By Bob Markus
A long time ago, when I was the only guy, to my knowledge, ever to serve two years in the Army without advancing past the rank of PFC, one of my buddies was a big, good looking kid from Fresno, Cal., who had a favorite expression that never failed to amuse me. "I used to be conceited," he would say, "but now I'm perfect." Well, I used to be perfect, but now I'm embarrassed. I've been writing this weekly blog for a little more than a year and, to my knowledge, have not made any factual errors. Errors in judgment? Plenty. Big Brown to win the Triple Crown, comes to mind. The Arizona Cardinals to win the Super Bowl. Memphis to win the NCAA tournament.
I haven't had much feedback from readers, but the few who have responded to a column or two have generally been kind. But last week a reader with the moniker T.J. sent a reply to my blog announcing my new born fealty to the Miami Marlins after more than a half century of being a Cubs fan. "What would be worse than dying before the Cubs winning a world series?" he asked. His answer: "Swearing off the Cubs only to see them win a World Series, taking the pennant at the expense of your new favorite team." Fair enough, and I'll address that a bit later. It was the next sentence that bothered me, not that there was anything unfair about it. In fact, it was justified. "Also," T.J. wrote, "it was Will Clark, not Jack Clark whom Cubs pitchers could not retire in '89." Right you are, T.J., and wrong I was.
So I apologize not only to T.J.,but all of my readers who have the right to expect a guy who wrote for newspapers for more than 40 years to at least get his facts right. Location, location, location may be the watch word for realtors and baseball pitchers, but for a journalist the first principle is accuracy, accuracy, accuracy. After reading T.J.'s comment I did what I should have done in the first place. I looked it up in the Baseball Encyclopedia, which I consider the greatest reference book ever published, and was reminded that Jack Clark played for the Giants from 1973 to 1984 before being traded to the Cardinals, and Will Clark came up with the Giants in 1986. So it was Will Clark who had his way with the likes of Greg Maddux in that 1989 National League Championship series.
Although I recognize Maddux as a Hall of Famer and will vote for him if I'm still around when he becomes eligible in five years, I've always resented the way he left the Cubs, claiming he wanted to pitch for a team that had a chance to win the World Series. The fact is he was already on a team that had a chance to win the World Series and he was one of the main reasons they didn't. In his two playoff starts he never got into the fifth inning. In the series opening 11-3 loss he was torched for eight runs in four innings, including a Clark grand slam. He was tagged for four more runs in 3 1/3 innings in game four and didn't get the loss only because the Cubs tied the game after he left, before eventually losing, 6-4. The other thing that ticked me off was that three years later the Cubs had gone out of their way to help him reach 20 wins for the first time, giving him extra starts down the stretch. The result was his first Cy Young Award, which undoubtedly was a bargaining chip when he became a free agent after that 1992 season. Showing all the loyalty of a sea slug, Maddux signed with the Braves for the same salary the Cubs had offered.
Getting back to T.J.s message, I'm much more upset by the discovery of my factual error than I am at the prospect of the Cubs winning the World Series in the same year I jumped off the band wagon. In fact, if they get that far I'll probably root for them. I doubt they'll get that far, however, and don't much care. As for my new love, the Marlins, as the song goes, love's more comfortable the second time around. I'll probably never root for them with the passion I felt for the Cubs. But I see most of their games on television and, for the most part, I like what I see. As I write this they're on a seven-game losing streak and not much is going right for them. But they're a young team and I feel confident they'll be back in the race (in fact they were still in first place going into Tuesday night's game.) If it doesn't happen this year, I'm perfectly willing to wait until next year. Now, where have I heard that before?
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
By Bob Markus
Next year could be here at last. Wait until next year has long been the rallying cry of diehard Cubs' fans. They've been saying it for 100 years. I used to be one of them. For nearly 70 years, ever since I was old enough to say "Stan Hack" or "Bill Nicholson," I was a Cubs' fan. I believed in next year. I thought 1969 was next year, but then, perhaps the best Cubs team ever--there are three Hall of Famers from that team and Ron Santo should be a fourth--blew an 8 1/2 game lead in September. Next year seemed a long way off then, but 15 years later, in 1984 , a year that turned out to be more horrible than George Orwell ever could have imagined, the long wait appeared to be over. The Cubs had a 2-0 lead over the San Diego Padres in the National League championship series and no team had ever lost under those circumstances. Of course, the Cubs had never been in the championship series before. A Steve Garvey walkoff homer in Game Four, a ground ball through the wicket of first baseman Leon Durham in Game Five and it was. . . . .drumroll please. . . .WAIT TIL NEXT YEAR!
