Oriole Poet

Showalter and MacPhail -- A Win-Win Situation Regardless of Team's Record

2011-07-04T09:33:00.000-07:00

I am beginning to think that the Orioles are the Cubs of the American League, as Orioles Hangout community founder Tony Pente suggested a few weeks ago. After 14 years of losing, we've become a novelty team playing in a novelty park.

We have a number of ex-Cubs and Twins employed on the roster because those are the teams who are willing to talk to us these days about trades--the last two places MacPhail has worked. We've become the last stop on line for players like Guerrero and Lee, another city to collect a paycheck in and garner a few extra years of service. The good ones don't want to come here in their prime.

2011 doesn't really matter. It's an extended Spring Training.

These aren't Showalter's Orioles--and he can't be tagged for a depleted farm system or a roster of players that, for the most part, includes precious few starters for contending teams. Jones, Markakis, Roberts, and Wieters could probably play regularly for contenders, and that's 4 out of 25. It's a line-up that's a mouth full of missing teeth. Hitters lack patience and a sense of situational hitting--or they just lack talent--regardless, the job is far from getting done.

Their disappointing record against the National League, 7 wins against 11 losses had a lot to do with not having a DH. Having a pitcher in the line-up meant days of Andino, Tatum, and a hurler batting in succession.

Buck has been a trifle passive, perhaps because he knows a change is coming. He claims otherwise, and that behind closed doors things are being handled, but his approach is more aligned with Johnny Oates than Earl Weaver at this point--patient and compassionate.

MacPhail hasn't talked about returning next year and if he leaves, Buck would be well positioned to handle general manager responsibilities. Willie Randolph or another Buck protege could then manage the team. MacPhail's "Grow the Arms, Buy the Bats" strategy is sound but making the right bet on the right bats is a harder feat to pull off. Also, handling a stable of young and inexperienced pitchers has had its share of ups and downs.

If Andy stays, this will be remembered as a year of working out the kinks. If he goes, Buck will have more of an imprint on the future. The team's record today, 36-45 doesn't really matter.

No Show

2010-07-25T08:52:00.000-07:00

For the first time in my life, I had four free seats behind home plate and decided not to attend the Orioles vs. Twins game last week. I couldn't get anyone to go. It's a sad state of affairs. I attended a CityLit Project event instead and heard a great reading of Poe and Mencken, among others. The Orioles lost 5-0.

Steinbrenner vs. Angelos

2010-07-19T10:10:00.000-07:00

It boils down to letting go. George surrendered the reins of making baseball decisions to Gene Michael, Bob Watson, and Brian Cashman in the nineties. We should be eternally grateful to George for the trade that sent Scott McGregor, Rick Dempsey, and Tippy Martinez to the Orioles for a cast of characters on the downward slope of their careers. We won't be stealing any "blue-chip" pin-striped prospects anymore.

McGregor won 138 games for the Orioles, Martinez saved 115 games, and Dempsey turned out to be a scrapper and a fierce competitor with his orange-tinged catcher's mitt. They weren't perennial all-stars but they provided a stable foundation on the mound and behind the plate.

Steinbrenner demanded and received excellence from his players--or they were shipped out. He stepped back from his meddlesome nature--gave a little and received a dynasty in return. Angelos and his Baltimore Orioles would benefit from the same approach.

Goodbye Dave Trembley, Hello Bums

2010-06-05T10:47:00.001-07:00

In his first year of managing the Orioles, Trembley's post-game pressers were loaded with emotion and motivational talks. At times, they were better than the nine innings that went before it. He talked about players "respecting the game" and his interactions with the young talent. He welled up with tears of joy when players reached their potential. He was a leader, a field general, commander of the Oriole enterprise.

As it turned out, a lot of these young players didn't "respect the game." They didn't run out ground balls and became so accustomed to losing that they will never know how to win. "They don't want to learn the fundamentals," said Paul Blair last fall when I ran into him at a Brooks Robinson event.

Dave didn't play the game at the Major League level but he had that extra skill-set as a born teacher to help nurture young talent. The difference between a great prospect and an all-star is that extra leadership piece, that innate sense of wanting to change the game with one at-bat or one pitch.

These guys might not have that in them. Jones, Reimold, Markakis, Wieters, Roberts, and Matuscz might not possess that extra desire for greatness. They are still young and time will tell. The organization is not a patient one and they have rushed players.

They don't play as a team. I listened to an interview with Justin Morneau about what a great season he was having and he used the opportunity to talk about everyone else on the Twins--his teammates.

In Dave's absence, it will be nice to see at least one player stand up and take ownership. That is, if they have it in them.

The Worst Oriole Team Ever?

2010-05-23T19:50:00.000-07:00

Local Baltimore radio stations play ads for upcoming O's games that start, "The Orioles gave it a shot last night," referring to another loss in hopes of drawing fans to the yard. The millions of dollars being paid to these people to wear the name of the city on their uniform and play a childhood game should be enough to require that they do a little more than just try. In other words, what those ads are really saying is this; we're out manned, out coached, and out of our opponent's league--which might be true.

The only way for the current collection of salaries and contracts known as the 2010 Baltimore Orioles to win a game this season is for the other team to simply forget to do so. This is currently happening for one game a week, usually on a Monday or a Tuesday where the other team isn't quite sure where it is. Yankees are beatable on off-days after big series. That's the only time to get them.

Last night, the A's woke up in the 8th and beat the Orioles after Brad Bergesen pitched a two-hitter. The relievers were ineffective. The hitters were anemic with runners in scoring position.

After 12 years of losing by any manner possible, it was easy to predict that the Orioles wouldn't win the second and third game of the last weekend's series against the Nationals after surrendering a 6-3 lead on Saturday. Down 7-6, they weakly acquiesced and then made a valiantly effort to tie the game in the ninth on Sunday, only to lose on a walk-off home run. The Nationals are on a faster track to success and they lost their general manager last year.

Losers are not resilient, they pack it in, and fold up. There's a fragile consistency to this group of Birds. It's this subtle. In a game a few weeks ago, the Orioles managed to tie the score in the fifth. The Oriole pitcher shut down the team in the next frame. The Orioles came up and batted so quickly -- 5 to 7 minutes max -- that the inning was over. They swung at first pitches and went down so fast I couldn't believe the inning had ended. Right back out there almost immediately, the O's pitcher had zero rest and surrendered the go ahead runs.

It's enough to make me think that there must be nine or ten players around the Baltimore area, local prospects who are working middle-class jobs, who could help this team like pitcher Dave Johnson did in 1989. It's a baseball town to some degree and a kind of American "Oriole" Idol approach might be worth considering. Going to watch the rising talent at the local highs schools has not been part of the strategy, seeing as Mark Texeira was right under the noses of the worst front office dictatorship in all baseball.

I'm not sure anyone in the current line-up would start for a contending team. It's minor-league level or retirement time talent at best. We've become a place for marginal talent to extend their careers--no rebuilding for the future or rekindling the Oriole way which is part of the marketing machine on Eutaw street.

Our free agent strategy has always been abysmal. National league players who come over have a tough time measuring up and frankly are not going to get the job done--Sabo, G. Davis, Lopez, Mercker, DeJean, and now Gonzalez and Adkins have joined this illustrious group of busts. we keep bringing them in.

You can fire Dave Trembley to make everyone feel like change is in the offing, but frankly, he's been dealt a weak hand. The entire organization needs to do more than just "give it a shot."

The Daily Camden

2010-05-10T09:30:00.000-07:00

If there is any solace to be gained from this train wreck of an Oriole season, it may come from a quotidian assemblage of photos taken of Camden Yards during the present campaign. From April to October, The Daily Camden includes a picture a day to keep the losing away. It reveals just how superior this magnificent ballpark is, even when compared to the athletes who play in it.

Conceived and commissioned by writer Rafael Alvarez, the photo collage is populated by a different contributor each day. Alvarez likens his writing process to the careful arrangement of pieces in a stained glass window. This project has a similar feel to it as the pictures captivate the imagination with each entry and provide a deeper glimpse into the faceted and wide ranging beauty of Oriole Park. The photos thus far -- one of the foul pole, another of a gate shadow, and at least two taken at sunrise -- evoke more power than the Orioles line-up.

Memorial Stadium was a hulking concrete-and-brick mastadon of a structure. It left splinters in your fingers and the taste of watery Coca-Cola in your mouth. It was raw in the cold air and more humid than a sauna in the summer. Pitching, defense, and the three-run jack ruled on 33rd street. The stadium blended into the neighborhood community and thundered and shook when the fans erupted. You went there to see some of the greatest players to ever play the game and you expected the Orioles to win.

Today, Oriole Park is as alluring a draw for me as the team itself. Inside the confines, you bask in the baseball history of the city with its Ruthian ghosts and Kaline sandlot ropes. We have yet to put a championship team on the field or at least one designed to excel with tall imposing pitchers and game-changing sluggers. These daily photos of Camden Yards further emphasize that this ball yard has consistently been more spectacular than the team that plays in it.

One Win, Ten Losses, and a "No Thanks" to Cal

2010-04-17T07:02:00.000-07:00

It's no surprise that the Orioles continue to be abysmal. In any other business, would an owner as inept as Peter Angelos be allowed to run an organization into the ground? In New York or Boston he'd be history. Baltimore walks on egg shells around him because of his money and the city has bigger problems than a losing baseball team right now.

The asbestos gravy train will fill his coffers for decades and the team will remain at a minor league level as long as he presides over it like a giant carp over the contents of Baltimore harbor.

It's easy to see that trading George Sherrill to the Dodgers left a massive crater in the bullpen. They haven't won many games without him going back to last summer. With him, they would have at least three to four more wins than they do now. Middle and late relief provide the backbone for victories. They give confidence that winning is possible in the late innings and are key to the psyche of a team.

What you are seeing this year is a team in August to September form. The Orioles are giving you your summer back.

Cal Ripken offered his services this week as an instructor and Angelos turned them down. Cal helps Larry Sheets coach the Gilman high school team because his son plays on it and he's a "diamond rat." He loves to be around the baseball field. It's strikes at the heart of his soul. Anything Cal says to one of our young players could be helpful. The rise of the Yankees began with Wade Boggs on the bench schooling Jeter, Williams, and others on how to work a count.

On the night that Cal broke Gehrig's record, Angelos droned on for thirty minutes like Charlie Brown's teacher--all but killing the energy of the crowd. The disconnect was evident. He wanted to make the evening about him. For the last 12 years, he has succeeded in one area. He has made losing about him.

Matusz

2010-04-08T20:29:00.000-07:00

The Orioles avoided a three-game sweep tonight with a victory over the Rays. The previous two losses felt like the last twelve years. Bats go to sleep and pitching disappears. Brian Matusz pitched two-hit ball and the birds are coming home tomorrow for the opener against the Jays. The kid handled the Tampa Bay line-up. The new closer sent a chill into the bones by putting runners on in the ninth but managed to end it with a fly ball. In 40 years of watching baseball, I've never seen a pitcher deliver the ball to the plate like Mike Gonzalez does. It's strange.

It's nice to be back in Birdland again--home after thirty years.

An Evening with Brooks Robinson

2009-10-28T21:27:00.000-07:00

On Monday night, I met the idols of my baseball childhood: Jim Palmer, Paul Blair, Earl Weaver and Brooks Robinson. The story is here: http://baltimorebrew.com/blog/2009/10/28/brooks-robinson-remembered-as-young-fans-hero-at-a-time-when-he-really-needed-one/

Blood, Guts, and Orange Crush

2009-10-18T09:29:00.000-07:00

With the game slipping away in the middle of the third quarter, Jameel Sewell dropped back to pass.

Maryland had efficiently marched down the field for what could have been a game-sealing touchdown a few minutes before, but the Virginia defense stiffened in the red zone—and the Terps settled for three to take a 9-3 advantage.

Sewell had already been sacked five times and the Maryland defensive line bore down on him again. Instead of bailing out, Jameel hung in and was hit just after he threw the ball down the Maryland sideline.

The ball was clearly under thrown, and you could see a defensive back camped under it in the vicinity of the Maryland 40 yard line. As I watched it come down, I thought if it was going to be intercepted then it would essentially serve as a punt. But somehow the ball squirted through the defender’s hands and landed in Kris Burd's for the reception--he was on the ground.

After a relatively quiet afternoon, the Virginia bench came to life.

Rashawn Jackson ripped off gains of seven and eight yards, smash-mouth style, to get us into field goal range. On a second and two, Sewell ploughed into the line pushing for every inch. At the end of the play, Sewell got hammered and his body twisted at an odd angle before going under the crush of defenders.

This was the second time during the game that a Virginia player received an injury at the end of a play. At the end of the first-half, on a kneel-down play, it looked like Conrath was thrown to the ground--and he was helped off with a serious injury.

Whatever happened on those two plays incensed the Virginia team – they became wild and enraged. They rose up on the sideline. Vic Hall punched the air and screamed with rage. They caught fire.

Nose tackle Nick Jenkins bounded toward us down the sideline. “They don’t want to play,” he screamed. “They’re a bunch of bitches. They don’t want to play,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear it. He directed his remarks into the crowd and Terp fans shouted back at him. He patted the helmets of every player on the bench—pumping them up. Sewell and Conrath became a rallying cry.

