Jan Sumner is an author, publisher, pitcher, and now contributor to Artificial Turf. A frequent guest on the radio show, he'll be sharing his views on sports right here. Check out Jan's first column on the "Guest Essays" page. Visit his websites: www.jadanpublishingcompanyllc.com and
www.therealstrikezone.com.
Welcome! As you can see this clever, or maybe not so clever, title for my column was put together by some very creative minds. Depending on the success and response, we’ll disclose those names later.
Hopefully you’ll find it not only clever, and entertaining, but thought provoking as well. Given my writing skills that will truly be a challenge, but I will do my best and will welcome your comments, criticisms…well, not criticisms, but certainly comments, as long as they’re favorable.
Anyway, greetings I hope you enjoy.
Jan Sumner
HONOR’S A GONER…..(1-21-08)
If you look up the derivation of the word honor you’ll find it means, among other things, respect, reputation and principle. There in lies the rub. Many athletes in trouble today want respect and admiration, based on their reputations and principles and are shocked, as Roger Clemens was, that they don’t get it. As I recall from his “60 minutes” interview he said he just wanted an inch of respect and wasn’t, due to an altered perception of American justice, getting it.
So let’s back up a bit. When this whole steroids fiasco started and the commish and union chief of baseball were called to Washington they pleaded ignorance, lack of awareness, and confusion. Then came the players themselves, Sosa who suddenly couldn’t speak English, McGwire who seemed to only have foresight and a blank memory of his career. We had Schilling who felt it was wrong and didn’t condone it (hello) and Palmero who waggled a finger and was shocked and outraged he’d been accused. And last and certainly not least we had the infamous Canseco, a man given to showboating and boastfulness. When his book Juiced came out the entire baseball community was angered and disbelieving. What irony that he would wind up being the most legitimate of all. His book, although lambasted by baseball, was in fact disclosing a secret the game had hidden for years.
Given this backdrop we can slime forward to the Balco investigation and the book, Game of Shadows, which succinctly detailed the use of steroids by a number of famous athletes including Barry Bonds. From that point the strut of virtuousness began. Marion Jones was adamant about her innocence and as we know has since been disgraced by her own admission and will face prison time. Michael Vick was initially defiant, but once his cronies turned on him, he too fessed up and is now in jail.
The landscape of the professional athlete is this country has changed, but we must not under any circumstances indict all of them. The vast majority are honorable, decent, God fearing men and women, but the old “a few bad apples,” cliché is more than relevant here. With press, radio and TV coverage at an all time intrusive high, privacy for public figures is virtually impossible. Obviously, that’s a double edged sword. Good for bringing out the bad and bad for intruding on the good. Whatever you feel about it, it’s moot, it’s just the way it is now and everyone will have to live with the consequences.
Athletes today know how the system works and yet some of them are either arrogant enough or dumb enough to think that their missteps will go unnoticed or won’t be able to be proven as wrong doings. Now, admittedly OJ would lend credence to the latter, but if you’re taking that to the bank you shouldn’t be shocked to find your account closed.
American’s on the whole are forgiving in nature, but that is predicated on the wrongdoer being honest about his or her deceitfulness. Andy Pettitte immediately came clean on his HGH use and from what I can see has been forgiven by the general public. How this will reflect on Roger Clemens no one knows at this point, but it is an interesting dichotomy.
Once again there will be a hearing in front of a Congressional committee, and my guess is once again insolent accusations will be the order of the day. I’m sure the hope is the truth will come out, but as we’ve seen in the past this rarely takes place and all we can deduce is that there is a problem and maybe the burden of that dilemma falls on the individual, maybe the league, maybe the Commissioner, maybe the owners, or maybe the ballplayers fourth grade teacher.
God knows there’s enough culpability to go around, but it sure would be nice to see guilty or presumed guilty parties start by not pleading the Fifth Amendment, forgetting their command of the English language, actually be willing to talk about their past and not pointing fingers at everyone but themselves.
That reflection in the mirror can be all telling. You can cover up the blemishes, turn away, or just refuse to look, but in the end you have to either look and own up, or live in denial, and we all know how well disowning your past works. Just ask those serving time how that worked out for them.
SERIES OVER...BUT NOT FORGOTTEN (10-29-07)
It was strange being at Coors Field for a World Series game. Talk about something coming out of left field, and I don’t mean Manny, it was to say the least surreal.
World Series – Game 4 – Coors Field
Last year I was doing a book signing at Coors and the store manager asked me, “Jan, do you think the Rockies will ever be in the World Series?” I asked her how old she was and when she told me 32, I said, “Not in your lifetime!”
Most of the time I don’t enjoy being wrong, but this was a definite exception. The place was Rockin’ albeit with new found fans, but who cared. A sea of white hand towels swirling around like gyroscopes on a clear, beautiful Rocktober night.
It was game four and the odds of this young, inexperienced group of overachievers coming back and winning four straight from the expensive and “been there, done that” Red Sox were slim and none and slim had already left town. I for one didn’t give a slider. We weren’t even suppose to be here, as I had so accurately predicted the previous year, so the reality of it was still somewhat foreign, but agreeable. I was going to enjoy it no matter the outcome.
Sure we lost, in a sweep, but our “Boys of Summer” grew into to men to greater and lesser degrees this night. They were overmatched, this time. But if this questionable ownership can keep this group together, adding some quality starting pitching, they will be something to be reckoned with. That of course is the pressing issue. Will an ownership with a history of doing things wrong to this point, including the ticket sales fiasco, see the light, open the coffers and capitalize (something they’re good at) on what they have going. Only they have the answer to that and let’s hope it’s the right one.
As for the team itself, what a remarkable journey. It’s been well documented, 21 out of 22, winning the National League Pennant, playing in the World Series, what should be the National League MVP and Rookie of the Year, a ride like possibly no other in the history of this great game. I was honored to be able to see it.
A Rocktober to remember!
ROCKIE PREDICTION...(10-8-07)
Wow, was I wrong! Back in July I made the assertion the Rockies would be, well, the same old Rockies. About a .500 ball club, give or take a game or two. To quote the current vernacular, “My Bad!”
I was, however, not alone in this fearless prophecy. My guess is there is no one on this planet who could have foreseen what’s happened. The fact they are one playoff round from participating in the World Series is beyond astounding. What a credit to this bunch of young ballplayers and their manager and coaches.
For those of you who haven’t seen them play down the stretch, winning 17 of 18, it has truly been remarkable. I’m sure inside, some if not all, have knotted intestinal fortitudes, but on the surface they look as calm and relaxed as sunbathers in Maui. It certainly belies their age and experience. For a bunch of guys still in their twenties, sans Helton, they are playing way above their understanding. Even Helton, with all his successful years in the majors, has never been here, and you could tell when they won the playoff game against the Padres and he went leaping across the infield after the final out looking for somebody, anybody to hug, feet virtually never touching the ground, that this was probably his most treasured moment in the game he so dearly loves.
I too am thrilled for the organization, the players and coaches, but there’s a special place in this for me and that’s the success and positive recognition for Clint Hurdle. We go back to his first year up with the Rocks, 1997, when he became the hitting coach and my boss at the time. He’s come a long way as has the club, but my personal feeling is he could not have done a better job of handling this bunch, young and raw as they are. We have talked several times this year and he was always upbeat and optimistic. I too have questioned his use of pitchers, but I guess he has had the last laugh, because their bullpen has been extraordinary during this stretch.