The next years kept coming. 1989. Mark Grace bats .647 for the Cubs but Jack Clark hits at a .650 clip for the San Francisco Giants, who win the series , 4-1. Footnote to history: Had the Cubs won that series, the third game of the World Series would have been played on schedule in Wrigley Field and the earthquake that rocked San Francisco minutes before the scheduled game would have been a local event, not the national sensation it became. 2003. Surely this was the next year we Cubs fans had so long awaited. Leading the Florida Marlins three games to one, just one more win away from their first world series appearance in 58 years, and ....aw, what the heck, you know what happened next. The Cubs didn't even have the grace to take the blame for that choke job. Instead a fan named Steve Bartman took the fall even though there wasn't a chance in hell Moises Alou would have caught the foul ball that Bartman "stole" from him. I should have known right then that next year was just a myth, no more real than the Easter bunny, but against all the evidence I still believed.
Then came last October's shameful three-game meltdown against the Los Angeles Dodgers in a series the Cubs were favored to win. There were no redeeming moments for the Cubs in that series, not one. At long last, as a onetime copy desk colleague at the Chicago Tribune used to say, the scales fell from my eyes. There is no next year. But wait a minute. I think next year might be here, after all. Not for the Cubs, but for my new favorite team, the Florida Marlins. Ever since I moved to South Florida in 1998, I've followed the Marlins, rooting for them--except when they played the Cubs. Now they have my absolute loyalty. Unlike the underachieing Cubs, the Marlins have a habit of playing beyond their supposed capabilities. This was apparent to me long before they got off to an 11-1 start this season, winning the last three games in that streak after trailing in the ninth inning each time. No team in baseball history had done that in a three-game series and so what if it was against the Washington Nationals.
The Marlins have been confounding the experts for years. They've won two world championships in the last dozen years without ever winning a division title. They are the only team in major league history that has never lost a playoff series. Of course, it's way too early to predict the Marlins will make the playoffs this year, but if they do, put your money on them. And they have a chance. Their five-man rotation, once Andrew Miller gets healthy, is among the best in baseball, although few outside the state of Florida could name even one of them. In shortstop Hanley Ramirez they have a true super star and second baseman Dan Uggla, whose name pretty well reflects the way he plays defense, is nevertheless a clutch hitter sho regularly bangs out 30 homers and 90 r.b.i.s. They have an outfield featuring three center fielders. One of them, Cameron Maybin, who came from the Tigers in the Miguel Cabrera-Dontrelle Willis trade, has yet to hit his stride, but he will. All the baseball scouts say so. Jeremy Hermida, who was Cameron Maybin before there was a Cameron Maybin, is finally showing what all the fuss was about. In one of those comeback wins in Washington last week-end Hermida tied the game in the ninth with a two-run homer and won it in the 11th with a three-run blast. The third outfielder, Cody Ross tied Sunday's game with an eighth inning homer, then, after the Marlins fell behind by a run going into the ninth, doubled in the decisive three runs in a 7-4 victory.
I've been aware of the Marlins since before they played their first game. I covered their organizational meeting and interviewed owner Wayne Huizenga before they made Catcher Charles Johnson their first draft pick, before Charlie Hough pitched them to a victory in their first game in 1993, before they traded future Hall-of-Fame reliever Trevor Hoffman for outfielder Gary Sheffield a few weeks later. Since then, stars have come and quickly gone, and fans, who came in droves that first season, have mostly only gone. In a way you can't blame them. The team has gone through three ownerships in its relatively brief existence. After each of its world championship seasons there has been a fire sale of top players. Huizenga's dismantling job after the 1997 World Series win was particularly brutal and the following year the team lost 108 games and most of its fandom. It also lost manager Jim Leyland, who I've known ever since he first stepped onto a major league field with the Chicago White Sox. He was the third base coach for Manager Tony LaRussa and quickly endeared himself to the Chicago media. Third base coaches usually fly under the radar unless they do something wrong. In one of his first games with the White Sox, Leyland sent a runner home to almost certain death and the Sox lost the game by a run . Afterwards, Leyland manned up and admitted he made a mistake. After that he could do no wrong and in fact did very little wrong through the years. So I was rooting for the Marlins when they won under Leyland in 1997.
When the Marlins won again in 2003, of course, I was rooting for the Cubs. Now, I still follow the Cubs on their cable network and usually go to at least one game when I go back to Chicago in the summer. But my passion for them has turned cold, cold as a January day on Michigan avenue. I'm a Marlins fan, now, baby, and I think I've finally got a chance to see next year. Maybe it won't be this year, but next year. . . . .go Marlins.