Nick Jenkins is a wild man.

From that point on, Virginia focused its intensity on steamrolling the Terrapin like you’ve seen the prehistoric creatures flattened on Route 64 trying to cross the road--not with cheap shots but with smash mouth football.

The next play went to Jackson again and I’m convinced if they had stayed with him, we would have gotten into the end zone—the line started blowing them off the ball—punching them in the mouth. Verica’s two passes fell incomplete and we settled for three.

But the defense wasn’t finished. Coach Groh and Poindexter energized their charges. The players began jumping up and down to stay loose. Turner’s sideline pass on first down went high. In the shotgun, he threw a pass that Darnell Childs tipped and it fell into the arms of Nate Collins—and all I could think of as he rumbled toward the end zone was “please, just let him get there," and it happened.

It began to rain harder and the Terrapin found some seams and running room—but the defense stood up like a “stone wall” army in the rear flanks of the Civil War, and Maryland suddenly couldn’t hit a field goal.

Sewell and Conrath emerged on crutches.

Rashawn Jackson started reeling off yardage and we were able to eat some clock. His touch down run, as he turned the corner, was a thing of beauty—but it was called back.

Maryland still had life, that is until Collins picked up Turner and slammed him into the end zone—reminiscent of the Chris Long pancake two years ago.

It was an amazing victory—our seats in the first row behind the UVA bench made it feel like it was a high school game. You could hear the voices of the coaches and you are on top of the field. The metal bench is dented—it was old school—seeing the gray and rose-smeared Cavalier whites of Jackson, Collins, Burrell, Johnson and Childs. It was like the early days of the NFL.

They overcame a ton of adversity—injuries, phantom calls, and a driving rain. This game was about resilience and resolve—and they battled for every inch of it. Coach Groh’s instructions to the defense in the first half led to successive stops. “Short passes,” he screamed. “That’s all they are going to do.”

Groh’s defense reminds me of those Giant teams he helped coach—they bend but they don’t break. Cam Johnson’s arm dangled lifelessly in the third quarter but he stayed in there until the stinger went away. Ras-I, Chris Cook and the rest of the secondary defended well and levied some wood on whoever was unlucky enough to catch the ball.

They rose up—and they have a reservoir of heart—this team. They will find a way.

Raining in the Bronx

2009-09-11T20:47:00.000-07:00

Tonight Derek Jeter broke Lou Gehrig's record for most hits by a Yankee. When he's finished playing, he will be remembered as one of the greatest players and competitors who ever lived.

On the 8th anniversary of September 11th, Oriole rookie Chris Tillman served up the record-breaking hit and is on course to win his second game of the season--his first ever against the Yankees in the new stadium.

In another forgettable Oriole season, this night will stand out for Jeter, for Tillman, for Ripken and for the spirit of Gehrig. It's only fair that Jeter breaks the record against the Orioles whose player eclipsed Gehrig's consecutive game streak.

The Orioles may also break the record for consecutive losing seasons.

The dynamics of baseball have changed. The Yankees are the darlings of the bailout plan. They are Bank of America. Their asset portfolio is strong. It will take a Herculean effort for someone to beat them this year. Major League Baseball has become a three to four team sport--New York, Boston, Los Angeles, and Philadelphia. The rest is AAA.

In an eerie twist, Ronan Tynan, the Irish tenor, sings God Bless America to an empty Yankee stadium after the rain delay. Jeter addressed the press with the game still going on and the rest of the Yankee starters sent home. In the bleachers, a few fans remained holding an American flag--reminding us of that incredible run by the Jeter-led Yankees in 2001 on pure emotion--when it was hard not to be a fan of the Bronx Bombers. Pictures of the missing still plastered on subway tunnels.

The stage was set for this season during the winter months. The economy and the new books about Joe Torre and Roger Clemens could have been a foreshadowing. The biggest economic recovery for baseball would occur with a Yankees vs. Red Sox playoff and a New York vs. Los Angeles World Series.

There would be no higher drama in October.

Whole New Ballgame

2008-12-31T22:31:00.000-08:00

On election day, I voted and then drove South to my job in Richmond. I parked my car in the spot by the fence which separates the office park from a middle school. A light rain had been falling - possibly the joyful tears of change -- and I noticed something in the grass on the curb.

It was a batting practice baseball from last spring with a piece of stitching undone and a weathered horseside from a barrage of both stifling Central Virginia heat and rain. It had been fouled over the pines concealing the backstop.

I thought about my son Quinn--our inextricable bond developed from his first moments in my arms--and the four months I'd been out of his weekly life. I put the ball in my trunk.

I was invited to an Obama Convention party in Richmond shortly after arriving. It was located in the provincial West End--where an acceptance of change and democrats have typically been in short supply. My good friends Bob, Chrystal, and Rob--the bedrock of Obama's Richmond support team--had a hand in its organization. Obama as President seemed remote to me at best and I hadn't given it much thought.

I watched the acceptance speech with a diverse group of people including two elderly African American women, small business owners and teachers. A random cross-section had been invited. The woman sitting next to me commented while Obama was speaking.

"My son says brown people don't speak like he does," she said. This woman owned a west end business was presumably well-educated with all of the trappings of someone who should know better than to ever speak like this. I felt sad and embarrassed.

I looked over at the elderly black woman sitting across from me who had registered the comment with a dignity and elegance that I had never witnessed--her eyes met mine without emotion as if to say me in the subtlest of ways, "What did you expect?" She had heard this sentiment expressed and a litany of others like it before.

Confidently, the woman looked beyond me to the future of a country that will need to embrace diversity to innovate and survive. Its very existence depends on it. She saw beyond me to a country that will change the perceptions of our forefathers and make this nation into the innovative and diverse force it yearns to be. She had ridden on the Richmond buses that stopped at the county line and walked on foot to the homes she worked in--but those days were disappearing with each word from Obama's mouth.

Diversity is innovation. And we have always been good at it. We have more than 200 years of putting it into action. We will do it again.

On election night, I was proud of Richmond, Virginia -- the Star City of the South -- as returns eked out a milestone victory for the state.

The baseball is on a shelf inscribed by me to my son Quinn with the date of the election and the name of the new president.

The descendant of an Boston-born Irish hurler for the Duke Blue Devils who served his country in WWII instead of playing professional baseball, Quinn's overhand toss shows wicked promise.

Bleeding Orange, 1970

2008-09-25T20:23:00.000-07:00

This essay appears in a recently published broadside called SONS of CRABTOWN which includes the work of Baltimore writers Rafael Alvarez ("The King of a Rainy Kingdom"), Jason Tinney ("The Best of What They've Got") and Eric Mithen. If you would like a print copy, send an email with your address to deansmi@gmail.com.

I recorded my first baseball memory on October 16, 1969.

Sitting alone in the clubhouse of my apartment complex, I watched the last inning of the World Series against the Mets. I was six years old. My father and mother were both at work. All my friends had gone outside to play with Mrs. Domenico, the day care monitor.

My dad had introduced me to the Orioles by taking me to a World Series game against the Dodgers in 1966, but I didn’t remember it.

The clubhouse TV was bigger than any I’d ever seen and the picture was in color. I knew the Orioles had lost when Mets fans streamed onto the field. When Cleon Jones gloved the final out, my world changed. I started crying. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.

A few months later, my parents separated and would eventually divorce. After a night of fighting, they came into my room and explained that it was for the best. My mom went back to college at Morgan State to finish her degree and took a job as a waitress at the Flaming Pit. My dad left his sales position at Esso to pursue his true passion: coaching basketball.

Their arguments stopped and my mother started dating a man named Mr. Sawicki who, until his recent separation, had lived with his family in the apartment below us. I knew things had changed when he appeared in a robe one morning for breakfast.

My younger brother Brendan suffered from asthma attacks. On several occasions, Mom stayed up with him through the night, cradling him in the shower steam. In the hospital waiting room, I absorbed his screams as the doctor pricked his arms with dozens of needles. Missing my father, I lay awake most nights listening to my brother wheeze in the bottom bunk. And dreamt about the Baltimore Orioles.

The 1970 baseball season approached with the promise of Frank Robinson, Brooks, Jim Palmer, Boog, McNally and Paul Blair taking the field under the direction of Earl Weaver.

When the schedule came out, I counted the number of televised games on WJZ-TV. During the season, I sat transfixed for nine innings in front of a black-and-white TV or next to a small black Zenith radio with a gold speaker listening to the play-by-play of Chuck Thompson. I would only get up if I had to go to the bathroom. If the game was close, I would hold it for as long as I could. In the mornings, I was the first one to grab the Sunpaper and check the score.

Each morning after a game, beneath the Vietnam War headlines of B-52 air strikes, a cartoon Bird indicated how the O’s had fared by it’s expression. He smiled 108 games in 1970, with 40 of those wins by a single run.

I learned verbs such as “clout,” “rout,” “pillage” and “demolish.” The Birds also “nipped,” “edged,” and “squeaked by” their opponents in the one-run affairs. The sports page greatly accelerated my reading ability.

My mother was falling in love with the man downstairs and it wasn’t long before Mr. Sawicki started living with us in our second floor Courthouse Square apartment. I hated the idea of anyone other than my father being with us. Sawicki worked at Proctor & Gamble and drove a brown Mach One with thick black striping. His brown hair was long and curly and at one point it was in a perm as many men were doing that in those days including Joe Pepitone of the Yankees. His two daughters lived downstairs.

The car was cool, but he wasn’t my dad.

I immersed myself in the Baltimore Orioles. When spring training began, I adopted them as surrogate parents. I memorized the roster down to utility players like Curt Motton and Chico Salmon. The Orioles theme song stressed that the Orioles were father and son, having fun, together. Following the Orioles kept me close to my dad. The Orioles made me forget Mr. Sawicki. And they taught me how to play the game.

There was only one problem. I didn’t own a glove.

With my dad coaching the University of Baltimore Bees hoops team and my mother’s long-term law school aspirations, my grandparents began pinch-hitting for them. My father’s Irish mother Mary “Queenie” Smith and Dino Bartoli, Mom’s dad, helped raise me. From the age of six until I was twelve years old, when both parents remarried, Queenie and Dino nurtured my passion for the Orioles.

When she learned that I needed a baseball mitt, Queenie came to the rescue. For decades, she worked at John S. Connor exporting company downtown, freezing on street corners as she waited for a succession of buses to take her to the office.

On Saturdays, she had her hair done at what she called the “magic factory” on York road and sometimes I went with her. Next to the beauty shop was Pop’s Toy Store. In the window one March afternoon was a Spalding glove autographed by Mickey Lolich. The machine-embossed signature of the legendary Detroit Tiger pitcher, whose paunch hung over his belt, was a name I would soon know well as he often held the Oriole bats spellbound.

Queenie pulled out her hard-earned bills, crisp and folded from her change purse, and bought it for me. We also purchased Gloveoleum and readied the new mitt by soaking it with oil and putting it under her mattress. The next day, I was slamming tennis balls off the brick wall of her apartment.

I learned to play the game by watching the O’s mannerisms. I’d hold my glove up to my face the way Brooks did, with my knees bent playing the hot corner for the Cockeysville-Springlake Little League team. Sometimes, I’d rest the bat flat on my shoulder like Don Buford. In the early days, I copied Paul Blair.

Blair was my favorite Oriole in 1970. His sudden bursts of speed chasing down fly balls as if they were prey and his relaxed stance at the plate before lashing line drives caught my attention. Queenie bought me an Orioles uniform and we ironed on the letters “B-L-A-I-R” and the number “6” and I tossed flies to myself, catching them one-handed in her back yard for hours, mimicking the roar of the Memorial Stadium crowd. Dad’s sister – my Aunt Carol, at that time a Sister of Mercy - played “pepper” with me dressed in her habit.

Queenie and my grandfather Newton Smith, who drove a truck for Mrs. Ihrie’s Potato Chips, lived in a small Northwood apartment near Chinquapin Park.
They held crab feasts in the back alley and listened to the Oriole games on the radio. I had my first beer at a crab feast, a warm National Bohemian, at the age of six. Queenie let me do anything I wanted, including collect switchblades. She was also a poet. We went to a game together and she made a sign that read: “Yankees Beware, Here Comes Paul Blair.

Dino Bartoli treated me like a son.

I spent several weeks in Parkville during the summer of ‘70 with my grandfather. Dino had taken early retirement from the Bethlehem Steel train yard at Sparrow’s Point. His job as a yardmaster on the railroad had finally gotten to him. He’d seen too many men maimed or killed by slightest movement of boxcars on the nightshift he presided over. My grandmother had just survived breast cancer. Pop had a nervous breakdown.

Coming out of it, he changed careers and started an antiques business called Treasure Alley on Harford road. We nicknamed him “Junkman” because calling the bulk of his merchandise “antiques” was a stretch. Most of his inventory resided in cardboard boxes marked, “all items $.50.”

Our summer mornings began with a breakfast of Italian toast covered in butter that we’d dunk into our coffees. We read the Sunpapers together and completed the Daily Jumble puzzle. Afterward, we’d walk up to Harford road from his house on Oak Forest drive. Our first stop was always Sunny’s Surplus, where we would inspect the army helmets, canteens, dummy ammunition, and machetes.