Well, we can only hope it continues to what would be the most bizarre ending in an already weird and wonderful baseball season. I’m not going to make a prediction here, because as we know I would only be wrong, and one massive embarrassment per season is enough. I will however state for the record that the boys of Rocktober will give it their all and win or loose with full effort and class.
GO ROCKIES!!!!
NEW BRONCOS...SAME RESULTS (8-29-07)
Well here it is the 2007 season for our beloved Broncos. Lets see they have a new defensive coordinator, new middle linebacker, new cornerback, fairly new quarterback, new defensive scheme, a virtually new defensive line, new prolific (see off field activities) running back, one new starting wide receiver and maybe most important, new hope.
But, then that’s true in all NFL camps, well, except maybe Oakland and Atlanta. Their problems run much deeper that new X’s and O’s. Here in Denver, however, every new season means a fresh start.
< Champ Bailey
Thus far in the pre-season, aka exhibition season, the men of blue and orange look somewhat out of sync, but then again it is pre-season so why worry, right? Wrong!
New system, new parts, old leftovers, bad mix. Let’s go through the season and see how it might shake out.
Open with Buffalo there: up for grabs, but I sense an upset – 0-1
Host Raiders, enough said – 1-1
Host Jacksonville, close, but Broncos prevail – 2-1
At the Colts, enough said – 2-2
Host Chargers, sorry – 2-3
Bye (too early)
Host Steelers, sorry again – 2-4
Host Packers, badly needed – 3-4
At the Lions, should win – 4-4
At the Chiefs, should win, won’t – 4-5
Host the Titans, should win, will – 5-5
At the Bears, enough said – 5-6
At the Raiders – 6-6
Host Chiefs, should win, will – 7-6
At Houston, should win, won’t – 7-7
At Chargers, shouldn’t win, won’t – 7-8
Host Vikings, should win, will – 8-8
There you have it, 8-8, maybe 9-7, but same old same old. If they can keep from making lots of NEW changes next off season things should be better, but that’s a big if. Coach S loves to make changes, I guess it’s a new, old thing, so to speak.
If I’m wrong on my predictions, hey, I’m new at this.
300 VS 755...A DEBATE? (8-7-07)
It’s not about Glavine vs. Bonds, although that in itself deserves an in depth discussion. No, this is about whether it’s easier to hit 755 homeruns or win 300 games.
Certainly two different achievements, both worthy of the highest praise and admiration - at least on the surface regarding the soon to be new homerun king. But I’ve cussed and discussed Bonds, as many before me have and most certainly many more will after me, so I’ll leave that alone…for now.
Both records unquestionably demand one thing – longevity. Again this would raise some questions concerning Bonds, so let’s put the homerun crown where it has been, and will continue to reside for must of us, with Hank Aaron. Hammerin’ Hank played from 1954 to 1976, a total of twenty-three years. That works out to be just under thirty-three homeruns a year. Tom Glavine has been playing since 1987, so he’s been at it for twenty years now. With 300 wins he’s averaged fifteen wins a year over that time span. Again, both truly remarkable accomplishments.
For me, however, winning that many games on the hill is more difficult. Oh, I know hitting a baseball is the most difficult single act in sports, and based on pure statistics I would agree. But there are other factors at work here. When a batter steps in to hit, it’s all on him. Now I realize it’s one against nine and you’re trying to hit a round object with a round object, but the bottom line is the guys on the bench who may have booted the ball around the last inning, or the bullpen that was unable to hold the lead are absolutely no factor in whether the man at the plate is successful at hitting the ball out of the park. Ah, but for a starting pitcher they are not only a factor, but many times the determining factor.
The other night ESPN ran a segment on how many dingers Bonds would have right now but for great catches that stole potential round trippers. I believe they showed ten. That’s for his whole career. Who knows how many times Aaron got robbed, but I’d guess it’s somewhere in the ten to twelve range. For Glavine that may be a fair guess per year on no decisions, lost leads or his team playing poor defensively or giving him no run support.
Even beyond that we have the health issue. Again, realizing everyday players have to play through nagging injuries and face different pitching almost daily. But on the flip side they get to practice their craft every day, hone, adjust and work through slumps. During his career Aaron played in 3298 games and had 12,364 at bats. That means he hit a homerun every 16-17 times up. We all know it didn’t work exactly that way, so let’s just say he had a lot of opportunities.
Glavine on the other hand has gotten 30-35 starts a year and in order to win 300 games has had to win around half of those every year, .500 percent. For a pitcher, any pitcher, to stay healthy for that long is, well, almost impossible. While hitting a baseball is singularly difficult, throwing a baseball in excess of 85 mph is not natural for the human arm. It you’ve ever seen pictures of a pitcher’s delivery you know what I mean. To not have your arm go south somewhere along the line is beyond amazing. The vast majority of hitters don’t face the likelihood of Tommy John or shoulder surgery, which are potential career enders more times than not. Most of the DL lists in baseball involve pitchers and arm problems.
Now none of this is meant to diminish the most sacred record in all of sports. But I do think to achieve 300 wins is more difficult. I also think it will probably never happen again, unless Randy Johnson can somehow come back from back surgery. The 755, or soon 756, will only last as long as it takes A-Rod to get there, or possibly even Junior.
The point is homeruns will continue to be hit at increasing rates, for many reasons. Three hundred game winners? Nah, that time has passed. So here’s to you Mr. Glavine…WELL DONE! You too Hank!
DOG DAYS FOR VICK (7-21-07)
I remember when I was a kid my dad telling me about a dog breed he’d seen fight in Kansas when he was a kid. “Pit Bulls,” he said. “There’s nothing like them. They’re vicious and trained to kill.”
I had no idea what he was talking about because I’d never heard of them and certainly never seen one. My dad grew up in rural Kansas and his older brothers would take him to these fights. He hated them and what they represented and grew up loving dogs. We always had a dog around when I was a kid, they were part of our family.
Dog fights are as old as man and his best friend. For some men there’s just this insatiable desire for violence and blood. Since they don’t want it to be theirs, hey why not a dog they’ve bred for that vary thing. This of course brings us to Michael Vick.
I’ve read some comments referring to the fact he plays a violent sport therefore there must be some correlation in his mind between football and dog fighting, you know, he and his colleagues are trained to dish out punishment, inflict pain, so apparently they can’t distinguish between a football field and a fight pit. I also see where Dan Reeves has stepped forward to offer support for Vick, saying, “Sure, I’d do anything I could to help Mike. I think he’s basically a good person. Unfortunately, it just seems like he’s made some bad choices over the years.” To quote a former tennis great, “You cannot be serious!”
I always marvel when people make bad choices that involve life and death. I mean come on is there any perception of right and wrong here. Any concept of, “I don’t know, is this a bad choice to wet this dog down and then electrocute it?” If you’re that far off center on your good and bad choices you have far bigger problems then who your friends are and what you’re doing with your spare time.
Michael Vick is a grown man, famous, wealthy and more than able I’d guess to determine right from wrong. If he truly believed this was okay then why buy this secluded piece of property at 1915 Moonlight Road in southeastern Virginia. Why have a large fence at the rear of the property to shield what was going on from the general public. They found some 70 dogs there, 60 of which were pit bulls. Blood stains on walls, dog training equipment and paraphernalia associated with dog fighting. The owners called it “Bad Newz Kennels,” which may be more prophetic then they realized.
The NFL will close ranks and throw up their protective bubble and wait for the final verdict. Certainly everyone has a right to a speedy and fair trial and is innocent until proven guilty. Purportedly, however, there is an overwhelming amount of evidence that could lead to a conviction.
