Ed Halicki rides the bus

The J line ran night and day and Storey Island sat in perfect darkness. There was also mom’s home-made soups and Dad’s steel drums, but everything felt like an “incestuous privilege” to Dirk Whipple; everything except riding that J line.

Mom knew a doctor; not the kind with a stethoscope, but one with a knack for palms and moon risings. Stelphus was his name and he and Momma Whipple mapped out a plan to seduce Dirk downtown with a burger and fries as bait. Worked like a charm. Dr. Stelphus sat at an adjacent table and didn’t say a word until Dirk’s mouth slowed down and he began pushing fries around his plate.

Only then did Stelphus make his move; striking up casual conversation and 45 minutes later, Dirk’s palms had been read and time of birth revealed. It was Momma Whipple’s turn now. She handed Dirk a 5 dollar bill and told him to “go and fetch some ice cream for him and his new friend.”

Stelphus put his hand on Momma Whipple’s. “Dirk may never show an interest in your soup or daddy’s steel drums,” he explained, “But don’t you worry about him riding that J train into the dark tunnel and out onto higher ground. All that in and out is good for the boy” and when Dr. Stelphus winked at Momma Whipple, she threw her arms up and raced to get Dirk; regretting she’d ever came.

It was on the J ride home where Dirk found a pack of unopened Topps baseball cards which didn’t arouse any excitement in him, but he opened the pack just the same, hoping one hundred-dollar bills might be inside, but there weren’t and so he flung the cards one by one onto the subway floor until one card sucked his eyes in. The player was kneeling down; looking like a sniper and aiming his bat at someone not even in the picture. Underneath it said “Ed Kranepool.”

“Maybe an assassin,” Dirk thought; excited to use a word he had just learned from the scarf dealer on Storey Island and less than a week ago too and now this picture? He flipped the card over and found a number in the upper left hand corner. It said 641. Dirk assumed all the cards had numbers for identification purposes like prisoners of war getting digits branded onto their wrists or forearms. 

Dirk wanted to have more and more of these cards and collect them in a big pile and climb the fire escape of a big building and set them all free. He scanned the subway floor and counted six cards plus the ones still in the pack; “a good start,” he thought. The next morning Dirk walked to Clifton’s Pharmacy and began the ritual exchange of coins for cards.

That’s where he met Simmy Timpkins and learned of the 726 cards needed to complete the 1980 set. Simmy was big around the ankles and had all kinds of connections; stuck his nose in everybody’s business so when the time came and Dirk needed only one more card, Simmy stepped in like a pimp and promised him #217 Ed Halicki if Dirk would do him “just one small favor.”

There was an electric pole at the corner of Palisades and Avenue T and that’s where a gang of monk parakeets had taken refuge. Simmy’s little brother wanted one of the lime green critters for a pet and if Simmy didn’t get it for him than Simmy’s older brother would perform messy justice on Simmy.

Dirk made his way to Avenue T, spotted the hairy nest high above and just before beginning to climb, he said in a whisper,  “screw it” and scanned the neighborhood for a pharmacy not named Cliftons. Dirk spent 40 dollars on cards that day; one pack after another and as luck or destiny would have it; he scored not one, but two Ed Halicki cards. 

Dirk went home and gathered up all the cards, waited till dark and climbed the fire escape of Doogan’s Flour factory. There must have been over 3,000 cards he set free with all those doubles and triples flying every which way; some twirling like helicopter leaves towards the river and others nose diving into backyards and a few even slipping through open windows and onto a moving bus. One of them was Ed Halicki. 

Dammit…crap and sucks but definite solutions

Leonard Cohen wore nice suits. I think he played guitar and wrote the old testament or maybe that was Bob Dylan, but without the suits and with way more hair; crazier hair. I didn’t know about either of them until my twenties. They didn’t teach us Cohen and Zimmerman in Hebrew school

I once had sex with a tree. True story. It was during a heavy Milwaukee thunderstorm. I love Midwest summer storms; arouses some latent Pan gene in my blood stream. There’s a rock and roll lyric. “Pan gene in my blood stream.” Does my own lyric require quotes? Beam me up a stuffy professor of the language police. Thank you Scotty. I like your twang.

Love of storms began as fear to me. I would race all my baseball cards into the basement; safe and sound it grew into the reverse of fear as the years went bye-bye. I guess reverse of fear would be screwing a tree or at least for me it is or was. I’ll skip the details, but it was enjoyable. I hope no one got pregnant.

I  learned to love beer, any kind of beer….inevitable i guess, being from Milwaukee. cliche, stupid, immature, childish, run through the jungle. Yes, that’s exactly it because the Midwest had no alligators or jungle but a hell of a lot of green; so much canopy cover hovering above suburban Milwaukee. I love that protection.

