my dad realized what he had missed. He hadn't watched the game on television so he didn't know, but he honestly didn't seem as disappointed as I expected. You see, dad grew up only a subway ride away from Yankee Stadium and, in fact, had previously witnessed one of Allie Reynolds's two no-hitters in pinstripes.

Of course, in my own experience, seeing one no-hitter only whet my appetite for more. As you've probably guessed, there would be opportunities, and close calls, involving potentially bigger moments. So, read on, if you're so inclined.

September 2, 2001 (Yankees @ Red Sox)
This game just so happened to be Lee Mazzola's first visit to Fenway. I recall we paid a pretty hefty price to sit in the bleachers, somewhere in the neighborhood of $90 from one of the only online ticket brokers I was aware existed at the time.

Lee hopped a bus from New York City early Sunday afternoon for the 8pm game and returned home in the wee hours of the morning, albeit a little less coherent than he arrived. He also forgot his glasses, which would turn out to be somewhat important.

The game would prove to be quite the pitchers duel between Boston's David Cone and New York's Mike Mussina, although obviously one of them would gain a slight upper hand.

The Yankees got their first hit in the second inning, but it was the only one Cone would allow until the sixth. Mussina, however, was dominating, striking out five of the first six batters he faced and nine through five innings of a scoreless tie.

Three more innings of goose eggs put up by both pitchers would leave their pitching lines looking like this going into the ninth:

Mussina: 8 IP, 0 H, 0 BB, 12 SO, 0 R
Cone: 8 IP, 4 H, 3 BB, 8 SO, 0 R

It was right about this time that Lee turned to me and said (about Mussina), "Has he given up any walks?"

I just continued looking straight ahead while shaking my head no. Yes, Mussina had a perfect game through eight.

I could swear Lee had earlier suggested the Yankees needed to get Mussina out of there, as they really needed to win this game. But, that really doesn't make much sense. The Yankees were eight games ahead of the Red Sox in the standings with only about 25 to go. So, either Lee was completely out of his mind, or it's possible I've misremembered.

Of course, Mussina's bid at the 17th perfect game in major league history was spoiled by Carl Everett on a 1-2 pitch with two outs in the ninth. To this day, Lee is convinced I think he jinxed Mussina's perfecto.

To that I say: "Lee, I forgive you."

May 5, 2007 (Mariners @ Yankees)
Lee and I would get another shot, however. This time, I traveled to visit him in the city, as I did at least once a year for ten years until I had to go and get my wife pregnant and ruin the streak last year.

This time, Lee was prepared. For one, he didn't forget his prescription eyewear—he may have been wearing contacts, so you see how I covered all (both) my bases there?—and he was prepared to act in a superstitious way.

Chien-Ming Wang was on the mound for the Yankees. 2007 was the second of his two very good seasons in pinstripes, but I still felt his lack of swing-and-miss stuff made him a less-than-likely candidate to throw a no-hitter. However, I think perfect games are a different story.

My theory, completely not backed by any sort of data, is that strikeout pitchers are more likely than their craftier counterparts to throw a no-hitter. There's obviously some element of luck involved regardless, but the fewer balls put into play, the lower the odds that the luck works against you.

OK, I realize that's not an earth-shattering hypothesis, but the next part is a little more of a reach. I think non-power pitchers are more likely to throw perfect games. Strikeout pitchers work deeper into counts more frequently, and the more deep counts, the greater the chance of a walk.

I know, I know. Balls in play also result in errors, which spoil perfect games. I didn't say my theory was sound scientifically, but again I'll remind you: perfect games require quite a bit of luck too.

Since there have only been 21 perfect games in history, there really isn't a large enough sample of them to confirm or deny my hypothesis, so please don't take me too seriously here.

Anyway, back to game. As it turns out, Wang would, in fact, flirt with a perfect game.

Lee recently accused me of not going to the bathroom during the Mussina near perfect game, but I don't think that was possible given the amount of beer I drank that night. I honestly think it was this particular occasion he was remembering. I refused to leave my seat from the moment it became appropriate to commence such ridiculous superstitions—I don't really have an answer as to when that is—through to the eighth inning when Ben Broussard spoiled Wang's bid for perfection with a one-out solo (duh!) homer.

7 1/3 perfect innings is a pretty incredible outing, but when you've experienced the heartbreak of being one out away from witnessing the sport's most incredible single-game feat, it pales in comparison.

One no-hitter and two near perfect games is probably my fair share for a lifetime, but...

I may see another, you never do know, because I've still got a long way to go.

Eephusing Around

Last week in an email promoting the MLB Predictions Pool my pal and I run on an annual basis, said friend called me the most knowledgeable baseball person he knows. I scoffed internally at the suggestion, although I was also kind of flattered. Honestly, I used to be one of the most knowledgeable baseball people I know, until I started networking with all the amazing baseball bloggers out there.