Next year could be here at last. Wait until next year has long been the rallying cry of diehard Cubs' fans. They've been saying it for 100 years. I used to be one of them. For nearly 70 years, ever since I was old enough to say "Stan Hack" or "Bill Nicholson," I was a Cubs' fan. I believed in next year. I thought 1969 was next year, but then, perhaps the best Cubs team ever--there are three Hall of Famers from that team and Ron Santo should be a fourth--blew an 8 1/2 game lead in September. Next year seemed a long way off then, but 15 years later, in 1984 , a year that turned out to be more horrible than George Orwell ever could have imagined, the long wait appeared to be over. The Cubs had a 2-0 lead over the San Diego Padres in the National League championship series and no team had ever lost under those circumstances. Of course, the Cubs had never been in the championship series before. A Steve Garvey walkoff homer in Game Four, a ground ball through the wicket of first baseman Leon Durham in Game Five and it was. . . . .drumroll please. . . .WAIT TIL NEXT YEAR!
The next years kept coming. 1989. Mark Grace bats .647 for the Cubs but Jack Clark hits at a .650 clip for the San Francisco Giants, who win the series , 4-1. Footnote to history: Had the Cubs won that series, the third game of the World Series would have been played on schedule in Wrigley Field and the earthquake that rocked San Francisco minutes before the scheduled game would have been a local event, not the national sensation it became. 2003. Surely this was the next year we Cubs fans had so long awaited. Leading the Florida Marlins three games to one, just one more win away from their first world series appearance in 58 years, and ....aw, what the heck, you know what happened next. The Cubs didn't even have the grace to take the blame for that choke job. Instead a fan named Steve Bartman took the fall even though there wasn't a chance in hell Moises Alou would have caught the foul ball that Bartman "stole" from him. I should have known right then that next year was just a myth, no more real than the Easter bunny, but against all the evidence I still believed.
Then came last October's shameful three-game meltdown against the Los Angeles Dodgers in a series the Cubs were favored to win. There were no redeeming moments for the Cubs in that series, not one. At long last, as a onetime copy desk colleague at the Chicago Tribune used to say, the scales fell from my eyes. There is no next year. But wait a minute. I think next year might be here, after all. Not for the Cubs, but for my new favorite team, the Florida Marlins. Ever since I moved to South Florida in 1998, I've followed the Marlins, rooting for them--except when they played the Cubs. Now they have my absolute loyalty. Unlike the underachieing Cubs, the Marlins have a habit of playing beyond their supposed capabilities. This was apparent to me long before they got off to an 11-1 start this season, winning the last three games in that streak after trailing in the ninth inning each time. No team in baseball history had done that in a three-game series and so what if it was against the Washington Nationals.
The Marlins have been confounding the experts for years. They've won two world championships in the last dozen years without ever winning a division title. They are the only team in major league history that has never lost a playoff series. Of course, it's way too early to predict the Marlins will make the playoffs this year, but if they do, put your money on them. And they have a chance. Their five-man rotation, once Andrew Miller gets healthy, is among the best in baseball, although few outside the state of Florida could name even one of them. In shortstop Hanley Ramirez they have a true super star and second baseman Dan Uggla, whose name pretty well reflects the way he plays defense, is nevertheless a clutch hitter sho regularly bangs out 30 homers and 90 r.b.i.s. They have an outfield featuring three center fielders. One of them, Cameron Maybin, who came from the Tigers in the Miguel Cabrera-Dontrelle Willis trade, has yet to hit his stride, but he will. All the baseball scouts say so. Jeremy Hermida, who was Cameron Maybin before there was a Cameron Maybin, is finally showing what all the fuss was about. In one of those comeback wins in Washington last week-end Hermida tied the game in the ninth with a two-run homer and won it in the 11th with a three-run blast. The third outfielder, Cody Ross tied Sunday's game with an eighth inning homer, then, after the Marlins fell behind by a run going into the ninth, doubled in the decisive three runs in a 7-4 victory.
I've been aware of the Marlins since before they played their first game. I covered their organizational meeting and interviewed owner Wayne Huizenga before they made Catcher Charles Johnson their first draft pick, before Charlie Hough pitched them to a victory in their first game in 1993, before they traded future Hall-of-Fame reliever Trevor Hoffman for outfielder Gary Sheffield a few weeks later. Since then, stars have come and quickly gone, and fans, who came in droves that first season, have mostly only gone. In a way you can't blame them. The team has gone through three ownerships in its relatively brief existence. After each of its world championship seasons there has been a fire sale of top players. Huizenga's dismantling job after the 1997 World Series win was particularly brutal and the following year the team lost 108 games and most of its fandom. It also lost manager Jim Leyland, who I've known ever since he first stepped onto a major league field with the Chicago White Sox. He was the third base coach for Manager Tony LaRussa and quickly endeared himself to the Chicago media. Third base coaches usually fly under the radar unless they do something wrong. In one of his first games with the White Sox, Leyland sent a runner home to almost certain death and the Sox lost the game by a run . Afterwards, Leyland manned up and admitted he made a mistake. After that he could do no wrong and in fact did very little wrong through the years. So I was rooting for the Marlins when they won under Leyland in 1997.
