Proof

This is nothing more than proof of what I've said all along:
 

"The only people who should wear their hats backward are catchers and rappers."

.......... Ruprecht ( if you think this guy is going to STOP the mockery, think again )  79

Baseball Fever

A couple years ago, I finally got the opportunity to realize a dream.

Out of the blue, I joined a softball league.

That might not seem too lofty a dream ... but it was something I'd wanted to do for a long time. And it had been even longer since I'd played organized ball.

Oh ... I'd tossed some balls here and there, fooled around with a few pick-up games at picnics and the like, played a little with the kids. But it's really been 20 years of goofing around without any genuine structure.

And then ... opportunity. I wanted to go out and play. I needed to go out and play. Desperately. It was important to see if I could still play. So I forced it and made it happen.

In so doing, I had a few choices: Did I hit up an all men's league? Or go co-ed?

Now ... 20 years of flinging a ball on occasion or picking up a bat once in a blue moon does not a well-oiled machine make. Far from it.

After a few years of playing little league and improving to the point of comfortability with the sport way back in the day, I felt I was "seasoned" to somewhat of a confident point. (At least I remember being confident enough to tell my coach I could handle first base one time. But I hadn't a clue how to play first base as was evident when the first ball flung at me from the shortstop during an actual game found a spot just below my right eye. "What the hell are you doing?!?" I remember my coach yelling at me. "I thought you said knew how to play first base!" That mishap formed a discolored welt that stuck around for several weeks. From that point forward I made it a personal goal never to let a ball drop or get past me when it came my way.)

However, regardless of any comfortability you have with the game, you put a couple decades between you and the last time you played with any regularity and let me tell you: there's going to be rust. And lots of it.

That being said (and knowing full well I would exhibit that rust in all its glory), I whittled my opportunities down to exactly one ... and it wasn't going to be with the men's softball league. Not unless I had a death wish. Enthusiastic as I was, I needed to ease (somewhat) back into the game without injuring myself (much). I was, enthusiastic ... not stupid.

So co-ed it was. I signed up as a free agent on the county website. The first game was a mere two weeks distant with no guarantee I would be contacted to join any team looking for an extra player. But, as luck would have it, I was called within 48 hours. The guy who called me, Nate, was a former college player and current manager in the league. He had holes in his team he needed filled and several of his players weren't going to be available until a couple games down the line. We talked for 45 minutes feeling each other out, learned each others' histories and talked ball, ball, ball. Based alone on that chat, he asked me to not only join the team but be his "No. 2 man" along side him. The call ended with me telling him I would see him at practice in a couple days.

Meeting Nate was a bit of a surprise. The dude was big. He was almost as tall as I was (6'0") and was easily on the weightier and more formidable end of the 250 pound mark. He wasn't fat, but he was bulky.

Despite that, the dude could move ... and move well. Exceptionally well. Surprisingly well. His abilities were impressive for such a big guy. He could run, field and hit with an ease that belied his stature. As a matter of fact we impressed each other. He tested me out right away asking me to field balls in a most polite manner. But ... the way he was hit balls at me (not to me ... at me) was anything but polite. He wanted to see what I was made of, if all the phone talk was nothing more than big talk, if I could indeed "walk the walk." The first grounder that came at me? Despite being ready for it, it about knocked me on my ass. I didn't let it show but mentally I told myself I'd better keep my wits about me and be ready for anything. Turned out that was good internal advice because, for the next 15 minutes, Nate put me through an exercise in fundamental baseball fielding that had me not only wired but winded. He put me through the ropes.

And I didn't expect anything less.

"You ready to bat?" he finally asked me at one point after getting tired of batting at me. I took up a helmet and a stick. Despite the league being underhand pitch, it didn't stop Nate from trying his best to tie me up. He whizzed balls at me, many of them unnervingly inside. Of course he wanted to see what I was made of at the plate as well as on the field. I didn't let him down. The funny thing was Nate wasn't a good pitcher. Half the stuff he tossed was out of the strike zone; I not only eyeballed a lot of them but hopped out of the way of quite a few, too. And I took advantage of it. I made him pitch to me.

He wasn't necessarily pleased with my pickiness.

