Hereunder

Blast From The Past II

Gentle visitors, the chill winds are still blowing in these parts, but the solar calendar insists that Spring is soon to come.  With this in mind, we think it fitting to refer you to a prior post, being poetical exhortation attributed to one Claude Faubush, a native of Ohio. 

Mr. Faubush had a varied career that including stints as a sportswriter for the now defunct Mahoning  Valley Messenger, a traveling salesman of household utensils and curiosities, and a roaming representative for the Mexican Sweepstakes.  In 1939, he pled nolo contendere to a charge of false utterance (passing a bad check) in Chillicothe, Oh. 

Thereafter, he seems to have reformed his life, and went on to preach revivals all around the Midwest region.   Mr. Faubush was reputedly a second cousin to Rogers Hornsby, and he claimed that his sister-in-law went to school with Bobby Jones. 

On that apparent authority, Mr. Faubush penned a brief tract on the relative virtues of baseball and vices of golf. 

Baseball Scallopine

Gentle visitors, the Italian's dream to win the world baseball crown has ended for now.  But, they gave it a good try.  Let's listen in to the conversation just before their first practice earlier this year.

***

Luigi:  Hey!  Whats'a datta you got?

Guitano:  Atsa call' a base'a'ball.

Luigi:  What's a dat?

Guitano:  Atsa like bocci but you hit'a wit de stick and catch 'a wit de glove.

Luigi:  Sumyabich'a!  Hey, toss' a to me.

Guitano:  Toss'a to you!  Firs you learn toss'a tomatoe pie.  Den I'm'a toss to you.

Anthony:  Gentlemen, I am from the National Italian-American Foundation, and I find this dialogue highly offensive and demeaning.  I mean it draws upon the basest and crudest of stereotypes.   No better than Step'N Fetchit was as a caricature of African Americans.

Luigi:  Who's a dis guy?  He's no italiano!

Anthony:  I assure you sir that I am a second-generation Italian-American and very proud of my heritage.  And, what's this thing with baseball?  There's been plenty  of great Italian- American ballplayers!   Have you forgotten DiMaggio? 

Guitano:  Atsa guy who make 'a da coffee?

Anthony:  No-- no, that's just something he did later in life, he --

Luigi:  He no make'a da coffee!  He's uh... uh... Signori Caffe.  Si, Guisseppe DiMaggio ... Signori Caffe.

Anthony:  Look, that is not the real DiMaggio -- that's just something --

Luigi:  Ahhh!  He's a no italiano.  Toss'a da bocci to me.

Guitano:  I'm'a no toss'a to you. 

Paddy:  Fait & begorrah, would ya trow 'im da ball, man!  Sure, it's nuttin' but hurling wit out all da head knockin'.

Curling Cues

TED: Well, Ken, we're here, sheet-side, in the Olympic bonspeil, for the much anticipated consolation match-up between Liechtenstein and Togo.

KEN: That's right, Ted, and the Togo team is, of course, the biggest surprise.  Did you know, Ted, that before last month, the Togonese didn't even have a word for "ice" in their native tongue?

TED: Well they certainly do now, Ken.  Up until today, they've been frozen outside the house.  In fact, the Togo skip was treated for frostbite. 

KEN: Ted, we've just heard that he's borrowed some mittens and wool socks from the friendly Finns, and he's anxious to get his toes back on the hack.  He's listed as tentative for today's match.  And, they're up against a tough, resurgent Lichtenstein rink.   

TED:  [chuckles]  Well, Ken, their motto is "Take No Prisoners".  And they have a fierce Skip in Dietrich von Brumschticher -- who also just happens to the the Crown Prince of the tiny duchy.   

KEN:  No doubt about it, Ted, every able-bodied Liechtensteiner is required to play and that pretty much is the Olympic team.  Sven, what do you make of the match-up.

SVEN:   Ya, Ken, dis Togo team hass bin hampered by many hoggers and spinners.  Und dat Lichtenstein rink been too many burned stones and bad deliveries.

TED:  Well, Sven, we've heard a lot about the agile Curl Girls from frigid Bemidji in these Games, and curling is now certifiably "hot".   [chuckles]  Let's hope not too hot to melt the sheet tonight.

KEN:  Ted, curling has been called "glacial shuffleboard", and I think that's a pretty accurate characterization, both in terms of the pace of play and the excitement it generates.  The curious Italians here are calling it "bocci gelato". 

TED:  And, tonight, there's a lot at stake: these two rinks are battling to stay out of dead last of the bottom tier. 

