I-70 Series II?

If it happens, there will be instant replay, and there won't be D.D.! Here is my Game 6 memory from 1985: It was October 26, 1985, and for a belated birthday present, my friend Robbie got me into Royals Stadium for Game 6 of the World Series … and I do mean IN the stadium. He had a part-time assignment to develop film for the Associated Press, and he got me a job getting the film rolls from the photographers in the extended dugout and taking them to him at the elevator in between innings. During play, I stood in a tunnel with two of Governor John Ashcroft’s bodyguards and watched the game while they watched the Gov. We got there early, and with working press passes, we pretty much had the run of the place. I got to go down to a celebrity room where there were snacks. I remember recognizing McLean Stevenson of M*A*S*H and Sparky Anderson, manager of the Detroit Tigers. We were even on the field for awhile! With the game about to start, we were ushered off the field and down through the dugout tunnel to our jobs. It was there we passed Glen Campbell, who was going to sing the national anthem. He smiled and said, “Hi,” and I distinctly remember replying, “Have a good game!” He gave me a puzzled look. I don’t know why I said that.  The rest of the night is, of course, history. The Cardinals led the Series three games to two and were leading 1-0 going into the bottom of the ninth inning. The first batter, Jorge Orta, hit a slow roller to Jack Clark at first, who tossed it to pitcher Todd Worrell for the easy out. But umpire Don Denkinger called him safe. Here was the call by Jack Buck: “Orta, leading off, swings and hits it to the right side, and the pitcher has to cover he is...SAFE! SAFE! SAFE! And we'll have an argument! Sparky, I think he was out!” A few moments later, Buck added in surprise, “He had the base and he had the ball, man, what else is there? That's the rule isn't it?” Despite the protest, the call stood, and the Royals rallied for a 2-1 victory to tie the seven-game series at three games apiece. Game 7 was a disaster. With the surprise loss fresh in their minds, the man who made the bad call, Denkinger, was behind the plate. The Birds had a meltdown and lost, 11-0. Let's do it again. This time will be different. GO CARDS!

Junk in the Trunk

Grandparents arrested for putting child in trunk JEFFERSON CITY, MO (5/7/2013) — A Fulton couple was arrested this weekend in Jefferson City for putting their grandchild in the trunk of their car. Police reports show at about 12:15 p.m. Saturday, officers were dispatched to Menards, 805 Stone Creek Drive, for a child endangerment call. According to the caller, she heard a voice from within the trunk of a car that had pulled into the lot and what sounded like a child's voice frantically yelling, “Let me out!” The caller observed a couple exit the vehicle then open the trunk, at which point a 5-year-old girl climbed out. Officers responded and made contact with the suspects, Marc and Mary Vaucher of Fulton who admitted purchasing two tables at another location and not having enough room to place the tables in the trunk so they opted to place their granddaughter in the trunk to allow for transport. The Vauchers were arrested for endangering the welfare of a child and the child, who was unharmed, was released to another family member's custody. As of Monday afternoon, formal charges against the Vauchers had not been filed. I feel for that girl, but at least it wasn’t AUGUST! Back in my younger days, as the “one with the car,” I would transport other guys into the drive-in movie in the trunk of my car. If you didn’t have the cash, you rode in the trunk to get in. But my favorite trunk story came at an auto body shop. I was rear-ended, so I took my car out to Eddie Gray’s, a respected Jefferson City shop. I was an all too frequent customer of Eddie, who always did an acceptable job — except once. After a rain, I noticed my trunk was wet, so I took the car back to Eddie’s. “Jimmy, come here,” shouted a man who had just grabbed a water hose from the wall of the garage. A small man approached, saw the hose and the open trunk lid, and began to scowl. He looked right at the man with the hose and said, “This better not be like last time. Or I’ll kick out the taillights and it will come out of your pay!” Apparently being the smallest guy in the body shop automatically makes you the trunk-leak-checker. Jimmy got in my trunk, the lid was closed, water applied, he knocked, the lid was open and he said, “New seal.” All in about five seconds. A very fast diagnosis!