"What the hell was wrong with that pitch?!?" I heard him grumble several times. Just as my skills were being tested, I could tell his demeanor was as well. I capitalized on it: "You mean the one that just grazed my belt buckle?" He smiled. There was a camaraderie building between us. My taunts to him got bolder, containing words which included me possibly needing a ladder in order to hit certain balls, wondering if he used glasses or if he wasn't better suited in an all-girl league. Which, you know, got him riled even more. A couple dozen pitches and he came over to me, grumpiness at his pitching and my particularness gone. "You made the team," he told me matter of factly.

"I made the team even before going through all that hullabaloo," I informed him confidently. He smirked.

We began practice. "Where do you want to play?" he asked. "First base," I replied. I was then informed "Lucky for you, the guy I pegged for first can't begin for a couple weeks. He might lose his job." (As luck would have it, that guy didn't completely lose the job; mostly, I pitched through the season so I played first as my back up position.)

The first few practices were very telling ... and not just for me. Everyone had rust to slough off. And I was surprised to learn there were some really talented girls on the team, too. Nate's wife took up third base and she could flick the ball to first with authority. Another player had a fireball of an arm. And she could bat like it was nobody's business as well.

Practice, though, got us down to the business of relearning the fundamentals and finding where our weaknesses were. And we had some pretty damned big weaknesses. But they worked themselves out in the weeks leading up to that first game.

One practice saw us using a church field which contained so many holes and divots it was a real danger to play in. We were continually getting our feet caught, tripping and falling during plays. I hyper-extended my calf while cushioning a shot to me at one point and ended up straining the hell out of my leg. I hobbled about for a week and had to baby it to get it back into shape. (Luckily, we were forced to practice only once at that location.) During one batting practice, a low line drive came screaming at me and I didn't get down on it quickly enough - it caromed squarely off the front of my right shin. Over the course of 15 minutes, the resulting injury went from a red mark to something akin to hiding a grapefruit beneath my skin. Adding insult to injury, I bled like a sieve, blood eventually soaking my sock. I weathered through it. But, as luck would have it, not 10 days later another line drive shot at me and connected in the exact same spot, opening up the wound once again, reminding me how much it hurt the initial instance. By the time the first game came around, the entire team had either strained hamstrings, tender backs, any number of injuries to our legs and hands and shoulders and various other ails needing to be taped up or gingerly worked around.

Our first two games showed our efforts on the practice field ... which was just as good as it was bad. What we lacked in batting we made up for in fielding. We lost our first game by a few runs and conversely won our second by a large margin. Practice was committed at least twice a week between games. We were beginning to gel into a cohesive unit.

And then Nate proposed a game changer that gave us a pretty huge advantage.

Being we were in a slow-pitch league, it didn't make any difference how fast we could pitch. There was a rule in place that there had to be a minimum 1 yard arc on the ball from pitcher to catcher, give or take. Anything less and there was the potential for umpire reprimand: You got a warning call. Three such warnings during an inning and you were penalized, anything from a batter being awarded first base to the mandatory changing of your pitcher. So no team was able to get around flinging pitches which would whip by a batter, taking advantage of those players whose batting skills leaned on the side of remedial.

And this is where Nate's idea came into play. "I was watching the men's league the other day and I saw one guy mixing up his pitches with his hand atop the ball on release," he told me. "What that does is make the rotation of the ball come at them so it forces it into the ground or it minimizes the distance of outfield fly balls. It doesn't get any distance. More often it's an infield pop fly. The pitch takes a while to master, but I thought we could give it a shot."

And we did. It was tough to get the hang of, but man ... did it ever confuzzle the opposing teams. So much so it got them complaining. They argued that type of pitch wasn't allowed.

"So long as that 1 yard arc is maintained, they can pitch backward if they want," the umpire would tell those who griped. 

What that pitch did to our opponents' run productions was quite the advantage for us - the opposition's scoring plummeted as we mastered the pitch. Their batting was effectively stymied. The big boys who were used to pounding balls into the outfield with authority instead cursed ever louder as their batting efforts came up short. It was a glorious thing to watch. Much as they complained about it - and taunted me incessantly about pitching like a girl - they were confounded by that type of delivery. It didn't always win games for us, but it gave us a clear advantage in the grand scheme of things.

