"A New York Treasure" --Village Voice

Method to His Madness

billy

 

Billy Martin proved what a powerful strategic tool paranoia is. He believed that everyone was against him. And so he spent every waking moment figuring out how imaginary enemies could be defeated in their nefarious plots. And sometimes he not only created strategies to defend against things that would never be done against him. but he realized that those attacks were in themselves novel and he would then try those attacks that he had already dreamed up a defense for. That’s why he was so wonderful at suicide bunts and double steals and any way that you could humiliate or psychologically defeat the other team, he was sure that’s how the world reacted to him. He was sure the world hated him. And so he turned that really raw, frightened paranoia into wonderful strategic intelligence.

Tom Boswell

Chris Jaffe, a regular at The Hardball Times, has just written a book about baseball managers. Here is an excerpt on one of our own–Billy the Kid.

Billy Martin was the most fearless manager in baseball history. In 20 years of managing, he never backed down from a challenge. As has been well documented by others, Martin consistently caused dramatic improvements to his squads immediately upon arrival by pushing them hard. The A’s went from losing 108 games to fighting for .500. The Rangers, who had posted back-to-back seasons in which they had played .350 ball, suddenly won half their games when Martin arrived. The Twins and Tigers improved by 18 and 12 games for him respectively. The Yankees won their first pennant in a dozen years under him. The Birnbaum Database gives him high scores for every stop along the way: +64 runs in Minnesota, +199 runs in Detroit, +91 runs in Texas, +142 runs with Oakland, and +219 runs in his various New York stops.

Martin’s approach had its downside. He pushed his teams so hard they could not keep up with his pressure. Hiring Martin was like pushing too much voltage through a light bulb: for a brief while it burns brighter than otherwise possible, but it soon shatters unless the excess electricity is removed. Despite his impressive starts, Martin never lasted longer than three years in any managerial stint.

Though Martin is most famous for piloting the Yankees, his first managerial stint running the 1969 Twins best reveals his method and madness. The gutsy bravado and intensity to win that highlighted his career amply demonstrated themselves that year. Martin approached his rookie managerial season the same way a tough convict handles his first day in prison—determined to prove himself immediately as the cellblock’s most dangerous man.

Yeah, Yeah, Now Check the Method

bail

Over at Baseball Prospectus, Christina Kahrl takes a look at the American League Rookie of the Year:

Being invited to help select this year’s American League Rookie of the Year as a new member of the Baseball Writers’ Association of America was an unexpected honor, and one I took seriously. By way of process, I started off with a day spent digging up data to inform my sense of who to rank, and where, and why. Then, I spent a day or two caucusing with a quartet of colleagues, inside Baseball Prospectus and out, and putting various arguments through the ringer, and using a variety of tacks, from devil’s advocate to fully faithful, and everywhere in between.

In the end, I wound up finding myself in a somewhat complicated position, ironically thinking back on a Rookie of the Year Award that coincided with my arrival in Chicago 24 years ago, sorting through my own predispositions against the relative value of a certain type of player, assessing a crowded field of starting pitcher candidates, and thinking even further back to a rookie who won despite not playing anything close to a full season. Finally, I was guided by a critical criterion: electors are supposed to vote on present-season success, not on anticipated greatness.

Solid as a Rock

According to the New York Times:

Joe Kubert, a comic book artist since 1938, has little interest in the accumulated work of his last seven decades; his focus is on new projects, he said recently. But comic book fans who feel differently about this celebrated illustrator will have a chance to peruse and even own some of that older work this week, when 18 covers and interior pages, published from the 1940s to 1990, are put up for sale.

rock2

I am always interested by artists who don’t take time to reflect on their accomplishments because they are too busy with what is on their plate now. When I worked for the Coen brothers, they won an Oscar for best original screenplay–Ethan’s statue remained in his backpack, which he kept in the trunk of his rental car, for days. Recently, I listened to an interview with them and they said that they don’t go back and watch their old movies. They just keep making new ones.

Once it is done and out in the world, it doesn’t belong to you, the artist, anymore. At least not completely. For some, there is nothing to be gained by looking back. The only cherce is to look ahead.

SgtRockMemorial02

If You Get Caught Between the Moon and New York City

nyc skyline

From E.B. White’s Here is New York:

There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter–the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these trembling cities the greatest is the last–the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion. And whether it is a farmer arriving from a small town in Mississippi to escape the indignity of being observed by her neighbors, or a boy arriving from the Corn Belt with a manuscript in his suitcase and a pain in his heart, it makes no difference: each embraces New York with the intense excitement of first love, each absorbs New York with the fresh yes of an adventurer, each generates heat and light to dwarf the Consolidated Edison Company. . . .