When the Marlins won again in 2003, of course, I was rooting for the Cubs. Now, I still follow the Cubs on their cable network and usually go to at least one game when I go back to Chicago in the summer. But my passion for them has turned cold, cold as a January day on Michigan avenue. I'm a Marlins fan, now, baby, and I think I've finally got a chance to see next year. Maybe it won't be this year, but next year. . . . .go Marlins.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
By Bob Markus
They say that history is written by the winners. Sometimes it is rewritten by the losers. And sometimes it is difficult to determine which was which. That certainly is the case with "Thrilla in Manila," a new HBO documentary about the savage end game, the brutal final act of their three act play, played out with cosmic consequences by Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier. Written almost entirely from Frazier's perspective--Ali appears only in film clips--it is a story steeped in bitterness and hatred, emotions apparently so deeply implanted in Frazier's brain it's a wonder he has managed to keep them even marginally at bay.
To be sure, Frazier has good reason to despise Ali. Ali is almost universally loved. Frazier, Ali's near equal as a fighter, is universally ignored. During the totality of their respective careers, Ali has publicly ridiculed Smokin' Joe, calling him everything from an Uncle Tom, before their epic first fight, in Madison Square Garden, to a gorilla, while preparing for the apocalyptical third fight, in Manila, the ultimate result of which left Ali a stumbling, mumbling shell of a man and Frazier not much better off. Ali has tried to apologize to Frazier, pointing out that he was merely trying to hype the show and I, for one, believe him. I spent a considerable amount of time with Ali in his heyday and while there sometimes was a mean streak behind that poetry-sprouting ebullience, there was also a boyish exuberance that let you know he really didn't mean it. Perhaps the exception came in his title unification fight with Ernie Terrell in Houston in 1967. Terrell had refused to call Ali by his Muslim name, referring to him as (Clay). While administering a savage beating to the outclassed Terrell, Ali accompamnied each salvo with a taunting, "What's my name?" Terrell was not the only one who balked at calling Ali by his new name. I was not the only writer who was conflicted and I at first always skirted the issue by calling him "Champ" and he never seemed to object or even notice.
When Ali fought there was no need for a publicity director and it was he who coined the phrase "Thrilla in Manila." While doing so he also got in the "gorilla" epithet that so outraged Frazier. Upon arriving in The Philippines, Ali announced "It'll be a thrilla and a killa, and a chilla when I get the gorilla in Manila." Gorilla, of course, was a pejorative for a black man and Ali was never loath to play the race card, even when his opponent was another African American.
Before the first fight, Ali threw the Uncle Tom gambit at Frazier and said that any black man who rooted for Joe was also an Uncle Tom. After Frazier won the decision in one of the great fights of all time, Ali was gracious in the immediate aftermath but later called it a "white man's decision."
I covered the first fight in New York and whenever anyone asks me what was my alltime favorite event I always say there are three and the first Frazier-Ali fight is one. (I'll keep you in suspense for awhile about the other two). My prefight assignment was to cover Frazier's workouts in Philadelphia in a tiny gym across the street from Philadelphia's 30th Street station. I was staying in New York and commuting daily on Amtrak. It was quite convenient. Frazier wasn't available that often, so I did one column on a sparring partner, who was articulate and forthcoming on what it was like to fight a brawler like Frazier. His name was Ken Norton.
Earlier, while covering the Super Bowl in Miami I had visited Ali's training camp and, thanks to the intervention of Angelo Dundee, gotten an exclusive interview with Ali. He astonished me by confessing that he was afraid every time he stepped into the ring, not that he would get hurt, but that he would somehow lose and destroy the aura of invincibility he had so meticulously created. Of course it was not the first time I had a one-on-one with Ali. During the time he was barred from fighting after refusing to join the army, he was living in Chicago in the south side home of Herbert Muhammad, son of the Black Muslim leader Elijah Muhammad. We were talking about the fact that white America almost universally despised him, when he remarked that in the rest of the world the opposite was true. He then went to a closet and dragged out a huge suitcase, which he opened and began pawing through the contents. There were letters, hundreds of letters, in his treasure trove and like King Midas counting his gold he began throwing them in the air and exclaiming: "They love me; my people love me." If I learned one thing about Ali, it was this: If you ever begin to think you know him, think again. You don't."