It was everything I thought being in a league would be. The work, the effort, the jovial atmosphere, the frustration, the joy, the defeat. I loved every minute of it. There was never a time when I didn't get enthused about heading to practice. Game time got my adrenaline pumping.

During one particular practice in the middle of the season, I caught a glint in Nate's eye as he came up to bat. There weren't many of us there that day. Only the real diehards (myself included) showed up at every single practice. "Ready, Noble? This one's comin' at you with your name on it," he warned me. Sure enough, a shot sped toward me with such force it knocked me on my ass when I tried fielding it. He meant to do that. Everyone there laughed at me, Nate most heartily of all. "Tell you what," I said as I got up and dusted myself off: "How 'bout a little contest while you and I are at bat. The fielder catches or stops a ball coming at them? It's a point in their favor. Ball drops or gets past them? Point in the batter's favor. Most points after a couple rounds gets bragging rights ..."

"You're on," Nate agreed.

Batting practice during these times turned into war. All out war. Him against me. Remember: Nate was a big guy, bigger than I was. But he could place a well-hit ball with precision. And he knew I could do same. It wasn't any picnic when we went at each other during these little challenges. We threw everything and the kitchen sink at each other.

Nate's preference was at shortstop when he fielded, mine was first base. Between getting our gloves turned inside out from screamers threatening to take our heads off, getting deposited on our asses, having our legs beat all to hell when we missed balls coming at us, we ended each batting session with blisters, welts and hurt pride aplenty. And, if lucky, we got to spew those ever-so-important bragging rights. Fun stuff.

And we loved every minute of it. Because that bonding is part of what playing ball is all about. At least it is for me.

We ended up in third place that year. Not too shabby. I pitched rather well a lot of the time. I got the pants beaten off me during one particular outing I thought would never end. I batted well enough to do some damage. I made plenty of mistakes along the way. We weathered defeats with slumped shoulders and bruised egos just the same as we celebrated wins, loudly and with gusto. And I had a grand old time during every single minute of it.

Currently, I'm awaiting the call as a free agent for some team needing another player. I'm the odd man out in the town I live in right now, unfamiliar with any of the players or teams and with nary a practice beneath my belt in almost two years. But I hope to be out on the field again ... and soon. Reliving my youth once more, regardless of the fact my running ability has slowed over the years.

I'm ready as I am each season, whether watching or playing, ready for the aches and the pains and the glory of baseball ...

.......... Ruprecht ( won't STOP playing ball ... ever ... ) 2,500

At The 'Ole Ballgame

At the start of every baseball season, I'm convinced there's a story out there.

A story of newness and rebirth. Of hope springing eternal. 

And it's usually about, concerning or with - at the very least - a passing acknowledgement to baseball.

I don't always catch the stories when they hit. They're not consistently within my purview or readily at my disposal. Sometimes, it takes the better part of the season before I'm fortunate enough to come across them. 

This time, however? An internet friend passed one along that epitomizes what's to come ... and just at the right time. 

The story has inspired me to write about my personal, physical reintroduction into the game. I'll post it shortly.

In the meantime, here is the story in question. Please enjoy.

"That’s one of the great gifts of this, the greatest of all games, baseball: it allows you, still, to lose yourself in a dream, to feel and remember a season of life when summer never seemed to die and the assault of cynicism hadn’t begun to batter optimism."

.......... Ruprecht ( STOP )
Thanks, Donna LoveBees Sweikow

MLB Pranksters

Hokay: Who's the comedian?

Is somebody playing an April Fool's prank on baseball fans? Or is it simply that whoever is working the Major League Baseball schedule is daft?

It's not that I don't appreciate the shellacking the Dodgers gave the Arizona Diamondbacks in Sydney, Australia a couple weekends ago. (The Dodgers took the two-game series Down Under. And, while I appreciate the international promotion MLB put on, did we really have to fly all the way down to Australia to play those games? I don't want to guess what that little 2-day round-trip jaunt totalled.) 

I'm not even perturbed at the loss to the Padres Sunday.

Here's what I can't fathom however:

No game Monday? What the what ... ?!?? I can understand if the game was rained out - it's a mite bit difficult to play a ballgame in the rain. But there wasn't any rain in
San Diego Monday evening.

One game played for the Dodgers in the regular season. And then?

They get a day of rest.

What? The? Hell?

