brewers baseball and things


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Fun-go Man strikes again!

*In case you’re bored and didn’t read the first part of this post – The Fun-go Man, here’s the link – https://brokenbatsbaseball.wordpress.com/2022/12/23/the-fun-go-man/

“What’s your name anyway kid?” asked fungo man.

The beer had gotten to me. A tear appeared in my eye, then another. They both roll down my cheek. I hadn’t cried since being above that bus motor, the hum of it so steady, unlocking a part of me I typically had no access to.

“This is no time for tears,” said pitching coach Andy Wetchman (Wetchy). “We got a game tonight. In less than an hour, this clubhouse will be filled with players and they got no time for feeling sorry for themselves, no time for distractions like that. Ambrosia is pitching tonight and he’s got control, elite control, not much junk, not much of a fastball either, but he throws strikes and so players got to be on their toes, focused come first pitch, ready for the ball coming their way. They’ll be playing jacks and hackey sack in preparation, playing right up until batting practice. Ya gotta be sharp when Ambrosia is pitching. No humming Esquivel in the outfield, no picking up stones and trying to flick them in the same spot, no rituals, no good luck charms. This is about skill and if there are bad hops, you block them with your chest, pick up the ball and throw the runner out.”

I stopped crying and looked at fungo man.

“My name is Trevor, but people back home called my Butch.”

“What…you play third base?” asked Wetchy. “They don’t pay much to play on this team, just enough for rent and some grub at Sal’s Diner, but we sure could use a third baseman. So do you play?”

Fungo man walked over to the fridge and removed three more beers.

“Hey, we gotta game in four hours,” yelled Wetchy. “No time for beer.”

Fungo man tossed me a beer.

“Like we need to be sober during a game,” laughed fungo man. “You’re so god damn stiff Wetchy. When you walk out to the mound, you’re supposed to loosen up the pitcher, not stress him out and cause him to groove pitches in the batter’s wheelhouse or get him aiming too much and throwing wild pitches. You could use a beer or three before the game, a little mental calisthenic.”

“What are you talking about,” snapped back the pitching coach Wetchy. “You don’t do anything all game, except chew gum and blow bubbles, pretending to be Kurt Bevacqua! You’ll never get your face on a baseball card. The day they make one for a fungo man is the day I hand in my uniform, cash in my last check, and go and see Linda over in Hanker County.”

“How you manage to keep her under your skin,” snapped fungo man, “is more of a miracle than Oil Can Boyd, all six feet, one inch, 155 pounds of him. He’s lucky a nor’easter didn’t blow him right out of Boston and you’re lucky that Linda over in Hanker County hasn’t done the same with you.”

Fungo man put his arm on Wetchy’s shoulder, squinted his eyes in my direction and asked what I wanted to know about the stadium. I repeated what I had told them before, about houses and castles and churches and bridges and all the things man had built, from teepees to skyscrapers to baseball stadiums, dugouts too. I took a big hit from the beer can, nearly half the can, and revealed that I liked to sleep inside stadiums, to find a cubby hole somewhere and doze off to the lingering smell of hot dogs.

“So you’re a loiterer,” snarked Wetchy, “a bum and so young too. Ah what the hell. If you can play third, we’ll give you a shot.”

“Why do you assume every human being is a baseball player?” asked fungo man, “or has the potential to be one? You suffer from a one track mind Wetchy. There are players and there are fans and then there are those who like to sleep inside stadiums.”

I took another hit off the beer, took a deep breath, let out a long exhale, and began to speak.

“I lost my parents to a double suicide and bought a bus ticket to San Diego, but that wasn’t my destination.”

“Where were you planning to go?” asked fungo man.”

“Anywhere but home. I had three weeks to use the ticket and I could stop and stay anywhere along the way.”

“So let me guess. Three weeks passed and you wound up in Marshville,” said an irritated Wetchy. “No one comes here unless they have a little baseball left in the tank….washed up prospects who lost their chance at making it, for one reason or another…..tripped over a sprinkler, busted their ankle, screw inserted, hobblers for the rest of their life, but good enough to play first base in Marshville, Bill Buckner their patron saint. Others took to cocaine and booze, spent years in the gutter, but experienced a baseball revelation, to pray to Jesus and to play ball, a Josh Hamilton species. And you? You come to Marshville and don’t have some tragic story ending in a return to the game that once made you happy? I don’t believe you.”

“No,” I said. “I just wound up here, as random as a monk parakeet in Brooklyn.”

“That’s not so random,” snapped back Wetchy, “because there are monk parakeets in Brooklyn and yeh, them and their lime green fluorescent feathers stick out like a toilet in a farm field, but they are far from random. They’ve been there for decades. Build nests at the top of electric posts. I’ve seen them up on Avenue J. You ain’t fooling anyone kid.”

Fungo man walked back to the fridge a third time and tossed me another beer.

“So, what’s with the stroller?” he asked.

“It’s where I stash my beer. Last thing my parents drank before they overdosed. I like sharing the euphoria they experienced. Reminds me that there’s still a chance.”

“Do you ever watch baseball?” asked fungo man.

“Oh yeh. I don’t remember when I first caught the fever, but the first player I remember was John Briggs. My dad was from Philly and he had a poster of Briggs up on his bedroom wall.”

I stood up and walked towards the water cooler, my back to Wetchy and fungo man. “I think I inherited my mom and dad’s melancholy, “the fits,” my dad called it. Whenever I got that way, dad reminded me that Briggs played 12 years and finished with a batting average above .250 and an OB% above. 350, signs of consistency, “which is what we’re striving for,” he would say. He taught me how to play strat-o-matic baseball and took me to baseball card conventions.”

