Part 1: Baseball Book Goes Wally World
“Past Page Turner Stomach Turner”
Here’s an idea that resulted in a Past Page Turner. Sign a contract with a major New York publisher to deliver a book called Pen Men “Baseball’s Greatest Bullpen Stories Told by the Men Who Brought the Game Relief.”
I’d (somehow) interview in the neighborhood of seventy five of these unique famous and infamous major league baseball players---relief pitchers, bullpen catchers and coaches. As a bonus I’d toss in first-hand relief pitching memories from the game’s great play-by-play announcers---Mel Allen, Red Barber, Ernie Harwell, Harry Cary and many more. All of this flying by the seat of my pants commitment to bag these celebrities who, spoiler alert, had little or no interest in meeting some unknown writer, who for free, wanted to record their Pen memories. Digging up pen men from the 1930s to the then, early 1990s, it would be a history focused on the Pen that, as it suddenly occurred to my interviewees, might make a lucrative biography when they “got around” to writing it themselves.
Try that one bagging the likes of, along with many others Goose Gossage, Tug McGraw, Rollie Fingers, Dennis Eckersley, Bob Ucker, Tim McCarver, Hoyte Wilhelm, quite the prick by the way, and Jim Bouton. Bouton, who later having read the advanced copy, would call the publisher threatening to “sue our asses” for something he’d said on the record about young “ladies” slipping into the bullpen to give the pitchers relief! Sue? Really Jim! Come on, we read your tell-all best seller Ball Four!
Now, as to the Wally World reference. In retrospect it may not have been a great idea to jack up the pressure of this project by deciding that, since I would be conducting the majority of these in-person interviews in one summer---from Boston’s Fenway Park to San Francisco’s Candlestick capped off early the next year with a run down to Florida for Spring Training, that this might present a wonderful family togetherness opportunity.
So, why not load up the old Cairns min-van (thanks for the Idea Chevy Chase) with an 80-year-old mother, a forty five year-old wife, who finally showed signs of a nervous breakdown in traffic somewhere near Dodger Stadium. and my two “are we there yet?” kids, ages 10 and 14.
So, “ALL ABOARD!” For a triple jointed “vacation” New England, All Points West and then if we all lived, Florida the next spring about the time Walt Disney’s cash registers started to ring) that would, unbeknownst to me, begin by driving into the teeth of a New England approaching Hurricane called (irony) Bob. Oh, having just taken on a bit more excess baggage---a couple of ancient aunts and a dog we picked up outside of Boston---in an effort to heroically beat this gale.
I would weather-the-storm only to find myself home in a couple of weeks back in North Carolina where, after pushing Florida back until the following spring, I’d launch that little 7,000 mile round-trip swing west. A drive that would suddenly, somehow again, take a family centric back seat to little out of the way stops that had nothing to do with pantsing old ball players and play-by play guys for interviews. Mount Rushmore, Yellowstone, and the Grand Canyon----you get the idea!
My mother from the rear of the van: “While we’re out here why not make a run up to Denver to see my great niece?” Great idea Mom any follow up requests? “Well, we could scoot down to San Diego to visit one of my long lost relatives.” This would, had I caved, been a cup of tea with a Susie something or other, a nonagenarian, who wouldn’t know a splitter from a slider. So, with the challenge of bagging the celebrity interviews, just to relieve the pressure, I found myself behind the wheel humping that minivan west between eight and fifteen hours a day.
How would those guys scratching and spitting out there in the Bull Pen (had they cared) have described this writing project? How about a cluster fuck!
Leg one, off to Boston where just before the hurricane hit I managed to pay a visit to an old reliever named Broadway Charlie Wagner, a natural story teller who had some great ones about his days on the road rooming with Ted Williams. Things were looking up. The next day I would chat at Fenway with Jeff Reardon, the Sox red hot closer, a guy who would wind up his career with 367 saves.
I was on my way. Then Hurricane Bob raised its ugly head and the Reardon interview was lost in the life threatening winds. Oh, we were staying with my aunts, my mother’s sisters, in Marshfield Beach, about a fifty minute drive up Route 3 to Boston’s Fenway Park.
Problem.
We hit the beach along with the hurricane, and Marshfield was suddenly under orders to evacuate. My aunt Irene refused to put Coco her schnauzer in a “safe keeping” shelter and so the writer of Pen Men, van driver, father of the freaking century had to come up with a plan post haste. What I came up with was in, fact, a bad plan. According to the radio, the storm was moving northeast. I looked at the map loaded, the aunts, Coco, my mother, the wife, and the kids and struck out for safety. Hartford Connecticut---off the storm’s path, was just a two hour jaunt up I-90.