SVEN:   Ya, Ted, no doubt.  Dis time mean business.

KEN:  You can sure feel the tension on the ice as the opposing rinks warm-up.   Kwambe, the Togo lead, is adjusting his slider -- he's had some trouble with his spin, since the stone turns in the opposite direction up here in the Northern Hemisphere -- and von Brumschticher is polishing his gem-encrusted, blue-hone granite stone.   I guess the Crown Prince  spares no expense if it might help to hit the button.

SVEN:  Ya, Ken, dese Togos need good guards und hammers, und the Leichts need good freezes und peels.  Utterwise, we may be in for a smorgasbord of blank ends.

TED:  Sven, the Liechtensteiners seemed to be pinning their hopes on the broom skills of Hermann, who runs a cleaning service on the off-season.  He's also the Secretary of State.

SVEN:  Ya, Ken, no doubt, dat boy can sweep hard and takes da rock.  But, dat Uhuru can definitely sometime hit da broom.

KEN:  I'd say both rinks need to work the pebbles and push the biters.

TED:  Well, Ken, [chuckles] it looks like we may be in for a "nail-biter".  It promises to be a knock-down, take-out fight.

KEN:  Ted, the rinks have now finished the ceremonial handshakes and have assembled on the tee lines.  It's time to rock and, hopefully, not roll.

TED:  That's it for the pre-game show.  Be sure to stay with us for the broomstacking commentary afterwards.

***

Acknowledgments to Curling Terms & Lingo.

Missing The Olympiad

Gentle visitors, how bitter it was to see the U.S. men locked out of the medals for the Olympic downhill race:  especially bitter when you consider how close your humble Contributor came to making the U.S. ski team himself.  We use the term 'close' here advisedly, as in the sense of:

"Compared to other stars, Alpha Centauri is relatively close to our own solar system at 4.4 light years distance."

Thus, it was with a mixture of disappointment and determination that your humble Contributor hit the slopes on the weekend, as is his hibernal habit.  Peering out from the white, wind-swept peak, and staring down the forbidding pitch of the "Happy Camper" trail -- a deceiving name that, for what outdoorsman would ever countenance pitching tent on a 2% grade? 

Pushing off with vigor and feeling the sharp edge of the ski and the bracing spray of snow -- true, we came to a complete stop in a just a few feet, but it would not be long before the icy mountain gods sought to claim another victim.

Transitioning to the Old Possum trail, avoiding the posers and the gaffers, looking for any chance at a kicker, to grab some big air, to shred, etc., or just to play dead like the trail's namesake.  Dude... whatever.   We're a little too aggressive in the mid-section -- where the descent is merely conceptual -- and, consequently, buy some ice.  But, the riskiest part comes at the bottom, skidding up to the red line, gripping the poles, assuming the half-crouch stance -- all in a few seconds -- until the lift chair hits hard and we're nearly sliding off by the seat of the ice-slicked snow slacks.

Back at the top, we opt for the insane runs -- rip down "Slow! Don't Slip" then dig into "The Big Dipper".  Take a pass on the side trails -- the Widow Maker, the Death Drop, and the Skull & Cross Bones. Ho-hum... been there, done that:  high-speed, arm-flailing, face-plant; ski-patrol, back-board; traction, bone pins; six-months rehab, post-traumatic therapy.  Yawn.

Late in the day, slopeside, your humble Contributor wiggles his frostbit toes before the faux fire and stirs the last bits of instant cocoa powder into a mug of micro-warmed water, and wonders what might have been: 

Gazing from the blustery, austere heights of Sestriere,  adjusting his goggles, nodding to the starter, straining against the gate, hurtling down the hill toward the first huge jump, flying past the course bounds and the assembled crowd into the needled embrace of an Alpine arbor, listening to the urgent yet sweet Italian tongue on the med-evac back to Torino.   

What might have been.

Baseball Answered

Gentle visitors, we have but a brief break in the action to continue our education of foreigners in the beauty and simplicity of baseball.   Below, we answer some frequently asked questions.

Q:  When is a player deemed "out"?