At the “Italian store” (owned by Greeks) we’d buy roasted red peppers, salami, loaves of Italian bread and provolone for sandwiches. High’s provided root beer Popsicles and ice cream sandwiches.

At the A&P, he’d buy ground beef for his “hamburgs” which he’d make by the dozen and freeze. Diver Dan’s sold scuba equipment but we came to buy Wiffle balls for our afternoon batting lessons in the backyard. My uncle would pitch and Pop would wrap his arms around mine.

“Hold the bat level,” he preached. “Hit line drives.”

He’d played minor league baseball in Pennsylvania in the late 1930s and moved to Baltimore when his baseball career was finished.

One year, he hit .361 and was named MVP of the league. For that feat, he received a $5 gift certificate for Chick’s Auto Store in Shickshinny. Dino and Carolyn Bartoli settled in Orangeville in 1940, where he took a job working in a carnival, then Bethlehem Steel, before moving to Parkville.

Dino drove me to my little league games across town. He was always there. I can still see him sitting down the third base line in his green lawn chair as we played for the Baltimore county championship.

“Swing level, hit line drives,” he yelled from his chair, and I listened.

He was proud of the fact that my teammates called me “Dino” and told my mother so. Playing the hot corner, I could hear him telling the parents around him, “That’s my grandson at third, number five.”

By then, I had changed favorite players, emulating Brooks Robinson.

We went to Oriole games together, paying seventy-five cents to sit in the bleachers on 33rd street. Nana Carolyn made us crab cake sandwiches wrapped in tinfoil to take to the game. Dino would make sure we’d get there early to catch balls from batting practice. Sometimes, he’d get two or three at a time, hustling up and down the stands.

One game, he dove over three rows of fans to catch a home run ball hit by Frank Robinson. His glasses flew off and his legs stuck out from the pile. Pop apologized to those he landed on, tweezing splinters from both palms for several innings with a bad dose of baseball acupuncture.

He took me to the ballpark many times. I once caught a Bill Freehan foul ball with him one night in 1974 against the Tigers. I turned and followed it to the upper deck where it caromed off the façade and came back down. I stood up and took one step into the aisle as the ball landed into my glove.

Dino and Carolyn did what they could to ensure that my mother, brother and me always had more than enough to get by.

When the floorboards of my mother’s Corvair rusted through,Dino, with Carolyn’s approval, bought her a new VW bug. When I needed dress clothes in college, Dino produced a black pinstripe suit that fit me perfectly. We were the same height, weight, and shoe size. For every birthday from age seven to forty, I received a card that read, “Here’s five dollars for a hot dog, French fry, and Coke.”

Nana Carolyn ran a beauty shop in the basement of their house and charged three dollars for a wash and a set. There were three beehive dryers and, often, the putrid smell of permanent wave solution.

She tended to her customers and minded the sauce on the stove. I remember the smell of basil roasting in the sun as I picked the leaves from her herb garden. She followed the Orioles, running away from the radio in the late innings with her hands over her ears, “I can’t stand it. Madonna Mia. It’s too close.”

She liked the Bird’s manager Earl Weaver best of all, and when she raised her sauce spoon and started barking instructions, she resembled him. She ran our family like Earl ran the Orioles and at times like Mussolini once ran Italy. She kept her money in a Maxwell House coffee can and one day bought my grandfather a yellow Cadillac to his surprise. Their house on Oak Forest drive provided a sanctuary away from things I didn’t understand.

Around mid-summer, it looked like my mother might actually marry Mr. Sawicki. She broached the subject with me.

“What would you think of him as a father?”

My reaction was negative and visceral; my answer always the same.

“God meant for us to only have one mother and father.”

“Remember,” she would remind me while fixing her hair to go out, “it was your father who got me pregnant.”

Long after the divorce was final, I held out some hope that my mom and dad would get back together.

Mom wasn’t entirely sure what to do with Sawicki, so she decided to conduct an experiment. She wanted to see if she was really in love with him. My mother is a beautiful Italian woman with long black hair and in those days she had no shortage of interest from the opposite sex.

She accepted a date from another suitor and they had dinner in DC. Mr. Sawicki was waiting for her when she got home and he went crazy, grabbing her by the neck. She called my father. My dad arrived in his dented blue Chevy that we called the “blue hair-lip” and broke up the argument.

“In seven years of marriage, I never laid a hand on you,” he said to her as he was leaving.

Thankfully, I was staying at a friend’s house that night listening to a doubleheader against the Twins, who had Harmon Killebrew and Tony Oliva on their side.

When I got home, Mr. Sawicki’s desk was in the hallway and a window was broken. She went on one more date with Mr. Sawicki. They saw Hair.

With the Orioles headed for the postseason, I had my first baseball birthday party in September of 1970. Dad came over early to take us out to the baseball field at Calvert Hall. After the game, we came back to the house for cake and ice cream, every kid’s place set with a packet of baseball cards. Someone gave me the book, “Baseball’s Most Valuable Players,” and there was a $10 bill inside. I looked at the pictures and learned the names of Musial, Mantle, Mays and Williams. During the course of the party, someone had pocketed the money. A commotion ensued. I was too engrossed in the book to care.

A few weeks later, my dad called to tell me that he had tickets to game three of the 1970 World Series against the Cincinnati Reds. He was going to pick me up from Pleasant Plains elementary at 11 a.m. to go to the game. My mother dressed me in a blue blazer with shorts, knee-high socks, and saddle shoes. She had always dressed in the clothes that John-John Kennedy wore. I ran out of the school when I saw the blue hair-lip pull up.

Our tickets were behind home plate in the upper deck. It was a perfect day for baseball. The crowd brimmed with intensity and promise. Just before the first pitch, a man nine rows down from us collapsed with a heart attack and died. My dad hugged me and covered my eyes.

“It doesn’t look good,” he said.

The Reds came out swinging in the first. Pete Rose and Bobby Tolan both reached base. I bit my fingernails. Tony Perez grounded one to Brooks Robinson who turned a double play from third to first. Then, Johnny Bench drilled one right into Robinson’s glove.

In the third, with the Orioles ahead 2-1, Frank Robinson clouted a mammoth blast to deep right center that cleared the wall. Don Buford followed with one in the 4th inning to right. In the top of the sixth, Johnny Bench ripped a bullet toward left field. Brooks dove as the ball was almost by him and caught it in the air, raising his arm to show the umpire it never touched the ground.

My Dad and I shared a bag of peanuts and we drank watery Coca-Colas. We watched the game in nervous silence, studying every pitch, as we would do for decades to come. We chewed on our cups.

The Baltimore Orioles became our inextricable bond from that moment forward, a sacred topic on every phone call no matter how difficult the circumstances in our lives.

The Orioles gave us a shorthand method of communication, a language that no one else understands or can follow.

My father went to the first Orioles game when major league ball returned to Baltimore in 1954 and saw Clint Courtney hit a home run. He fills in the gaps before 1969 and we have persevered through the lean years without wavering. My father hates frontrunners and fair weather fans.

The Orioles taught us the meaning of unconditional love.

When Dave McNally came to bat with the bases loaded and two outs in the sixth, we didn’t expect much from the lefty who was holding the Big Red Machine at bay. He launched a high drive into the sky toward the left field bleachers and the entire stadium rose as the ball carried over the left field fence and crashed into the bullpen.

The series was clinched. It was over. After it ended, my dad took me to Jerry’s Belvedere Tavern on York road and we sat at the bar. I drank Shirley Temples into the night.

When I replay the flight of McNally’s home run ball in my mind, I think about the power of that one swing and how it lifted me out of my seat and the pain of my parent’s divorce.

Looking out at those sunlit bleachers as the ball bounced high in the air, I felt real happiness for the first time. My father and I had experienced it together and the memory is something I will share with my son when he is old enough to appreciate what a colossal feat it was.

To this day, no other pitcher has ever hit a grand slam in a World Series game. After almost thirty seasons of following the Birds on a daily basis, I have finally embraced the 1969 World Series defeat.

The last fly ball out changed my life forever. In many ways, it saved my life. It gave me a purpose. In that moment, I became a lifelong fan of the Baltimore Orioles.

So Long Yankee Stadium

2008-09-22T18:20:00.000-07:00

I enjoyed watching the Bronx bombers in Yankee Stadium battle the Orioles from 1987 through 1997. The atmosphere there reminded me of the old Memorial Stadium. Fans knew the game. I remember a Yankee fan yelling at Gerald William after a fly ball landed in front of him on a cloudy day, "Take your ----ing sunglasses off!" I was impressed and a little frightened. Fans came to watch a baseball game, not like the French tourists in Camden Yards sampling the dessert tray and leaving after the third inning.

The most amazing thing about Yankee Stadium to me was the sense of history it evoked. Though it had been renovated, the vantage point remained the same as it had been for Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Mickey Mantle and Joe DiMaggio. The sight lines provided an exceptional view of the whole field--no planes with their sonic boom overhead like Shea--and the stoic Bronx skyline loomed beyond the centerfield bleachers.

The bleachers--a barbarian planet unto itself or a kind of Alcatraz--thundered like Bellevue during a fire alarm and the hatred for the Red Sox so fervent out there that almost nothing else mattered. I saw the Yankees clinch the pennant in 2004, sitting near a Japanese group of Matsui faithful, who put up their umbrellas after a Godzilla home run. Leaving the stadium that night, the bleacher crazies cheered "1918!, 1918!" under the subway tracks. They were taunting the curse. It came back to haunt them a few weeks later.

The maid of honor from my first marriage worked at Nomura securities and would always secure four tickets for me to see the Orioles play the Yankees just to the left of home plate.

I was there for game two of the play-offs in 1996, the day after Jeffrey Maier reached over and snared the Jeter home run in his glove. I'll never forget the intensity of the crowd and the swat team on the roof. Somehow, the Orioles won that game. I didn't cheer or draw attention to myself as an Orioles fan. I enjoyed those victories in silence with humility.

There were not many over the years. I saw a 16-4 thrashing with Steve Finley and Parsippany Joe Orsulak hitting home runs. A Ben McDonald victory included the beaning of Matt Nokes in retaliation for Tim Leary breaking the wrist of Chris Hoiles a few month before. The ninety-five mile an hour fastball hit the helmet just under the bill and sent it skyward like a foul ball behind the plate. Nokes left the game and McDonald struck out nine of the twelve batters he faced. The losses outweighed the wins--and what struck me was the way the Yankees could win games with regularity in the bottom of the eighth and then shut teams down in the top of the ninth.

I've never seen a pitcher throw harder than a young Troy Perceval against Darryl Strawberry in the late innings of one game in 1996. I walked down close to the backstop as the fans poured out with the Yankees behind and Troy just blew away the power bats of the Yankees with ninety-eight mph heat up in the wheelhouse.

Bearing a resemblance in both humor and appearance to Yogi Berra, my grandfather Dino, like many Italians, followed the Yankees as he played in the Pennsylvania Minor Leagues. His favorite player was Joe Dimaggio and he emulated him and his approach. His son Bernie, my uncle, was a Mickey Mantle fan. Retired Oriole manager Earl Weaver, many years later in Florida, introduced my Uncle to the Mick and I have an autograph, scrawled with an unsteady hand, on a restaurant claim check.

Dino and Bernie both embraced the Orioles and the city of Baltimore but my mother held out, and remained loyal to the Yankees.

Yankee Stadium was a big, brawling and bruising monument to the city of New York. It's existence and the outcomes decided within the confines of its grandstands as important and crucial to the psyche of New Yorkers as fluctuations on the stock market. I remember the first World Series victory after a long dry spell in 1996. I'd attended a management course in the Trade Center and watched as confetti and computer paper rained onto the streets below. Talking a walk outside, I saw the statue of Alexander Hamilton with reams of computer paper criss-crossing his chest like Pancho Villa.

I watched dozens of games on television and listened to Phil Rizzuto, Tony Kubek and Bobby Murcer call the games. I was in the locker room once to interview Alvaro Espinosa and Don Mattingly with a reporter from Inside Sports. It had something to do with Donnie Baseball being a basketball star in high school. During that time, the distinctive Bob Shepherd would announce "Al-VA-Ro Es-pin-OSA" with his booming voice and the seventh inning stretch featured a scratchy version of God Bless America sung by Kate Smith.

I've never seen baseball like the 2001 World Series. The Yankees were fighting for the very life of the city, for the people who had been lost in the towers, and they made sure, with deaf-defying feats of power that there season did not end there among the smoking crater of the Twin Towers. They faced defeat on three successive occasions and came back to win games in dramatic fashion. They were running on fumes, feeding off millions of fans who wanted to see them do it one more time--and they nearly pulled it off. They had bo business being there in the first place.

I watched those games sitting in the dark and biting my nails--pulling for the Yanks.

It will be different in a new park. The memories and the intensity will have to be reestablished from scratch. It will take time before the intimidation factor reappears. Opposing teams will still need to bus their way to the park from midtown--but the sense of being fed to the lions in a hostile environment will take time. The mystique needs some work--the lustre has begun to fade.