We’d motel there and ride out hurricane. I’d call Fenway and beg for a reboot of the Reardon interview. Certainly the Sox would understand. One would think that by now I might have seen a portent of things to come on the western trip. And being of sound mind, I’d just take the St. Martin advance check, and drop it in the mail with a little note to my would-be editor saying “Due to my health (mental) I regret to inform you that the bull pen book will not be possible.”
The deal beaker should have been on the run to Hartford. We found ourselves in gridlock traffic with the Bean Town populace all beating it west to avoid the hurricane. My question was---after flipping off a horn blowing idiot with a bumper sticker that read SOUTHIE DOESN’T SUCK---how many of these windblown vehicles inching along were stocked with livid kids, three octogenarians, an angry wife, a yapping dog and a driver who was seriously considering giving up the writing project of his life?
In an attempt at brevity, I will “fast” forward to five hours later slogging in to our safe haven---a rain soaked motel off interstate I-90. I made my way through the lobby, trying to ignore the NO PETS SIGN on the front desk, noting that the place looked a bit dark and dank for early evening. The manager quickly informed me that we were very fortunate to bag the last two rooms within miles and although there had been a power outage, that things would be back to normal before we knew it. Before I grabbed my credit card, I stole a quick look back into the parking lot. Sheets of rain. The mini-van appeared to have been blown several parking spots over. “The two rooms, we’ll take them,” I said.
Sparing my readers the details I will say this. It was damned fortunate that the lobby was pitch black because otherwise I don’t think my aunt Irene could have made it to her room past management without explaining her yapping purse. In fact, we all were in for the longest, darkest evening of our lives. Somewhere around eight O’clock, the power came on. The motel’s idea of power being one candle per room. Just settling down, the kids, who were rooming with me, had gutted the motel’s snack machines for their candle lit dinner. There came a knock at our door.
Aunt Irene.
It seems that she had been constipated since early in the week, and that Coco was suffering from quite the opposite affliction. She said, according to the night clerk at the front desk, there was a pharmacy just a few miles up I-90. And….she was wondering if I might brave the storm and get a dose of Dulsolax for her and some Imodium for Coco.
So, with Jeff Reardon lost in the wind, I’d now be driving back into the teeth of a howling gale to a pharmacy where I would be asking the druggist to show me two potencies aimed at making one go and the other one stop!
Here’s the (mixed metaphor) pisser. I’m going to wrap this up by saying that yes, two days later we all---bag, baggage and Coco---landed back in Marshfield Beach. I eventually got the Reardon interview and we made it back to North Carolina to launch phase two of this ODDessy. Now as to the pisser, when I drove over a hill less than a quarter of a mile from THE LIGHTS OUT MOTEL, what do you think I saw? A freaking town lit up like a Christmas tree---so there would be no power outage in the Walgreens when a puzzled druggist led me to the purchases that would please aunt Irene greatly when one of them opened her and the other plugged up that *^%&ing Coco.
Oh, since this is a Past Page Turner book blog, readers will be “relieved” to know about the writing of a book that is now ancient history that as I awaited the Reardon interview in a rain soaked Fenway Park, I found myself in the middle of a scene that (me with ever the eye out of this kind of action) could only be described as bull pen behavior. The stands were empty. I was sitting behind the dugout when a PR lady brought a group of “challenged” children down and seated them right behind the dugout. She said, “Now some of the players will be coming out to warm up soon, and just call to them and maybe they will autograph your scorecards.”
Minutes later, Tony Pena, the quintessential bullpen catcher came out and started to long toss right there in front of the kids. Seconds later the kids were screaming at the top of their lungs, “Mr. Pena, Mr. Pena can we have your autograph?” (Or words to that effect).
Now my guess is that Tony may have been a bit hung over from the Hurricane layoff, and screaming kids wasn’t exactly what he needed to hear! So without looking at the little catcallers, he spun around and shouted to them, “Shut the f*%# Up!” Bullpen behavior of the highest order, I thought. But then Pena, who obviously had not been given a heads up by the PR lady, looked at the kids and realized. Well, he signed everything in sight but me! So, as suspected, bullpen guys are pretty good guys---just a lack of communication in this case.
As to the Reardon interview, that went well---compared to the “family” Hurricane Bob effort that led me to it. I learned a thing or two about his joining the great relievers like Gossage and Eckersly in the 300 Save Club. I thanked the big right hander and was on my way, more than pleased to throw my tape recorder in the bag, and point the mini-van South