But, I still contend I know a lot about baseball, and I do probably have a certain niche in that my knowledge of the game comes from many different angles.

Math was always my best subject in school, so I've always been a stats guy. In fact, at an early age, much of my education in arithmetic came from memorizing the batting averages associated with different hits-per-AB combinations, to the point my grandfather used to have me show off my mathematical skills at family gatherings. But, I won't go into that.

I also developed a fascination for baseball strategy at an early age—probably from Strat-O-Matic—which explains why I preferred baseball video games where I managed, rather than controlled, the players. I also used to try to tell my dad how to run my youth baseball teams that he managed, but I won't elaborate on that subject either.

However, the umpiring experience is probably what makes my baseball knowledge somewhat unique. I attended Brinkman/Froemming Umpire School in 1994—eventually I'll write about a few of my experiences here—and, although my professional umpiring aspirations never got off the ground, I did work a few college games. I honestly haven't umpired in years, other than a little slow-pitch softball, but my interest in and knowledge of the rules, and my understanding of what umpires have to do to survive, still remain.

Of course, I was a pretty good ballplayer as well. I'm sure there are plenty of bloggers who were better players than I, but from the looks of some of them—not you, of course—there are quite a few who never played competitively at all.

But, that's neither here nor there. My point of all of this is to admit that, despite a knowledge of the game that exists on so many levels, I know very little about pitching. And, since I now have a son, I may be called on to teach him a little about a craft I have virtually no experience with.

Which brings me to the title of this post, a subject which was the catalyst for the only starting pitching appearance in my entire career playing organized ball, which adds up to somewhere in the neighborhood of 25 years, including softball.

The main weakness of my game was I didn't have a very strong throwing arm. I suppose that explains why I played regularly at positions like left field, second base and first base, although I did spend one season as a starting center fielder.

Not too many Little Leaguers had good "stuff." In fact, when a 12-year old threw a curve ball, the thinking was he was eventually going to ruin his arm. I'm not really sure if that was a bit over-reactionary, but I'm sure there's information out there that warns when it's developmentally unsafe for a kid to throw a breaking pitch.

But, my point is there were two basic skills that determined a Little Leaguer's viability to be a pitcher. #1, of course, was how fast he could throw. #2 was whether or not he could throw strikes. #2 could be worked at, but #1 was based solely on god-given ability, and my arm was sorely lacking in that respect. (I suppose I just as easily could have written this paragraph in present, rather than past, tense.)

So, a pitcher I wasn't. Which was fine with me, because I was good with a glove (at multiple positions) and at the plate, except in the power department. (Now that I've already knocked two of the five "tools" off my resume, you probably don't believe when I say I was good, but I swear I possessed the other three.)

Despite not being a pitcher, I occasionally threw batting practice, because my control was solid. One day—I guess I was goofing around a bit—I tried to throw a blooper, or Eephus pitch, during batting practice.

I'm surprised I didn't get told to quit horsing around, especially considering dad was a coach. But, somehow I was allowed to throw it enough to discover I could throw it for strikes, and it was a pain-in-the-neck to hit.

My team had finished in first place the previous year, but due to losing most of our star players to the next level of competition, we fell back to a .500 team. A matchup with the current first-place team was upcoming, and somehow our manager and my dad hatched a plan to use me as our secret weapon.

I would start on the mound for our next game versus the league's powerhouse and hopefully last two or three innings—just enough to throw their timing off—before giving way to our ace, a much harder-thrower, of course.

The plan was pretty much a failure. I gave up three runs, including a homer, in the first and was yanked after yielding a solo shot to lead off the second. I don't remember exactly (because I was 11 years old), but my pitching line went something like this:

1 IP, 4 H, 2 BB, 0 SO, 2 HR, 4 ER

Of course, if you do the math (6 base runners plus 3 outs), this means I gave up a home run to the 9th place hitter, and I really don't think that was the case. So, maybe I'm not remembering that 4 ER in 1+ IP result as well as I thought.

But, I digress. I do recall the pivotal moment in that first inning was when I threw the blooper—as I called it long before the word Eephus meant anything to me—to my friend from down the street on a 3-2 count. The pitch dropped nicely into the top of the strike zone, in my opinion, but the umpire called it ball four.

In our post-game discussion, my father and I lamented that the umpires just didn't know how to call the zone on such a pitch. Given my own subsequent umpiring experience, I can honestly say this could be true. When I was used to calling a baseball strike zone, if I was thrust into duty to call a slow-pitch softball game, I had a difficult time with the arc of the pitches.

If only the umpire had called that pitch a strike. That first inning might have been less devastating, I might have been able to dispatch the bottom of the order in the second and even make it through the third.