The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible. A single flight of planes no bigger than a wedge of geese can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers, cremate the millions. The intimation of mortality is part of New York now; in the sounds of jets overhead, in the black headlines of the latest editions.

All dwellers in cities must live with the stubborn fact of annihilation; in New York the fact is somewhat more concentrated because of the concentration of the city itself, and because, of all targets, New York has a certain clear priority. In the mind of whatever perverted dreamer might loose the lightning, New York must hold a steady, irresistible charm.

From high to low, the one and only Christopher Cross with Dudley Moore:

Beat of the Day

J Live…breaks it down LIKE THIS:

The Envelope, Please…

ROYALS ORIOLES

Joe Pos makes a strong case for Robbie Alomar, Hall of Famer:

Alomar, to me, has a case as the greatest second baseman since Hornsby. I am not the best person to make that case — I, of course, happen to think that Joe Morgan is the greatest second baseman since Hornsby. But I could give it a try: Alomar won 10 Gold Gloves — more than any second baseman — and I think he was probably slightly better defensively than Morgan. He hit .300 for his career, walked just about as often as he struck out, hit double-digit home runs nine times, stole 30 or more bases eight times and was a terrific postseason player (.313 postseason average, .347 in his two World Series victories). He had his best year at age 33 in Cleveland — he could have won the MVP that year. He did get traded to the Mets, where he finished off with three uninspiring years, and he retired at 36. So he did not get the number bump that so many players get in their later years.

Still, it’s hard to imagine a much better Hall of Fame case — a great fielding, great hitting, great running second baseman.

But…I sense no buzz about Alomar’s candidacy. I guess there are a couple of reasons for this. There was the spitting incident back in 1996 … he spit in the face of umpire John Hirschbeck. And then, post-career, an ex-girlfriend filed a civil suit alleging that Alomar had unprotected sex with her despite having AIDS. Alomar denied that he has AIDS. This, of course, should have nothing at all to do with his Hall of Fame candidacy, but when a player has some sort of controversy swirling around, it probably does affect the way people think about him.

And then…Alomar seems to be another player who was probably better than many people seemed to think when he was a player. Well, no, that’s not exactly right — he made 12 All-Star Games (10 as a starter) and won all those Gold Gloves and was top 6 MVP five times. So people did know of his brilliance while he was playing. It just seems like he was someone who did not stick in people’s minds.

To sum up: Alomar won more Gold Gloves than Sandberg, Mazeroski, White or any other second baseman. He also cracked 2,724 hits — more than any second baseman since World War II (Craig Biggio got more hits, but he spent quite a bit of time at other positions). He hit more than 500 doubles. He’s one of only two players in baseball history to hit .300 with 200 homers and 400 stolen bases — the other is first ballot Hall of Famer Paul Molitor who, as mentioned, spent most of his career as a DH.

Fine Vintage

jim murray

Thanks to my good pal, Jay Jaffe, here are a couple of few ledes from Jim Murray, one of the sharpest and funniest sports columnists of ’em all.

Clemente: You Had to See Him to Believe Him
January 3, 1973

For once, Roberto Clemente must have been taking. And God buzzed a high hard one right across the letters.

They didn’t make a pitch Roberto Clemente couldn’t hit. All he required of a baseball was that it be in the park. He hit with the savage lunge of a guy waiting on top of a gopher hole till the animal poked its head out. Its’s a good thing he didn’t make his living hitting fastballs because he never got any.

Old Aches and Pains, we called him around the press room. Here was a guy you could drive railroad spikes with. You could scratch a match on his stomach. He wasn’t born, he was mined.

He was the healthiest specimen I ever saw in my life. He didn’t have a pimple on him. The eyes were clear. I never even heard of him having to blow his nose. Yet he was positive he was terminal. You’d get the idea reports of his birth were greatly exaggerated.

Mantle of Greatness
January 20, 1974

Mickey Charles Mantle was born with one foot in the Hall of Fame. Unfortunately, the other one was in a brace.

If Mickey Mantle had had TWO Hall of Fame legs, he probably wouldn’t have had to go through the formality of 18 big-league seasons and 12 World Series. He’s the first guy who limped his way to the Hall of
Fame.