MY Missouri State Fair 2013

Back in August, the Missouri State Fair made national news — for probably the first time in a long time — when Tuffy the rodeo clown put on a mask of the President during his entertainment. As folk who have gone to rodeos know, the clowns are there to entertain. And, more importantly, they are on-dirt guards for the safety of the riders of bulls, horses, etc. And from what I know of them, they’d even help you find the keys you lost in the field/parking lot afterwards if they were lucky enough not to have been carted off in an ambulance that night. Well, in poor Tuffy’s case, somebody put his performance on You Tube and it got blown way out of proportion. Go figure. I’m pro-Tuffy. Dick Dorkey of Florissant is not. He wrote the St. Louis Post-Dispatch, after not being at the rodeo, and after not being at the state fair at all, with these words of wisdom: “The rodeo clown incident simply points out that the time for having a state fair has come to an end. “Annually, the state of Missouri spends millions producing this event, that while pleasant, is an anachronism whose time has come and gone. The state also spends millions in upkeep for a fairgrounds used for a few weeks in the summer.” Wrong, Dorkey. The State of Missouri officially paid $400,000 to support the 2013 state fair. That’s about one dollar for everybody who attended, and that’s less than HALF of ONE million. As far as the “millions” for upkeep, you’ll have to prove it. And the fairgrounds is used year round; I know, because I’ve been there. Dorkey also stated: “Historically, the state fair was a place where farmers could enter their crops and livestock in a competition and be entertained with carnival acts, races and musical performers that they otherwise wouldn’t be able to see. “These days, no farm family is more than a couple of hours away from the entertainment in St. Louis, Kansas City or Branson.” Well, that’s just big-city bias, Mr. Florissant. This state is built on agriculture. And the farmers, young and old, who enter their crops and livestock in competition, are not going to find such opportunities in Mr. Dorkey’s entertainment capitals. The state fair gives some of these folk a chance to show off what they’ve dedicated their lives to, to learn how others do it, to maybe learn some tips and make some business contacts. And even us city folk can learn while being entertained. Unlike Dorkey, I go to the rodeo every year. I’ve even volunteered there. I enjoy the fact that Missourians from across the state can come to Sedalia, see a free show or a paid concert, enjoy carnival food, maybe shake hands with a politician or a fair queen, learn how a pig becomes bacon or where ice cream comes from … and if they are offended by a rodeo clown in a mask, they do what regular folk do: don’t clap, maybe boo, and maybe Pop will yell something while Mama covers Junior’s ears. They don’t You Tube it, and they for sure don’t claim to know all about it when they’ve never even been. I read “Tuffy” was “banned for life” from the Missouri State Fair. That sounds like a Dorkey-like decision. Good, honest fair folk know better. He’ll be back, maybe as “Scruffy” the clown, or he might be the barker for the pig races, or he might be helping to show off the outstanding Charolais his kids raised. That’s the way we do things in Missouri, Dorkey.