It gets more ridiculous. The Dodgers have the next two Thursdays off. Oh ... and the next two Mondays as well. Plus! The last Monday of the month. 

It must be the travel schedule; that's what's throwing a wrench in the machine ... right? Jet lag. That's it? Correct?

No. No, it isn't. They play the San Francisco Giants, the Detroit Tigers and the Diamond backs once again. 

Hmmmmmmmmmmmm ... hold on ... I know why: They have to travel to Detroit. Right? 

No. All the those series are on the Dodgers' home field.

Wait ... waitaminnit ... the Detroit Tigers?

Interleague this early in the season!?? Shouldn't the first month of the 2014 season be dedicated primarily to opponents in the division?!? Yes, it should. 

Should we have interleague games in freakin' April? No, we should not. 


*sigh*

Thanks for the April Fools, MLB  ...

......... Ruprecht ( STOP )

Joy To The World ... Again!

Yay! Daylight Savings Time is here again!

Advantages of this time period include:

• Summertime!
• Better use of daylight hours!
• Summer days!
• Fewer road accidents resulting in fewer road injuries!
• More social time for everyone as outdoor activity is increased!
• Electricity savings because you are out of the house and using less in your house!

Know who else observes DST? Albania, Andorra, Argentina, Austria, Azerbaijan, Belgium, Bermuda, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Bulgaria, Canada, Croatia, Cuba, Cyprus, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Falkland Islands, Faroe Islands, Finland, France, Gaza Strip, Germany, Gibraltar, Greece, Greenland, Haiti, Vatican City, Hungary, Iran, Ireland, Isle of Man, Israel, Italy, Jordan, Kosovo, Latvia, Lebanon, Liechtenstein, Lithuania, Luxembourg, Republic of Macedonia, Malta, Mexico, Moldova, Monaco, Montenegro, Morocco, The Netherlands, Norway, Poland, Portugal, Romania, Saint Pierre and Miquelon, San Marino, Serbia, Slovakia, Slovenia, Spain, Sweden, Switzerland, Syria, The Bahamas, Turkey, Turks and Caicos Islands, Ukraine, United Kingdom, West Bank, Western Sahara and more will be joining most of the United States! Which means any of you who are cranky about the coming time change can be comforted in the fact you'll be doing so - if the need strikes you - internationally!

*McWoot ... !!!*

And that's hand-in-hand coming together ... isn't it?

Love, peace and understanding, people ... love, peace and understanding.

And ... if I know most of you, you've already used up your allotment of naps for the year already ...

Happy Daylight Savings Time! (I don't need to tell you to spring ahead one hour when you go to bed Saturday night, do I? Because you've lived long enough to remember this ... I'm certain of it.)

.......... Ruprecht ( STOP griping about things you can't change ... unless you want to move to Arizona )

We Need Three Strikes In Life

When I was a kid, my father drug me to baseball tryouts.

Yes ... he drug me. Kicking and screaming.

Hokay ... it might not have been quite that dramatic. But, as a kid and at the time and searching my memory, I was literally drug to tryouts. Drug kicking and screaming. (You know what I mean.)

I do remember there were tears. Genuine tears. Tears shed because I did not, did not, DID NOT want to go ... did not want to be there ... did not want to participate ... did not want to be put in a position where I didn't know what I was doing, did not know if I was going to succeed, did not want the humiliation of screwing up and being laughed at.

"Tough shit, son. Get out there and do your best," my father told me. "Just do the best you can." (He didn't say "tough shit" ... but he wanted to. I know he did ...)

I pleaded with him, begging him not to subject me to such mortifying abasement. The tears started anew.

"Don't make me mad. Get out there," he responded.

I don't remember the tryout itself. I'm pretty certain I was numb throughout the entire process. I remember catching a fly ball ... and being rather amazed I had done so. Grounders whizzed past me to the left and to the right and straight through my legs. I don't recall ever making contact with the ball solidly when I was up to bat, but I think I might have tipped it once. Barely.

I walked off the field when the tryouts were over and was directed to one of several groups of boys. Right then and there, post tryouts, a dozen or so coaches were picking teams out of the blue. All participants who had tried out on the field were being selected one by one and put on a team.

I remember I was one of the last to be selected. I can't rightly say, but I may have been one of the last ones picked.