This, however, goes beyond bad choices in life. Bad choices are, I took the wrong job, married the wrong person or moved to the wrong city. This is a pure and simple matter of right and wrong. Do I sneak away into the countryside, train, torture and kill dogs. If you’re that hooked on gambling, head to Vegas where the only one who gets fleeced is you. Don’t misconstrue laying down a bet with torturing and killing an animal.
Who knows what the final outcome will be. We can only hope justice is served and those who made the wrong choices will have to pay for their recklessness and lack of respect. It’s hard to find pit bulls warm and cuddly, but what in the world does that make those who choose to abuse them?
HALFWAY TO DEJA-VU (7-15-07)
Well, here we are at the halfway point of the major league baseball season, give or take a game, and for the Rockies it would appear to be déjà vu all over again to quote a HOF catcher of some renowned.
<Jeff Francis as viewed by empty seats.
It’s funny or maybe not, but every year the Gen-R boys are either at the top of the National League in team hitting or near the top. Pitching, however, is another whole bailiwick. As of the writing of this article (7/15/07) the Rockies were number one in the NL with a team batting average of .276. That would be good for only sixth place in the American League, but its tops in the NL.
Then we come to the most important and decisive factor involved in winning at any level of baseball – pitching. And again, as always, the Rockies float near the bottom of not only the National League, but big league baseball in general. This is of course not news, as it persists year in and year out, and year in and year out we descend to the bottom or next to the bottom of the NL west standings.
I guess what puzzles me the most is why? Why would you own a team and not truly be interested in winning. It’s not like the Monfort’s are getting stinking rich off this venture, so what is the motive for them to keep the team? I’m sure they’re doing well financially or they’d have unloaded them by now, but to go through this every year, the players hoping to win, but not truly expecting to. The fans getting more and more frustrated, wishing in vain for a team that could actually compete for the NL west title.
So here we go again, a .500 team at the mid-point, in need of starting pitching. Will it happen? My guess – NO! History has taught us with this franchise that no move is a shrewd move, at least in their eyes and pocketbooks. For me the most frustrating part of all of this is – how long? Will this ever change or will the Monfort’s just keep on keepin’ on and ignore the obvious. If they want to win now or in the near future they’d better go get some starting pitching. Otherwise, next year at this time I can just reprint this same article…BORING!
New York State of Mind (7-5-07)
It would appear that our very own Colorado Rockies can only dominate teams from New York City and surrounding boroughs. What we have to do is somehow convince and/or brainwash them into believing that the Dodgers are in fact the Brooklyn Dodgers and the Giants are the New York Giants, as they used to be before most of these young Rocks were born.
This would provide them with a profound edge in their division and enable them to contend for the NL western division crown. Winning or possibly sweeping these two teams alone would guarantee at least twelve and possibly eighteen victories. Then all we’d have to do is persuade them that Phoenix is a New Jersey suburb and San Diego is located on the tip of Long Island. Again, winning the series or sweeping would lock them in as National League western division champs.
All this talk about humidors and shaky starting pitching would be immaterial. As they have proven, when facing a team in a New York state of mind, they are confident, a run scoring machine, sending Cy Young caliber pitchers to the hill. They are in fact superior in these games. The mind is a crafty and wonderful thing, especially when it truly believes, and the Rockies coaches merely have to make them accept as true that any team from the Big Apple, or nearby smaller fruits, are there for the taking. It has always been that way and always will be!
A-Rod-en Thing to Do! (7-5-07)
Unbelievable! Why would she do it? What in the wide world of Yankeedom was she thinking?
I’m or course talking about Cynthia Rodriquez and her inexplicable wearing of a tank top to a Yankees game with the constantly overused, and completely disgusting, For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge anagram. 
Pondering Cynthia Rodriquez. >
She has either flipped out, doesn’t care or truly believes in the message she was sending. Whatever the case I don’t care - It was classless, revolting and completely uncalled for. Apparently, Brian Cashman, the Yankees GM, called Mr. & Mrs. Spoiled - I don’t have a clue about real life, into his office and had a chat with them. As is always the case in these hearings, “We’ll keep it in house,” he said. To bad she didn’t feel that way about her wayward husband and their internal and seemly eternal strife. Had she chosen the high road, if that’s possible with these two, no one would have had to see this uncensored piece of garbage.
It must be hard to have all this money and fame and completely unable to deal with it. Oh, I know being in the limelight, especially in New York City is tough, insidious and apparently mind altering. But, there are those who seem to be able to handle it. Torre, Jeter and Willie Randolph come to mind. So, way to go CynRod, you’ve brought yet another piece of integrity to the most storied sports franchise in America.
Every time I see something like this I want to go buy another poster of Joe Sakic.
MY DAD (6-17-07)
I have never written anything about my dad, who unfortunately passed away back in 1983. The fact that I haven’t is my fault. He grew up on a small farm outside Eureka, Kansas, one of twelve children. His father passed away when he was around eight, so for all intents and purposes he was raised by his older brothers. He didn’t have any guidelines for being a father, so the fact that he was wonderful at it was a testament to him.
Phillip Warren Sumner was a big man who’d boxed professionally, been a prisoner of war in WWII, loved and was very good at hunting and fishing and cherished my baseball career. He knew nothing about baseball, which was fine, because he never butted in or tried to make suggestions. Where ever I played he’d find a way to get there and watch. Never once did he try to thrust himself into the scene. He’d merely encourage and support me.
In 1967 he and mom divorced and I foolishly removed myself from his life. He made a couple of attempts to reconnect and I half heartedly went along with it. But, the relationship I’d known my entire life was gone. We went our separate ways and never communicated again. Then in 1983, his second wife called my mom and told her he’d passed away while fishing in Wyoming. She’d had him cremated and had sprinkled his ashes along the “Miracle Mile” north of Rawlins, Wyoming. Amazingly she’d waited ten days after this was all said and done before notifying us. It did, and will always leave a hole in my heart I can never fill.
So here it is dad - you were the best! Here’s to all those Bronco games we went to, when they truly were terrible, to all those pheasant hunting trips and hours we spent on a peaceful flowing river always seeming to catch our limit. And to your undying love and support of my baseball career, paying for a lot of my education and always being there through thick and thin. The fact that we lost contact will haunt me the rest of my life.
I love you dad, and I always did…sadly I just didn’t let you know.
THE GREATEST WHINE OF ALL (5-29-07)
In this day and age of constant whining about big player contracts, drug usage in sports, eccentric whacked out owners, athletes in and out of jail, the Yankees having no pitching, and of course we can’t forget the Rockies. It’s hard to find a positive connotation to the word whine.
But here’s a beauty, formula one race cars!
There is absolutely nothing like being at a grand prix event when they fire up those engines and that high pitched, powerful scream starts. It’s as if a herd of wild animals is about to be let loose. And once they are…well, for me the feeling is nothing short of chilling.
I have heard it argued that there is no sport on the planet that requires more concentration that driving an open wheel race car. Having been to a few of these events and never missing the Indy 500, I would have to agree. You may have less than one second to hit a baseball coming at 90 mph, but in that same second going 200 plus mph, you might not only strike out on winning the race, you might loose your life. Other than boxing there aren’t many sports with that big a risk.