The Yanks have fallen on hard times. Their $209 million payroll in 2008 seems insignificant to the trillion dollar debacle going on ten miles south. They are on the verge of being eliminated from the playoffs as I write this. In a city where there is no margin for error, somehow the fans will have to do what the majority of us in towns with marginal and bad teams--wait until next year.

So its fitting that the Baltimore Orioles lost the last game at Yankee Stadium. The city that gave New York Babe Ruth could certainly capitulate one more time.

Start the Playoffs Now

2008-09-09T14:18:00.000-07:00

I think it's okay to begin the baseball playoffs tomorrow. Football season has started and it's difficult to refocus back to the slow gait of baseball. It gets lost in the shuffle until we hear Joe Buck's voice in October.

That's mainly because watching a last place team try and figure out who can throw the ball over the plate is really no fun at all.

I'd push for having football on five nights a week. Tuesday and Wednesday are the only blackout nights when we get to watch the Nats and the Orioles play out the string.

I'd like to watch the Rays and the Red Sox or something with meaning like Torre and the Dodgers. The Red Sox have the Rays number it seems--they've had it all year--and the playoffs should be interesting.

The Orioles have won exactly three games over the last fifteen and have been outscored by nearly 100 runs. There is no point in watching the debacle unfold any further. The team is offering attendance to the games for a buck--that should tell you something about the product on the field.

We've rushed some young arms (Loewen, Ray) and this has resulted in injuries. We've traded a promising arm--John Maine and received nothing in return. There is pitching that has shown promise and maybe next year we will have something on the hill to cheer for. Cabrera has looked good and then digressed. Guthrie has grown as a starter. Olson continues to grow.

Brian Matusz and Chris Tillman are the future. Adam Jones and Nolan Reimold are the future. Andy MacPhail is the future. Matt Wieters is the future of this ballclub.

And like the last eleven years in September, there is no need to watch one more game.

Last Place is Fine

2008-08-20T19:43:00.000-07:00

After tonight's win against the Red Sox, the Orioles are 61-65 and in last place in the East. The Eastern Division is tough this year and the Birds are making positive strides towards .500. It's been an exciting season for the Orioles with promising young stars making contributions like Luke Scott, Nick Markakis, Adam Jones and George Sherrill. It's still a work-in-progress, but the front office is laying the ground work for success. They haven't dipped too far under the break even mark and have an outside shot at a winning record. The farm system has exhibited marked improvement. The Orioles show promise for the future. I'm happy with what I've seen thus far. They may be in last place, but they are no doormat. They compete and that's all that matters for now.

Goodbye Manny

2008-08-02T09:55:00.000-07:00

Manny Ramirez has been traded to the Dodgers and I believe he packed with him any chance of the Red Sox winning the World Series this year. With Ramirez, they had a swagger--a mystique--and without him, the middle of the line-up presents somewhat of a reprieve for opposing pitchers. I'm not discounting the very essence of the Bosox soul--Mike Lowell--but I'm not sure he can carry the team the whole way. Big Papi hasn't been the same since the tee-shirt was buried and then unearthed.

Boston will definitely benefit by not having Ramirez in left. He played the position as though he was sitting in a lawn chair. "Whoops," he must have said to himself as balls rolled past his nonchalant approach.

"That's Manny being Manny," Sawx fans remark.

But man, can he club a baseball. Joe Torre now has the necessary elements to make a run for the pennant.

I remember when Manny came up in the 1990s. Growing up in Washington Heights, he somehow eluded the Yankee scouts. He demolished the Yankees in the Bronx on his very first appearance--hitting two home runs in the series and going back to his old neighborhood to enjoy helpings of fried plantains.

Why couldn't Manny just keep being Manny in New England? He'd finally exhausted their patience. I'm not complaining because he may have also taken with him the sea of red in my ballpark-Camden Yards. Time will tell. The conundrum of how to deal with the Red Sox line-up just got easier.

How many players have reached the 500 home run plateau and were traded that very same year? Not many. That's the sad part of it for the fans.

O's Try to Break Sunday Swoon Against Tigers

2008-07-19T16:36:00.000-07:00

The Orioles have lost 14 straight Sunday games. The Sunday losing streak begs several questions along the lines of "What time is 'lights out' for the team on Saturday night? or "It's eleven o'clock, do you know where your Baltimore Orioles are?"

The hard-hitting Tigers await them tomorrow.

It's gotten to the point where I can choose to avoid the Oriole experience altogether on the Sabbath day, especially after witnessing the brutal loss to the Nationals a few weeks ago. With two outs in the bottom of the ninth and two strikes on the batter, O's fans were on their feet in abundance urging George Sherrill on.

Not me. I've been humbled before. Belliard's incredible blast, as painful as it was, approached the divine.

We need to change our approach and I've started thinking about our options. We could enlist a member of the clergy—a heavy hitter--to throw out the first ball at next Sunday's game. How about Archbishop O'Brien?

It could work but we would need to do it every Sunday. And then it hit me. What about prayer?

Outfielder Luke Scott reads the bible religiously. He could lead something non-denominational like the "Serenity Prayer" with alterations.

God, grant me the serenity to hit the ball where it is pitched
To accept the things I cannot change and get on base
The courage to change the things I can by driving in runs
And the wisdom to know the difference between a ball and a strike.

At this point, I'd be willing to try anything—including papal intercession.

The Orioles have played incredible baseball in the first half of the season. They need to find a way to win on Sundays, whatever it takes.

All-Star Umpires

2008-07-12T12:07:00.000-07:00

Remember in the 70s when you knew most of the umpires as well as the players.

In those days, the all-star ballots featured the likes of Brooks and Frank Robinson, Willie Mays, Willie Stargell, Carl Yastremski, George Brett, Lou Brock, Reggie Jackson, Harmon Killebrew, Johnny Bench, Rod Carew, Henry Aaron, Mike Schmidt, Steve Carlton, Tom Seaver and Jim Palmer. You watched the whole game just to see these players collected in one place.

The umpires were all-stars too.

John Shulock, Don Denkinger, Bruce Froemming, Joe Brinkman, Nick Bremigan, Durwood Merrill, Harry Wendelstedt, Vic Voltaggio, Ken Kaiser, and Ron Luciano--whose fights with Earl Weaver were legendary.

There was a strike zone that never changed for an entire season. A strike was a "stee-RIKE."

You trusted them implicitly.

I never wondered about the strike zone or whether the ump's interpretation of where the ball is pitched was going to affect a game. Today, the strike zone changes from inning to inning, team to team and batter to batter. What was a strike in the first might not be one in the seventh. Balls that paint the lines of a batter's box are called strikes.

Unfortunately, today's umpires, prone to taking spinning classes and weight training, have the power to change a game's outcome. Maybe more ballpark franks and soft ice cream would sharpen their vantage points.

I don't even know their names.

Wheels Coming Off

2008-07-10T07:53:00.000-07:00

The Orioles have battled valiantly this year so far but the last two weeks have been a struggle. During the last ten years of losing, when things have gotten off to a good start, there is always one moment that has turned the tide for the worse.

Last year, the Mother's Day Massacre footed the bill. Blowing a 4-run lead in the ninth at Fenway drove the dagger in for good. Three years ago, on June 1st, BJ Ryan in his last season with Baltimore gave up a two-run game winner to David Ortiz--season over.

This year, it may have already happened. On June 29th against the Nationals, with two outs in the bottom of the ninth, George Sherrill thought he had strike three on a pitch to Ronnie Belliard.

Belliard crushed the next pitch just inside the foul pole, a glorious bomb that traveled high into the waning sunlight of a humid DC afternoon, and with it went any aspirations of contention for the 2008 Orioles.

Sheriff Flatbill

2008-06-24T20:23:00.001-07:00

George Sherrill recorded his 26th save tonight against the Chicago Cubs, but not before loading the bases with no outs. He then struck out the side. I haven't seen an Oriole pitcher accomplish such a feat in ten years. Fans call him "the Sheriff" and the flat bill on his cap makes him look like a Maryland state trooper.

Down 7-1, the Cubs roared back in the late innings and nearly notched their 25th comeback, but tonight the pesky Birds hung tough. I've never heard Wrigley Field so alive with excitement in the later innings. It sounded like Yankee Stadium with the crowd on their feat and trying to intimidate the opposition. They had won 14 straight games at home. The crowd cheering FU-KU-DO-ME and clapping to incite their Japanese lead-off man was impressive.

Is it the year of the Cubbie bear? I remember living in the Chicago area in the early eighties and even then, the 1969 collapse was still fresh on Cubs fan's minds. Those who had lived through the loss of a 14 game lead on August 15th were still in pain. My first and extremely painful baseball memory came six weeks later when the Amazin' Mets dropped my O's in the World Series.

With the team they have this year and the fans behind them, Lou Pinella might just end the longest world series drought in baseball. The Cubs are now 32-9 at home. If they are there in October, I'd like to see them win it--for those kids I knew back in Wilmette--who had their summer ruined in 1969.

Crayonhead

2008-06-20T17:16:00.001-07:00

After a second straight victory over the Astros, Dave Trembley referred to Kevin Millar's newly died yellow hair as a Crayola crayon. Millar had the game winning hit in the 10th which I was able to witness after wrapping up a session with my Los Cabos rosary beads. The Orioles are fun to watch this year--and I don't care if they win or they lose--they don't beat themselves and they don't use steroids. They swept the Tejada-led Astros. They are building a promising future game by game. Millar is the glue and he already looks like the manager he may one day become. He keeps it loose and he takes direction from Trembley. Kevin personifies the Orioles--he make the most of everything he has in the toolkit--including his personality. For the first time in a decade, it's fun to be an O's fan.

Beating the Pirates

2008-06-16T11:10:00.000-07:00

Last weekend's entertaining series against the Pirates brought back memories. The Orioles came back in every game and almost swept the three game set. Yet no amount of victories against Pittsburgh will erase what happened in 1971 and 1979. I remember watching Roberto Clemente rise to the occasion after the Bucs went down 2-0 in 1971. The series featured the first-ever World Series night game. His blazing speed and rifle arm elevated him to another level. His two home runs came in close games. After the series, Clemente died in a plane crash traveling to his native Nicaragua to show support for survivors of an earthquake. He may have been one of the greatest to ever play the game.

In 1979, the "We Are Family" Pirates stunned the Orioles after being down 3-1. Willie Stargell who had one hit in 1971, came through with 7 RBIs in 1979 and was the difference maker. It was especially difficult for me because I had moved from Baltimore to Chicago in September of 1979. I followed the Birds all summer because this, as Campbell McGrath wrote, "is the magic summer of 1979 and fate is on the side of Baltimore." It looked that way for a long time. The stage was set in game seven when Eddie Murray came to the plate with the bases loaded and two out and the Orioles behind, 2-1. The crowd chanted, "Eddie, Eddie" just the way McGrath describes it in Capitalist Poem #25. Murray drilled a long fly ball to right with the bases loaded but Dave Parker had him played perfectly and nearly slipped as he caught the ball. The series was over.

Today, the Orioles and the Pirates are in similar positions. Two small market teams with low payrolls trying to compete against powerhouse teams in major markets like the Cubs, Mets, Red Sox and Yankees. The Birds and the Bucs both have winning traditions to be proud of and hopefully promising futures.

Great Scott

2008-06-09T22:36:00.000-07:00

Luke Scott clubbed two home runs yesterday in a losing cause. He gave the Orioles the lead late in the game which nearly led to a sweep of the Blue Jays in Toronto. I was washing the car with my daughter, listening to the game on the radio, and missed the second round tripper. Washing cars and listening to baseball games defined my youth in Baltimore. Scott studies opposing pitchers and keeps a notebook of the types of pitches they throw to him in different counts. He also reads the Bible on a regular basis. We obtained Luke in the Tejada trade and it strikes me that he has a different approach than Miguel. He has aligned himself with God versus performance-enhancing substances.

The 2008 Election and Ball Four

2008-06-07T10:00:00.000-07:00

Jim Bouton's classic book, Ball Four, about his life as a knuckleball pitcher includes a vignette that applies to the upcoming election. The story takes place in the Polo Grounds with two kids chasing after a home run ball. One boy wanted the ball, while the other had to have it. The Republicans have operated like the kid that had to have the ball and have pulled out every stop to get it. My sense is that they will do so again and Obama will not have a chance unless he is willing to scrap like there is no tomorrow. There is hope. He does play basketball.

Twin Killing

2008-06-05T18:59:00.000-07:00

Adam Jones delivered the decisive blow this afternoon--a rising liner into the left field bleachers to break a tie late--against the Minnesota Twins who are a very difficult team to beat in the racquetball court they play in. Erik Bedard for Adam Jones, George Sherrill and others looks like a pretty good deal today. Jones is slowly beginning to emerge. He's beginning to remind me of the first time I saw Bernie Williams play at Yankee Stadium in the early nineties. It was his first year in the big leagues and Williams wore spectacles. I watched him race from right center to deep left to catch a ball headed for the gap. He had a couple of hits and stole a base. On the #4 train downtown, I surmised that it was going to be a long tough road for the other teams in the American East. Adam Jones has the potential to be that kind of superstar. The youthfulness in his face resembles Darryl Strawberry, whose home run swing in the early years looked as if he was using a whiffle bat. Jones hits line drive home runs, and he has a long way to go, but he can win games with his bat and his glove.