I survived tryouts. Then, I realized much to my chagrin, I would have to endure an entire little league season. I didn't know if I had it in me to do so.

But I did have it in me. And, again, my father pushed me through my fear.

But it wasn't without consequence. I was one of the worst kids in the league. And I knew it, too. I dreaded going to practice that year, I hated being in the games. Mostly I was polishing the bench with my backside that initial season, though I was put in the game as required.

But I did have one thing going for me: Power. So as I learned to make contact with the ball, I did find - on that rare occasion - the ball flew off my bat.

And then came the turning point in my baseball "career" when I decided baseball wasn't so bad after all.

I was up to bat one inning late in the game. I remember I had two strikes on me and I just knew the next pitch was going to come down the middle and zip right past me. I just knew it. So, with adrenaline pumping wildly inside me, the pitcher wound up and flung the ball.  I closed my eyes tightly and let my bat fly.
 
In the movies when "that big moment" strikes and the sound goes mute and everything is in slow motion? That's what I remember happening. I opened my eyes and dejectedly put my bat on my shoulder, ready to take the walk of shame back to the dugout. But then the sound returned. I heard yelling and screaming and cheering. And I felt a hard back slap by a team mate who was out of the on-deck circle and suddenly right next to me with a big shit-eating grin on his face. I had no clue what everyone was going on about. 

Next, the home plate umpire told me "Go on ... round the bases, son."

I'd hit a homerun - my first - and I didn't even know it. I hadn't seen it. I had no clue what had just happened.

I trotted out to first base stunned and unbelieving but - as I made my way to second - a grin began to appear on my face. It was one of the few times during my rookie outing I enjoyed baseball.

And my love affair with the game continues to this day. (Regardless of the fact baseball is a whole different ballgame today than it was of yesteryear.)

Had my father not put his foot down, had he not forced me to get out there and try, I don't know if I would love the game as much as I do. Screw that enablement crap, the milquetoast attitude some foist on kids.

The fact of the matter is you don't learn from your successes, you learn from your failures and from your mistakes.

You do things yourself in order to fully appreciate them and understand them and relate to them. If I wasn't pushed by my father, I still might like baseball. But I don't think I would be the fan and student of the game I am today.

And that's why this post I saw - courtesy of my buddy Douglas Arthur - resonated so strongly with me.

.......... Ruprecht ( STOP enabling everyone ... kids and adults alike )

#42

April 15th, 1947. Opening Day for the Brooklyn Dodgers and the start of the first season for Jackie Robinson in the major leagues breaking baseball's color barrier. 

Additionally it's the 5th annual commemoration of Jackie Robinson Day where - over the next few days - all major leaguers wear the number "42" on their jerseys among other festivities.

"My first thought was 'Can he help us win the pennant?' I didn't care about the color of his skin ..."

- Ralph Branca

"I do not care if the guy is yellow or black or if he has stripes like a fuckin' zebra. I'm the manager of this team and I say he plays."

- Brooklyn Dodgers manager Leo Durocher
stating emphatically to his team in 1947

 

"I still don't think people understand how much it plays into the Martin Luther King situation. The revolution that occurred at that particular moment, it mattered. That had to happen first to set that whole thing up. So when you're talking about Jackie Robinson, I don't think people realize the significance and really courage that went behind that, and in the movie it points that out - the courage to not fight back, to be able to win over that particular mind set to be able to make all of this work."

- Tampa Bay Rays manager Joe Maddon

.......... Ruprecht ( STOP thinking baseball's boring )

 

The 65th

Thank you, Branch Rickey ...

.......................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

Honoring An Agreement

I lost a bet.

It was loads of fun to do. I recommend it highly.

Patty liked the Philadelphia Phillies in the National League Championship Series. I liked (and always have) The Los Angeles Dodgers. It was a match made in heaven to get us together and bet on the game.

The bet? Whoever loses wears the opposing team's colors, et al and posts pictures of same. It's a simple bet. And that's what makes it all the sweeter.

I must admit: It's usually a chore for me to lose a bet. But I had no qualms about losing this one.

Oh ... I grumbled and grouched and anguished mentally when my beloved Dodgers bit the dust with barely a whimper. They practically laid down their arms and gave up the fight, it seemed. Hard to swallow.

