There are quite a few excellent player names and nicknames involving “Bunny.” (Don’t ask how I got started on this). My favorites, in chronological order:
Bunny Brief, who played in 184 games over parts of 4 seasons from 1912 to 1917, and who was actually born Anthony John Grzeszkowski (neither Bunny-related, nor brief; discuss).
Bunny Fabrique, who played for the Brooklyn team (then the Robins) in 1916 and 1917, and who sounds from the name like a seductive French lingerie model.
Hugh “Bunny” High, onetime Yankee outfielder (1915-1918) and possibly the best player of the lot, though that’s not saying much – for some reason the real stars are rarely called “Bunny.”
And the last great baseball Bunny, Sylvester Bunny, who played in the minors from 1947 to 1948. Bunny has gone out of vogue as a name and a nickname since then, perhaps as players have gotten bigger and stronger and more intimidating when they told people to never ever call them Bunny.
There are also quite a few Ducks and Duckys, and one Delbert Duckworth, but I suppose that’s a post for another day.
Gelf Magazine: Boxing continues to enjoy cinematic minting—latest in The Fighter—even as it loses luster as an American spectacle, or as the career of choice for young and hungry athletes. How do you explain this dichotomy?
George Kimball: Don’t even get me started on The Fighter. I covered pretty much Micky Ward’s entire career. I’d have been much more comfortable with the film if they’d just changed the names and presented it as a work of fiction. There are so many things in the movie that didn’t happen, or at least didn’t happen the way they claimed they happened, and so many actual aspects of Micky’s career—the three Gatti fights, for instance—that did happen but aren’t in the movie that it was fraudulent, in my view. It was at the very least bad history. Claiming it was a true story, or even “based on a true story,” is ridiculous. The worst part of it is that most moviegoers now think Micky actually did win a world title—the welterweight title, yet—in the Shea Neary fight. To me, the most salient aspect of Ward’s career was the fact that he is so universally respected as a blue-collar, blood-and-guts fighter despite the fact that he lost the only world-title fight he was ever in.
Ever feel lonely in the big city? I constantly talk to strangers, or communicate with them through eye contact or a head nod. My family is here. I’m out there in the world. But sometimes the loneliness is impossible to escape and it will creep up on you, even briefly, when you least expect it.
Yours truly is the “Listener of the Week” on the Baseball Prospectus “Up and In” podcast. I get to talk about the world of competitive tournament Scrabble.
If you don’t feel like listening to the entire podcast (Itunes link), just forward to the 1:09:36 mark.
Sometimes there is a scene in a movie that is so good that the rest of the movie pales in comparison. I always felt that Albert Brook’s second movie, “Modern Romance” never recovered after this sequence, where Albert is high on ‘ludes. Enjoy (Mr. Popularity, Mr. Popularity):
The rest of the movie is fun–and we’ll feature another good scene shortly–but this one takes the cake.
Some baseball fans, like my buddy Joe Sheehan, are not interested in the private lives of the players. Joe doesn’t care a whit what goes on in the clubhouse. He cares about the performance on the field, period.
Now, the beat writers and columnists might not care about a player’s personal life either but if a player makes their job difficult, well, it will become a story. Last night, Rafael Soriano pitched poorly, helped cost the team a win, and then did not talk to reporters after the game, leaving his teammates to do the talking for him. This kind of behavior does not sit well with the press (and perhaps it doesn’t sit well with his teammates). If it continues, Soriano will eventually blame the writers for creating a story, and they, in turn, will shake their heads and say, “You made your bed, dude.”
For a guy like Joe Sheehan this is all distraction, a lot of noise signifying nothing. How will Soriano pitch in his next outing? That’s what counts.
Before I got off the subway in the Bronx tonight, I checked the MLB app on my phone and was pleased to see the score: Yanks 4, Twins 0. Mark Teixeira with another dinger, again of the three run variety. Andruw Jones with a solo shot–Hey, Now.
I ran for the bus on 231st Street and put on the John Sterling radio call once I got on board. Ol’ Silver Throat usually annoys me but tonight I was comforted by the sound of his voice. In the early innings of an April game, with the Yanks ahead and C.C. Sabathia on the mound, Sterling was unhurried, almost sedate and entirely pleasant.