The West coast terrifies me with its scorpions and red granite rocks and open spaces; so exposed and naked. I need the green and  snow in the winter. It’s all a big blanket to me so I can suck my thumb from the crib to the gurney.

I remember landing in California for the first time. It was to visit my brother. in Oakland. He left Milwaukee after high school and never returned. His loss or gain. Whatever. The scenario rolled out perfectly like an equation to me. My love of beer plus peeing in my pants equals experimentation.

California had more open spaces and less green you see so there were fewer places to hop off the stage and slip behind the curtain and take a pee. Milwaukee has parks and all kind of bushes to disappear into like a phone booth and do the superman pee release. I ruined many 8 dollar jeans from Salvation Army and well, I carried the small of piss around with me. bad situation needing a remedy.

Maybe California is more civilized than Milwaukee, but I doubt it. Those gold rush boys were a rowdy bunch of swillers, swindlers and scrappers and there was probably a few peduncle heads like me who pissed in their pants. God love em.  Maybe Milwaukee loves drunks more than California. Maybe that’s it. Maybe California has a short-term memory. Anyway, what the hell do I know! I blab my mouth off but trust my own theories more than some stuffy text book recording.

Ok so there i was in Oakland….beside lake Merritt or up along Telegraph Avenue, shooting pool in Jack London or playing basketball in west Oakland. The experts told me West Oakland was no place for a dumb white boy like me; worst neighborhood in America and then in a whisper, they added…”it’s all black.” I’m no hero and no urban kid and not enlightened. I have all kinds of ignorant attitudes. I grew up in the suburbs, but I love basketball.

Anywhere I went in Oakland, there was no safe place to piss except inside a Safeway Grocery Store bathroom or in a bar, but I hardly ever go to bars preferring the 40 ouncer by the railroad tracks and day dreams of being a hobo.

I only hopped a train one time in my life; from Montreal’s West Island to Montreal’s Mile End; total travel time-15 minutes;  total distance-5 miles…but whatever ..I had achieved what Bukowski insisted on the back of my Train hoppers manual …”every red-blooded american has to hop a train and head nowhere at least once in their life.”

Meanwhile, back in California, I still had to pee so I pretended to be doing tai chi in the park; blending in with th enlightened vegetarian Californicators. It was the Piedmont neighborhood Oakland; upscale and clean, proper people on the surface. I love every neighborhood. Every place is a scene unto itself and Piedmont was perfect for tai chi

I didn’t remove my pants; just unzipped and let out a subtle pee while doing tai chi and hence, the birth of and this is deserving of big letters….Tai Chi Pee.

Desperate measures desperate times. The Brewers have lost 6 in a row and their lead in the NL Central. The Cardinals are now in first place and the red turds arrive to Milwaukee town Thursday. This is like Rosh Hoshanah clockwork every year. Gotta love it!

The Brewers are 73-64.

it all seems to slip away, but that’s ok

Confidence is a funny thing or it’s an every thing; from latin word fidere-to trust. I looked it up. I like etymology. Reminds me of that game we played in nursery school. I forget the name. We all sat around in a circle and the teacher or someone whispered something in to the next person’s ear and that person whispered it in the next person’s ear and round and round goes the message until we reach the beginning of the circle again. The message had always changed.

The word or meaning of words and how we use them seems to change as well as the years pass. Cherokee used to be a Native American tribe. Still is but nowadays, probably reminds people of a four door jeep or whatever more than Cherokee people.

Confidence to trust. I don’t always make that connection. Confidence to me is gangster lean like that song sings with the sun roof top, digging the scene and feeling good and what not. Curtis Mayfield I think.

But I guess if you trust yourself, you trust life and that equals confidence. Makes sense. Brewer fans were saying or wondering if the Brewers lacked confidence after enduring some ugly, big run losses to the Blue Jays and then the Pirates.

We are a resilient species;us humans, maybe not as resilient as a worm after being split into two by a kid and a butter knife, but we still seem inclined to survive or determined to sleep and wake up fresh; ready to kick some ass in whatever we do.

There are so many adages or maxims or whatever in baseball. A pitcher is a manager’s best friend or maybe it’s a dog. I’m not sure, but an ace out screw balls the devil and sends a losing streak down the drain. Every manager and newspaper seems to say that at least once a year.

Every team has an ace or pretends to anyway. They spend money or sacrifice prospects to get one. They sleep better as a result, knowing in the back of their minds so and so will pitch the day after tomorrow. Yeh, it may be cloudy with a 70 per cent chances of rain Monday and Tuesday. Heck, there might even be a tornado or a famine, world wide devastation. It doesn’t matter because the ace is gonna pitch Wednesday.

