Part 2: Wally World West
One would think that after the New England beginnings---riding on the winds of Hurricane Bob, that any sane person would just tell his family, “Look, this Wally World--THE CAIRNS GO WEST--- summer vacation will just be a big disappointment. I have a book to write, dozens of interviews, I’m working under a contract with an actual completion date. Sooooo…family stays at home for this one and when I get all this interviewing and writing tied up and done, then----next summer----we celebrate by all heading west together. Who knows maybe there will be a book tour, and I’ll be chatting up Pen Men in Hollywood on ESPN’s UpClose with Roy Firestone!”
My wife: “Bob, your mother is 80 years old this might be the last time that we as a family. . . (Fill in the blank!)”
The “Are we there yet?” twins: “You promised. You promised!”
Liz: (the 10 year-old) “We went though that awful hurricane with you and that pooping machine of a dog of Aunt Irene’s so you could write your old book!”
Matt: “You promised me that I’d get to meet all those ballplayers, see a game in Dodger Stadium and Candlestick Park, and be your ‘assistant!’”
Alyce: “I’ve given our MasterCard to every freaking Embassy Suites Hotel from here to the Pacific Ocean. We are packed, loaded, and locked and so you might as well crank up that Mini Van, right now mister!”
California Here We Come!
And, by the way, what better way to kick off a good old fashioned family fun adventure like this than to have Elizabeth, again the 10-year old, just as we’d pulled out on I-40 west of Raleigh, eye-ball the pasture of an NC State University cattle breeding farm and say, “Hey, Dad, look at those two cows playing wheel bower over there. What’s up with that?”
Sadly, all I could think was what a perfect jump start for the writing of a book about the Bull Pen.
We were headed to Nashville, Tennessee. Why? Because Alyce’s cousin Susan lives in Nashville! Did her husband Charles pitch several years in the pen as a closer with the Cleveland Indians? Actually no he didn’t. Charles is an engineer, a great guy, but if the catch we had in his backyard was an indicator, then he has a fastball that wouldn’t break wind. Now, he does love baseball! And I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I had a chance to “interact” with some of the game’s great bullpen pitchers during this out-of-the-way stay in Tennessee.
When I say interact, what I mean is that I---sitting at Charles’s kitchen table knocking back a few beers---made copious notes on some of the game’s great bullpenners.
Charles has a world class gathering of gum cards---Topps, Bowman, Fleer and Red Man!
And so with pad and pen in hand, I was able to grab research from the backs of his incredible collection. It’s not that I hadn’t been doing my due diligence, research wise, on relief pitching for the past few months. But there were some new and interesting factoids here on the cards. Nice ice breakers when I interviewed these players. I mean, who knew that Tug McGraw landed the nickname Tug because he was an aggressive breast feeder? I had no idea that Lee Smith enjoyed hotdogs at the Ruthian level before crossing the white lines to save a game.
And to Top (s) it all off, Charles, realizing that he and his cards were making a contribution, was showing a great deal of interest in my project. Would I actually be talking to Harry Cary, Mitch Williams, Lee Smith, Larry Sherry, etc? Yes, I would and no offense to Alyce’s family---great people and a nice time during our two days there—but if, in fact, I was going to get these players pen memories on tape, then I had to be dealing with the real live players.
Gum cards and some of the obscure facts they brought (usually in a little cartoon blurb on the backs of the cards) were nice but don’t bring much to an interview. I had ballplayers to stalk and so the following morning we---bag and baggage---were headed to St. Louis---the Cards were playing the Cubs.
Now we might as well get right to the bag and baggage issue. If one were to grade me on the chasing down of these ballplayers, I will, with some pride, take my place at the head of the class. But when it came to the bag and baggage I probably wouldn’t be inducted into the Porters Hall of Fame. That said, I left Raleigh with a plan and somehow (usually soaked with sweat on departure mornings) made it work.
I purchased a huge Carry All bag which we called The Bump. Inside said bag---every morning while my family was waving bye-bye or destroying an Embassy Suites Breakfast Bar---I hefted and loaded seven suitcases in that bag perched atop the mini-van. Each suitcase was numbered and had its own special location---kids in the back, Alyce and me in the middle, and my mother, who clearly had packed for the distant future, in the front. When in place, they were zipped up, then snugly bungee corded to the roof for the ride west.