Now, if you stand too close to the back door of a New York City bus an automated voice comes over the loud speaker and says, “Please step away from the rear door.” A man wearing earplugs was too close to the door and the message repeated. This didn’t bother him any on the count of the earplugs. I focused on Sterling’s patter when I heard a vendor in the distance on the radio broadcast. A thick Bronx accent barked, “Hot dogs…hot dogs…hot dogs.” You know the tone–imploring and insistent.
So the music in my ears went from electronic to authentic: “Please step away from the rear door,” “Hot Dogs,” Please Step away from the rear door,” “Hot Dogs.” The rhythm made me happy and I remembered an old Simpsons episode: “Dental plan,” Lisa needs braces,” Dental plan,” “Lisa needs braces.”
I got home and watched the rest of the game. Sabathia was visibly frustrated with himself but he sailed through the Twins lineup anyhow, retiring the last 17 batters he faced.
So it was a mild surprise to see Rafael Soriano come out to pitch the eighth and disconcerting when he walked two of the first three men he faced (and the comments section here at the Banter lit up like a suicide hotline in Detroit). Denard Span slapped a single to left and the bases were loaded. But Tsuyoshi Nishioka, a slender guy, struck out on three pitches, and waved his hand at the umpire. Enter Joe Mauer, and restlessness at the Stadium. Soriano walked him on five pitches and his night was over.
Derek Jeter doesn’t need us to worry about him. He’s doing just fine. And he’s been playing under near-psychotic levels of scrutiny for most of his career. But whereas for the last 15 or so years everyone’s been staring at him waiting for him to do something amazing… now people are staring at him and waiting for him to do poorly. Not necessarily wanting it, but expecting it, because he’s at that age and because we’ve all seen how this goes with superstar athletes. I can’t imagine it’s easy trying to do your job while millions of people are watching and waiting for missteps, but then Jeter wouldn’t be who he is if wasn’t able to block that out.
The specific article that got me thinking about this was Ian O’Connor’s for ESPN New York, where asks Jeter about his much-hyped new swing. The quote that caught people’s attention:
In that context, Jeter’s first 14 at bats are worthy of serious scrutiny, even from the captain himself. On his way into work Monday, unhappy over his early parade of ground balls, Jeter told himself he was through fretting over the changes hitting coach Kevin Long made in his footwork, reducing his front-foot stride to no stride at all.
“I just said the heck with it,” Jeter said. “I wasn’t going to think about it. … Before you’re trying to think about where your foot is and you’re trying not to move it, and it’s just too much to think about. So today I tried not to.”
That got re-reported and sent around as “Jeter gives up on new stride already,” but I don’t know that he meant that – I thought he was just saying he was trying to stop thinking about it, but that he would keep doing it. (That was always my strategy in beer pong. Don’t think, you’ll only hurt the ball club!). Anyway, we’ll find out tonight if the weather holds – and in any case Jeter’s batting stride is not the most important issue facing America right now, or even the Yankees. Derek Jeter doesn’t need anyone’s sympathy, but between the whole 3,000 hit drama and everyone staring at his every movement to see if he still “has it,” I do think it could be a tough season for the captain.
CJ: As either a writer or an editor, you’ve had a hand in more than eighty books. Your blog is called verbplow. I get the sense that you must treat words like work, like a more manual brand of labor—that during the course of most days, you must sit down and force yourself either to read or to write something. How do you make yourself do it?
Glenn Stout: That’s funny you ask about that because just the other day I had this realization that all the things I’ve ever really liked to do are activities that require me to use my hands and my brain simultaneously. You are right that in a sense I do see writing as manual labor, and the metaphor in verb plow is intentional, but that doesn’t mean it’s not valued, or necessarily laborious, because there is also that “labor of love” thing. I love doing what I do and can’t believe I get to do this every day. Growing up the idea of becoming a writer was unimaginable. We didn’t have a lot of money. My parents didn’t read much. Words saved me. They took me away, sent me to college, delivered my life. Now I get to mine the language every day, and talk and work with other writers—that’s dreamland stuff.
I don’t see my work as a chore, and only rarely does it feel forced—I want to do this and by now it’s all a part of my life, like breathing. I spent a number of years doing actual manual labor and I have to say I learned as much about writing from pouring concrete and hauling steel as I ever did in any workshop, or any course. Manual labor teaches you to work in increments, to maintain, to stick to things, to finish what you start, and that’s what I do. On a practical level, I’ve been on my own, completely independent as a writer, mostly working on projects that I think have real value, for almost twenty years. I’m not on the faculty somewhere, on the staff of some publication, or living off a trust fund. For every second of the last twenty-one years I’ve always had book contracts to fulfill and deadlines to hit and either I take that seriously or I’m done, out of work.