Reggie Renames House that Ruth Built
October 19, 1977

NEW YORK-Excuse me while I wipe up the bloodstains and carry off the wounded. The Dodgers forgot to circle the wagons.

Listen! You don’t go into the woods with a bear. You don’t go into a fog with Jack the Ripper. You don’t get in a car with Al Capone. You don’t get on a ship with Morgan the Pirate. You don’t go into shark
waters with a nosebleed. You don’t wander into Little Bighorn with General Custer.

And you don’t come into Yankee Stadium needing a win to stay alive in a World Series. Not unless you have a note pinned to you telling them where to send the remains. If any.

They Won’t Call Him Dr. Zero for Nothing
September 28, 1988

Norman Rockwell would have loved Orel Hershiser. The prevailing opinion is, he wasn’t drafted, he just came walking off a Saturday Evening Post cover one day with a pitcher’s glove, a cap 2 sizes too big and a big balloon of bubble gum coming out of his mouth.

On Red Smith
July 16, 1982

His name was Walter Wellesley Smith, and if my name were Walter Wellesley Smith you can bet I would use every syllable of it. Except I might be W. Wellesley Smith, even though a sage once remarked that you can never trust a man who parts his name in the middle.

Know what the real Walter Wellesley Smith preferred to be known as? Red. He had a moniker right out of the pages of Ivanhoe and he preferred a name that sounded as if he had just climbed down from a truck.

You don’t have to be all that good if your name is Westbrook Pegler. Or Grantland Rice. Who the hell is ever going to forget that? But, if your name is Smith, and all you have to go with it is Red (or Jack), you better be good.

Red Smith was good. People knew the name. And what it stood for. Uncompromising integrity. A surgical deftness with words that made some of us wonder if Red wrote with rubber gloves.

These pieces can be found Murray’s collection, The Great Ones.

vermeeer

News Update – 11/16/09

This update is brought to you by . . . a rap about PacMan (the game, not the troubled football player):

Bona Fide

What is the case against Robbie Alomar as a Hall of Famer?

0901008P BLUE JAYS 7  WH.SOX 3

Has to be something more substantial than the spitting incident. I mean the Johnny Roseboro fight didn’t keep the Dominican Dandy out of the Hall, did it? 

roseboro

We know that Alomar and Hirschbeck patched things up years ago (not that it matters, really). Based on the numbers, what’s the case against?

Cause to my mind–without doing any work, here–he’s a sure thing. I could be wrong. But the dude was one hell of a hitter (I never wanted to see him up in a big spot against the Yanks when he played for the Blue Jays, Orioles or Indians), not to mention the most artistic-fielding second baseman I’ve ever seen.

What do you think?

Good Eatin Food

I put a lot of things off until the off-season–books, movies, tv shows, cooking. I want to watch The Wire this winter. Got a bunch of books to read. And yeah, I’ve got time to cook and nerd-out in the kitchen. Cold outside, warm and tasty inside.

So I’ve now got time to dick around and look at recipes.

dumplings

Last weekend I made beef short ribs for the first time. I know lots of cooks love that piece of meat, there’s at least one short ribs recipe in just about every cookbook on my shelf, but I’d never gotten around to it. It was delicious. I used a lot of fresh thyme which has been my herb obsession of the year (previously, I went on a tarragon kick that lasted at least two years).

Here’s a good recipe for short ribs from the sabermetricians of the cooking world, Cooks Illustrated. The good people at Saveur got it going on too–dig their 15 ways to make a burger.

And here’s some other random stuff that caught my eye:

Paremesan Parsnips.

Brussels Sprouts with Chorizo.

Fennel, Sunchoke and Apple salad.

Korean-style Pickled cucumbers.

And here’s my man, Jacques:

Happy cooking…not to mention eating.

Keeping Warm

coal

It’s gray and raining in New York and the Hot Stove League is still just starting…Funny how the world is now. We’re already on to next season, contracts, free agents, and trade rumors. What’s next? What’s next?!?! Tell me NOW.

I’m still not there yet, at least not fully. I’m content to soak up the great 2009 season for the Yanks. I don’t want it to end just yet, but with each passing day, it slips away some more. Which is not to say that I begrudge anyone for being excited about the off-season. Unless you are a football fan, or follow hoops or hockey, that’s what we’ve got to keep us going.

So here’s an open thread to chat about anything and everything baseball.

Do it up.