Who knows? Maybe the experiment would have continued to future games. Maybe I would have continued to work on mastering the pitch and become a mainstay in our team's rotation through my final year in Little League.

But, most importantly, I would have recorded the one and only strikeout of my pitching career, if you want to call it that. Because honestly, that's really the only difference it would have made. The experiment was just a futile attempt at thwarting a superior team. My Eephus pitch was ineffective without a real fastball to offset it, and I would never throw it in a game again, despite two subsequent mop-up appearances (one of which resulted in a 1-2-3 inning).

This post was at least partly inspired by a piece written earlier this week by the always excellent William Tasker (aka The Flagrant Fan) for the Yankees blog It's About the Money, Stupid.

New Multitudes @ Paradise Rock Club

I grew up in a neighborhood across a huge apple orchard from the street where Anders Parker was raised. There was a pond on that orchard where pickup games of hockey were played in the winter. Hockey wasn't my sport—I could never really skate very well—but I heard Anders was a pretty good goalie. He was of Swedish descent, after all. Many years later, Anders was one of a rotating cast of drummers who played in bands fronted by one of my best high school friends.

Said high school friend has gone on to earn relative fame in our hometown due to an SEC scandal, while Anders has enjoyed a modestly successful career as an Americana singer-songwriter.

I have several friends who get considerable credit for nudging my music-listening habits away from the mainstream, but if I had to name one pivotal moment it would be the time (circa 1994) Anders gave a cassette tape of Uncle Tupelo's No Depression to me and Skip, my roommate at the time. I listened to that tape over and over again driving a rental car around South Bend, Indiana while on a business trip, and the music perfectly fit the setting and the mood I was in at the time. Uncle Tupelo (and its spawn, Son Volt and Wilco) and The Jayhawks were the bands that kicked off my love affair with alt-country in the mid-to-late '90s, which in turn influenced me to branch out to other independent music as well.

I've seen Anders play live dozens of times over the years. I've even seen him (with and without his former band, Varnaline) open for and play with Uncle Tupelo co-founder and Son Volt front-man Jay Farrar a number of times. There was also a nice little impromptu performance at my wedding. But, there was something about Friday night's show at Boston's Paradise Rock Club that really felt as though Anders' career has reached a level it had previously never seen.

Touring with Farrar, Jim James (My Morning Jacket) and Will Johnson (Centro-Matic) in support of New Multitudes, an album of lost lyrics from the Woody Guthrie archives these four accomplished songwriters added music to, they performed a two-hour set in front of a sold out and extremely enthusiastic crowd.

James (or Yim Yames as he is credited on the album) was clearly the crowd's favorite—as My Morning Jacket appears to have crossed over to modest mainstream success—with Farrar a close second. But, the lesser-known and criminally under-rated (a term I usually reserve for baseball Hall of Fame discussions) Parker and Johnson were also well-received.

If you happened to stumble into this show without any prior knowledge of its theme, you would have been hard-pressed to identify that the songs were derived from Guthrie's work, except for the actual Guthrie tunes that played as the performers entered and exited the stage. This, of course, is meant as a compliment to all parties involved, including Woody himself. That his lyrics and his visions are so timeless is a testament to the endurance of his life's work.

Or, in the words of this professional reviewer, "this band kicked ass." (Also, be sure to check out that link for some great photos of the show, because all of mine suck.)

The band made the interesting decision to run through the album's 12 songs in the exact order in which they appear on record. In other instances, I might be a bit critical of this idea, but it got me to thinking. If that's the sequence the artists feel works on record, why wouldn't the same order work just as well live? Besides, if a band only has one album, they're probably going to play most, if not all, of it anyway.

Still, the lack of any suspense can potentially make a performance a little less interesting for the audience. But, this was more than made up for by the band's second set, which was technically a nine-song encore.

For the first four songs, each songwriter played one solo acoustic number, including Farrar's rendition of my favorite Uncle Tupelo song, "Still Be Around." The next round of four consisted of full-band versions of one of each artist's originals, with the highlight being Parker's "Tell it to the Dust."

The show concluded with a legitimate (well, sort of) cover of a Guthrie original, "Pastures of Plenty," which basically turned into a feedback-inducing 15-minute wank-fest.

All in all, it was a tremendous show in support of one of my favorite albums of this young year. Which reminds me, I'm long overdue for the first Frequent Spins of 2012.

I Learned About Sabermetrics Playing Strat-O-Matic

I began playing Strat-O-Matic in the late '70s. My next-door neighbor and I started with the football board, dice and cards game, but quickly added Strat-O-Matic Baseball to our arsenal. We even dabbled with Strat-O-Matic Basketball a bit, but it didn't take long to realize it was a little boring.