Sheriff Sherrill has collected 20 saves thus far--and is capable of closing the door in close ones. His flat-billed hat is state-trooper like.

I heard a rumor today that "Baltimore" was going on the away jersey. There is a God.

It's Only Rock-and-Roll

2008-06-03T18:33:00.000-07:00

This is a letter I sent to Baltimore Examiner editor Gary Gately about the Stones IMAX Movie, "Shine-a-Light."

Hey Gary:

I've been waiting until I saw Shine-a-Light to send you a note. Rafael told me you were a Stones fan and I read your review while in New Orleans a few weeks ago.

Beggars Banquet, Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers, and Exile in succession represent for me some of the greatest rock-and-roll music ever created: Sympathy, Stray Cat Blues, Factory Girl, Street Fighting Man, Parachute Woman, Love in Vain, Monkey Man, Rambler, Shelter, Sway, Sister Morphine, Wild Horses, Loving Cup, Rip This Joint, Ventilator Blues...I remember sitting in front of my parent's Fischer stereo with the cloth speakers reading liner notes and lyrics. The Stones--and mostly the song Love in Vain--helped me through their divorce.

I enjoyed the movie as much as any Stones fan would.

I'll admit I was dreading the live performance of "Faraway Eyes" and was pleasantly surprised. I really enjoyed the interplay between Mick and Keith with Richards singing "worth a dime" and Mick, "worth a damn."

"As Tears Go By" was also a highlight for its irony given Jagger's advancing years--it also evokes Lewis Carroll for me. He seemed like he was angrily biting the words--but what a beautiful song--Keith playing the twelve string. No need for Jagger's apology up front--this is a song they sang while wearing Dylanesque turtlenecks. I like making the connections with Dickens and Carroll in their songs.

For me, "Champagne and Reefer" stole the show. The stoic majesty of Buddy Guy reigned over the song. He stood at the still point of the blues universe, with "the boys" flouncing madly around him as he completed a musical journey from the Mississippi Delta to Chicago to London to a stage at the Beacon Theater in New York. And then Keith gives him his guitar.

Throughout, the cameras were too close and the venue was perhaps too small for such an endeavor. It was like HD Zoom. There was never much perspective. Did we need to see what resembled a dessicated Lifesaver in Keith's hair? I like attending Stones concerts in person, where the vantage point is varied. The First Mariner show a couple years back in Baltimore was illuminating as I had seats in front of the small stage. I'm not sure a film can adequately capture their combined intensity--no matter how close to the action.

I also kept thinking about the movie "Gimme Shelter" and the youthful harlotry of Jagger--so utterly unbelievable and fantastic. Unfortunately during this new movie, and I know this is blasphemy, the image of Jagger as Carol Channing came to mind. The Stones have gathered crags, not necessarily moss, and that's okay. The spectacle in all it's glory was what was missing like Keith at the Hampton Coliseum in 1981, guzzling a fifth of Jack Daniels, and unable to get to the microphone for the verses of "Little T&A" --just the chorus.

My all-time favorite Stones song is "Hand of Fate," on Black-and-Blue, and I almost asked Mick to play it when he walked past me in London a few years back. He was on the phone.

Hope to catch a coffee with you sometime.

Best,

Dean

Weaverball

2008-05-14T18:15:00.001-07:00

The last two games against the Red Sox were reminiscent of games played in the '70s. Pitching, defense and the three-run homer off the bat of Luke Scott beat the Red Sox, 5-4 last night. I listened on the radio, as I had done for years as a kid, as the Red Sox loaded the bases in the seventh with none out and Manny Ramirez at the plate. Jim Johnson of the Orioles battled one of baseball's best hitters. It was an excruciating ten pitch affair with Manny finally giving in and grounding one back to the mound for an easy double play. Johnson escaped with no runs scored--a remarkable achievement--given the fact that the Red Sox line-up keeps coming at you like a threshing machine. Today, it was a grand slam by Jay Payton and four double plays. This season has already produced more bright spots than all of last year. Trembley is using all the parts to get the job done as Earl Weaver once did. It's still early, but there are many things to be thankful for.

Wild Thing: Daniel Cabrera

2008-04-29T14:36:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I was reading Campbell McGrath's new book of poems--Seven Notebooks--while the Orioles were beating the Yankees behind Daniel Cabrera's newly discovered control of his steamrolling fastball. He is wearing a purposeful look these days and the hunger to succeed in the Major Leagues is prominent on his face. After defeating the Yankees, he did the same thing to the Mariners four days later. Showing confidence in his change-up, he looked unhittable at times. This was the same guy who was goaded into a balk by Coco Crisp last summer and threw behind Dustin Pedroia, causing a near-melee to ensue.

Besides being one of the nation's greatest living poets, Campbell McGrath is an Orioles fan. In Capitalism, his inaugural collection of poems published in 1990, Mcgrath writes about attending an Orioles game at Memorial Stadium in 1979, capturing the intensity of the "crab-crazed" crowd with Eddie Murray at the plate. In American Noise, his follow-up collection, Campbell has a poem called "Wild Thing" loosely based on former Cubs closer Mitch Williams--"the main man, the big guy, the stopper, the ace." His new book, Seven Notebooks features a variation of styles and the wildness of McGrath's eye. To me, this is when he is at his best with his full arsenal of pitches, and anything is possible. I especially enjoy what transpires in "Ode to Can of Shaefer Beer," a knuckleball of a poem.

I have been pleasantly surprised by the Orioles and the young 2008 season. "The inexorable closer is coming, believe me," as McGrath writes, and let's hope it is Daniel Cabrera.

Resiliency and Rebirth in the Big Easy: Coco Robicheaux

2008-04-18T18:47:00.000-07:00

We stumbled upon the regular Saturday night haunt of legendary blues guitarist Coco Robicheaux somehwat by accident two weeks ago in New Orleans. It was simply the best music being played on Frenchman Street at the time. I'd recognized his name from many JazzFest lineups and had been to Frenchman street when it was just taking off--it's the hottest place for music in the city. Coco sat with his guitar on a makeshift stage at a bar named Apple Barrel surrounded by a small group of musicians who come and sit in when he is there. A tip bowl on a stool rested in front of him. "I'll play until morning as long as the tips are coming in," he smiled. My friend Rafael immediately bought him a drink when we arrived. Apple Barrel is a hole in the wall with barely enough space for twenty people. We slipped into the back near the bathroom and found spots at the bar. The sidewalk is a fine place to listen to the music with a breeze coming off the Mississippi. During the break I asked him about a song he played that sounded good but I didn't recognize it. "The one with Jesus in the lyrics," I said. "That's 'Suzanne' by Leonard Cohen," he said. He then whispered the lyric I referenced into my ear:

And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.

I knew the song, but it had never sounded so raw as in Robicheaux's capable hands. He growled the lyrics and his haunting guitar made it sound like a sermon. He told me more about why he plays "Suzanne."

"During the storm, a songbook fell off the bookshelf in my house and lay open to that song. I read the lyrics and they spoke to me about the city of New Orleans and Katrina." His voice was a low raspy growl. I listened to the song when I returned home.

Now Suzanne takes your hand
And she leads you to the river
She is wearing rags and feathers
From Salvation Army counters
And the sun pours down like honey
On our lady of the harbour
And she shows you where to look
Among the garbage and the flowers
There are heroes in the seaweed
There are children in the morning
They are leaning out for love
And they will lean that way forever
While Suzanne holds the mirror
And you want to travel with her
And you want to travel blind
And you know that you can trust her
For she's touched your perfect body with her mind.

He has a point. The son of Choctaw and Cajun parents who has played with Muddy Waters, Coco Robicheax is a fixture on Frenchman street and the locals love him. "He'll give you the shirt off his back," Ally the bartender at the Spotted Cat told me. "We all have his number. If you need something, he'll be there."

Me of Little Faith

2008-04-18T18:35:00.000-07:00

Last night I went to bed with the Orioles trailing 5-3 in the eighth and facing Sox closer Bobby Jenks. That's right I gave up on them. I didn't think they had a chance. They came back and won it, proving me wrong. These birds are showing early signs of resilience in 2008. Nick Markakis tied the game with a two-run homer and the Sox immediately took the lead back like they were toying with the Orioles. I was trying to minimize the disappointment by turning in. I didn't want to see the White Sox win--they have trounced the Orioles with regularity since we beat them in 1983. I went to bed. That's what 10 years of losing seasons will do to a fan--once.

A Hard Dose of Reality

2008-04-17T08:41:00.000-07:00

One week does not a season make and the slugging trio of Markakis, Millar and Huff can't be expected to match up night after night against the rest of the American League. Even the Devil Rays have Crawford, Upton, and Pena who absolutely crush the ball. The Orioles will have their moments, like Millar did on Monday night against the Jays, and other players like Scott and Jones may step forward, but I have resigned myself to the fact that we need more new players for Brian Roberts. I like Roberts, always have, but the losing has taken its toll on him and he needs a change of scenery. This Oriole season has all the early makings of another long summer. Improvements will be made and that's a good thing, and my allegiance ramains in tact, no matter how abysmal the play.

Cautious Optimism

2008-04-09T07:12:00.000-07:00

The Orioles are off to an amazing start and I, like everyone else, had written them off for 2008. I nearly jumped ship to the Nationals with their new park in disgust. The presence of Andy MacPhail as GM has been felt with the acquisition of several quality players in the Bedard and Tejada trades--Sarfate, Sherrill, Jones, and Scott. Middle relief wins pennants these days and the Orioles look like they have acquired some quality arms to perform this function. Aubrey Huff is playing with a chip on his shoulder and manager Dave Trembley is the long-term answer for both the veterans and the youngsters. It's only been a week but they have swept the Mariners for the first time since 1998 and have won six straight, something they didn't do all year. This team believes in itself and sometimes, that is all you need.

The Wire is Tapped

2008-03-12T21:00:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I was taking the Acela back from New York and the train was slowing into Baltimore. The row homes on the east side of town were boarded up and burned out. The woman in the seat in front of me said to her traveling companion, "This looks like Africa." The row homes resembled the "vacants" referred to in Season 4 of The Wire where Snoop and Chris hid their dead victims. As a native Baltimorean and a human being, I was offended by the comment but I also understood her ignorance. She'd never spent time on Federal Hill with the whole city laid bare before her as I have. Riding along the same tracks years ago, Randy Newman referred to the blight in a song about the city when he sang, "hard times in a city/in a hard town by the sea." Baltimore has not been tarted up like Bloomberg's New York theme park. It is a real place and these gritty edges helped shaped one of the greatest shows in the history of television.

Writers like George Pelecanos, David Simon, Richard Price, Dennis Lehane and Rafael Alvarez penned amazing scripts and created characters like Stringer Bell, Omar Little, Felicia Snoop Pearson, Brother Mouzone, Jimmy McNulty, Bill Rawls and Bunk Moreland.
Stringer broke new ground as a drug dealer whose harbor-view crib featured samurai swords and The Art of War. His betrayal of Avon Barksdale and their final exchange on the balcony of Bell's condo overlooking the harbor as Barksdale had already returned the favor invoked Shakesperean tragedy.

The gay assassin, Omar Little, may have been one of the most compelling characters ever created for television, harkening back to Cormac McCarthy's, bald six foot-seven Judge who handles most of the killing in the masterpiece "Blood Meridian," a story that makes "No Country for Old Men" seem like child's play. Omar's murder of Stringer Bell was one of the show's finest moments.

The muscle for Marlo's crew, Felicia Snoop Pearson played herself. The show had manufactured a crown jewel. That's the sign of a good show. She walked off the street into a starring role, a found actor. Her purchase of the nail gun at Home Depot in Season 4 was also a memorable moment. Her acting was so amazing the players around her seemed in awe. "How's my hair look?" Those were her last words.

The one character most closely linked to the city itself was Bubbles, a heroin addict, who should have died of an overdose by season three. In the final season, we find Bubbles attending Narcotics Anonymous meetings, changing his life. Living with his sister in the basement, he is finally able to join the family at the dinner table. We have the same aspirations for the city of Baltimore—that it will one day change course and address its problems.

The good guys were great too. McNulty's crazed and wild-eyed full-blown alcoholism to begin the final season produced startling results as he altered homeless deaths to look like murders. Bunk Moreland's creation was similar to Homicide's Stanley Bolander (Ned Beatty) and his lecture to Omar on how he ruined the Edmundson Village neighborhood he had grown up in brought a tear to my eye--my father grew up there. Bunny Colvin, Bill Rawls, and Cedric Daniels portayed the essence of leadership under fire.

The show pulled off the impossible by making the schools, the street corners, the newspaper, and goings-on in the port must-see tv. It showed you how the corners offer kids a better alternative than the disgraceful inner-city education system. It revealed how corporate mergers have destroyed one of the greatest newspapers in the country. We saw the teamsters and their corrupt activities with imports and exports. We witnessed the endless vicious cycle of the drug game in all its glory--still in operation today.

The show offered solutions. It presented a "drug free zone" called "Hamsterdam" as an alternative to drive crime down. It ended with a policeman manufacturing a serial killer to get more resources. It was riveting from start to finish, a letter to Baltimore exhibiting tough love--the good, the bad, and the ugly--laid bare.
And much of what was shown was grounded in truth.