Having been fortunate enough to have seen these cars up close in the pits, they are amazingly small and compact. Crawling into a projectile with your derriere only a few inches from the blistering pavement is not something one would probably choose to do on a hot summer afternoon in front of thousands of people. Then to get this sarcophagus of potential disaster up over 200 mph is, I don’t know…insane. I have actually been up near 120 mph and thought I was going to fly, although not intentionally. I can not image going the speeds these drivers do, however, there is a part of me that wants to try. In reality that will probably never happen, so I’ll have to settle for watching and admiring in wonder. I’m not much of a drinker, but this is one whine I can truly enjoy on many levels.
HAVE GUN WILL TRAVEL (5-26-07)
His by-line should be, to quote that famous California Governor, “I’LL BE BACK!”
Now don’t get me wrong, as a pitcher I admire and respect Roger Clemens. The work ethic, determination and sacrifice it takes to pitch in the big leagues this long is truly remarkable. If he juiced or is juicing, shame on him. Eventually it will come out and diminish and hollow all of his accomplishments. I sincerely hope that’s not the case.
< The Rocket. His bank account is larger than Sumner's. A little bit!
My problem with him, however, is the known factor. Retire, maybe not, I’m back, now I’m retiring, no, yes, maybe…let’s make up our flipping mind. And beyond all that pseudo indecision and parlor magic is the scent of money. Oh, I know he said he has all the money he needs for several lifetimes, which he’s actually living out on the mound. Come on, does he really think we’re all that naïve, maybe so. After all we pay hard cash to see him and cheer him on as if all the theater is irrelevant. The actual performance itself doesn’t bother me as much as what it represents. The logical conclusion of his actions is, “If I’m a winner, can fill the seats, play part time, go home between starts, generally act autonomously, then you’ll just have to put up with me…oh, and by the way, I’ll cost you a ton.”
< "But I've told you Jan. It's not about the money!"
Scary trend if you ask me. I know there are not that many Clemens’ in the game and probably won’t be, unless of course roids becomes the legal rage, then watch out. But this does set an eerie, self-centered tone any way you cut it. With no salary cap (that’s another whole article) baseball has and will continue to feed the gunslingers ploy, “You want me…anti up!” And where are these mercenaries going to go – winners naturally, teams that have big budgets and a solid chance for the playoffs and beyond. Rockies, Pirates, Nationals, forget it. It’s part and parcel with what’s wrong with this great game. Before the season begins we can all name five or six teams that are no hopers. Oh, there are a few mid-range teams who surprise every year, but the winners on a consistent basis season in and season out are the same old teams…boring. What Roger Clemens represents is a microcosm of that very problem.
A.W.O.L....(4-29-07)
First, my apologies to Mr. Bill “Jee-Tah” Rogan for being absent for so long. My missing in action, however, was with good cause. My wife was severely injured (she’s much better now) and I bit off a little more than I could chew with business and baseball. I too am much better, so let’s catch up on what’s happening.
For starters I would like to send my thoughts and prayers to Joe Cullinane, who’s recovering from a broken hip. Joe’s the author of Face to Face With Sports Legends and a dear friend. GET WELL JOE!
As for the local sports scene the Bronco’s drafted to fill defensive needs, the Nuggets are hanging in the playoffs, the Avs didn’t make the playoffs for the first time in what…eighty years? Shows to go you what a cap can do. And last and certainly least the Rockies are in last place…what a shock!
While the Bronco’s will do whatever it takes to get back in prominence, as will the Avs, the Rocks will maintain the status quo, which is to say they’ll do nothing.
When you really think about it the Rockies are a fascinating organization. Year after year they dilute themselves into actually believing they’ll win. They play .500 or better ball during spring training (who cares?), then talk themselves up to the press and start the season full of false hope and impending mediocrity. By May or June they appear resigned to the fact that the season is already slipping away, and by July or August at the latest, they’re toast.
Granted they have some young talent, but only sparingly on the mound, and as we all know you’ll go as far as your hurlers will take you. Just ask the Yankees. Now, I’m not an O’Dowd fan by any stretch, but I’m not sure there’s any GM in the game who could succeed under this ownership. The amazing part of this statement is that everyone in Major League baseball, Denver and the free world knows it, except apparently the Monfort’s themselves. When someone continues to make the same mistake while expecting a different outcome, they are either stupid or they just don’t care. As the Monfort brothers are millionaires I think we can rule out stupid, which of course leaves us with…don’t care. Stupid can be overcome with education, don’t care, hopeless. Sadly, Rockies fans will have to put up with this arrogant attitude as long as these two charlatans are in charge. The only way to separate the Monfort’s from the Rockies is to separate the Monfort’s from what they treasure most…their money. No fanny’s in the seats means diminished revenues and that and only that is what they’ll pay attention to. I guess it’s up to us to show these dud’s the door. Hopefully, sooner than later Generation R will stand for a new generation of owners.
That being said, here’s to 2008 and the eternal hope that our boys of summer will be playing under a new regime!
PUT ME IN COACH (1-18-07)
I saw the Rockies signed Dave Veres to a minor league contract, with a distant hope he might be able to make it back to Coors Field. This was right after the Giants signed Barry Zito and the Dodgers had signed Jason Schmidt.
Believe me this is no slam on Veres, who hasn’t pitched in two years, has had arm surgery and will be playing with an artificial hip, not to speak of the fact he’s 40 years old. Kudos to him for even wanting to even try. This, however, is the truly important part, props to the Rocks for signing him. I say this in a completely selfish way. By the time the season rolls around I’ll be 62, can still touch 80 mph on the radar gun, with an above average curve, and here’s the best part, both my hips are still, well...factory originals.
Now, correct me if I’m wrong, and let’s be honest here, but, WHAT A DRAW! Veres starts the game, and of course these would have to be home games, nobody in Diamondbacks country would care, or would they? Come to think of it there are a lot of senior citizens living down there (Randy Johnson comes to mind) who just might be interested in two pitchers teaming up to throw a game who’s combined age is 102!
Veres could throw the first 3-4 innings and I could come in and throw the next 3-4, and then we could let Fuentes close it out - would that be incredible, not to speak of entertaining? If that isn’t a seat filler (no Depends jokes please) then I don’t know baseball fans over the age of sixty.
I have in fact talked to several people in the senior citizen age group and they told me they’d buy a ticket in a heartbeat…that is if they still had one, and could find their way to the ballpark.
Without question it would be a first for our National Pastime, and I would be honored to be part of it. But, the Rockies better hurry, because with Veres hip and my age, well, time and body parts are of the essence.
GONE-TIKI (12-4-06)
In 1950 a book by Thor Heyerdahl came out called Kon-Tiki. He believed South Americans could have settled Polynesia in pre-Columbian days and set out to prove it in his famous voyage.
The thought that something can be proven either prior to, or after the fact is always intriguing. Tiki Barber is in the process of doing just that. He’s leaving the game he loves after ten years, but before he’s stayed too long, to try and achieve normalcy in his life.
You know, simple things like being able to walk normally, bend down normally and play with his children as a normal dad. Oh, he’ll always be the great Giants running back who left the game before he had to, according to many in the media and the New York fans, but to many others in and out of the game, he’ll be doing the smart thing, and more importantly the right thing for himself and his family.
After all, once you’re out of the game you’re old news, forgotten. We want you at your best and we want you NOW! If you’re forced out of the game by the powers that be, or the forces of nature, then so be it. But to leave before we’ve determined you’re done, still healthy and presumably at a high performance level…well, that’s unacceptable. The sheer audacity of such a move is tantamount to insubordination. I mean, what can he be thinking, walking away from fame and fortune…concussions, knee operations, broken fingers, twisted ankles, etc., etc.
