Archive for Real Talk

“I never took a drink to avoid life or to discover what was missing in it. I drank always for pleasure, because it made me feel better and easier. I believe that a batter in a slump might sometimes help himself with a drink or two instead of further torturing himself over what he’s been doing wrong. Many years later, I kept a notebook by my bedside to jot down different thoughts I had on batting. One night I woke up and wrote this: ‘There are three ways to get rid of a slump. One is to drink and change the feeling you are walking around with. Another one is to get involved in some sort of hobby do you can forget for a awhile. The third is just to practice and practice again. In order to get rid of uneasiness, the first two ways should be considered. The last way sometimes deepens the feelings of uneasiness. However, the first two have nothing to do with progress. If the monster called slump requires improvement in technique and skill then there is only the road of practice and practice and practice…'” -Sadaharu Oh

The Red Sox decision to ban drinking in the clubhouse seems both gimmicky — fried chicken and beer not actually being why they lost last year — and also appropriate — most employers don’t let you drink beer at work, right? The argument is that baseball has a long and storied relationship with beer, but that relationship is sorta fun at best and tragic at worst. Joe Maddon says that since fans drink beers at baseball stadiums (I can note from experience that this is a true statement), there’s no reason players shouldn’t be able to unwind with a couple drinks themselves. That certainly seems to make sense. David Ortiz says “if you want to drink, drink at home.” That seems like it makes sense too. Point being: this issue is nowhere near being easily answered or cut and dry, and I haven’t even really figured out where I stand on it.
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Gary Carter was before my time. I wasn’t alive during the height of his years with the Montreal Expos, and was only four years old when he and the New York Mets did the world a favor, winning the 1986 World Series in seven games. By the time I found baseball, Gary Carter was in the twilight of his career. I don’t remember ever watching him play.

With news of Carter’s worsening condition in his difficult journey with cancer, and having read some of his daughter Kimmy Bloemers’ heartbreaking journal entries about her father’s illness, I’m tempted, as a student of baseball history, to read everything I can about Carter, about his time in Montreal, and his time in Queens. I want to listen to Carter’s Hall of Fame speech, dive into SI’s Vault, and even watch the stupendously thrilling — by all accounts — 1986 World Series. And I’m going to do all that. But, before I do, and most of all, I want to hear from those who watched Gary Carter — revered by all, it seems — play baseball not as journalists, but as fans. I want to know how you remember Gary Carter. I want you to tell me, someone who never watched Carter play the game, what it was like to do so.

What do you remember? What does Gary Carter mean to you?

Tell me about “The Kid.”

Image courtesy The Associated Press, via CBS News.

Last week, my world’s collided. Let me explain: I work by day as a producer on a nightly current affairs television program up here in God’s city, Toronto, called The Agenda with Steve Paikin, producing one-on-one interviews on a myriad of topics, and moonlight as a very mediocre sports writer by night. The inimitable host of our program, veteran journalist, great Canadian, and the hardest working man in show business, Steve Paikin, is a huge baseball fan. He’s got a framed painting of Ted Williams in his office. I’m quite certain that if Steve weren’t a Boston Red Sox fan, he’d be perfect. And, so, when veteran Toronto Sun baseball scribe Bob Elliott got the call to Cooperstown, winning the 2012 J.G. Taylor Spink Award, Steve invited him into our studio for an interview. Now, Bob Elliott’s usually on the other end of this equation; he’s the one asking the questions. But when Steve Paikin invites you on The Agenda, you don’t turn him down. So Elliott sat down with Paikin, magic happened, and television was made.

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Wait, I definitely recognize one of them. Maybe that other guy seems vaguely familiar.

Buried in the Minneapolis Star Tribune story titled “Ex-Twins Dickey, Slowey scale Mount Kilimanjaro” is this nugget:

While Mets management tried to discourage Dickey from the arduous pursuit, the Rockies were fine with Slowey going ahead.

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Making an appearance on TV’s Conan on Wednesday, Detroit Tiger SuperAce Justin Verlander announced both to O’Brien and all of America that he will one day die either of congestive heart failure or diabetes — just not in those words.

1. April 29, 1978. Three Rivers Stadium. Pittsburgh Pirates vs. San Francisco Giants. Bottom of the 5th. Pirates: 3; Giants: 0. 1 out. No one on base. Jim Barr pitching. 0.048 WPA. 1 RBI. Pirates win the game, 6-2.

