This needs to get under the wire before Barack Obama’s arrested. (Not a fan of BO, who’s more narcissistic than Trump, but that load of blather last week led me to step away from the computer and finish the last 50 pages of Alice Chadwick’s intriguing, if too poetic, debut novel Dark Like Under, set in the 1980s Britain, on just one day.)
Earlier, I dodged a potentially nasty confrontation at a CVS, when an older guy cut the line for prescription pick-ups, and, upbraided by five other customers, made a big stink about “white privilege,” which was odd since everyone behind the counter was black, including one who sternly enforced the rule. He might’ve sensed that the “white privilege” cry is tired (I was the only paleface in the scrum) and acquiesced without a whimper.
More jolly was the cashier at Safeway, Cheryl, who was softly singing an unidentifiable song while a young woman swiped and swiped and swiped at the rickety credit card hunk of plastic. Cheryl sorted that out—which must happen 50 times a day—and I asked the name of the tune, which was Elton John’s catchy 1972 hit “Rocket Man.” Bucked up by my interest, she sang louder, as if that patch of the supermarket was a church choir. I applauded, and confessed that in 1976 (past Elton’s creative peak), I saw him at Madison Square Garden in a private box. Aside from a roof-raising “Love Lives Bleeding” from the ’73 album Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, the comfort of the suite, with stocked bar and food, far out-stripped the mish-mash show.
Which brings me not to the late Ozzy Osbourne (never a fan of Black Sabbath, but from the wave of condolences, he was apparently a good guy), but Major League Baseball, which despite its faults—the gambling ads on broadcasts, inane ESPN/Fox commentators—is something you can watch and know it’s not “fake news.” A team wins or loses. A fact.
It’s a shame—at least to my generation—that sportswriting today is more perishable than ever. You can make jokes about the 20th century and using the finished newspaper as “fish wrap” (startlingly, that “quip” is still used by terminally “triggered” social media posters, as if a print copy of The Washington Post could envelop even two swordfish steaks) but I liked reading long baseball articles not confined to the previous night’s results. I’m thinking of The New York Times, which had the best sports section in the country, bar none, with the likes of Dave Anderson, George Vecsey, Red Smith and Robert Lipsyte lighting up a page. That not inconsiderable pleasure has vanished.
The Wall Street Journal’s Jared Diamond, writing on the morning games resumed after the All-Star break, illustrated how a lackadaisical “think piece” is often Dead On Arrival. His story, “They Made the Worst Modern Trade in Baseball History—and Suddenly Turned Into World Beaters,” was about the Boston Red Sox’s trade of superstar Rafael Devers to the San Francisco Giants in mid-June for a negligible return, aside from shedding Devers’ contract, apparently because the slugger was a “bad clubhouse guy,” upsetting the team’s “chemistry.”
A baseball team’s “chemistry” is overrated. You win, it’s great; tank and it sucks. Diamond writes: “What’s clear in the Boston clubhouse right now, the vibes are immaculate.”
I’m still pissed: the team had just swept the Yankees and GM Craig Breslow jettisons the lineup’s best hitter over bruised feelings. In any case, before the All-Star Game, which I didn’t watch, the Sox zipped off 10 consecutive wins and became “world beaters.” Not anymore! Boston quickly lost two of three to the exciting Chicago Cubs (fronted by the electrifying 23-year-old Pete Crow-Armstrong, who can run, hit and field and pisses off opposing players with his antics; he’s vying for Rickey Henderson status) and then losing two/three to the Phillies and winning two against the Dodgers.
The Sox are in the Wild-Card hunt and may surprise angry fans by making acquisitions on or before the July 31st trade deadline. But I expect, and fear, as usual, some cautious tinkering, meaning maybe a first baseman like the Orioles’ Ryan O’Hearn, one bullpen arm and a back-up catcher. Maybe nothing at all. I doubt that gets the team “deep into October,” although I hope that’s a reverse hex on my part. If Boston fails, it might be remembered that they frittered away, ignominiously, the best playoff chip: Raffy Devers.
The photo above is from a concession stand in the then-dumpy Fenway Park (with an unreliable drainage system, it could be bright and sunny after a thunderstorm and the game would be postponed), where I posed as my fellow spectator, the late Jim Larkin, filled the concourse with his very loud and distinctive laughter. The Sox won, Jim and I toured the area bars, had fried clams for dinner at the Union Oyster House, hit the hotel and flew back to New York the next morning.
Take a look at the clues to figure out the year: Arizona Gov. Evan Meacham is removed from office; Hüsker Dü breaks up; Celine Song is born and Enzo Ferrari dies; Sonny Bono is elected mayor of Palm Springs, CA; the Miami Arena opens; Tompkins Square police riot in NYC; Lyndon Larouche is convicted of mail fraud; Spain’s Pedro Delgado wins the Tour de France; Clayton Kershaw is born and Edd Roush dies; Richard Russo’s The Risk Pool, Albert Goldman’s The Lives of John Lennon and Roald Dahl’s Matilda are published; James Brown is busted; Wall of Voodoo disbands; and Sade’s Stronger Than Pride is released.
—Follow Russ Smith on Twitter: @MUGGER2023