Of Moby Dick and the Tigers of Africa

In Chapter XLV of "Moby Dick," Ishmael gives several examples to support his belief that certain whales – legends and giants among their own kind – can be both encountered and receive the harpoon of the same gallant knight twice or more, years apart. (I just read "Moby Dick" for the second time and greatly enjoyed it because it was not required, as it was in college.) In this chapter entitled "The Affidavit," Ishmael tells of a harpooner who, after once striking home on a leviathan that escaped, encountered it again years later. In the interim, said seaman joined a discovery party into the interior of Africa, "where he travelled for a period of nearly two years, often endangered by serpents, savages, tigers, poisonous miasmas, with all the other common perils incident to wandering in the heart of unknown regions." I had to look up "miasmas." Turns out it's a very interesting term meaning "bad air," thought to cause serious diseases like cholera, until it was displaced in the 19th century by the discovery of germs. But it was the tigers that grabbed my interest. Travel back in time with me to college Creative Writing with Professor McIntosh. The assignment: write a short story in character. I could not wait for my turn to read in class. I had chosen to be a British great white hunter seeking his prey in darkest Victorian Africa. I based my voice on some old movies and I was getting a few snickers but good attention as I moved along. My closer was a slight twist on my favorite Groucho Marx joke. I whispered how I, the hunter, was in my tent, when I was awakened by a fierce sound outside in the vast darkness. I grabbed my trusty rifle, leapt to my feet, charged outside, and — BOOM! — dropped the largest tiger I had ever seen. "Yes, I shot a tiger in my pajamas, dear friends — and what he was doing in my pajamas I'll never know!" Guffaws all 'round! Everybody got it. I was in creative writing heaven … until … "There are no tigers in Africa," the until then silent McIntosh stated as he covered my glory in solid ice, bringing the room to complete silence. "Class, write what you know." "I know I'll never take another class with McIntosh," I thought, slumping in my seat. Then, in a story that I hope would make even ol' Mr. Melville smile, there is this memory from the study of his tome in American Novel class. One day, Dr. Gilgun came upon a passage which he convinced us was a measurement that would allow us to get a better idea of how big Moby Dick really was. In the classroom, he said that measurement was about that of a foot, 12 inches, and said the great white whale was about 300 times one of these measurements, which would compute to about 100 yards. This alone would make Moby Dick as long as a football field – more than three times longer than the standard spermaceti whale, which ranges from 52 to 67 feet in length – but who were we to challenge a PhD?! Then came "show and tell." Gilgun took the entire class out into the hall of the classroom building, went to one end, and started stepping off these 300 "measurements" in giant strides, counting "one … two … three …," with all those steps far longer than 12 inches. When he reached the other end of the building, a length of about 100 yards or so, he was no where near his desired count of 300. "There," he exclaimed, somewhat out of breath but most professorially. "Moby Dick was BIGGER than this building!" Oh, it happened. I was there. And just like the icy summation of McIntosh, we took the conclusion in complete silence … which I suppose is the sound made by the African tiger.

The Day I Met Stan Musial

I met Stan Musial on September 12, 2000. I read that he was going to be inducted into the Hall of Famous Missourians at the state capitol, and since I was living in Jefferson City and working as a stringer for a weekly newspaper, I decided to see how far the Power of the Press would get me. Turns out it got me a front row seat for a very casual press conference with The Man. We, reporters and photographers, were ushered into a large side room set up with a bunch of chairs facing a podium. Within just moments, Stan came out with a couple of folk, and one said: "Stan will take your questions now." No big introduction, no mention of limit on time – none of that usual press conference stuff. Then Stan walked past the podium, pulled an empty chair away from a wall, and sat down to face everyone with a big smile. As I recall, he answered every question, good or lame, with the same interest and pleasant tone. Born in 1920, he was a spry 79 on that September morning, and he seemed to be enjoying himself as much as all of us were enjoying being in the presence of The Man. Upon request, he even pulled his harmonica from his sport coat pocket and played us a little tune. After awhile, as the TV folk left after getting their pictures, some of the older print and radio reporters moved closer. I stayed close enough, taking notes, but also having a lot of fun. These guys grew up listening to Stan play baseball. They told him so. He smiled. They would tell him of what they remembered about the game in which he did a certain thing, and he would tell them what he remembered about that game. If lunch had been brought in, I think all of us would have stayed all day. But a man came back and mentoned that The Man had to go meet some legislators, so we let him go. He was born Stanisław Franciszek Musiał on November 21, 1920 in Donora, Pennsylvania. He was the fifth of six children born to Mary, of Czech descent, and Lukasz, an immigrant from Poland. My Polish friend tells me that Musial means "he had to," as in "Musiał zagrać baseball" meaning "He had to play baseball." I think that's about right.