All I can say is, good for you Tiki!!!! Leave on your own terms, not those of people who will ultimately not care if you can walk and chew gum at the same time. Truly you are a man of principles – your own.
PETER (JAKE) PRINCIPLE (11-15-06)
In 1969 Dr. Laurence J. Peter wrote a book called the Peter Principle. In it he stated, "In a hierarchy every employee tends to rise to his level of incompetence."
Now don’t get me wrong, I like Jake Plummer. I truly believe he gives everything he’s got every play in every game. And beyond that he’s amazingly durable, but durability and tenacity can’t make up for a lack of size and talent.
< Jake the Snake
Oh, I know there are the Rudy and David Eckstein’s of the sports world, but at quarterback in the NFL that’s a tough gig. I think one of Jake’s major problems is his size. He’s listed as 6’2"? which by today’s standards is rather short for a quarterback. When you consider Manning (both of them), Brady and Roethlisberger, well you get my point. Then throw in the fact that linemen of today are anywhere from 6’4" to 6’8". Trying to see downfield from the pocket for Jake is like trying to pitch pennies over a seven foot wall. He’s at his best when he’s rolling out, throwing on the run. Sadly, everyone knows that, so teams design their defense to keep him inside, in the pocket, trying to look over tall buildings to throw down field.
This subject has been cussed and discussed by the sportswriters to the point of absurdity. Still, virtually every Sunday it rears its ugly head. As I’ve already mentioned, I think Jake is giving it all he’s got, but maybe, just maybe, he’s reached his highest level of incompetence.
<Jay Cutler
If in fact that’s the case then what is the answer? From my perspective it’s time. Jay Cutler is not yet ready to take command of this offense, but will be down the road. Till then we hurry up and wait. Eventually he’ll take over and I think can do some big things. We’ll just have to hope the rest of the offense and defense are with him and haven’t, as a group, fallen prey to the Peter Principle and reached their level of incompetence.
YOU CAN’T KILL IT WITH A STICK! 10-28-06
Well the Boys of Summer have done it again. Put a stain, so to speak, on the great game of baseball - this time during the World Series.
The re-MARK-able Kenny Rogers was found to have some sort of strange substance on the inside of his throwing hand. Whatever it was, dirt-tar-glue, or something maybe we don’t want to know about, he pleaded ignorance to the fact he knew it was there. Ah, but once he realized it (this of course only after he was informed by fellow teammates he’d been caught in the act) he headed to the clubhouse and removed it…sort of.
He may have removed it from his hand, but not the specter of the game. This is obviously but one example of cheating that has become all too prominent in our National Pastime. Oh it goes on in other sports for sure, but rarely is it as obvious as it was in game two of the Fall Classic.
Beyond the disappointment that it was there, was the fact that he made it so observable. I mean here’s a guy who’s been around, what, five days longer than chewing tobacco in baseball, and he can’t think of a better way to doctor the ball? But as he said, “Do you think I’m a genius out there? I’m not.” Really??? Well there’s a revelation. I guess the part that bothers me the most is, they (Kenny and the other guys who bend the rules) either think, or actually want to believe, we’re as dumb as they are. And there in lies the rub. They may be right. After all, some 79 million fans strolled through the turnstiles this season and baseball enjoyed revenues of over 5 billion dollars. Some how, some way baseball is doing something right…or maybe it’s just the game itself. After all, as Jerry Seinfeld once said, “All you’re really cheering for is uniforms.” Players come and go, but the Rockies will always be the Rockies whether it’s Todd Helton or John Doe at first base.
Still in all, it’s always painful to see the game we so love, tarnished by players who just can’t play it straight. Some say it’s the money, and I guess that’s probably the overriding factor.
After all from the Black Sox scandal to steroid use the game has survived and probably will continue to do so. As the late, great Buck O’Neil once told me when I asked him what he thought of baseball today, “You can’t kill it with a stick!”
It would appear he was right, but it sure gets old watching players try.
MISSED OPPORTUNITY (10-8-06)
Back in July I wrote an article decrying the fact Buck O’Neil was not elected into the Baseball Hall of Fame. As many others wrote and voiced, what a shame it would be if he passed away and then was posthumously inducted…well, sadly that’s what will have to happen now.
Buck died Friday night, October 6th in Kansas City.
I was one of the very fortunate people on this planet who got to spend some time with him. During a three hour interview back in 2003 I was absolutely taken with this man. He is one of the top one or two most charismatic people I have ever met. He was gracious, polite, funny and personified Negro League baseball. Over the past twenty years, he was the face and voice for all those men who played the game in the Negro Leagues, who have since passed on, unrecognized and sadly unappreciated until recently. The irony is that some of them now grace the halls of Cooperstown while he remained on the outside looking in. Now, as is too often the case, he’s gone. My guess is that they’ll find a way next year to enshrine him, one year too late.
I have been involved in baseball my whole life, talked to many ball players at all levels, including managers, coaches, you name it. Never have I talked to a man so passionate about the game. His infatuation transcended all he’d been through. I would ask him a question, he’d get that big infectious grin on his face, his eyes would light up and he’d let fly with some fabulous story or opinion. Satisfied with his answer, he’d fold his arms, rock back in his chair and utter, “uh huh, uh huh.”
Now he’s gone and all that’s left is what he did and those he touched. I for one feel blessed I got to be one of those people. Anyone who is aware of all he did, not only for the Negro Leagues, but baseball in general, or got to hear him speak, or got to interview him as I did, knows we have lost a great American, a man who represented himself and his sport with the utmost dignity and compassion. Putting John Jordon “Buck” O’Neil in the Baseball Hall of Fame will take place, and deservedly so, but oh what a grand opportunity we missed. We could have told him to his face what he so longed to hear, “Buck, welcome to the Baseball Hall of Fame, your journey’s over!”
BASEBALL MEDIOC-ROCKIE
I noticed in the standings today (9/23) that of the thirty major league teams, only fourteen are playing winning baseball - five in the National League and nine in the American. I suppose this is all fine and dandy, after all somebody’s got to win and somebody’s got to lose. And God knows we’ve grown accustomed to losing here in Rockieville.
It’s funny how a sort of malaise sets in, and in some strange way deep in your psyche you become accustomed to mediocrity, it’s okay, it’s the norm, after all, most of the teams in the bigs are under five hundred. We then are just part of the herd, one of the pack, underachievers, low budget, and generally made up of draft choices, minor leaguers and players to be named later.
Now to be fair, we’re not alone, there are the Royals, Pirates, Devil Rays, and (painfully) the Cubs. But none of them play here, at least on a regular basis, so it’s the Rockies were stuck with game in and game out. Certainly I don’t want to take anything away from the young ballplayers the club has brought up, who may or may not make it eventually, but the question remains, how many players and how many years is this going to take. Some of us are getting on in years and we’d like to still be mentally competent when and if winning takes place.
Most certainly the ownership doesn’t give a hoot about what I think or sadly what you think. The dwindling attendance is evidence of that. But at some point even they must realize that having more vendors than fans in the stands is not a good thing…wouldn’t you think? Eventually it’s going to be embarrassing for these minor league kids to come up and be playing in front of the same size crowds they did while playing for the Asheville Tourists. If we’re not careful we may have to rename the Rockies after that minor league affiliate, because the only fans attending games at Coors will be tourists.
I don’t know exactly what the answer is, except maybe, new ownership, new players (read - a sprinkling of veterans to compliment and guide the young players we have) and most assuredly a new attitude – MEDIOCITY IS NOT ACCEPTABLE!