A:  Quite simply, one is out when

1. a batter strikes out; or, 
2. a batter strikes a pitched ball upon the ground and a vigilant fielder comes upon said ball, typically by means of an over-sized glove, and, having thus acquired said ball causes it to fly to another fielder who is standing on a square bag to which the batter (or a runner who has already achieved one of three bags) is forced to run, prior to the batter (or runner) actually touching said bag with some part of his person (a foot is recommended) and remain in such touch, unless he is attempting to reach the first of three bags and continues to run, after touching the bag, in a true, Euclidean line, except that, should said runner instead turn, upon touching the bag ahead of the ball reaching the receiving fielder standing on said bag, leftwards or in otherwise sinister manner, whereby his person is left open for tagging (a rightward turn being an indifferent matter, except on a inversely oriented -- so-called "goofy" -- field, which is entirely illicit and unheard of among  honorable persons); provided, that the receiving fielder does not drop the ball; or,
3. a batter strikes a pitched ball into the air, in which medium it remains until a dexterous fielder acquires it from the air prior to it touching the ground, not dropping same, and further, an additional out may be had upon the unfortunate runner who, having attempted to advance to the next bag before awaiting the results of the transaction between the ball in the air and the fielder in the field, fails to retreat to the immediate prior bag before the said fielder delivers the ball to another fielder touching said bag or tagging said prematurely-advancing runner, unless the ball does not travel beyond the air immediately above the infield (as opposed to the "outfield", which has no relationship to the concept of "out" except in the most general, prepositional sense), in which case the runner may safely so retreat or, having waited patiently, may attempt to advance immediately upon the acquisition of the ball by said fielder prior to the delivery of said ball to the next base and to the additional fielder, if any, manning such base; or,
4. a runner (whether or not he is also the batter upon that play) is touched on any part of his person by the ball in the possession of a fielder when such runner is, as it were, betwixt bags, said fielder's glove being a safe harbor for such possession and capable, as a legal matter, of translating such outing power in the act of touching, provided the ball does not drop to the ground in the course of such transaction; or,
5. the umpire or other official, judging a runner's course between bags in relation to a true, Euclidean line, or other behavior not befitting a good sport, calls said runner out.

Q:  Is a player who is "out" always "out"?

A:  Yes, except in the rare case of a Polish catcher, not catching but batting, wearing white socks, who, having struck out at the plate and been called out, nonetheless thinks better of the whole circumstance and surreptitiously advances to the first bag.

Q:  Is a player who is "out" therefore "in"?

A:  No, he is "safe", which is not to say "free from danger."

Q:  What is the difference between an "outing" and an "inning"?

A:  An outing is an excursion of sorts comprising part or most of a day, especially by a group for fun or pleasure, such as in "Take Me Out To The Ball Game".   An inning is one-ninth of a ball game, and it has a top and a bottom as does every other creature and artifact.  The interstices of such innings, or tops and bottoms thereof, are excellent times to acquire further dogs and suds and other vital sustenance; except upon the seventh, where one stretches and sings,  "Take Me Out To The Ball Game", even though, ironically, one is already there.

Q:  How is it only American teams (with the exception of a club a short drive from America) have ever participated in the World Series?

A:  "World" here does not denote the earth, but, rather,  the civilized world -- outside of which is a howling wilderness besieged by despots, barbarians, and soccer fans.

Q:  Isn't the pentagonal "home plate" a metaphor for American militaristic hegemony?

A:  Actually, it not a true pentagon, since not all five sides are of equal length.  Instead, it resembles a house to the approaching runner, which most would associate with home; hence, the name.

Q:  When will the Yanks finally acknowledge that "baseball" was directly derived from cricket and rounders, sports sprung from the peculiar genius of the English people who remained loyal to the Crown?

A:  After the War of 1812, the several States quickly banned all forms of English sport, including tiddly-winks.  Thus, it would appear unlikely and improper that baseball was derived from such pastimes.    In fact, the true origins are more dramatic:  in the 1840's, Abner Doubleday, a farmer near Cooperstown, New York, was spreading seed in one of his fields when he found himself caught in a sudden thunderstorm.  He ill-advisedly repaired to the cover of a large tree.   Whereupon a tremendous thunderbolt struck the tree, knocking farmer Doubleday senseless.  When he came to, still stunned and dazed, he discovered that he was holding a gleaming, golden splinter of wood from of the stricken tree -- smooth, exquisite, and nicely-weighted, like nothing he had ever seen.  Finding a horse hairball lying nearby, he swung the miracle splinter, smiting the ball and driving it into the air perhaps half a league, over a distant fence.   Farmer Doubleday then put his cap on his head, picked up his seed bags and walked down the small mound toward home, and devised that game which brings mortals as close to the immortals as they can be on this green earth.