Strat-O-Matic Football was fun, but baseball was definitely where it was at. Not because it involved a great deal of strategy—other than setting lineups and making pitching changes, it's mostly about the luck of the dice—but because baseball is, and has always been, about statistics.

The statistics some of emphasize have changed over the years, but they've always been a huge part of any serious fan's enjoyment of the game. Obviously, the kind of kid who got into a game like Strat-O-Matic was also the type who didn't mind digging into the numbers in an attempt to determine who was worthy of playing time and who wasn't.

It didn't take long for us to start figuring out the probabilities of each roll of the dice. It's pretty simple math, really. By determining, when rolling two dice, there are six possible ways to roll a seven, five ways to roll a six and eight, four for a five and nine, etc., we were able to determine the percentage chances of each outcome.

Eventually, my standard practice became to write each batter's total hit chances, on-base chances and home run chances versus both right-handed and left-handed pitchers directly on the card. Of course, I similarly evaluated each pitcher against each type of batter. I did this all in pencil, of course, which seemed like a good idea in theory. But, as you can probably imagine, eventually those numbers gave way to smudge marks.

Still, writing those numbers on the cards, and realizing a player with 54 on-base chances has only a 50% chance of making an out if the roll refers to his card* influenced me to emphasize on-base percentage and power. For some reason, when you're the one rolling the dice for each play, the value of avoiding outs becomes more obvious than usual. And, of course, what's better than a home run? Right, a home run with runners on base.

*When rolling two dice, there are 36 different potential rolls (6 times 6). A third die is also rolled, which determines which of six colums to refer to. 1-3 are on the batter's card, 4-6 on the pitcher's card. Remember how I said there were six possible ways to roll a seven? That would count as six total chances. 36 chances per column times three columns on the player's card equals 108. Now, of course, you see that 54 is exactly half of 108.

So, long before I had ever heard of Bill James, it was Strat-O-Matic Baseball that introduced me to the world of advanced statistics. Sort of. OK, not really advanced statistics, but we all know OBP was essentially the gateway to OPS+, wOBA, WAR and some even more advance sabermetric statistics.

After my initial purchase of the most current set of cards that came with the game, I developed an interest in the old-timers sets. I'm not sure why, except I'm pretty sure it was less jarring to my sensibilities to make what sometimes seemed like unorthodox personnel decisions with players I wasn't all that familiar with.

1956 was one of the first old-timers sets available, and when I bought it I had no idea how interested in some of those older players I would become. OK, well I will admit one of the catalysts for said interest involved a lot of drinking while in college.

I'll explain. One of my college roommates and I played a 162-game series between the '56 Reds and '56 Tigers, which we called the Busch Drinking Series.** Yeah, I know 162 is an even number, so in reality it was a 163-game series, since if it ended in a tie, we would have had to play the extra game. But, we wanted it to be the equivalent of a full season of games, although I'm not really sure why we played 162 instead of 154.

**The Busch Drinking Series, I would be embarrassed to admit if I wasn't in college at the time, was named after the 16 oz. cans of Budweiser's cheaper—but not necessarily inferior—cousin we drank while playing a drinking game which revolved around the "on-field" outcomes.

The defensive manager drank a sip of beer for each total base (one for single, two for double, etc.), walk, HBP, stolen base and run scored by the offensive team. I think he even had to drink when his team committed an error. The offensive manager drank once for each out his team made. Some simple math will tell you a grand slam meant eight sips, or about half of a 16 oz. beer. Needless to say, the drinks added up, especially considering we chose two strong offensive teams with mediocre—at best—pitching, and it was kind of an unwritten rule you never started a player for his defense if it meant sacrificing offense in the process.

What does the drinking series have to do with sabermetrics? Not much, really. But, a couple of those '56 Tigers players—the team I managed to a somewhat dubious 76-86 record—were among the prime examples of hitters who seemed much better to me than I would have otherwise thought.

Earl Torgeson was a .264 hitter with above average power, above average speed, and average defensive skills at first base. Not much to write home about, right? Except for the fact he walked 78 times in exactly 400 plate appearances, for a .406 OBP. Despite the fact he wasn't a base-stealer, he instantly screamed leadoff hitter to me.

Now, I must admit I don't necessarily deserve a lot of credit for looking past his lack of base-stealing ability to make him my leadoff hitter. Harvey Kuenn led the team with a grand total of nine stolen bases. But, Kuenn's .332 batting average better fit the bill—by the standards of those days—despite the fact his .387 OBP was almost 20 points lower, so in real life, he batted primarily at the top of the order.