Maryland Governor Martin O'Malley reportedly didn't like the portrayal of Baltimore in The Wire. Like the fictional Mayor Carcetti, O'Malley originally gave Baltimoreans hope when he took office. The people soon discovered the real truth.

Martin O'Malley has never taken a train into town.

Bye Bye Bedard

2008-02-16T18:12:00.000-08:00

Erik Bedard pitched some great games for the Orioles over the last several years. He had all the mannerisms of an Oriole pitcher down to the way he peered over his glove prior to delivery and took his place next to McNalley, Flanagan, and MacGregor as a legendary Baltimore left-hander. But he sulked and brooded and acted like he was miserable to be an Oriole--a kind of Pete Sampras approach to things. One season, he had a knee injury and the word in the aisles of Eddie's grocery store was that he wasn't tough enough to play through pain. Regardless of how good he was in Baltimore, his efforts weren't enough to turn the franchise around. He had no interest in owning a decade of losing. In past years, we would have lost a player like him to free agency. Now at least we have something to build on in the wake of his departure. As for the Mariners, they have a legitimate shot to make some noise, provided they can keep Bedard happy. He will be wearing a different uniform but he will still be the same old Erik.

Baseball, Broadway and the Curse of the Bambino (2003)

2008-01-10T10:49:00.000-08:00

“He looks up for a moment…at the people on the field. Those who are happy and dazed. Those who run the bases calling out the score…Those whose team has lost…Those who will light the city with their bliss.” –Underworld, Don DeLillo

It was a glorious September weekend in the city a few days before the second anniversary of the September 11th attacks and baseball, not terrorism claimed center stage. The Boston Red Sox battled the first place Yankees in a three game series at the Stadium.

I inquired about tickets for Saturday’s game, only to learn that bleacher seats were going for $500.00 a ticket. Bleachers? For a baseball game? I asked the scalper why. “It’s the oldest rivalry in baseball and we’re in a pennant race,” he grumbled in a Bronx accent. But this is major league baseball, a watered down version of its former self with scandals from steroids to ephedrine to corked bats cropping up weekly. The wildcard playoff berth has also helped lessen the drama. I can understand “Hairspray” tickets being so expensive. When is the last time a regular season baseball game meant anything?

I’m not a Yankee fan (partly because the world doesn’t need any more) but a trip to the Stadium in the Bronx is the quintessential New York experience. Never mind that the Yankees are baseball’s version of Walmart with their $200 million dollar payroll devouring baseball communities across the nation. Yankee Stadium is the Mecca of the baseball world. Few stadiums allow that first radiant glimpse of the outfield grass from the elevated train platform. Described in an early press release as a “field enclosed with towering embattlements, rendering the events inside impenetrable to all human eyes, save those of aviators,” it opened in 1923 with the Yankees defeating the Red Sox. Babe Ruth christened the park with a three-run homer. It’s a Roman Coliseum where gladiators and their ghosts battle it out. Spirits like Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Lou Gehrig and Mickey Mantle lurk in the rafters. You can still envision the glory years of Ballantine beer, the copper façade of the grandstand and baggy pants tearing around the base paths. Now George Steinbrenner stands like a Roman emperor in the luxury box watching lesser teams be devoured. It has the same mystique of Fenway Park and Wrigley Field—and then you tack on 26 World Championships.

I’m not a Yankee fan but they rescued me from the aftermath of the World Trade Center attacks in 2001. I sat in front of my television for the entire month of October praying for the Yankees to pull out those games. I wanted them to win it for the city in the same way I wanted survivors to be found in the smoldering wreckage. The Yankees fought like the heroes who perished in the towers, clawing their way to the seventh game of the World Series and nearly winning it all. They battled for every out with their souls. Game winning home run after game winning home run. I remembered the parade in 1996, watching tickertape fall from the windows of the skyscrapers while attending a seminar in the One World Trade Center. A large ream of computer paper draped itself around Alexander Hamilton’s gravestone like a toga. What would the city have done if the Yankees won the championship? I wanted to know the answer.

Crowds thronged the streets of the Times Square theme park on Saturday afternoon headed for the matinees and it was chilly in the shade. September days in Manhattan, crisp and clear, filled with sunlight and blue sky, will never again be experienced as the welcome respite from summer that they are but will serve as a reminder for what happened on a Tuesday morning in 2001. Baseball can never change that.

Yankees fans are the most knowledgeable and devout worshippers of any sport in the world and the most openly hostile to both the opposition and to their own players. Once after a fly ball dropped in front of a Yankee outfielder on a cloudy day, I heard a fan shout, “Take off your sunglasses next time and you’ll make the catch.” On another occasion, I sat behind first base and watched fans berate former Yankee first baseman Steve Balboni. “Hey Bumboni,” they screamed continuously, and goaded him into a throwing error. Their merciless heckling made a small boy cry.

Only three and a half games out of first place to begin the series, the Red Sox routed the Yankees sans their star Derek Jeter on Friday night 9-3, and followed up on Saturday with an 11-0 drubbing of former Red Sox pitcher Roger Clemens that trimmed the Yankee lead to one and a half games with only eighteen games left. The general feeling around town is that the Yankees are missing a consistent hitter and a strong middle-reliever to make a serious run in their annual all or nothing saga of “Win It All or Hit the Road.” The beat writers promise that heads will roll—including Godfather-like manager Joe Torre--if the crown isn’t brought back to the Bronx this year.

The Sunday Times sports page showed little patience. “Red Sox Pound Yankees Again,” the headline read. There’s no relief in multiple World Championships. It’s been a difficult year with injuries to Jeter and Bernie Williams, and the debauched biography by David Wells to start the year didn’t help things. However, the Yankees thrive on internal strife and chaos. Their line up still assaults an opposing pitcher like the replicating agents in “The Matrix Reloaded.” They also have the psychological edge of Mariano Rivera, perhaps the greatest closer in the history of baseball who vaporizes the opposition in the late innings. Hideki Matsui, a quiet newcomer from Tokyo, also known as “Godzilla” for his homerun prowess in Japan has carried the Yankees this year with his line-drive swing and persistent hustle. “He hits line drives and runs faster than Paulie,” a fan remarked, comparing him to the recently retired Paul O’Neill. Matsui has won the hearts of Yankee fans and also maintains a thriving fan base in Japan. He is solely responsible for the real-time Yankee telecasts played on cable in Japan, China, Taiwan and Korea. He is a regular fixture on the Jumbotron screen in Shibuya, Tokyo’s version of Times Square. Japanese fans in New York sit in the bleachers to be closer to their national hero.

Two home losses to the Red Sox and the world is coming to an end. Suddenly, Bernie Williams is too old, Giambi washed up. It would be more interesting if the Yankees didn’t win the World Series this year to see what would happen. Imagine the drama. What will Steinbrenner do? Brian Cashman, Yankee GM, has been wheeling and dealing players all year, including the 45 year-old Jessie Orosco who lasted only two weeks. All you need to know about the Yankees and their impact on the psyche of New Yorkers is contained in a two-hour dramatic event at the Walter Kerr Theatre.

The play is called “Take Me Out,” a jarring experience that examines issues of racism and homophobia from the vantage point of our national past time. One review calls it, “A look at the skeevy underbelly of baseball.“ The fictitious team is called the Empires, and the main character, Darren Lemming bears a strong resemblance to Derek Jeter. Like Jeter, he comes from a mixed racial upbringing, dates starlets, and is the soul of the team. It also depicts a modern day baseball locker room, similar to the Yankees, filled with a diverse melting pot of cultures that include born again Christians, African Americans, Japanese, and Hispanic ballplayers sharing the same shower. Lemming comes out of the closet mid-season and the team is thrown into turmoil. In the end, the Empires must overcome the racist remarks and actions of relief pitcher Shane Mungit, modeled after John Rocker.

“Take Me Out” reveals how baseball can capture the imagination of the most unlikely fan, a gay accountant named Mason Marzack assigned to manage Lemming’s finances. “Marz” discovers baseball from scratch, calling it a democracy outside of time. Baseball offers sanctuary from the horrors of civilization. There are the intricacies of the game from the hieroglyphics of the official score to the varying speeds of the pitches. But there’s also plenty of folly and sideshow to take comfort in. A numbers man, Marz becomes entranced by the multiples of three at work and puzzled by the home run trot. “The man has hit the ball out of the park, why should he have to run the bases?” He also realizes that baseball is a game where somebody loses.

The Boston Red Sox are perhaps the most famous “losers” of any sport. Their 1986 loss to the Mets in the World Series was the most painful. With two outs and a two run lead, the Red Sox had silenced the five boroughs and were on the verge of World Series victory. The streets were so quiet you could hear the announcer’s voice echoing off the concrete in ten stories of apartments with their windows open. The Mets strung together two singles and a walk, scoring three runs on a pass ball and a colossal error. “The game is everywhere,” Don DeLillo writes in Underworld on the occasion of Bobby Thomson’s homerun in 1951. “They got it in taxicabs and barbershops and doctor’s offices.” Taxicab horns erupted all over the city after the winning run scored. Anyone who lived in the city in 1986 remembers this moment—hundreds of thousands of people with no ties to baseball were instantly connected to the event and converted. “It makes people want to be in the streets, joined with others, telling others what has happened.” Red Sox fans compared this collapse to the Kennedy assassination. They haven’t won a championship since 1918. Will this year be any different?

Ironically, the Red Sox stayed at the Westin Hotel on 43rd, close to the theatre district and only ten blocks or so from where Babe Ruth breathed his last in a hospital run by the French nuns. They keep the Curse of the Bambino fresh on their minds. The story of the Red Sox is the longest running tragic novel in all of sports. Every year begins with promise and by now, post Labor Day, all hope has faded from the season.

Baseball is the breeding ground of fiction. It has a three-act story structure: exposition, development, drama. The batter steps in, the pitcher winds and delivers. There is confrontation on every pitch. Innings build into scenes. As DeLillo writes, “The difference comes when the ball is hit. Then nothing is the same…There are things that apply unrepeatably, muscle memory and pumping blood and jots of dust, the narrative that lives in the spaces of the official play-by-play.”

I managed to find two $75 dollar bleacher tickets for Sunday’s finale. David Wells pitched and Derek Jeter overcame bruised ribs to scratch his name in on the line-up card. Jeter is the personification of Yankee glory. He is cocky and brash and an all-star. He drew pictures of himself playing for the Yankees in high school. He is a man who knows who he is and why he is here.

Yankee Stadium reeked of playoff atmosphere. The bleachers baked in sunlight. “This is the biggest game since the 1996,” Jeter said. Wells glowered on the mound like a behemoth. He looked more like a professional wrestler than a baseball player. Wells nibbled in and out, then busted the Sox batters inside, always around the plate. He is pure Yankee, a booze-swilling throwback from the Mantle years who overcomes the hangover and twirls a gem. Manny Ramirez from nearby Washington Heights smacked a double over Matsui’s head in left. “He made chop-suey out of Matsui,” a fan yelled. Ramirez was left stranded on third.

The teams played seven scoreless innings. You could feel the tension grow in the throats of the Red Sox fans. The game had begun innocently enough, with both teams feeling each other out. Could the Red Sox complete an unthinkable three-game sweep of the Yankees and creep within a half game?

As the game wore on, the years of failure returned. Ruth purchased for money to stage a Broadway play in 1919. The 1975 series against the Reds. Bucky Dent’s 1978 home run that won the Pennant from the Red Sox. The 1986 debacle against the Mets. The Red Sox fans seated in the bleachers around me knew the history of their team in great detail. They grew silent and prepared for the worst. My wife, born and raised in New England, stood up. “I’m going for an Italian ice,” she said, code for “I already know something bad is going to happen.”

Bernie Williams took two level swings at the air and calmly stood in against Red Sox hurler Jeff Suppan with two outs in the seventh inning. He is the antithesis of Jeter, a quiet classical musician with a lethal stick. He worked the count full. I remembered following Bernie Williams in the minor leagues. The first day I saw him play at Yankee stadium in the early 1990s, he ran down an unreachable ball across center field like a loping gazelle. He wore glasses then and I left the game thinking the rest of the American league was going to be in trouble for a long time.

He jumped on a full count fastball and sent a towering drive into right field. I tracked its path into the shade of the upper deck, checking back to the fence to see if the ball had the distance to clear it. It reemerged into the light and landed several rows back in the right field bleachers. Before the ball left his bat, the Yankees were a team on the verge of collapse. The Red Sox had a legitimate chance to catch them. The hopes of a Boston pennant vanished in the long, dreamy flight of the Williams home run.

The Baltimore Steroidals

2007-12-18T20:18:00.000-08:00

"All the bushleague batters/are left to die on the diamond.
In the stands the home crowd scatters/for the turnstiles." --Neil Young

The Baltimore Orioles have nineteen current and former players listed in the Mitchell report as steroid users. After its release, the front office broke ranks with the rest of the league and made a public statement questioning the report's methodology. The Orioles played the season like they were awaiting sentencing on death row. A malaise permeated the dugout. Upper bodies sagged and balls that were once home runs were caught on the warning track. Power numbers toppled. It's time to burn sage in the locker room to remove the evil spirits. Get rid of them all. At this point, I'll take nine players I've never heard of and "Baltimore" back on the uniform. Is that too much to ask?