Yank Funk

Gentle Visitors, we are sad to report that at least one of our nameless contributors is suffering from the Yank Funk.  This is unrelated to the strain of Yak Funk that often afflicts exiled Tajiks who pine for their warm, furry bovines and their cozy, dung fires.  No, this is  far more serious and widespread.

Typically, it appears in October -- in those seasons when the Bronx Bombers bomb.  When the Sultan of Swat is not; when the Iron Man rusts; when the Clipper's clipped and the Mickey's slipped; when Yogi's a bear and Maris embarrasses; when the Chairman of the Board steps down; when the Don is gone, and the Goose is cooked, and the Wells run dry.

Golly, you might say, count your blessings.  Think of the Bosox Pox that sickened all those bean-eaters for so long -- year after year,  the Double X, X'd out; Little Luey gone kafluey; the Splendid Splinter in a splint; Yaz razzed; Fisk frisked; Wade bogged down.  Cursed by some alleged Babe and haunted by some imagined Monster.  Then, a single year of wonder, and the next... well, Big Pap's slapped down.

Honestly, you'd think after all the pin-striped, ticker-tape glories, they'd be happy to go home early and slouch on the couch.  Yeah, a flock of fallen Angels flew in on their awful wings, gnawed on your bones, and flew back.  What's it to you?  Ok, so Mr. October doesn't show up until November 1st:  you've got a head start on the sands and greens at West Palm. 

Get some rest and -- hey, give it a rest.  Drink plenty of fluids (preferably fortified wine).  Come next spring, you'll be tanned, rested, and ready to play ball.

Sports Predictions

Well its that time of year when baseball starts to wind down and the warm summer days give over to the hues of autumn. Looking into my cathode ball I see the following taking place this year ...

God's team, our beloved Cleveland Browns, will start strong but will not finish first in their conference -that will go to the Cincinnatti Bengals.  Will the team with no logo make the playoffs? The shadows grow dim.

The Washington Redskins will finish dead last again. In an attempt to reap vast rewards in merchandiing, team owner Snyder will change the name of the team, thus selling tons of the old merchandize and tons of the new stuff. The new name? Possibly The Swarm, or The Posse, or the Regulators. The Kennedys will be briefly considered.

The Cleveland Indians, who should change their name to the Oresmen, or the Freighters, but wont, will miss the playoffs by one half game.

The Washington Nationals will finish in LAST place. Crowds at years end will be less than 5000.

The suprise NFL rookie of the year will be former Buckeye Standout Maurice Clarett.

The tube has grown dim. That is all I can see for now.

Below Par

Gentle Visitors, notwithstanding past jabs at this ancient sport, your humble Contributor does so engage himself from time to time.  His advancing age may bear on its greater frequency than, say, triathlons, kickboxing, extreme boarding, or croquet.  But, yesterday, what Twain called "a good walk spoiled" was worse yet, in part because we traveled by electric cart. 

It all began friendly enough.   My partner -- still, a relative newcomer -- suggested that we abandon the competitive model of play for a cooperative model, such that those formerly known as "competitors" would offer one another mutual support and validation, which, in turn, may entail a virtually unlimited number of "do-overs".  After the conclusion of each hole, we -- now, the "cooperators" -- would talk about how we felt about it, and maybe even have a good cry, hugs all around, etc. 

But, our Opposition, swinging their clubs in a most menacing manner, rejected this constructive suggestion.  Instead, they added an aspect of wagering to the already violent and predatory imagery they were apt to employ.   Fine, we said, as brave as you like; fine, that suits us to a tee.  We were just looking a for a fair way to proceed.  If they wanted to be like that, there was nothing we could do.  We would simply play and enjoy the flora and fauna along the way -- watching for the occasional Bambie or bunny or birdie.

Thereupon, we began the match, and the first several holes went splendidly -- that is, until the Opposition first informed us that it was the low score, and not the high, that would win the day.  Well, we were rattled to say the least:  gone were the happy memories of our little white balls skipping across the glittering ponds, bouncing into the floral fields, and dancing into the sandy waysides.    Suddenly, we were feeling heavy and fat, stubbed, scuffed, duffed, dunched, sclaffed, and drubbed.  We had been fooled -- it had all been a bad lie.

Well... again, brave as you like, we adjusted the apron, fixed the pin, and pressed on.  Oh, they tried to scare us alright -- speaking ominously of the grevious hazards: the dark bogeyman, the growling doglegs, the swinging duck-hooks that lay ahead.  But, at the back nine, we brought fire to the leaf and lager to the lips and drew out the gleaming shafts for battle.   The fight was on.