Torgeson was a platoon player, but when he played, he mostly hit second. Since he had only one sacrifice hit that year, this probably means Detroit had the right idea with the way he was used. He simply was another guy at the top of the order who had the ability to get on base in front of Charlie Maxwell, Al Kaline and Ray Boone. But, I still thought it would make more sense to swap the two in the order, to have the higher OBP guy batting in front of the better run producer (Kuenn out-slugged Torgeson .470 to .425).

Another player on that team whose ability to draw a walk enhanced my desire to over-use him, somewhat unrealistically, was a catcher named Bob "Red" Wilson. Also a platoon player in real life, Wilson got the bulk of his playing time versus left-handed pitching, with Frank House being the other half of the platoon.

Wilson hit .289 with a .393 OBP and a .452 slugging percentage in 1956, and he was equally as good vs. RHP as he was vs. LHP. Of course, the batting average and slugging percentage only hint of a pretty good offensive player, but it was the OBP that made him stand out. So, despite the fact he wasn't quite as good as House defensively, he was an easy choice as my full-time backstop.

I guess the point of this all is to say playing Strat-O-Matic taught me to appreciate players who I might not have otherwise thought very highly of. Sure, I learned "a walk's as good as a hit" back when I was an eight-year old playing organized baseball for the first time. But, somehow those words never rang true. Even at such a young age, I knew, in most cases, a hit was actually better than a walk. As I got a little older, I realized those adults who were saying that really just thought of a walk as a consolation prize for kids who had difficulty reaching base otherwise.

What most of those adults probably never realized was they were making a case for why the ability to draw a walk is such an under-appreciated skill. Of course, when the pitchers are so young, we're probably talking more about their lack of ability than the batter's eye for the strike zone.

But, what I didn't realize was so important until playing Strat-O-Matic taught it to me many years later, is a walk accomplishes two really important things: it puts a runner on base—with the exception of a home run, a runner has to reach base before he can score—and it avoids an out (you only get a finite number of those).

It's a pretty simple concept, really. And, let's not let our judgment be clouded by what we've always thought to be true, the ability to draw a walk at competitive levels is a skill, perhaps even a talent. Dare I say, but maybe—in the discussion of what's often referred to as the five tools of a ballplayer—it's about time the ability to hit for average be replaced by the ability to get on base.

Anyway, what reminded me of this is that I recently signed on to "absentee-manage" the '58 Tigers in Jeff Polman's Mysteryball '58 Strat-O-Matic replay and murder mystery blog. Unfortunately, Torgeson has since been traded to the White Sox, but Wilson, Kuenn, Maxwell, Kaline and Boone—for a couple months, at least—remain. Still, it's a much weaker offensive team than the '56 version, partly because Maxwell is a shell of his former self, Boone's now a platoon first-baseman rather than a third-baseman (and on his way out), and Kuenn's offensive contributions come from center field instead of shortstop.

But, my excitement about this particular project, while it initially had to do with my minor involvement in it, is now more a product of my interest in the tale that Jeff will be telling via new entries to the blog three times a week. Let's just say he had me at "Tough to make out a dead body when it’s covered in peanut shells and Royal Crown Cola," the opening line to the story's first entry, "Unsafe at Home."

Only three posts have been written so far, so there's not much catching up to do if you're a fan of baseball murder mysteries, or if that concept intrigues you as much as it does me. I can almost guarantee you won't be disappointed. Just don't get your hopes up for my Tigers.

Harvey's Wallbangers

Because parenting duties have become my #1 priority of late, I've taken to revising and re-posting some of my old favorites. This one originally ran on September 22, 2009.

In the 1981 World Series, after the Yankees had taken a two-games-to-none lead over the Dodgers, I commented to a fellow eighth-grader that the team's success was beginning to get a little boring. Of course, they had won the 1977 and 1978 World Series, and were poised to win their third in five years. But, they didn't. The Dodgers returned the favor for 1978, winning four straight games after trailing 2-0.

Still, this began a brief period where my interest in baseball in general, and the Yankees in particular, waned a little. The Yankees' lack of success in the '80s may have had something to do with it, but it seems I already had the feeling the team's win-or-else mentality took much of the fun out of being a fan.

In 1982, though, another team captured my attention, led by American League MVP Robin Yount and a utility player-turned-star named Paul Molitor. In his four previous big league seasons, Molitor played 304 games at second base, 53 at shortstop, and 46 in the outfield. Then, for the 1982 season, he was switched to third base, a position at which he had previously appeared in only two major league games.

Long before I developed a fascination for players like Marco Scutaro and Casey Blake, I had always been an admirer of versatile players. Quite possibly it's because of my own experience. In my three years of little league (ages 10-12), I had spent full seasons as a left fielder, first baseman and center fielder, and then became primarily a second baseman at the senior league (13-15) level.