What is not but could be if.
We could be crossing this abridged abyss
into beginning.
-Silver Jews

Mendoza, in the fourth year of his career, hits his first major league dinger. It’s worth noting here that in his four years in the Pirates’ farm system, Mendoza hit 18 homers. But still: three years in the majors have passed and Mendoza hasn’t seen that ball fly over the fences. One has to imagine that he’s been trying. It’s easy to imagine Mendoza, during his youth, Chihuahua, Mexico, swinging for the fences and watching his friends watch his home runs sail over their heads. He was almost certainly the best player on his block. Probably the neighborhood. Maybe the city. I’m not the first person to point out that the worst major league baseball player is still a very good baseball player, but have you really thought about how that must feel? To be the best at something your entire life and then suddenly, at the highest level, to have your name become synonymous with failure?
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Louis demonstrates his lefty-handed circle-change.

Comedy giant Louis C.K. did an AMA thread on reddit, which would be familiar to non-reddit readers as an All Questions Answered thread, more or less.

It might have been as awesome as reddit is a horror to read. It’s like going back in time ten years on the internet, which is like going back in time a hundred years in real life. Something about the format promotes boredom. Or at least, that’s my excuse for almost missing this gem, buried in the thread:

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“That the abyss is bottomless is the bad news. The good news is, it must also be topless!”
-David James Duncan, The Brothers K

I learned to enjoy feeling sorry for myself just after I hit puberty. Whenever my dad would yell at me or one of my friends would do something mean, I’d wail and storm and taste my tears and love every second of it. I remember seeing Claire Danes cry and that, of all things I could possibly envy, was what I aspired to most: to cry that hard, to mean it that much. It got worse as I got a little older and met girls with eating disorders or who took anti-depressants. Illogically, but earnestly, I put them all on tall pedestals. I read books like Girl, Interrupted and Prozac Nation, The Bell Jar and The Virgin Suicides. I tried making myself throw up a few times. I listened to sad songs exclusively, once making a tape for myself to fall asleep to that consisted only of Soul Asylum’s “Runaway Train” over an over again on both sides. (Yikes.) A lot of this weirdness wore off as I grew up. Most importantly, I stopped romanticizing mental illness. But I still love crying, and sad songs, and I think more than a little bit of that self-victimizing sap inside of me has remained. Which explains a lot about why I like baseball so much more than I like any other sports. Baseball is basically a giant stage for failure, disappointment, and sadness. And that’s exactly what makes it so goddamn beautiful.

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When I think about the end of baseball season, I think about the soul-crushing Canadian winter: I know it’s coming, there’s nothing I can do to delay the inevitable, it gets worse every year, and there’s no way I can possibly prepare myself; it is utterly depressing. It’s a long season, no doubt, and now there’s only one game left. Where does the time go?

Below, 27 of my inner-most thoughts on baseball — game six, the World Series, and more — as we prepare to say goodbye …

1. About last night: That was some silly, silly shit. I can’t really describe it any other way. It didn’t make sense. The comedy of errors, on the field and in the dugouts; the home runs and the lead changes; the many final at-bats of Albert Pujols’ Cardinals career; Mike Napoli’s ankle; Nelson Cruz in right field; Matt Holliday’s wrist; God telling Josh Hamilton he was about to hit a home run. I mean, I like to think of God as being a pretty busy cat, but even he was enthralled by last night’s baseball game. And can you blame him? It had it all.

2. I don’t think I can call what I watched last night simply a “baseball game.” That doesn’t do it justice. It was so much more. It was theater. I almost felt underdressed, watching the 10th inning on television at home.

3. I saw a billion similar tweets as the drama unfolded: “If you’re not a fan of baseball after this …” and “If anyone ever tells you baseball is boring …” etc., etc. Look, nothing’s changed: Some people are morons. They think baseball’s boring. They don’t appreciate the game. We don’t need them. To hell with ’em.

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A portrait of the artist as a different, less attractive person.

After a series of rigorous medical-type tests and appointments with important cardiologists, it’s come to my attention that the place where I hate the Cardinals is in my heart.

Please recognize: when I say heart, I’m not using the word metaphorically — like in the Rod Stewart song “Faith of the Heart”, for example, or the other Rod Stewart song “You’re in My Heart”. Stewart doesn’t intend to suggest that the unnamed woman he’s addressing is in his actual heart. She’d have to be only, like, three inches tall, were that the case. And even then, there are so many questions to ask: how did she get in there? can she get out? does she live in a particular ventricle? It’s absurd.

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