Because I was there, I always wanted to believe that the first Ali-Frazier fight was the greatest heavyweight bout of all time. But honesty compels me to admit that the Thrilla in Manila was better. I wish the HBO film had showed the fight in its entirety. With its palpable bias towrd Frazier, I'm not certain what might have been left out. The impression left by the movie was that Ali was ready to quit after the 14th round, but Frazier's trainer, Eddie Futch threw in the towel first. It is true that Frazier appeared to be begging to continue and George Benton, only suruvor among Joe's cornermen that night, insists that he, too, argued in favor of continuing. Years later, Futch was asked why he had stopped the fight and he had replied, "because I've seen eight men die in the ring."
What is more debatable is the contention that before Futch made the decision, Ali could be heard yelling at Dundee, "Angelo, cut off my gloves," indicting he was ready to quit himself. There is, of course, the precedence of Dundee having to push the near-blinded Ali (then still Cassius Clay) into the ring with Sonny Liston after Clay was ready to quit because a caustic substance in his eyes made it difficult for him to see The Big Ugly Bear.
The Thrilla in Manila took a dreadful personal toll on both fighters, although Ali would go on to lose and then regain his heavyweight championship against Leon Spinks and take a dreadful drubbing from Larry Holmes, who makes a singular appearance in the documentary. "Ali was over-rated as a boxer," said Holmes. I always thought Holmes was underrated as a heavyweight champion, but Larry never fought Ali in his prime. "I'm so pretty," Ali used to say of himself and he was, both in form and movement. Having known him then it is difficult seeing him the way he is now. Unless you're Joe Frazier, whose bitterness is abiding and almost overwhelming. "I did that to him," he crows. "Whatever you do as a young man comes back to bite you on the butt. God marks it down."
They say that history is written by the winners. Sometimes it is rewritten by the losers. And sometimes it is difficult to determine which was which. That certainly is the case with "Thrilla in Manila," a new HBO documentary about the savage end game, the brutal final act of their three act play, played out with cosmic consequences by Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier. Written almost entirely from Frazier's perspective--Ali appears only in film clips--it is a story steeped in bitterness and hatred, emotions apparently so deeply implanted in Frazier's brain it's a wonder he has managed to keep them even marginally at bay.
To be sure, Frazier has good reason to despise Ali. Ali is almost universally loved. Frazier, Ali's near equal as a fighter, is universally ignored. During the totality of their respective careers, Ali has publicly ridiculed Smokin' Joe, calling him everything from an Uncle Tom, before their epic first fight, in Madison Square Garden, to a gorilla, while preparing for the apocalyptical third fight, in Manila, the ultimate result of which left Ali a stumbling, mumbling shell of a man and Frazier not much better off. Ali has tried to apologize to Frazier, pointing out that he was merely trying to hype the show and I, for one, believe him. I spent a considerable amount of time with Ali in his heyday and while there sometimes was a mean streak behind that poetry-sprouting ebullience, there was also a boyish exuberance that let you know he really didn't mean it. Perhaps the exception came in his title unification fight with Ernie Terrell in Houston in 1967. Terrell had refused to call Ali by his Muslim name, referring to him as (Clay). While administering a savage beating to the outclassed Terrell, Ali accompamnied each salvo with a taunting, "What's my name?" Terrell was not the only one who balked at calling Ali by his new name. I was not the only writer who was conflicted and I at first always skirted the issue by calling him "Champ" and he never seemed to object or even notice.
When Ali fought there was no need for a publicity director and it was he who coined the phrase "Thrilla in Manila." While doing so he also got in the "gorilla" epithet that so outraged Frazier. Upon arriving in The Philippines, Ali announced "It'll be a thrilla and a killa, and a chilla when I get the gorilla in Manila." Gorilla, of course, was a pejorative for a black man and Ali was never loath to play the race card, even when his opponent was another African American.
Before the first fight, Ali threw the Uncle Tom gambit at Frazier and said that any black man who rooted for Joe was also an Uncle Tom. After Frazier won the decision in one of the great fights of all time, Ali was gracious in the immediate aftermath but later called it a "white man's decision."
I covered the first fight in New York and whenever anyone asks me what was my alltime favorite event I always say there are three and the first Frazier-Ali fight is one. (I'll keep you in suspense for awhile about the other two). My prefight assignment was to cover Frazier's workouts in Philadelphia in a tiny gym across the street from Philadelphia's 30th Street station. I was staying in New York and commuting daily on Amtrak. It was quite convenient. Frazier wasn't available that often, so I did one column on a sparring partner, who was articulate and forthcoming on what it was like to fight a brawler like Frazier. His name was Ken Norton.