Remembering Dino Bartoli

2007-10-26T06:54:00.000-07:00

Long-time Parkville resident, Dino John Bartoli died in his sleep on Sunday morning, October 21st at the age of 91 in Fort Meyers, Florida.

Devoted husband, father and grandfather, Dino Bartoli was born on June 14, 1916, in Shickshinny, Pa., to Gemma and Torquato Bartoli. He was one of five children.

He played professional baseball for Sunbury and Shickshinny in the Pennsylvania Leagues during the late thirties. Mr. Bartoli won the 1938 batting title with a .361 average and once played against Hall of Famer Goose Goslin, among others.

He married Carolyn Ciampi of Berwick, Pennsylvania and moved to Baltimore. They were married for 65 years.

Mr. Bartoli worked for Bethlehem Steel at the Sparrows Point location in Baltimore as a yardmaster on the nightshift. He took early retirement at the age of fifty-five and began collecting and selling antiques with Carolyn. They owned a store on Harford road called Treasure Alley.

Mr. Bartoli bore a likeness to Penn State football coach Joe Paterno and was often mistaken for him. Throughout his life, he was an avid follower of the Baltimore Orioles. He had a fondness for Carolyn’s meatballs and crab cakes, rice pudding, ice cream, John Nettleton shoes, and Cadillac cars.

He lived life to its fullest and would converse with anyone including total strangers. He is survived by three children: Dona Lowrimore of Woodstock, Illinois; Bernie Bartoli of Fort Meyers, Florida; and Senie Bloys of New York. He had six grandchildren, and eight great grandchildren.

Mr. Bartoli will be cremated and his ashes will be placed in the casket with his wife Carolyn.

The Time is Now for Boston

2007-10-18T16:00:00.000-07:00

My wife is a New Englandologist, a Bostonophile, a Providentian, a New Hampshirist--a lover of all things New England. Baked Beans, Coffee Syrup, Cape Cod--these are some of her favorite things. In her mind there is New England and nothing else on the continent. She also likes turkey sandwiches with all the trimmings--the kind you have on the day after Thanksgiving and the day after that. That is, of course, if her baseball team is winning. The Red Sox are in trouble and she's resorted to making turkey sandwiches for dinner. If the Sox win tonight, we will be eating turkey sandwiches through the weekend. During the last World Series run, we ate turkey, cranberry sauce, stuffing and lettuce on whole wheat until the Sox beat the Yankees. My son is walking around in his Red Sox shirt--the one I was forced to buy him during our Cape Cod vacation--eating a turkey sandwich.

Remove Torre and The Dynasty is Over

2007-10-08T05:33:00.000-07:00

The Yankees are hanging on and are one win away from making it interesting. Steinbrenner said over the weekend that Joe Torre would be judged on the outcome of this series. Torre realizes this and has for as long as he has been manager. His job is on the line every day. Torre means "tower" in Italian. Joe has towered over baseball for the past fifty years--first as an ambassador of all things National League when he played catcher for the Cardinals and now as manager of the Yankees. I remember owning his baseball card. Remove Joe and the mystique is gone. His eyes tell the story as they shift and calculate situations. He is a godfather more than a coach--the head of the Yankee family. Having an Italian at the helm is a good thing for a number of reasons. The Yankees have had their share of productive Italian-Americans: DiMaggio, Crosetti, Berra, Rizzuto, and Pepitone. Italians of a certain generation, no matter where they reside, identify with the Yankees. Growing up in an Italian family would have given Joe the necessary training in Machiavellian tactics. George Steinbrenner is the banker--he merely funds the operation. Torre is the spirit of this latest Dynasty. Jeter and Mariano personify that spirit--not A-Rod or Damon. The dirt wedged between Torre's cleats has more gravitas than Steinbrenner. It's hard to imagine that Clemens or Pettite would come back to play for another manager. Is there any better manager in the world than Joe Torre?

Vinik vs. Bartman

2007-10-06T13:08:00.000-07:00

This is a simple one for me. Leave the ball alone if it is catchable. This is like reality television. We don't need to know who these people are. Bartman's only flaw was that he cared too much. The headphones, the Cubs attire, and he was oblivious to what was happening in the game. All of a sudden, he's Bilbo Baggins trying to grab the ring. I remember Jeffrey Maier reaching over to snare a Derek Jeter home run ball against the Orioles. I saw the same thing occur years before at Yankee stadium to ruin a pitcher's duel and give the Yankees a 1-0 win. Have enough respect for the game if you are sitting close to the field to let the players decide the outcome. If you want a baseball, attend batting practice. If you are purposely trying to interfere to help your team--stay at home.

Yankee Killer

2007-10-05T19:46:00.000-07:00

My son Quinn turns one tomorrow. On the day he was born last year, Kenny Rogers shut down the Yankees in the Playoffs to take a two games to one lead. The Indians defeated the Yankees in extra innings tonight to take a two game lead in the series. It was the first intriguing game of the postseason. Pettite and Carmona locked in a pitcher's duel. Mariano Rivera like an aging bullfighter mowed down Indian batters tonight. His stuff was almost too good. A strike-three rising fastball that soared over Posada's glove nearly put the winning run on in the tenth but the Yanks held. I think the New Yorkers may have been overlooking the Indians just as they did the Tigers last year. The one thing you have to wonder about if you are a Yankee fan is whether they have run out of gas. They've had severe outages throughout the season, especially at the beginning. The Orioles beat them nine times. This is not a good time to go into a funk. I'm having trouble getting used to watching the playoffs on TBS. The coverage is as bland as when they do NBA games. The voices sound familiar as though the annnouncers are trying to imitate Joe Buck and others--but it's not the old standbys--it's guys like Steve Stone who used to do Cubs games with Harry Caray.

My daughter says she likes baseball better than football because you get to go "home." We'll see if the curse of Quinn Smith holds for another year.

I'll stick to my Red Sox World Series prediction. Their infusion of young talent at the end of the season was impressive. They act as though they have something to prove.

Reason to Believe: Orioles 10, Yankees 9

2007-09-29T09:04:00.000-07:00

From week to week, the baseball landscape changes dramatically. It is a cruel game because of its colossal endlessness across a 162-game season. Today's star is tomorrow's goat. On any given day, any team can win, even the bad ones. Every once in awhile it comes down to pride. They are boys again, playing little league. Last night, the Orioles refused to die and defeated the Yankees 10-9 in extra innings. Let's forget that the Yankees had clinched a playoff spot. Remember, they want to win pennants. That is what they set out to do every year--not just qualify--win the division. The AL east was on the line last night and they had come back to life after being pronounced dead in late June to make a run for the pennant. Jeter's single in a driving rain storm during a game that the umpires somehow overlooked the need to delay was and still is the set piece ready to be cued up with the Vangelis background music if the Yankees win it all. The Orioles have played them tough--have given them all they could handle all year--and will have a winning record regardless of the next two games.

Down three runs against the great Rivera in the ninth, they came back to tie it last night. Driving home late, I had no intention of tuning in but the game was on when the car sprang to life and I didn't turn it off. Bases loaded, two outs, and Jay Payton delivered a bases-clearing triple against Mariano. Game tied. With a jubilant September moon illumining the Potomac, Derek Jeter doubled to start the tenth. Here we go again. With one out, the Orioles loaded the bases by walking A-Rod and Matsui. Molina and Giambi popped up.

The Red Sox and a handful of fans in Fenway were watching with great interest. The pennant, one they had nearly relinquished to the bombers, hung in the balance.

Tike Redman sliced a one-out double into the left field corner. A wild pitch put him on third. "Now he has a multitiude of ways to score," Joe Angel said. The Yankees then walked Markakis and Tejada. Kevin Millar struck out. It was up to Melvin Mora. Melvin, in one of the most beautiful plays of the year, executed a perfect drag bunt down the third base line with two strikes to win the game.

New England erupted in celebration.

What could this team have been this year if the pitching had held up, if players like Gibbons and Hernandez continued to progress, and Tejada and Mora had remained true to form? As bad as they have been, the baseball gods have spared them the ultimate embarassment in 2007. They have had an awful time of it but their indiscretions may soon be eclipsed by the biggest collapse ever undertaken by the New York Mets.

Maybe Next Decade: The Markakis Years

2007-09-17T16:02:00.000-07:00

Here is a picture my friend John Wells took of Cal's Cooperstown induction ceremony. The lawn is rife with Oriole fans in every direction. They are waiting for Cal to appear. Once could imagine this very same group of people surrounding Camden Yards, demanding a winning team.

Perhaps the next ten years will be more productive ones for the Baltimore Orioles. The last ten will be remembered for some of the worst relief pitching known to man, a rash of untimely hitting, and steroid abuse. We have the greatest ballpark in the major leagues and we've populated it with a revolving door of marginal and lackluster talent.

Over the past ten years, several moments have stood out. Cal retired and was inducted into the Hall of Fame. Mussina left for the Yankees. There was the Jack Cust belly-flop toward homeplate and the Todd Williams intentional walk that turned into a game winning hit by Miguel Cabrera. Armando Benitez beaned the Yankees. Sydney Ponson was more like a "monsoon" when it came to giving up runs and attacking tourists in Aruba. The Orioles acquired Miguel Tejada and have placed the burden of winning on his shoulders.

The team on the field and the front office have presented a very bad example for the city and its young people to follow and emulate. Ten year old children have never known a winning season. It's hard to fathom that players would rather play baseball in places like Detroit than in Baltimore. It boggles the mind that the organization would refuse to put the city's name on the jersey just to spite the fans. There is no accountability for the bad decisions that have been made.

We lack three essential elements for winning: 1.) Talent 2.) Integrity and 3.) Desire. Games were lost outright, thrown away, and blown by every conceivable method. This year we were no-hit, lost 30-3, and gave up five runs on Mother's Day. 2007 will likely be remembered as the season the Oriole ship hit bottom. The worst season ever. The only players who deserve to wear the uniform are: Bedard, Roberts, Guthrie, and Nick Markakis.

One future bright spot on this year's team is Markakis. He's hit over 20 homeruns and driven in 100 rbi. He has 11 outfield assists. The Markakis era is underway and it figures to be a prominent one for him. He can't do it alone.

On the Sunday afternoon of Cal's induction ceremony, Camden Yards was packed to watch the Orioles play the Yankees. Most of the fans in attendance were Yankee fans. I wondered how many of the large contingent of Oriole fans in Cooperstown that day were there to pay homage to their hero and not to the current collection of players on the field. How many of those fans have give up on Peter Angelos and his ineptitude?

Its not easy being a fan.

Fenway South and Chin Music

2007-09-10T11:40:00.000-07:00

I attended Friday night's loss to the Red Sox and witnessed Daniel Cabrera's meltdown. The melee that wasn't turned into the game that wasn't if you follow the Orioles. The team was lifeless and the fans reluctant to cheer with the boisterous Red Sox crowd expecting victory. The "Let's Go Red Sox" cheer during the "melee" was thought to be in poor taste by some. They have every right to make their point--they have earned it. They have an impressive team and one that wins with regularity. We do not. Our park has become a "preferred" destination for the opposition.

Cabrera and his fragile psyche must go. The incident reminded me of Armando Benitez throwing at the Yankees a few years back. It's time for him to move on. We don't need another hard-thrower who can't field his position or control his pitches and emotions. He was shown up for sure by Coco Crisp who goaded him into a costly balk but headhunting was not an appopriate response in this instance and never should be.

A few years back in the mid-nineties, Ben McDonald straightened things out with the Yankees. In an earlier game that year, Tim Leary had broken the wrist of Oriole catcher Chris Hoiles. Leary was also discovered to have been doctoring the ball that night when sandpaper fell out of his glove. I watched Ben McDonald hit Matt Nokes in the head at Yankee Stadium. Catchers are sometimes the target because they relay the signals, I guess. The ball knocked his helmet off and sent Nokes face down into the dirt where he lay for several minutes. Nokes received a concussion and McDonald struck out nine of the next twelve Yankee hitters after a shaky start. The Orioles won the game. McDonald backed up his actions. He delivered a message on behalf of the ball club and let his pitching take over from there.

Before we can take back the yard, we need players who possess character and talent.

Goodbye Chris Gomez, There's Always Next Year

2007-08-25T20:02:00.000-07:00

Just as soon as it looked like things were turning around, the Orioles were beaten 30-3 by the Rangers--in their own park. Pummeled. Routed. Mauled. Embarrassed. Exposed. Run-ruled. Touchdowned. Body-slammed by a revamped Ranger team that had unloaded its big stars. A friend asked why we didn't plunk the Rangers for running up the score. Well, it's easier said than done. They would actually need to hit the target and the ballspeed would only be slightly faster than the hurlers from the Little League team, Chinese Taipei.

On the same day, the Orioles announced Dave Trembley as manager for 2008. They players relaxed. The trading deadline had passed so everyone was safe and the coffers of Mr. Angelos would continue to flow for the forseeable future. Trembley was the only question. With him locked for 2008, the Orioles could safely fold up their tents and roll over. Suddenly, the "magic" required to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory returned. They lost the next three games to the Twins, after leading two of them through seven. Before Texas came to town, they were 58-65, only seven games from .500. Now they are 11 games under and counting. They teased us into being fans again. The circus is packed and the caravan is pulling out.