There’s Somebody Bigger’n’ Phil

When I was a kid, I looked through my dad’s extensive library of books and through his record collection. Most of the books didn’t appeal to me because they didn’t have pictures. There was a history of burlesque that was titillating, a book about the history of the Academy Awards, and two of the Illustrated Beatles books; otherwise, his books didn’t interest me until much later. The record collection was mostly made-up of Original Cast Recordings from Broadway shows, and folk music joints, from Burl Ives to the Weavers. My mom had some Simon and Garfunkel and Judy Collins lps in the mix, and there was a copy of A Hard Day’s Night, but that was as rockin’ as it got.

mel and carl

What was left? A handful of comedy records–Why Is There Air? and I Started Out as a Child by Bill Cosby, Vaughn Meader’s First Family record, the 2000 Year Old Man, and the 2013 Year Old Man, by Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner. My twin sister, Sam, younger brother, Ben, and I listened to the Cosby and Brooks-Reiner records until they were practically worn-out. We can quote them without thinking. Every time I get off the phone with my sister we say, “Goodbye…I hope I’m an actor,” a throw-away line from Brooks in the Coffee House sketch on the first 2000 Year Old Man album.

Sometimes, before my parents got divorced, the old man would listen with us and we would wait with bated breath for the parts that made him laugh. I practically memorized what jokes got him going. He had a big, almost violent laugh that shook the room. It was exciting and scary but a relief: the old man was happy, and that was enough for us.

It’s hard for me not to think of my dad and Mel Brooks together–it is as if Mel is part of the family, just like George Carlin was. Although the old man wasn’t a great fan of Mel’s movies, he never tired of the 2000 year old man routine. Brooks has made a couple of memorable movies but his true genius is captured on these recordings, or on some of his talk show appearances. (Have you ever read the 1975 Playboy interview with Brooks? It is nothing short of hysterical.)

So I smiled this morning when I read the following interview with Brooks and Reiner in the Arts and Leisure section of the New York Times (they are promoting a new boxed-set of the 2000 recordings):

Q: How did you first come up with “The 2000 Year Old Man”?

MEL BROOKS: At the beginning it was pure made-up craziness and joy, and there was no thought of anybody else hearing it except maybe a couple of dear friends at a party.

CARL REINER: It was to pep up a room. We started on “Your Show of Shows,” and sometimes there would be a lull [in the writers’ room]. I always knew if I threw a question to Mel he could come up with something.

BROOKS: We had fun.

REINER: I remember the first question I asked him. It was because I had seen a program called “We the People Speak,” early television. [He puts on an announcer voice] “ ‘We the People Speak.’ Here’s a man who was in Stalin’s toilet, heard Stalin say, ‘I’m going to blow up the world.’ ” I came in, I said this is good for a sketch. No one else thought so, but I turned to Mel and I said, “Here’s a man who was actually seen at the crucifixion 2,000 years ago,” and his first words were “Oh, boy.” [He sighs.] We all fell over laughing. I said, “You knew Jesus?” “Yeah,” he said “Thin lad, wore sandals, long hair, walked around with 11 other guys. Always came into the store, never bought anything. Always asked for water.” Those were the first words, and then for the next hour or two I kept asking him questions, and he never stopped killing us.

BROOKS: It was all ad-libbed, and nothing was ever talked about before we did it. We didn’t write anything, we didn’t think about anything. Whatever was kinetic, whatever was chemical, we did it.

Here goes a sample…

From the first record:

Free Bird: What Becomes a Legend Most?

bird

One of the cool things about the NBA is that they allow You Tube to carry a lot of old games. Recently, there have been a ton of old  ’80s Celtics clips posted.

Dig this sample of artistry from the one they called Larry Legend.

 Witness the crazy nice behind-the-back pass 1:45 in.

And here’s a couple three more:

Check this one out and skip ahead to the 2:16 mark.

Go to 2:57.

And finally, dig the ill outlet pass at the 4:00 mark.

The Head Banger

Talk about getting served. Goodness gracious me.

Darkness Visible

depression

The New York Post reports distressing news about former Yankees closer, John Wetteland today. Joel Sherman has a column about Wetteland.