“Do you collect sets or individual cards?” asked a warmer Wetchy. ” I see you as a sets guy, someone who likes completion.”

“I collect both. All kind of cards,” I said. “Come to think of it. I should go back home and get my cards before they seize our home.”

A few minutes passed. It was the first time in weeks that I hadn’t thought about my mom and dad, my mind suddenly occupied by baseball cards.

“I got an idea,” said fungo man”

He started pacing.

“Did you ever hear of the Continental League?” he asked.

“Yeh, my dad talked about it as a way to mellow the sting of New York losing both the Dodgers and Giants. A new league that never happened, right?”

“Something like that. Well, it’s about to happen again,” replied fungo man.

“What is?” I asked with sincere curiosity. “Don’t tell me we’re gonna turn Marshville and its competitors into the Continental League? I like that idea. We could compete with the MLB.”

“Well, that would never work,” said fungo man. “You know how the MLB gobbles up all rival leagues. But, we’re gonna tell anyone that asks what you’re doing here that your grandfather was set to be a journalist for the Continental League and when the league never happened, he passed on the journalism itch to your father and when your father died, his last words were “Continental Times.” It’s your turn kid.

“Turn for what,” I asked.

“You’re gonna write about every game that’s played here at Hawthorne Stadium and there are plenty of games. All teams play here, all 12 of them and on some Saturdays, there are four games, first one starting at 9:00 a.m. so get your pen and paper ready. It’s the beginning of the Continental Times. I have a copy machine at home and we’ll make hundreds of copies of your story and hand them out to the couple dozen fans who attend – game summaries, interviews, editorials. And don’t you worry about sleep. There’s room in the grounds crew room and I know Epstein, chief of the grass. Got plenty of room beside the rakes and hoses over there. I’ll have him rig up a hammock for you. And food? Plenty of peanuts, hot dogs, and coke. It won’t kill you. What do you say?”

Fungo man looked at Wetchy and then me. I laughed. So did Fun-go man. Wetchy shook his head and said, “Takes all types.”

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boxscore whispers with orchestra

Cal Tjader sounds especially groovy when staring at a Mark Fidrych baseball card in my hand. Maybe it’s the colorful percussion, the rap tap tapping vibration and echo into forever. Cripes, I could clean a million toilets to this sound. Or Maybe it’s Fidrych, his hair like golden vines and that smile. Maybe he helps all music sound the way it’s supposed to sound, when all the instruments and minds and hearts and personalities merge and click in that amazing same zone, flying wherever it’s gonna flow, be it a band, a baseball team or the heave-hoe gang, 9-5.

This time of year inspires all kinds of addictions/delights in me. I used to try and fit them into some nice, neat seasonal explanation of slips, blame it on mythical northern beasts twirling ice cranks or something, lowering us real slow, into a deep well, 30 feet beneath the surface and our eventual cold winter death resting place. 

“Sun sets before 4 PM!” screams the beast in moooohahahaha voice.

“Deal with it!”

And so that’s when the surrender and subsequent binge really kicks in. Pass the glue or bible, both. I shut the blinds and open a book, read a few lines of James T. Farrel’s “My Baseball Diary” and G-d I love that book and I can’t wait to read it again, page by page, word by wonderful word,  but I need something more instant right now and so the dream of far away mental places, the one awarded when reading is kicked into a snowed in future. I turn on the computer instead and download everything, regular season games galore. Forget hunting and gathering. This is hoarding season all over again. I feel nine years old, satisfying that previous desire satisfied by baseball card collecting, then records, then books, back to baseball cards, baseball only books, records again, round and round, surrounded by a kingdom of materials with all existential doubts squashed, and now it’s downloads, you tube regular season baseball game downloads.

USB sticks lack the same luster as baseball cards sprawled Japanese hand fan across a table, but the earth probably looks like a dirty marble when spitting sunflower seeds adrift on Pluto.

I could use a beer or forget that, I know what’s best for me – Tiger Stadium, June 28, 1976. Mark Fidrych on the mound. ABC Monday Night baseball. The Pirates Bob Prince and Milwaukee’s own, Bob Uecker with the call.

In the pregame intros, Billy Martin says, “Born in Berkeley, California, died in New York,” kicking things off with a comical bang! Alex Johnson in the Detroit lineup, so is Ron Leflore and Rusty Staub, all players we have previously discussed here and now I get to see them in the flesh.

And for the Yankees, Mickey River’s motion inspires more than any painting or symphony. I’m open minded to a Thelonius Monk or Mozart ensemble I may have never heard, but for now, that bat twirl, hunchback and herky-jerky groove of the other Mick….Mickey Rivers, well, he defies all the hubalooo in sports about grace in motion and yet, Mickey Rivers was fast, real fast and certainly graceful, in a Mickey Rivers sort of way.  I love his name too, a Mickey in the River as in a spiked drink floating down stream, hurdling the hubaloooo of an astrological prison.

The game itself was billed as America “Meet the Bird,” for the first time, after a month of May and early season fevers and he didn’t disappoint. It wasn’t so much his sinking fastball, the speed of those pitches and their location or maybe it was? But it was also and will always be, of course, those delicious mannerisms and his contagious enthusiasm – his love of pitching, love of his teammates, love of life, TO LIFE, LeFidrych!!!! Forever, may you never rest!

A big high-five thank you to you tube uploader – MLB11 for his never-ending kindness, sharing all the great moments with baseball fans all across the time warp.