The Brewers made Yovani Gallardo their ace a few years ago. They signed Kyle Lohse and Matt Garza and Wily Peralta developed. Four good aces on the staff. Nothing great or exceptional or maybe Lohse at times, Garza and Gallardo every blue moon. Peralta has 15 wins, but labors through games a bit. No complaints. Solid. Four solid starters. No Kershaw or Cueto, but no big deal.

There was Mike Fiers in 2012 for a 6 week stretch; dominating every opponent and well, there is the same Mike Fiers doing an impersonation of himself this year; dominating every opponent for 4 weeks now.

Yep, Fiers is the ace; ending losing streaks and stretching divisional leads against the Cardinals. Fiers tansforms doubts back into trust; amongthe us fans anyway; probably the players too.

Seven innings Sunday afternoon for Fiers; 7 strikeouts, 2 hits, two runs and a win. He’s now 4-1 since being called up a month ago. In 35 innings, he’s allowed 16 hits and 6 freaking runs. That’s a crazy good 1.54 ERA to go along with 37 k’s and only 7 walks. Batters are batting .137 against him…..a 0.66 WHIP…Brewers mellowed out the Pirates. Final Score; Brewers 4, Pirates 3. I was in a plane 35.000 feet above; couldn’t see a damn thing.

Anyway you slice the numbers, Fiers is dominating and who woulda thunk! But more than numbers, he’s working fast and efficient like a short order cook; moving gracefully. It’s enjoyable to watch; even on TV on replay. Actually it’s better on TV. Everything is better on high definition TV. Weird. TV improves reality. Or maybe it’s scary?

Anyway, Great surprises in store every damn day with Mike Fiers leading the way. Makes it easier to sort of feel like a kid must feel when they see a firetruck or a tree and they say the word with exaggerated slow syllables and enthusiasms, but not exaggerated at all.. Those kids are drunk with 100 per cent awe at all the newness passing before their eyes. Lucky bastards! Where the hell does that feeling go!

The Brewers are 72-58.

maybe gold in the hills…maybe not

Mike Moustakas woke up Wednesday morning; a great beginning to a new day. But the feeling didn’t last too long. A nagging thought crept into his mind. I’m 4 for 40 this season and I hit .233 last year with a .287 OB%.  Moustakas is 25-years old and his status as the Kansas City Royal’s future fixture at third base is in jeopardy.

George Springer also woke up Wednesday morning; a great beginning to a new day with one significant psychological difference. The good feeling never stopped. The 24-year old right fielder boarded a plane in Oklahoma City; destined for Houston, Texas-Minute Maid Park. Springer was to make his much anticipated major league debut against Mike Moustakas and the Royals later that night.

Springer is the Astro’s golden chip who will save the franchise. He was selected 11th overall in the 2011 draft from the University of Connecticut and his time is now. But it was Moustakas who hit the go ahead home run in the 11th inning; his first of the young season.

The Astros have lost 100 games in a row for three consecutive seasons. One more and they join the only three teams in the history of baseball to lose more than 100 games in four or more consecutive years; Philadelphia Phillies from 1938-1942, Washington Senators from 1961-1964 and New York Mets from 1962-1965.

Springer; getty image

Springer does just about everything. He’s a five tool, can’t miss prospect. We’ve heard it all before. He hit a combined 37 home runs and stole 45 bases last year at AA Corpus Christi and AAA Oklahoma City…..303 BA with a .411 OB%, .600 slugging percentage. He also struck out 161 times.

Kila in Japan; wikipedia

But minor league success doesn’t mean squat. There’s an endless cast of failures. One of my favorites was Kila Ka’aihue of the Kansas City Royals. I loved the name Kila, his Hawaiian origins, power, and amazing on base percentage-.463, achieved at AAA Omaha in 2010. KAboooka!

Ka’aihue played parts of three seasons with the Royals; 283 total at bats. He was then traded to the Oakland A’s in 2012, played 39 games before being designated for reassignment-aka- hit the road Kila. He signed a minor league deal with Arizona and did well at AAA Reno;.hitting 16 home runs in 192 at bats with a .426 OB%, but was released and finished the 2013 season with the Hiroshima Toya Carp in the Japanese Central League. He’s still there.

If Ka’aihue’s journey drifted east, then Tyler Thornburg’s is going west. The college outfielder was a third round pick of The Milwaukee Brewers in the 2010 draft-96th player overall. He was converted to a pitcher and hopes were high as he progressed through the Brewer’s system, reaching AAA Nashville. That’s where things began to go sour. He was horrible in 2013; allowing 90 hits in 74 innings including 11 home runs; an ERA of 5.79 and a WHIP of 1.59.

Thornburg; Reuters

And so the Brewers called him up in June of that year. Say what? Well, they needed a pitcher to log some innings on a depleted staff and go figure; Thornburg shined (66 innings-53 hits, 2.02 ERA.)  He’s been even better so far this year (9 innings, 4 hits, 1 run, and 12 k’s) Fastball in the upper 90’s, huge curve ball, great control. Throws over the top; motion resembling Tim Lincecum.