LITTLE League World Series (8-27-06)
Well, here we go again, the LITTLE League World Series in Williamsport, PA. What an incredible opportunity for these young (11-13 years old) ballplayers to display their honed skills before family, friends…and the entire world.
I don’t know about you, but for the life of me I don’t see how this could possibly put any more pressure on them then say, taking a math test at school or cleaning their room so they can go hang with their friends. What an opportunity to shine, it’s on ESPN, dished all over the planet...get it together boys, step up to the plate, show us what you’ve got.
And to think these kids have the audacity to cry when they loose, c’mon grow up, there’s no crying in baseball. Act like your big brothers in the BIG Leagues, be a man! After all the pressure hasn’t gotten to them, they don’t cry, they find other ways of getting around the demands of the game through better science.
< "There's no crying in little league. Wait, yes there is."
Plus, I think it’s always intriguing to see an eleven year old pitcher throwing a curve ball. I don’t think there’s anyone in baseball who wouldn’t agree that’s not only crafty, but certainly supports the theory that pitchers take longer to develop than position players. We all know the prodigious number of pitchers who have gotten their sea legs throwing breaking pitches at that age and then made that easy and natural progression to the major leagues. I commend all those involved in this wise choice.
The true essence of any sport is winning, and most assuredly winning at all cost. Youth sports have become the very embodiment of this philosophy. I don’t think there’s any parent or grandparent who doesn’t relish the sight of their son/grandson or daughter/granddaughter writhing under extreme pressure to perform. After all it’s what life is all about, growing up with the anxiety to succeed.
Here’s to you LITTLE Leaguers…have some fun!
BASEBALL’S POLE POSITION (7-30-06)
In the latest Sports Illustrated I see where in a MLB player’s poll (470 major leaguers surveyed) the question was asked, “Should these players be elected to the Hall of Fame?” The players listed were Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Rafael Palmeiro and Pete Rose. The players voted yes on all four by astonishing percentages: Bonds - 93%, McGwire – 92%, Palmeiro – 67% and Rose – 81%.
The only one they seemed a little dubious about was Palmeiro. Maybe that’s because he was the most recent alleged violator, coupled with the fact he was the most defiant at the Congressional hearings. Whatever the reasoning, it seems incomprehensible that Bonds and McGwire could get the numbers they did. Now I know there’s the ‘baseball family’ and ‘what happens in the locker room, stays in the locker room’ but come on. If you have someone in the locker room, family dinning room or board room, if they’ve cheated, lied or deliberately broken the rules you do something about it. Banding together, covering it up and then stating publicly through a poll that these guys should be voted into the Hall of Fame is ludicrous.
The irony of this is that these very same players know better than anyone whether these guys were on performance enhancing drugs (PID’s). My guess is that the media and fans, given what we know, would come close to flipping these percentages.
How in the world does MLB hope to clean up its image, as it relates to PID’s, when you see a pole like this. As they stated in Game of Shadows, if there had been no BALCO investigation, baseball would have gone on its merry little way, and who knows we might eventually have a fifty year old ballplayer breaking Bonds record.
But, since leisure money is spent on entertainment to a great extent, and since baseball is entertainment, maybe nobody cares. Today baseball fans, especially the young ones, want to see runs scored, and the best of that is a homerun. If guys get juiced up and smack the ball out of the park…so be it. It is after all what they came to see. Cheating, kind of cheating, maybe cheating, who cares, it’s not about the game, it’s about the SHOW!
COOPERSTOWN – BASEBALL MECCA (6-20-06)
Even though he was never allowed to play in white major league ball, his story now resides in the one place that represents baseball like no other, the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown.
<"Mex" as a Monarch .
I am speaking of course of Byron “Mex” Johnson, whose biography, Legacy of a Monarch – an American Journey; I was honored to present June 10th in the Bullpen Theater at the Hall of Fame.
For those of you who have been there you know what I’m talking about. For those who have not been there – GOOOOOOO!!!
I have been to many big league parks, pitched in many more parks and thrown off the mounds at Coors Field, Dodger Stadium and Wrigley Field, but never have I been in a place so totally devoted to baseball. Virtually every shop and café has a theme either completely dominated by or centrally associated with the game. It is truly nirvana for those who love the game and interesting, and to a degree, fascinating for those who merely like the game. But what ever the case, no one can deny it’s the heart and soul of our national pastime.
< The Baseball Hall of Fame.
The Hall itself offers pictures, presentations and memorabilia unsurpassed anywhere. Where else can you buy a replica baseball from the late 1800s, or see life size statues in full uniform of Ted Williams and Babe Ruth swinging for the fences. Or, much to my amazement, a baseball located in the bottom of a long vertical showcase, next to oversized photos of Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris – it was Maris’ sixty-first home run ball. Then there’s the Negro League section with a Dodgers warm up jacket worn by Jackie Robinson. I could go on and on, but do to time constraints and my diminishing memory I’ll refrain.
To be there in front of my family and friends and Byron’s family and present his story is one of the highlights of my life. But even if a presentation hadn’t been in the offering, I wouldn’t have wanted to miss it.
It’s a little tough to get to, but well worth the effort. Quaint, charming and baseballesque, it has it all. If you’ve been thinking about going, make some plans. If you’ve never really thought about it, start thinking. The easiest way, if you’re not driving, is to fly into Albany and make the sixty mile drive down. Or you can fly into New York City or Boston and drive the 4-5 hours to Cooperstown. It’s beautiful country with captivating homes, beautiful farms and landscape. And there nestled in the middle is the Mecca of baseball – Cooperstown!
<Cooperstown, NY.
"BUS" (5-24-06)
What can you say about a man who has given so much too so many?
That man of course would be Robert "Bus" Campbell.
I first met "Bus" while I was playing baseball at George Washington High School here in Denver. I’d always been a shortstop, but when I got to high school they converted me into a pitcher. I knew nothing about pitching and sadly neither did my coach. All I could do was throw hard, so I did. I was miles away from being even remotely called a pitcher.
Enter "Bus." He saw me throw a game against his team’s chief competitor and asked me if I’d like to work with him. I’d heard of him and certainly knew who he was, so I jumped at the chance. He turned me into a pitcher, as he has so many young men.
He got me hooked up for a college baseball scholarship, at then Colorado State College, and mentored me till I was done. And, as was typical for Bus, he did it without fan fare and at no charge.
He’s produced many top prospects and assisted and helped many future and current major leaguer hurlers. He’s eighty-five now and retired, but still reaches out to young men when ever he can to provide teaching, counseling and sound advice about their futures in baseball.
He is one of the finest men I have ever known. I salute you Robert "Bus" Campbell for a job well done and a life well spent!
Your eternally grateful friend
Jan Sumner
A HOLE IN ONE…HEAD!
I just read an article in Sports Illustrated by Rick Reilly about a guy in Minnesota who this past year played 572 rounds of golf.
What can you say about that except…pleeeese! How is that possible, and more importantly why?
Now I have many friends who play golf and love it, and are good at it. As they will attest, I have never been much a fan of golf. Oh, I tried for a number of years and gave it up. To technical, to slow, too much time spent wandering through tall grass, moving tree branches, digging in who knows what kind of undergrowth to find a precious little white ball, just to take another mighty hack and start the process all over again. Now obviously, I stunk, which quite obviously played into my decision to hang it up.