Serve You Up like Stove Top Stuffin’

mutombo_finger_wag

Over at Deadspin, the inimitable Charlie Pierce makes like Dikembe Mutombo, rejects Bill Simmons’ new book, then wags his finger in Simmons’ grill:

Simmons actually reveals himself to be a better than passable memoirist; the passages about his father are touching, and they hint at a family subtext that actually would have been worth exploring in a little more depth. The book ends with a warm pilgrimage to the home of Bill Walton. There is some real writing in this section. Unfortunately, it is interrupted by Bill’s wondering if Walton will read his book and Walton’s assurance to Bill that he will, and Bill’s leaving the Walton manse, apparently on a golden cloud. You are not the cosmos, son. Get the f*** over yourself. But, prior to the universe’s once again becoming Bill’s personal hand mirror, there is something very, well, sweet going on here. Somewhere in these pages is a real book, and somewhere in that book is a very real heart and a very redeemable soul, and that just may be worth the digging.

You’ve been served by the best:

Card Corner: Dennis Werth

Werth

I was reluctant to write about this subject matter during the World Series because I didn’t want to be seen as providing aid and comfort to the enemy, but now that the Yankees’ championship run is complete, the timing is right. Whenever Jayson Werth stepped to the plate for the Phillies, I not only feared that he might torch a Yankee pitcher for a home run, but I also thought regularly of former Yankee Dennis Werth.

Dennis Werth is now best known as the stepfather of Jayson Werth. He married Jayson’s birth mother in the 1980s, not too long after completing his own major league career, brief as it might have been, with the Yankees. The older Werth is hardly a household name in baseball circles, but at one time he appeared in line to have a productive career as a “superutility” man of sorts, a player capable of playing first base, catching, or playing third base.

As a 19th round draft choice by the Yankees in 1974, Werth faced a long climb in trying to convince the organization of his value as a prospect. He started out his pro career with a bang in nearby Oneonta—located just 22 miles from here in our Cooperstown headquarters—by hitting .336 in 64 games. He then methodically worked his way up the Yankee farm system, putting in time at just about every minor league affiliate: Ft. Lauderdale, West Haven, Syracuse, and Tacoma.

Werth lacked athleticism—he had only nominal power and no footspeed—but he hit the ball hard at practically every level. He posted batting averages of better than .300 in three of his six minor league seasons. He also showed patience and an understanding of the strike zone, once drawing 88 walks in a minor league season. In addition to producing good numbers throughout the Yankee farm system, Werth impressed scouts and talent evaluators with his intangibles. Limited in physical talents, Werth maximized his potential through hard work, hustle, and determination.

Though the Yankees drafted Werth out of college as a combination first baseman/third baseman/catcher, they made him a fulltime first baseman early in his pro career. He justified that decision by becoming a deft fielder, complete with good hands and range around the bag. As former Yankee outfielder “Uptown” Bobby Brown once said, Werth “picked it at first as good as anybody in the league. All he needs is a chance.”

Yet, Werth realized that he could improve that chance by reverting to the versatile ways of his high school and college career. In a striking contrast to today’s major leaguers, who generally treat position changes as if they were being asked to give blood, Werth approached the Yankees about re-learning the catching position. By once again wearing the tools of ignorance, Werth figured he would stand a stronger chance of making the big league roster as a backup catcher, first baseman and emergency third baseman.

Werth figured right. In 1979, he finally cracked Billy Martin’s roster. The promotion came five and a half years after being drafted on the 19th round. Whereas some players might have packed it in, or started making plans to play in the Japanese Leagues, Werth watched his perseverance pay off richly.

After making his move to the Bronx, Werth quickly became one of my favorite Yankees. While some of my Yankees were stars, like Thurman Munson and Bobby Murcer, I’ve always taken a liking to the platoon players and the utility men, the foot soldiers of major league teams. I liked the fact that Werth could catch, a position that had just been left vacant by the tragic death of Munson, while also filling in at first base, and even giving Graig Nettles a day off at third against a tough left-hander. The Yankees needed right-handed bats at the time, making Werth even more desirable as part of Billy Martin’s bench brigade.

How much did I like Werth? In the early 1980s, I came up with the idea to create my own baseball cards, made out of cardboard and black-and-white photographs from the New York City newspapers. One of the first cards I made was one for Werth; it was fashioned from a small portrait photo that had appeared in the New York Post. I wish I still had those make-shift cards. They weren’t worth much, but I took pride in them, especially the card of Dennis Werth.

Perhaps I lost those cards because Werth really never made it with the Yankees. Playing in parts of three seasons in the Bronx, Werth failed to become the standout bench player that I had once envisioned. Except for the 1980 season, he never hit much as a Yankee, though in fairness, his managers never gave him more than 65 at-bats in a single season. If only one of them—Martin, Dick Howser, Gene Michael, or Bob Lemon—had given Werth a larger role.