Yesterday, Thornburg pitched a perfect 8th inning to help the Brewers salvage game 3 of their series against the Cardinals. He helped preserve the win for another golden armed prospect-Wily Peralta who is settling in now and finding his groove. The Brewers are 11-4.

And George Springer? Well, he played right field and batted second in the Astros lineup. No pressure son. Jeremy Guthrie, an 11 year veteran was on the mound for the Royals. Singer hit a sharp grounder to Alcides Escobar in his first at bat and almost beat it out.

In his second at bat, he worked the count full and then took a Carlos Gomez/Hunter Pence ain’t gonna cheat me kind of swing. He got on top of the pitch and the ball dribbled down the third base line for a swinging bunt single. He scored his first run when Jason Castro hit an opposite field home run. A walk and two strikeouts later; his his first big league game; a 1 for 5.

The future is filled with hundreds of big league at bats for Springer, just like it was for Moustakas. But Springer is still a stud. Moustakas is trying to not be a dud. Everyone is pulling for both of them.

 

 

a little teenager action

Give a bottle rocket five seconds of wick, a little flame and that’s it. Propulsion happens and up it goes, plowing through air; elevating until completely out of sight, never turning back.

But the bottle rocket’s lifespan is too short, so kids burn ants with a magnifying glass, set off roman candles, a brick of firecrackers. Ignite a few more bottle rockets. Raid the dumpster of its day old candy. Sprint to the other side of the railroad tracks where the empty baseball diamond comes into view, eat the candy and toss wrappers at seagulls. 

Someone has an older brother who buys them beer. They wander to the abandoned boat house, make a fire and chisel their names into the wall. And then the night gets old and so do they.

Growing up is not an exact science. There’s no caterpillar cocoon butterfly phases marked by time, but humans build artificial milestones anyway; sweet sixteen, the drinking and driving age and presto abracadabra we’re instantly mature and responsible. It’s an insult to the turtle’s beautiful pace.

Baseball is a little less predictable. Prospects are sometimes seasoned in the minors or sometimes a flock of shortstops kick up major league soil. The teenagers flash brilliance and growing pains right before our eyes.

a farmer in ohio blogspot

Joe Nuxhall will always be baseball’s fountain of youth. He was 15 years-10 months, 11 days when he first pitched for the Cincinnati Reds. It was June 10, 1944, the long days World War Two… a shortage of players.

Nuxhall came into the game against the St. Louis Cardinals, trailing 13-0. The first batter-George Fallon grounded out to the shortstop. One out. A walk to opposing pitcher Mort Cooper was followed by an infield fly. Two outs. Then the wheels fell off.

Nuxhall walked a second batter. Stan Musial stepped to the plate. Nuxhall later said, “I was pitching against seventh-, eighth- and ninth-graders, kids 13 and 14 years old… All of a sudden, I look up and there’s Stan Musial and the likes. It was a very scary situation.” (wikipedia)

Musial singled. The bases became loaded. Nuxhall became loaded, probably sprouted some acne too. He walked the next three batters, gave up a two run single, five runs in all and a trip to the showers and a trip to the minors where he spent the next 8 years minus a hiatus to finish high school.

Nuxhall didn’t return to the major leagues until 1952, but wound up pitching 16 seasons compiling a record of 135-117 with a 3.90 ERA.

Maybe this calling up teenagers is a desperate act, done out of necessity. Some say it messes with a kid’s confidence; that he shouldn’t be rushed into failure too soon. He needs a season or two hitting .380 in the Texas League or a pitcher’s equivalent.

But there’s nothing more exciting than youth; a million miles from the mountain peak or the dreaded other side decline. The Milwaukee Brewers selected Robin Yount with the third pick in the 1973 draft. The golden-haired shortstop made his major league debut the following April. He was 18 years young and remains the youngest player to ever hit a home run.

The Brewer’s were in their fourth year of existence; had nothing to lose. The decision to insert “the kid” as Yount came to be called throughout out his 21 year hall of fame career was not so radical.

jsonline

But the decision 40 years later to give Khris Davis left field….that is radical. Davis, at 26 years old is a grandfather compared to Yount or Nuxhall, but the Brewers have plenty to lose and yet, they traded Norichika Aoki and moved Ryan Braun to right field to make room for a guy with 136 career major league at bats-13 home runs.

Davis stands in the on deck circle slicing the air with a tilted head and open mouth. He looks like he’s sculpting something only he can see. Then he walks to the plate and hits the ball high and deep, to the opposite field, sometimes on the line, up the middle…..

He’s Khris Davis, the one with the K in his name and he’s got me feeling young.