The Good Pirates and the Grinch

I was harvesting articles to read from the New York Times last month when I came across a couple that really threw me into the Christmas spirit — first in a negative way, with ire and bile — but then in a most enjoyable way with the spotlight on my favorite part of the season: giving. Let's get the nastiness over with first, shall we. In "A City Ban Changes the Christmas Scene" (11/19/2012), Ian Lovett reported that after six decades of Nativity scenes in Santa Monica’s Palisades Park, they are gone. A series of 14 Nativity scenes had been in the park since the '50s. But in recent years, Damon "The Grinch" Vix, a local atheist, started objecting to the religious scenes’ presence on public property and put up his own signs in the park with messages like “Religions are all alike — founded upon fables and mythologies,” a quotation from Thomas Jefferson. (Please note that John has nothing against atheists, just like he has nothing against those PETA people, as long as they mind their OWN business - and stay out of his.) Last year, Vix kicked it up a notch and got fellow atheists to apply for a bunch of spaces in the park to set up displays — and that crowded out the Nativity scenes. There was national attention, vandalism to the Vix displays, political pandemonium, and in June, the Santa Monica City Council voted unanimously to ban all unattended private displays from city parks. Per the story, Vix said, “I think the ban has been a good thing for the city. Any time there is an intrusion of religion in government, that’s a bad thing.” Well, everybody has the right to their opinion in this great country, but I believe we have a little thing known as freedom of religion, too. And I think that freedom will inspire the Nativity folk to rally back against Vix and his spirit crushers. That will be my Christmas wish. And now, here's a good story, made even better because it's about giving, and made even better YET because it's about $1 coins and PIRATES! (I loves me pirates!) In the November 19 story "Buried Treasure, Unburied for a Greater Good," reporter James Barron opened with: "In an adventure about buried treasure (real), pirates (made up) and clues (too complicated, it turned out), the temptation is to talk like a matey and tell the world: The cap'n says to quit yer foolish searching because the booty's not there now. The laddies who put it in the ground dug it up and gave it away." And that is the gist of it. It seems that back in 2009, two Brooklyn guys, Vincent Bova and Damien Eckhardt-Jacobi, hid a chest filled with 10,000 one-dollar coins (See, Joe Biden! SOMEBODY is using these coins!) and released eight videos featuring creatures playing pirates who dropped hints about where the loot was, per the story. And the best part? Finders keepers!!! (They wanted to promote their business.) Long story short, some searchers were warm, none got hot, and then came Hurricane Sandy. Messrs. Bova and Eckhardt-Jacobi decided to dig the money up and give it to a good cause — Lava Girl Surf, a surfing school that had turned into a relief group. And here's how Mr. Barron closed his story: "Mr. Bova described his initial call to Davina Greene of Lava Girl Surf. 'I said I want to talk about a donation, but it's kind of bizarre,' he said. "He mentioned $10,000. She told him she was going to cry. "Then he mentioned pirates and said, 'It's a treasure chest bursting with coins.' 'She started laughing hysterically,' Mr. Bova said." Take THAT, Grinch Demon Vix! There is still good in this world, and it will take better than you to stop it.

My newsprint addiction

Let history show that the price of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch increased 50% today, from $1.00 to $1.50. Having worked for a newspaper or two in my time, I have ink in my veins, as the saying goes. I enjoy the look and feel of a newspaper. I'm comfortable that I can scan over all the news that's fit to print at my leisure, can clip and mail some of it to others, and can reuse or recycle the remainder. I can depend on the regular existance of a newspaper to give me a report on the world as a large group of reporters, photographers, artists and editors see it - and want me to see it. And it's not just the Post-Dispatch. When passing through other towns or states, I will pick up any and all available local newspapers and obtain the same enjoyment. I am hooked. I will spend the extra 50 cents per day. I will not be pleased, but I will pay it. But I will challenge newspapers to get a bit more creative in the departments that make what I want possible: advertising and circulation. The Internet has greatly hurt the print newspaper. Classified ("want") ads are quickly taking up less and less space - especially for vehicles. And with all the other options afforded to them, folk find it too easy to pass on a newspaper that regularly nickles and dimes them with rate increases. Newspapers need to sell more ads, and get the paper into more people's hands so they can show the potential advertisers that their ads will be seen. Lots of folk are out of work. I read that in the newspaper. Newspapers need to hire these folk and set them to work selling ads and subscriptions. Let them get creative - give them special deals and let them hit the streets. Plenty of folk thrive on the opportunity to sell for their money, and they will sell. Follow the Benjamins and get more ads and more subscribers - and quit raising rates. We print junkies have to eat, too.