Earlier, while covering the Super Bowl in Miami I had visited Ali's training camp and, thanks to the intervention of Angelo Dundee, gotten an exclusive interview with Ali. He astonished me by confessing that he was afraid every time he stepped into the ring, not that he would get hurt, but that he would somehow lose and destroy the aura of invincibility he had so meticulously created. Of course it was not the first time I had a one-on-one with Ali. During the time he was barred from fighting after refusing to join the army, he was living in Chicago in the south side home of Herbert Muhammad, son of the Black Muslim leader Elijah Muhammad. We were talking about the fact that white America almost universally despised him, when he remarked that in the rest of the world the opposite was true. He then went to a closet and dragged out a huge suitcase, which he opened and began pawing through the contents. There were letters, hundreds of letters, in his treasure trove and like King Midas counting his gold he began throwing them in the air and exclaiming: "They love me; my people love me." If I learned one thing about Ali, it was this: If you ever begin to think you know him, think again. You don't."
Because I was there, I always wanted to believe that the first Ali-Frazier fight was the greatest heavyweight bout of all time. But honesty compels me to admit that the Thrilla in Manila was better. I wish the HBO film had showed the fight in its entirety. With its palpable bias towrd Frazier, I'm not certain what might have been left out. The impression left by the movie was that Ali was ready to quit after the 14th round, but Frazier's trainer, Eddie Futch threw in the towel first. It is true that Frazier appeared to be begging to continue and George Benton, only suruvor among Joe's cornermen that night, insists that he, too, argued in favor of continuing. Years later, Futch was asked why he had stopped the fight and he had replied, "because I've seen eight men die in the ring."
What is more debatable is the contention that before Futch made the decision, Ali could be heard yelling at Dundee, "Angelo, cut off my gloves," indicting he was ready to quit himself. There is, of course, the precedence of Dundee having to push the near-blinded Ali (then still Cassius Clay) into the ring with Sonny Liston after Clay was ready to quit because a caustic substance in his eyes made it difficult for him to see The Big Ugly Bear.
The Thrilla in Manila took a dreadful personal toll on both fighters, although Ali would go on to lose and then regain his heavyweight championship against Leon Spinks and take a dreadful drubbing from Larry Holmes, who makes a singular appearance in the documentary. "Ali was over-rated as a boxer," said Holmes. I always thought Holmes was underrated as a heavyweight champion, but Larry never fought Ali in his prime. "I'm so pretty," Ali used to say of himself and he was, both in form and movement. Having known him then it is difficult seeing him the way he is now. Unless you're Joe Frazier, whose bitterness is abiding and almost overwhelming. "I did that to him," he crows. "Whatever you do as a young man comes back to bite you on the butt. God marks it down."
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
By Bob Markus
Baseball is still America's pastime. Always was. Always will be. Pro football's Super Bowl may draw the largest world-wide audience on a single day, but baseball, with its endless summer, is still more deeply imbedded in the soul of our nation. Nobody ever wrote the lyric "Where Have You Gone, John Unitas," or a book called "The Boys of Autumn." There is something about baseball, the timeless, balletic beauty of a well-turned double play, the eternal cat-and-mouse game of the pitcher vs. batter, the ear-splitting C-R-A-A-C-K that signals a ball struck with authority--a homer for sure--as well as the hollow T-H-U-U-M-P of a 100-mile-an hour fastball as it smacks into the catcher's mitt--STRIKE THREE, YER OUT--that no other sport can match.
The baseball beat is still the most coveted on every major newspaper in every major league town, unless it be South Florida, where I currently live, paying for the right to wear shorts in January with the short shrift given to the Marlins--who have won two world championships during a stretch where the beloved and much favored Dolphins have won none. Here, a torn toe nail suffered by the backup quarterback trumps a grand slam homer by Hanley Ramirez any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Too bad, because the Marlins have put together an exciting young team and deserve better.
Having covered every major beat--except the Bulls--over a 36-year career at the Chicago Tribune, I can tell you that the baseball beat is by far the most challenging and, consequently, the most satisfying. There is nothing more shattering than the dreaded midnight call from the office informing you that the Sun-Times has just reported that the baseball strike is over and where were you at (Marvin) Miller time? There is nothing more exhilerating than pushing the send button on a story that you know is going to pay back the Sun Times beat guy in hearts as well as spades. One such opportunity came one Sunday afternoon in Oakland, where White Sox manager Tony LaRussa approached me and said, "I've been watching you and I like the way you work, so I'm going to give you a story." He then proceeded to tell me that he was putting starter Richard Dotson in the bullpen as the closer for the second half of the season. Lamarr Hoyt would take his place in the rotation. I interviewed Dotson and Hoyt for their reactions and filed my story before the start of a scheduled double header, smugly noticing that the Sun Times beat man had yet to show up at the ball park. It wasn't until I got back to Chicago that I found out the geniuses on the copy desk had thrown the story out after one edition and didn't even have the sense to include it in the White Sox Notes.