Serving as Series Editor for Best American Sports Writing is like a part-time job at minimum wage, and is only a small part of what I do. People assume I’m incredibly disciplined, and in their terms, maybe I am, but I’ve never understood writers who say that they write 2,000 words a day, like punching a clock. I mean, good for them, but I don’t work that way, I can’t be that rigid. I think every writer has to discover that what works for others might not work for you. For me it’s like the old Earl Weaver line: “This ain’t football; we do this every day.” A significant part of doing anything stems from getting up early and putting your ass in the chair every day, and I do that. The rest is experience—learning how not to sabotage yourself.
Right on, Big Dog. Or as Woody once said, “Eighty percent of success is just showing up.”
I am less selfish now than I used to be and less resentful too. The world doesn’t owe me bubkis. Nobody is out to get me and I haven’t been jipped. Sure, I know better intellectually, but emotionally? Well, that’s not always so simple. But if I keep my head buried in the past I’m sure to be angry and cold, remote and self-loathing. Hard to love.
It’s easy for me to fall into that line of thinking so I remind myself every day to be present, in the now, not yesterday and not tomorrow. After all, it takes a lot of energy to be pissed off. And it would be shame for me to act like a spoiled brat at my age, especially considering all the good things I’ve got going on, especially this peach of a woman I call my wife.
In 1964 my time was not very valuable. I was a utility night rewrite writer and speechwriter at the Times when Sonny Liston fought Cassius Clay for the first time. The Times, in its wisdom, did not feel it was worth the time to send the real boxing writer. So they sent me down to Miami Beach and my instructions were, as soon as I got there, to rent a car and drive back and forth a couple of times between the arena, where the fight was going to be held in a week, and the nearest hospital. They did not want me wasting any deadline time following Cassius Clay into intensive care. I did that—if any of you ever get into trouble in South Beach, call me, I can tell you how to get there. I did it and drove to the Fifth Street Gym where Cassius was training. He was not there yet.
As I walked up the stairs to the gym there was a kind of hubbub behind me. There were these four little guys in terrycloth cabana suits who were being pushed up the stairs by two big security guards. As I found out later, it was a British rock group in America. They had been taken to Sonny Liston for a photo op. He had taken one look at them and said “I’m not posing with those sissies.” Desperately, they brought the group over to Cassius Clay—to at least get a shot with him. They’re being pushed up the stairs, I’m a little ahead of them. When we get to the top of the stairs, Clay’s not there. The leader of the group says, “Let’s get the fuck out of here. “ He turned around, but the cops pushed all five of us into a dressing room and locked the door. That’s how I became the fifth Beatle. [laughter]
They were cursing. They were angry. They were absolutely furious. I introduced myself. John said, “Hi, I’m Ringo.” Ringo said, “Hi, I’m George.” I asked how they thought the fight was going to go. “Oh, he’s going to kill the little wanker,” they said. Then they were cursing, stamping their feet, banging on the door. Suddenly the door bursts open and there is the most beautiful creature any of us had ever seen. Muhammad Ali. Cassius Clay. He glowed. And of course he was much larger than he seemed in photographs—because he was perfect. He leaned in, looked at them and said, “C’mon, let’s go make some money.”
Finally there is George Kimball, a character from journalism as big and colorful and wonderful as any in this book. I have known him since he hired me at the Boston Phoenix a thousand years ago. Now all this time later, he is a fighter himself against illness. Big George keeps coming, keeps writing for the Irish Times, and his own boxing books such as “Four Kings.” All he did on Warren Street was steal the show.
George writes in “At The Fights” about Hagler and Leonard, and his piece includes this line: “It was Leonard who dictated the terms under which the battle was waged.”
In the late rounds he brings those words to his own life. People saw for themselves with George the other night how much he loves the sport, loves this book he worked so tirelessly to assemble, loves good writing most of all. Saw a boxing writer as tough as anybody he ever covered.
Nice job by Lupica. It was a wonderful night and I’m just sorry that it didn’t go on longer. A lot of the men in the audience, and on the panel, talked about how boxing was a common bond between them and their old men. Friday night fights, golden gloves. Kimball said that during the Vietnam War boxing was the only thing he could enjoy with his father, period. The only thing that was missing from the event was a cloud of cigar smoke hanging over the room.