But, beyond that it just seemed strange to have to worry about my hand grip, placing the ball more forward or backward in my stance depending on the shot. I mean, come on, where’s the quick jerk muscle reaction required to hit a fastball, or juke a tackler, or sky to block a jump shot? The closest you’d come to encountering this aspect on the golf course is following one of my tee shots. I have, on occasion, seen part of my foursome, or an adjacent foursome, have to use every quick twitch muscle in their body to avoid permanent or possibly terminal injury.
So, I guess part of my giving up golf was with respect to my fellow man, and a few house pets in nearby yards. I have in fact probably saved several thousand dollars of personal property and maybe a life or two.
Still in all it’s a game I’ve never quite understood. As Mark Twain once said, “It’s a good walk spoiled.” I couldn’t agree more Sam!
BASEBALL BEEN BARRY, BARRY GOOD TO…?
Now there’s a question. Certainly, good to Barry Bonds, until, you know, he came under scrutiny. But I’m sure it’s that way for anybody who’s on top of their game until it’s discovered how and why they were so - on top!
That’s not to say Barry isn’t or wasn’t a great player – he was. There just aren’t many five tool guys that come along like him. But, allegedly, after he saw that wasn’t what sold seats or lined his coffers, he decided to change his reproach.
And so, here we are. The commish has decided to, “Investigate.”
It reminds me of the old saying, “You can lead a horse to water, but can he determine if it’s HGH or H2O before he drinks it.” I foresee some of the horses, if you will, going up and down the stream looking for a bridge to get across, some tiptoeing in and testing the depth, while others just plowing in and the results be dammed.
Once, when I was interviewing Buck O’Neil, I asked him what he thought of the future of baseball. “You can’t kill it with a stick,” he said emphatically. And as we know that has always been true. It has survived World War I & II, the Great Depression, the Black Sox Scandal and most recently the 1994 strike. But the wars and the Depression were external influences for which baseball actually provided a bromide. When the 1919 Black Sox Scandal occurred, baseball was king, and the next year Judge Kenesaw Mountain Landis took over and laid down the law, permanently banning the infamous eight White Sox players. In the publics eye he did what was required to salvage the integrity of the game. Then along came the strike in 1994, and who came to the rescue, Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa, with their dinger derby in 1998.
And now there’s a shadow (albeit not as bulked up as it was then) hanging over that.
Juiced and Shadows, two books that have brought baseball to its knees, or at least into a deep crouch. The overwhelmingly sad part of all of this to me is the kids. What must they truly think? Oh, I’ve asked some of the young kids I work with and they’ll say, “I know, steroids are bad for me and Barry Bonds is an idiot.” I never know if it’s them or their parents talking. All I do know is when you look in the stands and see ten and twelve year olds with their gloves; they are the future of the game.
If we don’t take care of this problem vigorously and justly they’re the ones who will live with the consequences. What will the message be? Will we tell them baseball’s a sham, win any way you can, or that this is a game of wonder, requiring persistence, skill and a heart untainted by anything other than the smell of grass, the feel of leather, and the sound of the crack of a bat.
You may not be able to kill it with a stick, but you can sure render it meaningless with a needle.
Chacon… the Pitcher
I just read in the paper where Shawn Chacon stated he has learned how to pitch with the Yankees as opposed to just being a thrower with the Rockies.
“That was one of the things I didn’t get about the Rockies, why they got so caught up in the (radar gun). They didn’t seem to understand that I finally learned how to pitch instead of just throw.”
Now, there’s a new flash - pitching instead of throwing. As any good baseball person will tell you, it all starts and ends with pitching. Never have I heard a major league pitcher, coach or manager say, “Throwing is going to get us where we want to go.”
Having worked with major league, minor league, college and high school pitchers, it is virtually always the same thing - getting them away from just throwing the ball and learning how to pitch.
On the surface that would seem to be not a difficult task. But given that all youngsters grow up just throwing the ball, it can be quite a challenge to learn how to change speeds and develop the finesse part of the art of pitching.
Sadly, there are too many teams still hung up on how hard a guy throws versus can he get hitters out. I have worked with many pitchers over the years, and the kids who couldn’t light up the gun, were for the most part ignored by scouts. It’s no coincidence that year in and year out the big league teams with outstanding pitchers, not throwers, win the World Series.
Unfortunately, the Rockies seem to be one of those radar gun teams. Certainly, there are additional challenges throwing at Coors Field, but just winding up and gunning it isn’t the solution.
Developing pitchers who can change speeds and have a good sinking fastball are in my mind the keys to success at Coors Field. But, as long as the Rocks continue to emphasize throwing over pitching, I think we’re in for a long wait to gain the post season. Believe me, Chacon is not an isolated case.
PASTIME SUMMER 1964
Baseball With a Black Team
by
Jan Sumner
THIS WOULD BE THE LAST HOPEFUL SUMMER of my baseball career, and it would be the most memorable.
Back in the 1960s, summer baseball for college students centered on what was then called “semi-pro” ball. It was a mixture of college ballplayers and an eclectic group of older guys, some of whom had played professional baseball at various levels. It was, for the most part, very competitive. For me, it was my first summer away from the high school legion programs. To say it was an interesting transition would be putting it mildly. I would grow up a lot that summer, not the least of which was altruistically.
President John Kennedy had been assassinated seven months prior, and there was a sense of mourning still hanging over the country. I, like many other Americans, didn’t believe it when first told. It was my freshman year at Colorado State College (now the University of Northern Colorado), and we were eating in the dorm cafeteria, when a student bolted in and yelled, “The President’s been shot,” then turned and ran out. I was sitting with a couple of buddies, one of whom turned to me and said, “Yeah, sure, and his wife ran off with an Arab prince.” We made our way to the TV lounge. There he was…Walter Cronkite soulfully telling us the unthinkable. Where we were, what we were doing, and who we were with, things we would never forget.
That year in the majors the St. Louis Cards won the World Series beating the Yankees in seven games. I’d grown up a Brooklyn Dodgers fan, so anyone who defeated the boys in pin stripes was a friend of mine. Plus the Cards had the great Bob Gibson, my favorite right hander of all time, so that made it doubly delicious.
I was nineteen years old in 1964 and a pitcher. Or at least thought I was a pitcher. That same year Wally Bunker, age nineteen, won nineteen games for the Baltimore Orioles. I found it both depressing and inspiring at the same time. On the down side, here I was just trying to find myself as a hurler in the college ranks, and here he was winning games in the big leagues. On the positive side, it gave me hope. I was still young, could throw hard, so maybe, just maybe, there was a chance. That chance and my dream would all come to an abrupt end the next summer.
They were called the Denver Merchants. Each semi-pro team had a team sponsor or sponsors. Ours was a group of downtown merchants, most of whom were black retailers. The team itself was made up almost exclusively with black ballplayers. During those years CSC (Colorado State College), was the dominant college baseball program in the region, due in large part to the pitching staff. The Merchants recruited three of us to pitch for them that summer, along with our backup shortstop. All our homes games were played at 23rd and Welton in what could best be described as a shoebox- shaped ballpark. The right field fence was a mere 220 feet from home plate with an extended fence on top. Left field was about 350 feet and center, well, let’s just say it would have been a challenge for Mickey Mantle.
Up until this point I’d only played with and against my peers. Now for the first time I was going against grown men, some of whom where in their thirties and forties. I felt young and inexperienced…and so I was.
I’d gone to a high school which had only two black students among over two thousand. This was the first time I’d know the feeling of being in the minority. There was Vern, and Buck, Jim and Curt, along with a number of others I unfortunately can’t remember. Our manager was a large black man named Gene. He was loud, intimidating and got things done. To a man they couldn’t have treated me better.