This might be the place that a reader would enjoy an anecdote or two about me gripping the steering wheel, barreling across the country and glancing in the rear-view mirror to see bags flying off the back of the van like shingles leaving a roof in a windstorm.
That didn’t happen!
But I’ll tell you what did. There were constant, seemingly nonstop---requests for some obscure item buried in let’s say, bag number 4 or suitcase number 7. “Dad, can we pull over? I need my Orioles cap!” “Well, while you’re getting Matt’s cap, then I think I packed my purse by mistake and could certainly use some lip gloss!”
There were no GPS’s, no Alexa in the early ‘90s. So during these unpack, repack breaks, Alyce and I would typically fight over the distances to the next hotel. In this case, as I recall, St. Louis was well within striking distance, less than four hours from Nashville. But we were going to a night game, and I had to bag my interviews before the game. So my mother’s lip gloss and Matt’s Oriole’s cap weren’t dead center on my driver/bell captain/father/writer’s radar.
I can’t say this trip mirrored Chevy Chase’s Family Vacation perfectly, but there were times when it came damned close. I did not get ghosted by a hot blonde (Christy Brinkley in a red sports car) or get trapped by vandals in East St. Louis, Illinois. But we did, thanks to a last minute, “Turn here!” from my wife, find ourselves almost out of gas, asking directions in a St. Louis neighborhood on the north side of town, a place called College Hill, which I would later learn is considered the most dangerous area in the city. How did that go? Well, it’s about 110 degrees and I’m leaning out of the driver’s window looking like Clark Griswold’s twin brother asking what had to be either a pimp or a coke dealer for directions. And by the look on his face my location in question might as well have been Buckingham Castle. “Excuse me, Sir but I’m running low on gas, and need to get to the Embassy Suites at (Alyce/Magellan is shouting the location in my ear) 610 North 7th Street. Can you help me?”
Well, now having taken a quick survey of the clientele there in the minivan and finding a grandmother, two white as the new driven snow kids and a couple of yuppie parents not exactly what you might call his “target” audience for sales, (perhaps for shooting!) he responded appropriately, saying, “If I was your white ass, I think I’d be getting out of here. You run out of gas in about an hour or so all that’ll be left of this shit machine will be the fuckin’ cement blocks it’s sittin on!”
And as I (thank you God) watched the light turn green and hit the gas Matt took time out of his busy day to shout, “Well, guess what my dad’s writing a baseball book, and we’re going to Bush Stadium to meet major leaguers tonight!”
The response which I feared would be gun fire wasn’t. The pimp/drug jockey actually shouted after us, “If you see Lee Smith, tell him he cost me a hundy large last night when he gave up that dinger to Sandberg!”
There are details that beg to be skipped and checking in to a big city hotel when you have a pressure packed night ahead of you clearly makes the list. Matt and I showered, braved the mid western heat, hit Will Call at Bush Stadium, picked up our passes and in a matter of minutes I had Matt in his seat.
Suddenly I was on the field and found myself standing behind the batting cage talking to none other than Steve Stone, the man whose curve ball made him a twenty five game winner and Cy Young Award winner with the Baltimore Orioles. Stone, bless his heart, was the radio/TV sidekick of the Great Harry Cary. Hell, forget the Cy Young Award, Stone deserved broadcasting’s medal of honor.
Imagine sitting through 162 (not counting spring training) games watching Harry load up on Budweiser while listening to him promote every swinging restaurant and bistro in Chicago. That name Harry Cary comes with alliteration but Comp Cary would be just as good. There was a comic, a great impressionist, who was a regular on ESPN’S UpClose with Roy Firestone. This guy, whose name escapes me now, not only did a great impersonation of this broadcasting icon he framed the picture of Harry to perfection.