The 1982 Milwaukee Brewers featured three future Hall of Famers—Yount, Molitor, and Rollie Fingers—in key roles, and a fourth—Don Sutton—acquired for the stretch run and the playoffs, as well as a borderline Hall of Famer in catcher Ted Simmons. They were also powered by 30 HR, 100 RBI seasons from Ben Oglivie, Gorman Thomas and Cecil Cooper.

On the mound, they were led by the starting efforts of Yankee killer Mike Caldwell and 18-game winner Pete Vuckovich, while Fingers anchored the bullpen. However, it was their offensive prowess, as evidenced by 216 home runs as a team, that earned them the nickname Harvey's Wallbangers.

Harvey, of course, was manager Harvey Kuenn, who took over the reins of the club after their 23-24 start got Buck Rodgers fired. Kuenn, a .303 lifetime hitter who accumulated over 2,000 hits in his playing career, led the Brewers to a 72-43 record and a first place finish in the AL East. He also previously played for another team—the 1956 Detroit Tigers—that I have a certain fondness for. But, that's a story for a different day.

The Brewers seemed to be a team of destiny in 1982. After falling behind the California Angels two-games-to-none in a best-of-five series, they won three consecutive elimination games to advance to play the St. Louis Cardinals in the first World Series in team history. But, after rallying from a 5-1 deficit to win game four and tie the series, then taking a 3-2 series lead to St. Louis for the final two, their luck ran out.

Not helping matters was the absence of Fingers, who missed the entire postseason due to injury. So, while fellow future Hall of Famer Bruce Sutter was saving game seven for the Cards, Milwaukee's bullpen was being touched up for seven earned runs in 6 1/3 innings in the final two games of the series.

Harvey's Wallbangers fell short of a World Series victory in 1982, and the Brewers didn't return to the postseason until 2008, when C.C. Sabathia carried them there on his overburdened shoulders. But, this particular edition of the team was a truly remarkable group, not to mention they wore one of the greatest caps in baseball history.

I'm a little embarrassed to admit, however, that until about eight years ago, I never realized the baseball glove that was their emblem consisted of an M and a B.

Locust Grove

Because I haven't had much time to write of late, I thought I'd re-run this (slightly revised) post from a couple years ago that I stumbled across recently. It's a short one, but for some reason, it's one of my favorites.

During the summer between my sophomore and junior years in college, I worked a third shift job as a security guard at the Young/Morse Historic Site—otherwise known as Locust Grove—in Poughkeepsie, New York. For about a quarter of the 19th century, the grounds were home to the family of Samuel F.B. Morse, the inventor of the telegraph and, of course, Morse code.

A couple years ago, KJ and I visited Locust Grove and toured the home and its lovely grounds, while also learning a couple things that even I didn't know about Morse. First of all, I'm almost embarrassed to admit I wasn't aware he was a painter long before he became famous as an inventor. Most importantly, though, his motivation to create the telegraph was that his wife died while he was traveling far from home, and by the time he received word by horse messenger and returned, she had already been buried.


After Morse's death, his family remained for a few years, but eventually sold the estate to the wealthy and politically connected Poughkeepsie couple William and Martha Young. The Young family was dedicated to the historical significance of Locust Grove and its preservation as it existed during Morse's lifetime. When their daughter Annette died in 1975, her will established a trust to maintain the estate for the "education, visitation and enlightenment of the public."

Pets were an important part of the Youngs' existence, and Annette's will also provided for the care of any living pets and their descendents. The summer I worked there, 12 years after her death, I worked with a "guard dog" named Linus. I don't know his entire story, but I was told he was willed to the estate. Since he wasn't old enough to have been alive during Annette's lifetime, I always assumed he was the offspring of her dog.

Linus wasn't really a guard dog per se, but I can tell you I was a little nervous to get out of my car the first time he introduced himself to me in the way territorial canines often do. We became fast friends, though, and he turned out to be a welcome companion as I'd make my rounds of the dark estate two or three times per hour. He also served as my personal alarm clock, warning me as the supervisor's car approached, which was important on the nights I needed a few winks to get me through to 8am.

The only time Linus wasn't there for me was the night a pack of coyotes had been seen and heard patrolling the grounds. I'm not exactly sure where he ended up hiding that night, but observing how scared he was caused me to spend most of the night inside my car, rather than at my usual post on the veranda of the Youngs' and Morses' former home.

The Youngs' reverence for their pets is evident at the estate by the fact there are three pet cemeteries on the grounds. Well aware of this from my time spent as a guard there, I knew our visit would give me the chance to pay my respects to one of my all-time favorite dogs.