Covering baseball is a 24-7 job that starts on the first day of spring training and ends never. Once, covering the Cubs, I spent a week of my vacation in Orlando Cepeda's house in Puerto Rico, while collaborating with Orlando on his autobiography. One day a headline in the Spanish language newspaper caught my eye and although my Spanish is limited I was able to decipher that the Cubs had just acquired pitcher Steve Trout in a trade with the White Sox. Very interesting, I thought, and went back to watching Cepeda sleep while I waited to continue our interview. When I got back home and made one of my infrequent visits to the office I was chastized for not reporting in on the Trout story. The only beat that comes close to baseball for degree of difficulty is the Indianapolis 500 and that lasts only for three weeks.
While many sports fans were looking forward to Monday's NCAA championship game, I was eagerly anticipating the opening of the baseball season. I got into the baseball mood a few weeks ago as I was checking out some groceries in the neighborhood Publix. While waiting for the woman in front of me to pay for a pile of groceries that would have fed the entire population of Ft. Lauderdale for a week, I noticed on the magazine rack a picture of Albert Pujols on the cover of a paper-back-book sized volume. It was the 2009 Who's Who in Baseball and it brought back all sorts of memories. As a boy I used to get each year's new edition and go through it avidly. I don't remember how much it cost, but I'd guess 50 cents. I noticed that the current price is $9.95. Should I or shouldn't I? I did.
I have to admit that, until I sat down to write today's blog I hadn't looked at it much. I probably won't look at it much in the future, but it is still a fine reference work and will serve as a bridge between my 1995 edition of the Baseball Enclopedia and today's players. In my cursory inspection of Who's Who I quickly found one item of at least mild interest. Red Sox pitcher John Smoltz, who has been pitching professionally since 1986, has spent only one year in a northern city--1987, in Glens Falls, N.Y., when he was a Detroit Tigers farm hand. He was traded near the end of that season to the Atlanta braves for pitcher Doyle Alexander and spent the rest of that year, and the beginning of 1988, in Richmond, the Braves' Triple A affiliate. The rest of his sure-to-be Hall of Fame career has been in Atlanta. Now he's with the Red Sox, about as far north as you can get and still be in the United States.
Who's Who has been around for nearly a century and it has changed somewhat. A friend of mine has a 1933 copy (for which he could get $85 if it were in mint condition--it isn't--and if he wanted to sell it--he doesn't.) Back then, the Who's Who was more than a compendium of major league players' stats. In addition to listing each player's baseball numbers, the 1933 Who's Who listed home addresses. So if you wanted to write to Babe Ruth, or even visit him, you could go to 345 W. 88th St., NYC and have a beer with The Babe. Lou Gehrig's address was listed as 9 Meadow Ln., New Rochelle, NY. Outfielder Mule Haas, who hit 305 the previous year for the Philadelphia Athletics and was about to be traded to the Chicago White Sox, could be reached at 109 Valley Rd., in Montclair, N.J., the city where he was born.
In addition to players, the 1933 edition listed managers, coaches, umpires, even baseball beat writers and sports editors. Among the latter was Arch Ward, who once was sports editor of the Dubuque Telegraph Herald, and later, more famously, sports editor of the Chicago Tribune. In the latter capacity he would one day interview me for a job on The Tribune sports desk. I didn't get it. But that is a story for another day.
Baseball is still America's pastime. Always was. Always will be. Pro football's Super Bowl may draw the largest world-wide audience on a single day, but baseball, with its endless summer, is still more deeply imbedded in the soul of our nation. Nobody ever wrote the lyric "Where Have You Gone, John Unitas," or a book called "The Boys of Autumn." There is something about baseball, the timeless, balletic beauty of a well-turned double play, the eternal cat-and-mouse game of the pitcher vs. batter, the ear-splitting C-R-A-A-C-K that signals a ball struck with authority--a homer for sure--as well as the hollow T-H-U-U-M-P of a 100-mile-an hour fastball as it smacks into the catcher's mitt--STRIKE THREE, YER OUT--that no other sport can match.