So ... under these circumstances, wouldn't it be equally difficult to come to terms with the ground rules of the wager? One would think so.

A bit surprisingly, however, at the final out and with the realization I had lost the bet ... no sinking feeling ... it wasn't a problem. I was actually looking forward to honoring my end of the bargain.

And so ... here it is. In glorious color, for your dining and dancing pleasure. Without a whimper, without a (genuine) tear shed.

Congratulations, Patty, to your Phillies. May they do well in the World Series.

I will be rooting for them ..... over those dastardly, pinstriped New York Yankees .....
























Oh. And, just to make things a bit more fun and take the wager a bit further, I wore said shirt out in public, too. I did so while picking up my youngest daughter from school.

The look on her face says it all:

"Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwwwwwwww, Dad! How could you be dressed so in a Phillies' shirt ... ?!?!?"

..................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

NLDS, Game 2 .....

I was fortunate enough (courtesy of a friend from New Jersey - thanks loads, Matt!) to head to the second game of the National League Division Series October 8th to see the Los Angeles Dodgers commit a grand and glorious come-from-behind win over the St. Louis Cardinals and take a 2-0 lead in the best-of-five series.

The Dodgers would go on to sweep the Cards and move onward to the National League Championship Series.

This game, however, was a kicker. The opposing pitcher flung a gem of a game, giving up a mere homerun and a three hit performance before leaving the game undecided.

A few pictures of my buddy Ken and I and 50,000+ of our closest friends .....

Yeah ... it's a bit packed tonight .....

Really ... ??? A line to get into the men's restroom ... ?!?!?

This guy is one of my best friends
when I'm watching the game from the comfort of my living room .....

Yup. That's Slash of Guns 'N' Roses, doing the National Anthem .....

Hey! McCourt! Lasorda! Down in front!
I'm a paying customer and I can't see, already!

I have no explanation for this guy .....

Manny at the plate .....

The eventual win and final score .....

Grins and hugs and backslaps all around .....

Car to guess which ones are the bankers?
We had these knuckleheads in stitches the entire afternoon.

Half an hour after the final winning hit, they're headed for the exits .....

Ken didn't want evidence he had, indeed, lost his car .....

I just had to get a picture
with the lone Cardinals fan in the stadium .....

You betcha .....

.................. Ruprecht ( STOP )

The High, Dashed By The Low

It should be a day of revelry in the baseball world:

13-0: Dodgers Set Major League Home Record Start

But, instead, I'm having a really difficult time of it:

Ramirez Suspension Sends Shocks Through Mannywood

......................... Ruprecht ( STOP )

Play Ball Redux

I couldn't say this any better myself.

Rupe offers a link (below) to the hilarious post of friend and jibe Clark Brooks for your exclusive dining and dancing pleasure.

Now ... name five ways to get on first without hitting the ball.

Play Ball!

..................... Ruprecht ( STOP working and catch Opening Day)

School Of Tradition

I was dragged, kicking and screaming, to baseball tryouts as a kid by my father one sunny, Saturday afternoon. I didn’t want to go, I couldn’t be made to go and I let my father know this through tears and a tantrum or two ... unconvincingly of course.

“You are going to try out and you are going to like it,” I remember my father saying. (In all actuality, I’m not so certain these were the words he emphatically stated. But through my tears and panic and fear of being made a fool of on the tryout field, this is what I remember.)

My father, you see, was a wise man. At least, in retrospect he was. He was teaching me a life lesson, but I didn’t realize it at the time. I don’t think he realized it, either.

Thankfully, the experience didn’t damage me.

Matter of fact, it was the beginning of a life-long love affair I was to have with one of the greatest games on Earth: Baseball.

Without my father forcing me to tryout for little league, I never would have been subject to the finer points of the game. I wouldn’t have learned the patience I now have. I never would have seen the acrobatics of Garvey, Russell, Lopes and Cey. I probably wouldn’t have enjoyed the thrill of Manny Mota coming out to pinch hit and save the day. No Fernando. No Reuss. No Howe, Scioscia or Gibson. No Piazza. No Mondesi. I never would have experienced the sounds Helen Dell coaxed out of the stadium organ. I wouldn’t have such fond memories of Vin Scully deftly describing the action on the field and analyzing it afterward. I would have far, far fewer smiles courtesy of Nancy Bea Hefley and her sly renditions between innings at Dodger Stadium.