Scud Mountain Boys @ Brighton Music Hall

In the summer of 1997, my second oldest friend—in terms of how long we've been friends, not his actual age—El-Squared and I drove to Albany—where I had lived until a year prior—to see our first Wilco concert. It was at a now burnt-down venue called Saratoga Winners, where I had previously seen my only Jayhawks show featuring their original lineup, until recently.

Wilco was fantastic, of course, but my lasting image of that show was the impact the opening act—none other than western Massachusetts' Scud Mountain Boys—had on me. Or, on us, for that matter. We both purchased their recent Sub Pop release, Massachusetts, and El-Squared even recalls a brief conversation he had with members of the band in which they told him that, unfortunately, the Scuds were soon to be no more.

From what I've read elsewhere on the internet, the band was broken up by July of 1997. The Saratoga Winners show was in June, so we know we saw one of—if not the—last show(s) in Scud Mountain Boys history. That is, prior to this week.

The band might have gone on to become one of my favorites had they stayed together, but it was not to be. Instead, the show in question turned out to be the catalyst for what has become my long history as a huge fan of all things Joe Pernice.

Pernice was the leader of the Scuds, and it was his departure that was, for all intents and purposes, the end of their existence. He would go on to found the Pernice Brothers, who still hold the distinction as the only act to top my year-end list twice. Because of this, I've often referred to myself as, quite possibly, their #1 fan, but I'm not going to ramble on about my Pernice Brothers reverence right now. If you care to read more on that subject, it's discussed in detail here.

The breakup of the Scud Mountain Boys led to a rift in the friendship between Pernice and his former bandmates, most notably Stephen Desaulniers and Bruce Tull. Recently, though, the death of a close friend was the unfortunate motivation for getting the band back together for a reunion tour.

That tour brought Pernice, Desaulniers, Tull and Tom Shea to Boston's Brighton Music Hall Saturday night for just their second show in 15 years. At one point during the performance, Pernice briefly explained the story, and in the same breath, dedicated the show to the memory of Ray Neades.

Fittingly, El-Squared joined me for Saturday night's show as well. A few days prior, in an email I told him it was going to feel like 15 years ago. That seemed like an exaggeration at the time, but it came pretty close. That is, it was a club show at an uncrowded small venue, which allowed us to stand right up in front of the stage.

Despite my proximity to the stage, I have to admit I didn't get any good photos. I'm not sure if I should blame my camera phone's inability to deal with the combination of dimly lit venue and bright lights onstage, that damn lamp they placed on the table they're all sitting around, or my abilities as a photographer, but this was honestly the best I could do:

L to R: Pernice, Shea, Desaulniers, Tull

OK, I'm quite certain it's a combination of all those factors, but I'm sure I could use some iPhone photography pointers as well.

Speaking of the aforementioned table, the story goes that back in their formative days, the band evolved from a rock outfit to one more inclined towards country music—and added Mountain Boys to their original name, the Scuds—when they realized they most enjoyed their sessions sitting around Tull's kitchen table. In fact, that's exactly where their first two albums, Pine Box and Dance the Night Away, were recorded.

Saturday night's set list drew heavily from their swan song, Massachusetts, but considering they only released three albums during their short-lived existence, they had little difficulty adding a handful of tunes from each of the earlier records.

Highlights for me were a show-opening stretch of four older songs, from "Peter Graves' Anatomy" to "Freight of Fire" on the set list below, Desaulnier's plaintive lead vocal on "Liquor Store," and a predictably rousing version of my favorite Scuds song, Pernice's ode to drunken stupor, "Lift Me Up."

Peter Graves' Anatomy
Sangre de Cristo
Silo
Freight of Fire
Grudge F***
Massachusetts
In a Ditch
Lift Me Up
Oklahoma
Penthouse in the Woods
Knievel
Liquor Store (Desaulniers on lead vocals)
Cigarette Sandwich
Wichita Lineman (Glen Campbell cover, Tull on lead vocals)
One Hand
Encore: Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves (Cher cover)

The biggest highlight of the night, though, was the feeling we were witnessing a reunion of good friends who had—and still have—tremendous musical chemistry, and who could take another 15 years off from playing together and still pick up exactly where they left off.

That, of course, underscored a personally nostalgic feeling that my pal and I were going back in time to experience something that was fairly commonplace 15 years ago, but which was made all the more special by its rarity in the present day.

An Ode to the Record Store

My first favorite record store was Record World in the South Hills Mall in Poughkeepsie, New York. As a young teenager, I also sometimes purchased records at department stores such as Caldor, but Record World definitely had the best combination of price and selection around.

It was at Record World that I'd flip through the discographies of bands like Blue Öyster Cult, Rainbow and Judas Priest, trying to determine which of their older albums were worth taking a chance on.

It was at Record World that I would purchase a mediocre EP by a band called Cintron, after seeing them as an opening act at the Mid-Hudson Civic Center. But, of course, purchasing records that didn't live up to your expectations was all part of the process back in the pre-internet days.

