8658. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #181

181. HOO-RAH

In about 1960, I was pretty

much caught up in baseball.

Nothing special. I never went

to any stadiums or games or

anything. I just 'followed'

baseball, and played, like

any other of the local kids.

But what role it played for me

was as a sort of time-keeper,

or even a time-user-upper,

something I could be doing

while my mind thought

things through. For a while

I was a 'catcher'  -  a very

active position which took

a role in nearly every play  -

well, was IN every play. I

realized, also and mainly

because I wasn't going to

be any muscular 6 foot two

dunderhead as I grew up,

maybe catching wasn't the

place for me as far as a

position went. I'd already been

knocked out cold one Saturday

morning game as I leaned in

too far to the pitch and the

batter's swung bat clonked

the rear of my head rather

than a ball. Out cold Louie.

There were other positions,

especially a few prime outfield

spots (good eye, good arm,

speed) where I'd fit much

better and have a heck of a

lot more idle time to think

while events happened and

the only-occasionally

well-hit ball came my way.

I resigned from my famed

position as catcher, and took

up left or right field. I still

had a good eye, good arm,

and a good bat too. I used

to examine the game of

baseball, at age 10 and so,

for its symbolism and

unspoken significances.

It was fun, and it was

philosophical too.

-

'Diminutive'. I found that to

mean 'small'. I also found

it to mean like they did in

baseball, and like my father

always did, the way 'names'

were shortened. In baseball,

everybody got friendly names.

Immediately. Big Leaguers

and us kids here too. Frank

Jones, for baseball terms, was

always, immediately Frankie

Jones, or, even, 'Smash' Jones,

or Blackfoot Jones, or something

like that. Tom Weiser became,

'Tommy' Weiser, or 'Punky

Weiser'. Anything like that. It

went on in baseball all the time.

I rolled this all over in my head.

My father, with all my friends,

also did the same thing, even if

he didn't know the guy  -  Robert

Jenkins was immediately 'Bobby.'

Herman Schultz became

Schultzy. It just went. I guess

that never happened with girl

names, except like maybe say

'Theresa' becoming Terry or

whatever. Anyway, my father

was real forward like that.

He was 'Andrew' but always

known everywhere as 'Andy.'

So I guess he never thought

about it. I always actually

disliked my own name for

that 'y' ending that 'Gary'

had  -  it sounded way too

friendly for me. But baseball,

on the other hand, was

another matter. Bobby

Richardson was Bobby

Richardson, until the

day he retired and then

became an evangelical

preacher, pushing for

Jesus everywhere (was he

every called 'Jeezy'?). That

was the last of  Bobby

Richardson. Tony Kubeck,

much the same  -  Yankee

guys, simple names. As I

delved, I realized it was

all about power and

control. If you could

call someone down,

lowering their name

a bit, you were atop

them, over them. better

than, in charge. No one

ever went around calling

any King Frederick, 'Freddy.'

It was a pecking order. I

realized tons of things, standing

out there in those stupid ball

fields. Professional baseball

was a form of slavery  -  an

easy, game-form, yes, but

slavery nonetheless. And

1959 baseball as still pretty

much segregated. This is

were it got interesting: a

black guy who may have

had the name, say, Hanley

Jessup, would soon enough

be known as 'Cotton-mouth

Jessup' then further shortened

to  just plain 'Cotton.' Yeah,

fan favorite, big deal, but we

own him. Cotton Jessup.

'Elston' Howard, Yankee

catcher of real note, became

'Elly' Howard to everyone.

Acceptable; like we all knew

him. But then the Reserve

Clause in baseball  -  which

allowed teams to literally

'own' guys, for like 29 grand

a year, base salary, and do

with them whatever they

pleased, trade them, sit

them, forbid trades, etc.

On the St. Louis Cardinals,

this black guy with the

wonderful name of Curt

Flood (man, how I loved

that name. It seemed to

speak volumes), and a

lawyer guy named Marvin

Miller, challenged the

very idea of career-slavery.

They lost, yes, but it

infuriated many, white

guys screamed about

black guys, and it was

eventually overturned

and repealed anyway. A

ball player became his

own unit, at that point  -

with the right to veto

trades, negotiate contracts,

etc. My point however,

being power and control,

NO ONE ever called

Curt Flood 'Curtie'

or 'Black-Ball Flood'

or Twinkie Flood, or

anything. He'd dressed

'up', not down, and took

himself past such

'diminution.' The same

went for this blistering

and renowned Cardinals

pitcher, a black guy, named

Bob Gibson. He was killer,

people were fearing for their

life when up against him at

bat  -  he won multiple-season

awards, pitching totals, tallies

and records. The guy was

massive. No one, and I mean

no one, ever called him

'Bobbie' or 'Fast-Fire Gibson'

or 'Gibby'. Just never happened.

Respect. Fear. Renown.

-

Well, that was the sort of one-level

thinking I'd do. In the outfield.

My mind on the game, oh sure.

Actually, my game was on the

mind, and it was really the only

game I played. I'd go back to the

dugout, get my bat, maybe hit a

single or a double, and run. A few

times, I cleared the fences with

a long fly. Home run. Cool feeling.

My Manager, Mr. Taylor (Bill

Taylor, from Woodruff Avenue,

Avenel), would come over with

a big smile each time, handshake

and a hug, and just say. 'My little

Paisano.' Yikes! Talk about

diminutive names! (Or, as Henny

Youngman later would say - 'I

can't get no respect.').
-
Another thing I used to thing about
was all those heedless people who 
never stood up for themselves,  just let 
the whole entire world whirl around 
them, taking them with it for good 
or bad, down with it, or involving 
them  in it. Just like those ball 
players  -  slaves, property of 
others. The 'meek' who never spoke
up for themselves, for a cause, for 
anything. Just jiving and shuffling,
in silence, with welts and scars,
so as to get by. That wasn't going to
be me. No siree. Jesus said 'The meek
shall inherit the earth.' I used to stand
out there and think about all those
dispossessed and downtrodden people, 
without anything really, just standing
there and taking it. I figured, inherit 
the earth? That can't be that cool.
I decided all he was saying was that,
if you didn't stand up and speak out,
for others, for yourself, whatever,
the earth's all you're gonna get because
it's not really worth very much and
nether are you. He made men, 
not lambs.
-

Nowadays, it's all so different; if

I called anyone a Dago, Kike, or 

a Nigger, I'd surely hear about it

before my next pee. What is that

all about. Who owns the airwaves, 

God-damn, and what's all this faux

'respect' about anyway. I's a bogus

basket of lies. I can go down to

Chinatown and watch the Chinks 

hose down the sidewalks in front

of their filthy chop-suey joints,

but I can't say a thing about it.

It's as if it's all gone the other

way. My father would probably 

have been lynched for calling

someone out down if he was here 

today. Some guy beating his 

kid in public, or acting like 

shit on the train, or ripping the 

heads off  turtles at the pond,

or crushing their shells with a

baseball bat, I can't say anything, 

can't call out 'Eddie' Asshole 

there for being what he is 

anyway. What goes on? 

I'm lost. Everyone is now

so sacrosanct? And then

you get all these guys, the 

same guys the year before

that you couldn't touch, and 

now they're all lined up for 

the military, all versed and

well-learned in how to kill,

gung-ho for battle, ready to

slaughter freaking A-rabs,

and it's OK? Until John comes

marching home  -  oh, no, I

mean 'Johnnie' comes 

marching home again, 

hoo-rah, hoo-rah...'

as the old song goes.