You see, it’s not old school ... it’s not The School Of Rock or anything like that. It’s the School Of Tradition.

The game of baseball wouldn’t be as sweet without these integral people.

I remember being introduced to professional baseball in the ‘70's with numerous trips to Chavez Ravine, home of the Los Angeles Dodgers. I don’t know when it was I became enamored with the organ playing of Helen Dell, but I figure it was sometime in the late ‘70's.

I thrilled to the ever rising “dunt-dunt-dunt, dunt-dunt-dunt, dunt-dunt-dunt” crowd pleaser that called to all of us in the stands, demanding we clap thunderously for our team. I fondly recall her seventh inning stretch on the organ, beautiful music coming out the speakers all over the stadium, beckoning us to shout out our best “Take Me Out To The Ballgame”. The between innings change of teams was made all the quicker with her spunky tunes and abbreviated quips.

And then, the ‘80's appeared and Helen was replaced by Nancy Bea Hefley. The transition was seamless. Nancy continued Helen’s tradition and more so. To this day, Nancy’s organ still accompanies the crowd’s “... buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack!”. More recently, her “Saturday In The Park” by Chicago graced the confines of the stadium as the Dodgers downed the Chicago Cubs in a three game sweep. It’s always been a pleasure to hear what she was playing. She usually peppered her tunes with humor - a “Three Blind Mice” when an ump made a questionable call, for example. I even remember her chasing Giants pitchers off the mound to "Do You Know the Way to San Jose?" Over the years, Nancy’s playful jibes have been grossly curtailed, but she’s still there, every home game, entertaining the crowd and filling our ears with gaiety that can only be found when you’re present at the ballpark.

Then, there’s Vin Scully. Vinny is a personal hero of mine. He tells it like it is. He gives commentary like no other baseball announcer I’ve ever heard. He is the voice of the Dodgers and a Dodger institution in and of himself.

I remember as if it were yesterday Game One of the ‘88 World Series, Dodgers and the A’s. In the bottom of the ninth inning, pinch-hitter Mike Davis had been awarded first base on a two-out walk and Vinny said: “... and look who's coming up ... you talk about a roll of the dice ... this is it.” Kirk Gibson had come out of the dugout to bat. Gibby’s walk out to the plate to pinch hit was made all the more magic with Vinny’s commentary.

Later, with two strikes on him, Gibson hit the ball and painfully gimped to first base, the ball going foul. Vinny proclaimed of Gibson “... it had to be an effort to run that far.”

Later still, on a 3 and 2 count, Kirk Gibson belted a “high fly ball into right field ..... she i-i-i-is ..... gone!” Vinny screamed.

Vinny had always believed - and still believes to this day - the crowd tells the story at the ballpark. Vinny didn’t speak for more than a minute before finally announcing “In a year that has been so improbable, the impossible has happened.”

That’s pure, classic Vin Scully announcing right there. And it still sends chills down my spine. To this very day, I still get a thrill hearing Vin call the play-by-play.

And he’s still doing it. Almost 60 years behind the microphone and he’s still plugging away jauntily. The youngest broadcaster ever to announce a World Series game (still a record today), Vinny is a national treasure.

And I’m glad to have had - and continue to have - the opportunity to listen to him during Dodger broadcasts. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

It's a ritual of mine: if there’s a Dodger telecast on the tube not being broadcast on the local channel where Vinny’s calling the shots, I will mute the television audio, drag in the portable clock radio and tune into Vinny on the a.m. channel rather than listen to some Bozo call the action. That’s just the way it is. Anything else is substandard as far as I’m concerned.

These are some of my baseball heroes. These are a few of the memories I hold dear. These people are tradition to me.

So ... it’s was a pleasure, a mighty fine pleasure, to hear Nancy plinking out a tune in the background and Vinny calling that final out in the Cubs loss Saturday evening by the Dodgers to take a step closer to yet another World Series celebration. If it happens, Nancy and Vin will be right there with me.

Here’s a tip of my hat to a few of my heroes: Helen and Nancy and Vinny.

Keep’em comin’, thank you very much ..... keep’em comin’ .....

........................ Ruprecht ( STOP )