“The First Fall Classic”

One of the things that keeps me watching baseball is its sense of history. The icons (buildings, clubs, players) always loom. One of my favorite books was “Ball Four” by Jim Bouton. I wound up having a conversation with Mr. Bouton on a completely different matter and of course, he offered to inscribe my copy. This is after who I realized with whom I was chatting and let professional stances head right out the door. I’ve digested his other works including his leading the battle to keep the local minor league stadium in his current hometown afloat. From there, I’ve digested the works of Thomas Boswell, David Halberstram, Peter Gammons and many others. It’s no coincidence that some of the better baseball movies come from the less glamourous moments, because that is often where the best stories are.

It was a kick to pick up “The First Fall Classic” by Mike Vaccaro. Mike was two years behind me at St. Bonaventure University and tells a great tale of what remains (in the words of his publisher), “nearly a century later, the greatest World Series ever played. In October of 1912, seven years before gambling nearly destroyed the sport, the world of baseball got lucky. It would get two teams-the Boston Red Sox and the New York Giants, winners of a combined 208 games during the regular season-who may well have been the two finest ball clubs ever assembled to that point. Most importantly, during the course of eight games spanning nine days in that marvelous baseball autumn, they would elevate the World Series from a regional October novelty to a national obsession. The games would fight for space on the front pages of the nation’s newspapers, battling both an assassin’s bullet and the most sensational trial of the young century, with the Series often carrying the day and earning the “wood.” In THE FIRST FALL CLASSIC, veteran sports journalist and author Mike Vaccaro brings to life a bygone era in cinematic and intimate detail-and gives fans a wonderful page-turner that re-creates the magic and suspense of the world’s first great series.”

I have an affinity for the publishers notes since I used to write them. I remember the first time I read “Eight Men Out” by Eliot Asimov. He told story elements like they were bullet points. You saw the scene but there was no extraneous materials. Mike gives the lesser known tale of the 1912 Series a great cinematic feel which is even more impressive since the actual visuals aren’t necessarily ready at hand. It’s a tremendous work and I’m glad to see somebody I knew deserve the glowing reviews he is currently receiving. There is no grand collection of highlights to cull from but having the book, I feel like I’ve seen them.

Nice job, Mike

No to Baseball?

I recently blew $50 I barely had for the Bisons/BPO game this evening, thinking number one son and I could go, see the game, hear the music and enjoy some fireworks. I know costume characters still freak him at age 11, but I figured it was innocuous enough where the seats were that we could have some fun.

He showed up at my door upset and in near tears at the thought of having to go. I want to do stuff other than hang around my apartment and it almost looked like we had a decent night for doing it, but he finally told me that he “doesn’t like it and doesn’t want to go.”

I know the Bisons are bad, but geesh. I’m okay with him not wanting to go if he doesn’t enjoy it. He doesn’t have to like everything I like. I guess that would be cause for worry if he did. He is becoming an individual and I think I need to give him some space to find his voice. What kind of Dad would I be to shove him into something just because I find some moments of peace at the ballpark. The price of the tickets was a hard thing to swallow. The threat of rain today succeeded in making the game scalper proof. So, it’s only money. I know ultimately he and I are cool, I guess I thought I had something another avenue of shared experience, something that is ours. He’s asleep in the other room as I write this. His sisters are a challenge and I think he looks at my place in kind of a sanctuary sort of way. With the ages the kids are, things a little more specialized. With one pretty much an adult, and another at that fractious age of 14, the days of universal experience are pretty much over.

And I’m used to that. Quality time has always been more important than quantity. I’d rather laugh around a dinner table periodically than cram them all into a space where they would be resenting it.

I guess I’m feeling the side effects of building something up too high in my own mind. We hit the movies pretty regularly, but I was anxious for some guy time, fresh air, a pretzel, watching grown men try way too hard to catch a foul ball. To know that he didn’t want to hurt. I told him that he needs to tell me before  I go off and buy tickets for stuff, because once we buy, we’re committed. He apologized and we did pig out of some of Just Pizza’s finest and I took a nice nap after that, but something felt a little empty.

I was looking forward to it. I love my job but events there necessitated that I work late while my dad stepped in to take him to the recent “Walking with Dinosaurs” show. That made me real depressed while I worked my event. I don’t get a chance to show off that often and I guess it feels like one slipped away again.

Only a game.

“Three strikes, yer out at the ole’ ballgame!”

I get the feeling the local baseball team just don’t care. It used to be that you didn’t have to be a baseball fan to enjoy a game at SodaBeverage Field. They used to sell the place out. I went to a game last year with my Dad and we couldn’t help but wonder what happened. Limited open gates, desolate corridors, oh, where have you gone Mike Billoni? It just seemed fairly lifeless. You definitely had to be a fan as there was nothing happening, practically tumble weeds on the concourse. Concession area looked like that “Bad part of town.”

The Bisons changed major league affiliations over the winter and I thought that might inject a little more life. They are hooked up with the Mets and you’d thinking the prospect of sucking in HD on SNY might liven the place up a bit. Nope. As part of my reward for being a marketing judge at UB’s departmental presentation, I was given a ticket to tonight’s game by one of their teachers, a good guy who helps my employer out from time to time. Access to beer and burgers, I’m a happy guy, especially when the students are to scared to touch food that is still covered. Risking the wratch of the concessions workers and generally not giving a damn in the first place, I got things going at the grill, merrily escorting two burgers, potato salad and a fresh beer to a comfortable space. Chowing down in the center field picnic area amongst a collection of about to be drunken college kids, I was struck that I could hear the infield chatter and concessions guys in the infield. That ain’t right.

Properly satiated, I settled in to watch a little ball and there is nothing so desolate as a sparse ballpark. I’ve always been intrigued with baseball architecture a little bit (as I am quite the dork) and the game wasted my interest, so this is what happened. I set off looking for dessert and found the following along the way. Once the Bisons started losing, I took to wandering. Stopped to catch a bouncing foul ball and tossed to the first doe eyed soul who stopped. That I couldn’t photograph, as I am only so dexterous. What follows is what caught my eye before I was full and headed to the subway after the seventh inning. Enjoy