It was also at Record World that I hemmed and hawed over paying $8 for a full-length LP, rather than a more reasonable price of $5 to $7.

Record World is now a pet store, or something like that. It hasn't been in the South Hills Mall for years...actually, decades. In fact, the South Hills Mall has basically been rendered obsolete by the nearby mega-mall, the Poughkeepsie Galleria.

I've moved around a lot since those days, and I've had plenty of new favorite record stores, and eventually those record stores became CD stores, but I've continued to call them record stores.

Even long after I stopped buying new records—I'm not one of those music collectors who's remained a vinyl junkie, although I admire those folks—I still maintained a relationship with old-fashioned record stores.

First, I went through a phase where I scoured countless used record stores—fairly successfully, I might add—in search of every record that Neil Young never released on CD. Then, these stores became my destination for the purchase of albums so that I could frame and hang the covers on my wall. I suspect I own at least a dozen records that have, in fact, never been listened to by my ears.

But, over the years, there's only one record store that I've held in as high esteem as Record World. That destination would be a place called Rock Bottom Records in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I lived in New Hampshire for only one year—from spring of 1996 to spring of 1997—but after moving to Boston, it still remained a frequented destination when I was in the area or just passing through.

Long before music stores came up with the idea of in-store listening stations, Rock Bottom had an area with racks of hundreds of used CDs and a few portable CD players with headphones that patrons could use to preview albums.

I remember vividly in April of 1997 when both Son Volt's Straightaways—their eagerly anticipated followup to Trace—and The Jayhawks' Sound of Lies—their first album of the post-Mark Olson era—came out on the same day. I previewed and purchased both of them at Rock Bottom, and, for some reason, hearing them in the record store for the first time was a goose-bump-inducing moment.

On another occasion, I was going about my business, listening to various used CDs there, when the album playing on the in-house stereo system caught my ear and really grabbed my attention. I asked the store clerk what it was, and he responded with such enthusiasm that it was the solo record by Smashing Pumpkins' guitarist James Iha. Let it Come Down may never have become my favorite guilty pleasure album if not for Rock Bottom Records.

Another night, as I was leaving the store, I was overhearing a discussion between the store clerk and another customer, as he tried to explain who England, Dan & John Ford Coley were. He was trying to identify their most recognizable song, showing a little frustration as he admitted he was drawing a blank. As I opened the door to the street, I turned in his direction and said, "I'd Really Love to See You Tonight." After a several second double-take, he realized I was identifying the song rather than asking him out.

Unfortunately, Rock Bottom Records has been out of business for quite some time. Other than Newbury Comics, a regional chain of stores that remains a model of success in a fading industry, I haven't had a favorite record store since.

And, as that previous sentence reminds me, I really hope this post is more than just an ode to a dying breed.

Tomorrow is the fourth annual Record Store Day, an idea conceived by a few like-minded folks "as a celebration of the unique culture surrounding over 700 independently owned record stores in the USA, and hundreds of similar stores internationally."

If you're out and about tomorrow, make a little side trip to one of the many participating stores. If you're anywhere close to my age, in the very least it will be a chance to flip through a few stacks of albums and reminisce about the days when those wonderful vinyl discs measuring 12 inches in diameter were your musical medium of choice.

Left Field

Left Field is what I consider to be the first position I played regularly in organized baseball. In my first two years, in what was called the minor leagues in LaGrange Youth Baseball, in the little New York town where I grew up, I played a mix of mostly outfield and second base, but there wasn't much consistency. That is, from what I can remember, as I was only 8-9 years old.

But, at the age of 10, I made it to Little League, and I had a pretty good rookie season—batting .346—as the primary left fielder for a Carter Insurance team that won the LaGrange West division crown, but got smoked in the league championship, 13-1. Of course, this was Little League and everyone had to play, so I mostly shared time in left, but probably got about 60% of the playing time. But, that's not my point.

In later Little League years, I was the starting first baseman and then center fielder, and eventually ended up playing second base—due to my lack of size and unimpressive throwing arm—at more competitive levels of baseball, but left field was my first regular position.

That's not the reason this blog is called Left Field. In fact, other than for the reason that it seemed like a cool title for a blog written by a baseball fanatic, whose subject matter is in the neighborhood of 50% baseball, I don't really know why I decided to call it Left Field. What's really curious to me, as I try to remember the reasoning behind the naming of this blog, is that my first use of it was to countdown my top ten albums of 2003.

Anyway, my point is that I've been working on a post to be titled "The All-Left Field Team." It's an all-time team consisting of nothing but left fielders, an interesting twist on this type of post, at least in my humble opinion. Stay tuned for more on what that's all about.