Vern and Jim had played against Satchel Page, while several of the others had played various levels of professional baseball, including the old black Negro Leagues. It wouldn’t take me long to realize these guys could play some ball.
I only had about a one week break between the end of our spring season at CSC and the beginning of the summer season with the Merchants. Their first game was against Maddox Ice, one of the better teams in the league, whose first baseman used to coach me in high school and had actually become a good family friend. Mike had played some pro ball in the Yankee farm system, but never made it to the Show. He had a pretty good temper, showing it regularly the summer I played for him. But he’d made me grow as a pitcher, become more tenacious, aggressive. For that I will always owe him a debt of gratitude.
That summer I’d played for him, he’d take batting practice off of me at the end of the day. He’d look out at me and say, “Come on Jan, bring it. Try and get it by me.” I could throw hard for high school, but here was a grown man, who’d played some pro ball - he teed off on me. He’d crack one over the fence or out into the parking lot, then look at me and grin. Hey, it was a man against a boy. That would change three years later.
Here I was throwing the opener for the Merchants against Maddox Ice and my buddy Mike. He hit third for them. We were playing at our park with the short right field porch. Perfect for Mike, who hit left-handed.
I had grown a little, put on a few pounds, and was throwing over ninety mph. Mike always had some chew in his mouth and his first at-bat, dug in, looked out and…spit at me. This was the first time we’d faced each other in a serious situation. I stepped up on the rubber, stared in…and spit back, well, drooled down my chin, but he got the point. He’d taught me well.
He went one for three off of me that day, a single up the middle, but I struck him out twice, both times with heat. After the game he came up to me and said, “You throw a little harder than I remember.” Sadly that was the last time I ever saw him. Our friendship seemed to end that day.
That game was, however, the beginning of a summer baseball odyssey that still lingers more that any other. Besides our home park, we played all along the Front Range with a culminating state tournament in the small eastern Colorado town of Hugo. There was also a mid-season tournament in Greeley, where I went to school. All in all we played around twenty to thirty games from June through August. Everyone had jobs and families, which meant games were played on weekends or at night during the week. I too had a summer job and a girlfriend, so fitting the games in was difficult at times.
We won that first game against Maddox Ice and continued to win till we met the Boulder Collegians in Boulder. It was a night game and I wasn’t throwing. The Collegians were not only a local powerhouse, but a national contender as well. Their squad was made up almost exclusively with star college players from various states. That night they threw a phenom from Arizona State University against us. He was throwing somewhere in the 95-97 mph range. I don’t necessarily remember seeing the ball, but you could hear it…sort of.
About the sixth inning he came up to hit, stroked one into left field and took off for first base. He’d taken about three steps up the line when I heard a loud pop, like a gunshot. He crumpled to the ground letting out a scream, clutching his leg around the ankle. His Achilles tendon had snapped and rolled up the back of his leg. It was horrible to hear and see. I’ll never forget them taking him away, knowing that was the end of his career.
As I mentioned, we played a number of games at night, and some of the ballparks had some, shall we say, questionable lighting. For hard throwers this was an advantage, and since I only new how to throw hard in those days, throwing in the dark was great, and even better once I got the ball scuffed up.
Well, one night I was throwing against a future major league pitcher, Barry Lersch, who spent about six years in the big leagues, mostly with the Phillies. I had thrown against him in high school, college and now here in semi-pro. We were both having a pretty good night, Barry with his big curve ball and me with the heat. We finally took a 3-1 lead into the seventh. I was sitting on the bench waiting to go out for the eighth. The dugouts were made of chain link fencing and ours backed up to a pathway behind. Suddenly I felt something poking me in the back through the fence. I turned to find an old black man in an overcoat, bent over sticking his finger through the fence, jabbing me in the ribs. It was a very warm night, so the overcoat should have been my first clue. I looked him in the face and could see he was feeling no pain. He pushed his finger back through the fence and said, “Touch my finger.”
“What?” I said.
“Touch my finger,” he said, getting louder.
By now all the guys on the bench had noticed and were starting to get amused. I stuck my finger out and touched the end of his finger. He turned his finger like it was caught in a flame, pulled it back through the fence, said, “You’s cool on the mound baby.” Then turned and shuffled off up the street. The team broke out laughing, along with hooting and howling, about how “cool” I was on the mound. This endorsement of course had come from a man who had consumed a little too much liquid refreshment. I may have been a number of things on the mound…I didn’t think cool was one of them.
Most of our games were played on Sunday afternoons. Our home park in downtown Denver offered no relief from the sun. It was bracketed with concrete sidewalks, which in turn were surrounded by blacktop streets. The entire field was dirt and gravel. This all equated to extremely hot conditions. There were metal bleachers on the first and third base sides outside the chain link fencing. They were benches about four or five rows high.
Virtually, every Sunday afternoon with the game in the third or fourth inning, an old man, wrapped in winter wear, complete with top hat and cane would show up and amble along in front of the stands. As he passed by the spectators, he’d stop, turn to the fans and reach out and lift one of the women’s skirts with his cane. They’d slap the cane away, yell at him, “Harold, get out of here,” then burst out laughing. He’d pivot, place the cane back on the ground and without saying a word, saunter on up the street. It got to the point I started looking for him every game…I was never let down.
That applied to the entire summer. I was never disappointed. We lost in the state tournament, which was at the time frustrating, but taken in context with the whole summer, seems insignificant now. What I gained far exceeded a few defeats.
Of all the summers I played baseball, it still remains the most vivid in my memory. The bandbox ballpark, the hot days and hotter uniforms. Vern, our catcher, standing in the on deck circle smoking, then putting his cigarette out on a callas in his hand. Hitting a home run and having the entire team meeting me at home plate, as happy as I was for having hit it. Bill, our massive center fielder hitting a home run at our home park that had to have gone well over 500 feet. It cleared the center field fence and landed on top of a small office building. The laughing and kidding, and the sadness when it was over. I left at the end of the season with every intention of playing for them the next summer. That summer never came.
I was almost killed in a car wreck coming back from school that next summer and for all intents and purposes my baseball career was over. I never saw or heard from any of them again, but I’ll never forget my last pastime summer of baseball.
PASSING THE BUCK
Like many others I was surprised and a little dumbfounded to see Buck O’Neil not granted access to the sacred confines of the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown.
I am one of the fortunate ones who has spent some time with Buck, talking amazingly enough, about baseball. In researching my book on Byron "Mex" Johnson, Legacy of a Monarch, I went to Kansas City and spent several hours interviewing one of the most charismatic men I’ve ever met. Now certainly charisma doesn’t supplant batting average numbers, or RBI, or the fact he toiled for many years, not only as a player but a manager in the Negro Leagues. But in today’s sports world of ME athletes, a man with the passion for the game, a man who put team first and even now seems reconciled to his plight, "Don’t weep for Buck," there must be a place in those hallowed halls for a man of his ilk.
I can only guess this had more to do with politics than numbers. Foots played or coached for eighteen years in what was then and is now being recognized as a captivating era in the history our beloved game. Beyond that, he is the last remaining figurehead of that bygone generation. If this man who meant so much then, and should represent so much now, is allowed to fade away, as so many other Negro League players have, then shame on us for letting it happen.
I will be presenting Legacy of a Monarch at the Baseball Hall of Fame in June, and sadly Byron Johnson, who passed away last September, won’t be able to relish the moment. Let’s not wait till Buck is no longer with us and then decide he was a worthy recipient. After all those years of living and playing in the shadows, let him step into the light of Cooperstown.