But let’s not fret over Werth’s lack of development as a Yankee. He has shown talents in other areas, becoming a successful sales representative for an orthopedic company. He also developed an intriguing knack for making decorative lamps out of baseball bats. His former owner with the Syracuse Chiefs, the colorful Tex Simone, still has one of Werth’s homemade lamps. Another one of those lamps actually made it on to the set of Seinfeld; it can be spotted in scenes that depict George Costanza’s fictional office at Yankee Stadium.

By all accounts, Werth has also become a good father to Jayson. This is not the stereotypical story of the malicious stepfather, as once portrayed so devilishly by Terry O’Quinn in the late 1980s. Quite to the contrary, the younger Werth often credits Dennis for aiding his progression as a young ballplayer. In a baseball family that includes Jayson’s grandfather, former shortstop Dick “Ducky” Schofield, Dennis has fit in quite nicely.

And that brings us to our final point. Dennis Werth might not have had much of an impact as a Yankee in the late seventies and early 1980s. Perhaps Jayson Werth can make up for that in the future; after all, he’ll be a free agent one year from now.

Bruce Markusen, still celebrating the Yankees’ 2009 world championship, lives in Cooperstown with his wife Sue and daughter Maddie.

Far Out, Man

doc

This is just tremendous.

Peace to Think Factory for the link.

The Ghost and Mr. Agassi

writing

Charles McGrath has a piece in the Times today about the collaboration between Andre Agassi and JR Moehringer.

Live at Ledes (Great Ledes Part III)

wc_heinz

How about some more wonderful ledes? (Here’s part one and part two.)

Here’s Gary Cartwright, one of the great Texas sports writers, rising to the occasion after Don Meredith failed to do so for the Dallas Cowboys:

Outlined against a blue-gray November sky, the Four Horsemenn rode again: Pestilence, Death, Famine, and Meredith.

The great Jim Murray on the Indy 500:

Gentlemen, start your coffins.

Vic Ziegel, on the facts of life:

The game is never over until the last man is out, the New York Post learned late last night.

John Updike on Ted Williams’ final game:

Fenway Park, in Boston, is a lyric little bandbox of a ballpark.

How about another John Lardner classic:

When Ezzard Charles won the heavyweight championship by licking J.J. Walcott, two years ago, Ezzard’s manager, Jake (Madman) Mintz, passed out in the ring. Last July when Walcott won the title, it was Charles who fell, while Jake remained on his feet throughout That is my idea of a perfect partnership — always one man conscious, to count the house.

Dig Murray Kempton on Willie Mays:

There was this moment when Willie Mays caught the last ball hit in the National League in 1962 and turned and laughed and threw it at the right-field foul pole. It was his ball and he could do what he pleased with it.

All of a sudden, you remembered all the promises the rich have made to the poor for the last 13 years and the only one that was kept was the promise about Willie Mays. They told us then that he would be the greatest baseball player we would ever see, and he was.

Here’s how Jimmy Cannon said goodbye to Doc Kearns, who managed Jack Dempsey and broke four banks in Shelby, Montana, with a single fight:

It took him 80 years, but Doc Kearns, who died yesterday, finally proved he was right. Daytime’s for sleeping. Nights are for laughs. The working day is nine to five. Doc never played a hand in that game.

And here’s one of my absolute favorites, from WC Heinz’s classic story, The Brownsville Bum

It’s a funny thing about people. People will hate a guy all his life for what he is, but the minute he dies for it they make him out a hero and they go around saying that maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all because he sure was willing to go the distance for whatever he believed or whatever he was.

That’s the way it was with Bummy Davis. The night Bummy fought Fritzie Zivic in the Garden and Zivic started giving him the business and Bummy hit Zivic low maybe 30 times and kicked the referee, they wanted to hang him for it. The night those four guys came into Dudy’s bar and tried the same thing, only with rods, Bummy went nuts again. He flattened the first one and then they shot him, and when everybody read about it, and how Bummy fought guns with only his left hook and died lying in the rain in front of the place, they all said he was really something and you sure had to give him credit at that.

“So you’re Al Davis?” one of the hoods said. “Why you punch-drunk bum.”

And you can’t beat that with a stickball bat.

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"This ain't football. We do this every day."
--Earl Weaver