The baseball beat is still the most coveted on every major newspaper in every major league town, unless it be South Florida, where I currently live, paying for the right to wear shorts in January with the short shrift given to the Marlins--who have won two world championships during a stretch where the beloved and much favored Dolphins have won none. Here, a torn toe nail suffered by the backup quarterback trumps a grand slam homer by Hanley Ramirez any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Too bad, because the Marlins have put together an exciting young team and deserve better.
Having covered every major beat--except the Bulls--over a 36-year career at the Chicago Tribune, I can tell you that the baseball beat is by far the most challenging and, consequently, the most satisfying. There is nothing more shattering than the dreaded midnight call from the office informing you that the Sun-Times has just reported that the baseball strike is over and where were you at (Marvin) Miller time? There is nothing more exhilerating than pushing the send button on a story that you know is going to pay back the Sun Times beat guy in hearts as well as spades. One such opportunity came one Sunday afternoon in Oakland, where White Sox manager Tony LaRussa approached me and said, "I've been watching you and I like the way you work, so I'm going to give you a story." He then proceeded to tell me that he was putting starter Richard Dotson in the bullpen as the closer for the second half of the season. Lamarr Hoyt would take his place in the rotation. I interviewed Dotson and Hoyt for their reactions and filed my story before the start of a scheduled double header, smugly noticing that the Sun Times beat man had yet to show up at the ball park. It wasn't until I got back to Chicago that I found out the geniuses on the copy desk had thrown the story out after one edition and didn't even have the sense to include it in the White Sox Notes.
Covering baseball is a 24-7 job that starts on the first day of spring training and ends never. Once, covering the Cubs, I spent a week of my vacation in Orlando Cepeda's house in Puerto Rico, while collaborating with Orlando on his autobiography. One day a headline in the Spanish language newspaper caught my eye and although my Spanish is limited I was able to decipher that the Cubs had just acquired pitcher Steve Trout in a trade with the White Sox. Very interesting, I thought, and went back to watching Cepeda sleep while I waited to continue our interview. When I got back home and made one of my infrequent visits to the office I was chastized for not reporting in on the Trout story. The only beat that comes close to baseball for degree of difficulty is the Indianapolis 500 and that lasts only for three weeks.
While many sports fans were looking forward to Monday's NCAA championship game, I was eagerly anticipating the opening of the baseball season. I got into the baseball mood a few weeks ago as I was checking out some groceries in the neighborhood Publix. While waiting for the woman in front of me to pay for a pile of groceries that would have fed the entire population of Ft. Lauderdale for a week, I noticed on the magazine rack a picture of Albert Pujols on the cover of a paper-back-book sized volume. It was the 2009 Who's Who in Baseball and it brought back all sorts of memories. As a boy I used to get each year's new edition and go through it avidly. I don't remember how much it cost, but I'd guess 50 cents. I noticed that the current price is $9.95. Should I or shouldn't I? I did.
I have to admit that, until I sat down to write today's blog I hadn't looked at it much. I probably won't look at it much in the future, but it is still a fine reference work and will serve as a bridge between my 1995 edition of the Baseball Enclopedia and today's players. In my cursory inspection of Who's Who I quickly found one item of at least mild interest. Red Sox pitcher John Smoltz, who has been pitching professionally since 1986, has spent only one year in a northern city--1987, in Glens Falls, N.Y., when he was a Detroit Tigers farm hand. He was traded near the end of that season to the Atlanta braves for pitcher Doyle Alexander and spent the rest of that year, and the beginning of 1988, in Richmond, the Braves' Triple A affiliate. The rest of his sure-to-be Hall of Fame career has been in Atlanta. Now he's with the Red Sox, about as far north as you can get and still be in the United States.
Who's Who has been around for nearly a century and it has changed somewhat. A friend of mine has a 1933 copy (for which he could get $85 if it were in mint condition--it isn't--and if he wanted to sell it--he doesn't.) Back then, the Who's Who was more than a compendium of major league players' stats. In addition to listing each player's baseball numbers, the 1933 Who's Who listed home addresses. So if you wanted to write to Babe Ruth, or even visit him, you could go to 345 W. 88th St., NYC and have a beer with The Babe. Lou Gehrig's address was listed as 9 Meadow Ln., New Rochelle, NY. Outfielder Mule Haas, who hit 305 the previous year for the Philadelphia Athletics and was about to be traded to the Chicago White Sox, could be reached at 109 Valley Rd., in Montclair, N.J., the city where he was born.
In addition to players, the 1933 edition listed managers, coaches, umpires, even baseball beat writers and sports editors. Among the latter was Arch Ward, who once was sports editor of the Dubuque Telegraph Herald, and later, more famously, sports editor of the Chicago Tribune. In the latter capacity he would one day interview me for a job on The Tribune sports desk. I didn't get it. But that is a story for another day.
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