Cary: “High inside fast ball to Dawson, a little chin music following that homer he hit the last time up. You know, Steve, I’ve had some great seafood in my life but the best in Chicago for my money is Eddie V’s Prime Seafood on Rush Street. Another high inside fastball and this time Dawson goes down in the dirt. He’s up now staggering a bit but he was clearly hit by the pitch.
You know, Steve, another great one for surf and turf is my friend Ditka’s, a great meal at a fair price. Both dugouts have emptied, and we have ourselves a real donnybrook on our hands out there now.”
This was the Great Harry Cary and so with that in mind, I asked Stone, “Do you think Harry will talk to me about relief pitching? I’m working on a book about the bull pen and . . .”
Stone took a drag on his cigar and said, “Well, it really depends on which Harry shows up tonight. He’s sitting over there in the Cubs dugout shooting the shit; take a shot at him and good luck!”
As I scurried over to the Cubs bench it occurred to me that perhaps, had I been thinking ahead, knowing that Buds were off-limits on the field, that I would have been wise to have at least offered him a handful of coupons for one of those eateries he frequented back in the Windy City.
It wasn’t just the dragging of the old family boat anchor along on this project, which (excuse the term) didn’t exactly make this project smooth sailing. I was barely into it here in St. Louis, lurking in the Cubs dugout planning my approach to Harry Carey for a bullpen tidbit or two, and as I stood there in the early evening shadows, I came to the realization that this project alone may be a bit more than I could chew.
Why did it take me this long to come out of my creative cloud? Well, I wasn’t just standing there in the dugout watching Harry conduct a local radio interview. As I looked around me, I realized that I was in line. There must have been six or seven radio, TV and print reporters---all with recognizable call letters, you know little eye catching logos like ESPN---waiting for a sound bite or comment from the great Harry Carey.
When the last of this pack had had their way with Harry, he simply stood up and said, “Gotta get up to the booth. Almost game time!”
It was like he could smell his first cold Budweiser. I’d whiffed on Harry Carey.
Then just as he tried to step by me, I blurted. “Harry, I’m a friend of Jeff Odenwald, and I’m writing a book called Pen Men, about the bullpen. Could you give me just one of your favorite bull pen memories?”
I actually heard myself say that. Beforehand I hadn’t for even a second thought about playing the Odenwald card. Jeff was a great friend. He was the Cub’s Director of Marketing, and we had talked about the book but made no promises were made from Jeff on Harry. In fact, the week before I headed west, in a phone call he’d said almost--to the word-- what Steve Stone had suggested. “Harry’s Harry, if you see him, tell him I said hello and Cairns….!”
“What?” I’d said.
“Good @&%#ing luck!”
And that’s exactly what I got, good @&*%ing luck! because Harry sat back down and said, “Turn on that recorder. I’m going to have to make this one quick!”
Now here’s something you won’t read in the book. Harry Carey, not unlike Dick Vitale, speaks in a normal voice; if you heard him in a non media conversation---no mikes, no recorders, and no cameras---you wouldn’t even recognize his speech as Harry Carey. But, boy, when I hit Record on that min-cassette of mine, here he came. It was Harry doing Harry. The story was a great one. Palmerio, the Cubs beloved first baseman, had been traded in a five player deal to the Rangers for Mitch Williams, the reliever, who was justly called Wild Thing.
Here’s Harry in full Harry voice: “So, the Chicago fans are really pissed because they loved Raffie Palmerio, and now the first time Williams comes out of the pen, it’s the ninth inning (Cubs leading by one) and all he has to do his get three outs, and its! ‘Cubs Win!’ Cubs Win!’” So what does Williams do? Well he walks the first guy, hits the second batter with a wild pitch, and then proceeds to walk the third guy to fill the bases. And the fans are really giving it to him because we’re playing in Wrigley. And that’s when I saw the greatest bullpen action in all my years in the booth because Mitch Williams stuck out the next three hitters to win the game. And Chicago? Well, boy, we all enjoyed a Bud or two that night because now we had our closer!”
Wow, thank you, Harry; thank you Jeff, and speaking of Mitch Williams, well, he’d agreed to talk to me earlier and so on the wings of Harry’s story, I was off to the Cub’s pen for a word or two with The Wild Thing!
