It’s the morning after #756, and in a certain way I’m glad I wasn’t there. My dad had our group’s tickets last night, and my uncle, his younger brother, was his guest.
They grew up in the tumbling hills near Pasadena, back when you could at least occasionally see across the L.A. basin and everyone had orange and avocado trees in their backyards. My dad moved to Northern California for medical school in the early 1960s and never considered a return. My uncle, a health inspector for the county, followed a couple decades later with his family and with tales of working the downtown beat that included the facilities at Dodger Stadium. I can’t recall if he ever saw anything as bad as this, but he did see Tommy Lasorda on a regular basis.
My dad grew up in pre-major-league Los Angeles, where the Pacific Coast League was the big game in town. He remembers going to see the Los Angeles Angels (of Los Angeles) when they played at Wrigley Field — the one in South-Central. The big leagues came west in 1958, and my dad soon moved north and became a Giants fan.
I was too young to remember Mays, Marichal and Cepeda, but my Giants fervor was in full bloom when Willie McCovey returned from exile in the late ‘70s. I vaguely remember being at Candlestick for McCovey’s final home run, or was it his final game? I don’t have the ticket stub to prove either one.
I liked nothing better than to listen to Hank Greenwald call the play-by-play on the radio and re-enact the game in my room, shadowing each Giant swing of the bat and each Giant pitch. My own simulcast. For less conventional fare, I turned to my dad’s dad — my Papa Frank —who liked to brag about his Chicago sandlot pitching exploits, when he was known far and wide as “Eagle Eye.”
Last night, Hank Aaron’s speech reminded everyone that baseball is bigger than its players, its scandals, its franchises and tin-horn suzerains. Aaron forced everyone with a grievance to take a deep breath. He drew the arc of history over the evening in a way that fireworks, standing ovations and press conferences could never do.
I’m glad my father was there. He is the reason for my love of baseball, he is part of the same arc that has passed from Bobby Bonds to Barry Bonds; from Russ Hodges, Lon Simmons, Hank Greenwald and Jon Miller to anyone within earshot; from any parent, uncle, older brother or sister to any kid with a cheap glove and a home-made jersey. It’s an arc filled with stories and tall tales, with weekend games of strikeouts in schoolyards, of neatsfoot oil and folding the bill of the cap just so. After last night, my dad has another story to share, and I can’t wait to hear it.
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SMALL PRINT UPDATE: I just found out about Yard Work. It’s satire. It’s on the blog roll.
Have I mentioned I’ve been listening intently to Wilco’s Sky Blue Sky? Have I nominated “You Are My Face” for best song of the year? I have now. The rest of the album has highs and lows. This review dwells on the latter. I think the addition of avant-jazz guitarist Nels Clins is inspired, not wasted, but I agree that some of the material is sub-par.
>>It’s an arc filled with stories and tall tales, with weekend games of strikeouts in schoolyards, of neatsfoot oil and folding the bill of the cap just so. After last night, my dad has another story to share, and I can’t wait to hear it.
In a short entry filled with great stuff, I just wanted to point out these two lines. This is great writing.