Your humble Contributor contributed a shot or two; but, his partner seemed to bring the deadly art well within his ken.  The Opposition was bobbing and weaving, chucking turf here and there, diving in bunkers, crouching in the jungle.  By golly, it was fierce.  Such that, in the end, the whole event turned on the final putt.  Gentle Visitors, how sinking was the scene: the careful study; the barely perceptible stroke; the long, slow roll; the disappearing orb; the one-sided cheer.   Thus, we sheathed our shanks and thinned our already thin wallets.

Another good electric cart ride spoiled.

The Game of War

Gentle visitors, from where your humble Contributor now sits, he can see, in the distance, the lapping waters of the Ebb and Flow Stream, less than a league from where she empties herself into the Great Shellfish Waters, herself being the drowned valley of the River of Long Reach, which, in turn, finds her source at the Glimmer Glass Lake (in the Land of the Last Mohican) -- where the Diamond Spirits gave the pale-face prophet Abner, the Man of Double Day, the gift of the bat, the base, and the ball -- and her deposit at the Harbor of Mercy.

In the foreground, he sees the battlefield marked with a fearsome perpendicularity and rectangularity -- at its heart, the awful stake. We speak not of the Little Brother of War -- that cross and combative match of the braves. No -- this is an engagement seemingly more genteel but, in truth, more noble and more savage. One finds himself, at once, marveling at the elegant etiquette and attire, and shuddering at the blows that would be struck there -- the soundless swing of the mallet before that sickening crack as it meets its mortal mark.

To be sure, it was long favored by the vicious Algonquins, but it quickly spread from the natives to the settlers -- especially upon their tiny, fescue fields beneath the cities -- though certain parsons of that time thought it "a pafftime moft wicket". Therefrom, it grew such that no great one among us has arrived unless he has endured the alternating states of deadness and aliveness and the cruel test of the lawn.

Indeed, to this fine day, were one to board the admirable bark anchored here at dock's end, and sail northward on the Great Shellfish Waters, beyond the Place Where Things Are Brought, all the way to the City of Ann, one might witness the Disciples of St. John and the Men of the Midships at this terrible sport.

We speak, of course, of croquet.

Baseball Explained

Gentle visitors, some foreigners who frequent these pages have implored us for a simple explanation of baseball. (These folks were raised on such sports as cricket, croquet, and curling. Nothing wrong with these athletical distractions -- not at all. We have treated curling in passing; croquet -- to be sure -- in some future meditation; and, cricket -- yes -- once we get the point of it.) At the same time, we have had a request for more baseball poetry: a redundance since the game itself is poetry -- a bit like a request to gild the lily.

But, nonetheless... nonetheless, we mean to serve (a tennis term, by the way) -- thus, the following, simple, poetical explanation of a "strike".

A strike is a pitch swung at and missed

(or, one not swung on at all but so called
by that certain masked, padded, dark-vested
gentleman styled "the umpire",
who crouches behind that other masked and padded
[though jerseyed] man catching said
missed or dismissed pitch,
to the extent that, in the unappealable judgment
of said umpire, the ball breaks an imaginary and approximate
box suspended over home plate
[a pentagonal affair -- hard rubber --
where the most important events transpire],
bounded by the plate itself
and the knees and "letters" of the batter,
as determined by his relative size and contraction,
the general reputation of the pitcher, and
the eyesight of the said umpish gent
[often a matter of concern and speculation
by those witnessing the sporting exhibition,
who are all, apparently, avocational optometrists ],

or, a pitch hit into a foul territory --
that is to say, an untoward place
demarcated by a straight, chalky line,
such that there is a great abyss fixed
between what is foul and what is fair --

unless such struck ball is caught,
in which case it is an out,

unless the foul is not caught
and would otherwise be the third strike,
in which case it is a nought,

unless the batter is trying a bunt,
[a cute maneuver -- if "cute" could ever be used
with the proper gravitas for the sport--
in which the batter does not swung,
but, rather, places the bat in front of the ball
in order that said ball be nudged
{again, an inadequate term}
a few feet forward, in the fervent hope
of advancing himself or other runners
along the base-paths]
and, contrary to the batters intent,
the ball goes foul (see above)
in which case it is a strike,

unless it would otherwise be a third strike
and the catcher does not catch the ball
[a paradox that -- otherwise, why the title?]
and the batter reaches the first base
before the catcher can throw the ball
to that person assigned to cover first base
or otherwise tag him out,
in which case it is technically a strike
and, per force, a strike out
but not scored as such).