A few weeks ago, the Orioles traded Chris Gomez, someone who brought professionalism and class to the franchise as a utility infielder. Gomez hit .300 and played next to near flawless defense at short and third while Mora and Tejada were on the DL. His reward: sold to the Indians for $20,000. They had a winning record when Gomez started games after Trembley took over. Gomez was one of only a few Orioles I could cheer for this year.

Oriole Baseball, 1966 - 2007

2007-08-13T10:22:00.000-07:00

The fumes of Friday night's comeback win had begun to fade as I watched the game yesterday afternoon with my father over in Baltimore. We didn't attend the game in person but we did have a nice family gathering that included a cookout. I've attended many games over the years with my father and the Orioles have been a binding force in our relationship, wherever we are at the time, the Birds have a way of focusing us in on a common pursuit. We might not necessarily agree on politics but we share similar opinions concerning how baseball ought to be played in our native Baltimore. We attended Game 4 of the 1970 World Series together and 2130 for Cal. Supposedly, I attended a 1966 World Series game, but I was too young to remember that one. We both agree that Dave Trembley should be our leader for the future. With my infant son at my feet, we watched the Orioles mount another stirring late inning comeback against the Red Sox. They rescued a game that looked like it was sure to be an uneventful loss at the hands of the best team in baseball. Trachsel had escaped disaster all afternoon, aided in two intances by the glove of Melvin Mora at third. Miguel Tejada came up big in the eighth and Millar clubbed a walkoff home run in the 10th. We listened to the postgame show on a radio. My dad barbecued salmon and tuna and I made a salad. It reminded me of the Oriole theme song in the early seventies: "Oriole Baseball, father and son having fun together." I can't remember the last time I watched a game with my Dad.

Black-and-Orange Friday

2007-08-10T20:15:00.000-07:00

When you follow a team that has been scuffling for a decade, there are moments that you hold onto and not seasons. There are a few bright spots along the way that you can savor and tonight was one of those instances when a horrific sequence of events, the kind of which we have grown used to, reversed themselves and turned back in the Orioles favor, helping to heal a wound incurred early in the season at Fenway park known as the Mother's Day Massacre. The Orioles had been mauled by the Mariners this week and the prospects were not good against the Red Sox. Their fans invade Camden Yards like the Massachussets regimen did at the beginning of the Civil War. Bedard and Matsuzaka pitched incredibly well through seven -- spellbinding performances -- and the Orioles clung to 1-0 lead. Bedard worked the Sox like a bullfighter -- keeping them off balance -- until he was eventually gored by a Willy Mo single. In the eighth, the Sox tied the game and went on to put 4 more on the board, taking a 5-1 lead. I turned the TV off, sulked, and pretended to go to sleep. Then I turned it back on. The Orioles did not quit. Patterson doubled off Gagne, who looked sloppy and overheated. Markakis singled him in. Tejada walked. Huff scorched a low liner that bounced under Drew's glove and two runs scored, 5-4. As the ball rolled toward the warning track, one could not help but think of the curse and its rekindling or of seasons that have rolled away from our New England foes. Mora drove in the tying run and we had a new ballgame. Hoey, a sleepy-eyed horse of a pitcher, barely held the Sox in the ninth. A shallow fly from Markakis scored Roberts from the third and we won it in the bottom of the frame. Electrifying. I can't sleep now.

755

2007-08-05T14:22:00.000-07:00

Barry Bonds homered for the 755th time yesterday, tying Aaron's record. I feel ambivalent about the accomplishment, even numb to it, and will continue to feel this way when he breaks the record. I didn't feel that way on the night Aaron broke Ruth's record. I'd showered and was in my pj's watching from our couch in the den. I was so happy for Henry Aaron. I had his baseball card and he seemed like a tremendous human being. They wrote about his wrists and how strong they were--the secret to his home runs. The moment was epic for many reasons. Sports journalists today cover the game like a continuous colonoscopy. We see too much and we know too much. The mystique is gone forever and along with it the way we listened to baseball on transistor radios while doing our homework. Baseball is meant to be imagined in one's mind or viewed in person. It has never been "Must See TV."

Barry Bonds gets a bad rap. Breaking the record will not disgrace the game. It's not like Bonds is any more despicable as a person than say, one Tyrus Cobb or even the drunken philanderer from Baltimore, George Herrman Ruth, whom people worshipped and loved. Pete Rose comes to mind as well when odious baseball behavior is the flavor of the moment. Cheating has always been central to the game of baseball. Balls are scuffed and greased by pitchers, even Hall of Fame hurlers have been known to carry sandpaper. No one asks about the number of "true" wins they have. Stealing signs is an accepted practice (and the Yankees are known and thrown at for this). I remember a childhood friend of mine who lived next to a ballplayer. There were pills and marijuana around the house. Limousines dropped off scantily clad women. These guys are fallible human beings who excel at a boy's game. Why do we require them to be paragons of moral virtue or larger than life heroes? I visited the Mets locker room in the late eighties and was surprised by how overwhelmingly human the players were, just regular guys having a Budweiser and a turkey sandwich. The two nicest and most personable players to me that day: Doc Gooden and Darryl Strawberry.

Steroids killed the home run as we know it, but it was already dying a slow death. First, the balls were juiced and flying out of newly created "banbox" parks in record numbers. We needed more runs and we blamed it on the baseballs while players became Incredible Hulks before our eyes. We bought the tightly wound ball excuse for awhile. The runs piled up and we were all along for the ride. McGwire and Sosa battled like professional wrestlers for the home run crown. Then we turned on them--the users. We forgot that the owners and the GMs must have known something and must have profited from it. Performance enhancing drugs give an "edge" to the batter. A player with warning track power suddenly becomes a slugger. More power hitters making more money with lucrative contracts are a good thing for the players in general. Home runs, though beautiful and breathtaking to watch, are a superficial aspect of the game to me and one that should not be focused on exclusively. They were a precious commodity back in the 70s, something to cherish and hold in the memory, and now they have become instant gratification for our home run derby obsessed American culture. I prefer a pitcher's duel, a defensive struggle, a scratch run.

Bonds is an extraordinary baseball talent and the swift, compact nature of his swing emerged as a major factor in his ability to pile up the round trippers. His homers, all of them, will be viewed as "synthetic" to some degree from this point forward. There is nothing he can do about that and he has only himself to blame. My guess is he's somewhere between Ty Cobb and Cal Ripken on the "hero" scale. But make no mistake, there is no such thing as the pristine game of baseball.

For the Birds #8

2007-07-29T18:37:00.000-07:00

Today, Cal Ripken was inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. I went to the game and watched the Orioles lose 10-6 to the Yankees and stayed after to watch Ripken's speech at the stadium. A number of Yankee fans stayed to hear Cal as well.

I wanted to be at the Yard today because of the way it felt during those three days in September in 1995 when he broke the record. I needed to relive that experience in person today against the Yankees. There was a moment Saturday night when I looked out the window at my car and I thought about getting in it and driving to Cooperstown. Baseball is sacred to me.

He embodied the Oriole Way and followed in the footsteps of the Robinsons, Palmer, Weaver and Murray. His father taught him how to play the game from the inside out, all aspects of it. Cal was a perfectionist, always adjusting his swing, willing to do anything to help his team win. He had great balance and footwork, the results of playing soccer and basketball.

Mostly, he is like us. He wanted to do the best he could at all times and make the most of himself. He is a regular guy who likes to mow the grass. "The secret of life is life," he said in his speech, referring to his children. He gave us 2632 consecutive games of excellence, his way. He played for twenty-one years and revolutionized the position of shortstop. The game desperately needed him in 1995, after a bitter, year-long work stoppage, and it needs him now to help us forget that these years will carry an asterisk forever.

He wasn't just showing up to play and let's forget the 3,000 hits and 400 home runs. If you love the game of baseball, there were at least five things he did that went unnoticed in the box score every day. Maybe he took the collar but he hit behind a runner or sacrificed him over and that helped win a game. Maybe he broke up a double play to keep an inning alive or he stopped a ball from rolling into left field to save a run. He set the defense at short--the most difficult position to field and with the most decisions to make on any given play. I remember him throwing runners out from his knees at third.

I didn't miss a day of work for five years while living in New York because I wanted to keep the streak alive in my own way. I signed on to my computer at work with "ripken" as my password. It was the mid-nineties and I could listen to Oriole games on the internet. I made it up to Yankee Stadium many times to see the Orioles play and to watch my favorite player. I looked forward to the start of every baseball season because of Cal and the Orioles. On the day after he broke the streak, he was down by the harbor after the parade. He turned in my direction and I shook his hand. "Thank you," I said.

2130

2007-07-28T20:13:00.000-07:00

I attended the game that Ripken tied Gehrig's streak in 1995 on a lark. I was living in NYC and my boss knew I was an O's fan. He had a business contact in Baltimore who asked him to pick a game from the firm's season tickets. He figured the game that Ripken broke the streak would be too difficult so he went for the game before that one: 2130. No one at the firm had realized that this game was important. Their offices were located in the warehouse that defines the space beyond the right field wall. My boss had four tickets and I invited my Dad to attend. Driving down from New York, I stopped in the rest areas and checked my bags to ensure that the tickets were still there. I remember walking into the ballpark and feeling a playoff-like atmosphere of hushed anticipation. Our seats were in the club level behind home plate. Flashbulbs rippled around the park. When the game was official, fireworks exploded. Hank Aaron and David Robinson were there, and a host of others. The Orioles won the game handily against the Angels and Cal had tied the streak. He hit a home run to show that he could do more than just show up. It was one of the greatest nights of my life.

Tonight is the eve of his induction into the Hall of Fame. I watched him play for most of his career and remember some amazing feats in the early years like the time he threw out a runner at home with a strike from center field at the cavernous Tiger Stadium. He knew how to play the game better than the veterans from the moment he arrived. Caught in a rundown, I saw him duck under a tag and safely reach base as the fielder lost concentration. He was a new breed of shortstop, tall and rangy, not an acrobat like Guillen or Ozzie Smith, and he made difficult plays look effortless. He acted like a coach on the field, setting defenses, and positioning those around him. There did not exist an aspect of the game that he hadn't mastered, including the bunt sacrifice and hitting behind the runner. He didn't take any shortcuts to the Hall of Fame and he carried himself with class during his entire career. He drank alot of milk growing up. If he went 0-4 at the plate, he would have done at least three things to help the team win in the field that went unnoticed in the box score. He was the Captain. He was from my home town. He played for my team: The Baltimore Orioles.

Baseballs

2007-06-28T21:27:00.000-07:00

We had a lot of Major League baseballs around growing up. My grandfather, Dino Bartoli would take me to Memorial Stadium for batting practice and he would hustle down balls in the left field bleachers. Sometimes, he'd get as many as three of them. During one game against the Yankees, he dove three rows down to get a Paul Blair home run ball, and he came back with splinters. I kept those batting practice balls on my dresser and occasionally I would take one of them down and pound it into my glove. I caught a foul ball in 1974 during a game against the Tigers. We were sitting along the third base line and a high foul pop headed towards us. The ball carried over our heads and appeared to be headed to the upper deck. I turned to follow its path and watched it slam against the facade. The ricochet angled toward me and landed in my glove. Most people had turned back around to watch the game. That almost made up for the fact that my brother and his friend played catch one day with my 1970 ball autographed by the World Champion team. Most of the names had been scuffed away.

Once my grandfather explained the names on the baseballs to me. He pointed to the machine-generated signature of Lee MacPhail. "Mr. MacPhail was the general manager of the Orioles years ago," he explained. It was a name I always remembered. Now, his son Andy MacPhail is the new general manager. My grandfather isn't doing very well these days. He is in a nursing home in Florida, unable to walk, without his family and wasting away. The worst part about it: he can't watch the Orioles.

Dave Trembley is Here to Stay

2007-06-23T08:33:00.001-07:00

It's been a rollercoaster week in Birdland. At one point we had Andy MacPhail poised to name Joe Girardi as manager but things didn't work out. Girardi wanted to have an opt out clause to allow him to take either the Cubs or Yankees jobs should they become available. Guthrie pitched a gem against the Padres. Tejada's on the DL. Bedard may follow. The Orioles played tremendous defense last night behind two-hit ball from Daniel Cabrera. My wife wants me to come to bed instead of watching the west coast games, but I'm a kid again staying up late to see the outcome. It's okay, because I do the dishes, clean the kitchen, etc.

Rising out of the ashes is a seasoned "interim" manager from the Orioles minor league system named Dave Trembley. "Respect the game," he told his lethargic millionaire charges before Tuesday's tilt against the Padres and they have responded thus far. I tuned in to see what I thought looked like William Shatner in an Orioles uniform. "Play one inning at a time. Win one inning at a time," Trembley preaches. He's not afraid to get into anyone's face. The clearest distinction between Trembley and Perlozzo is this. Trembley manages. Perlozzo coached.

It's summertime in the land of pleasant living and that means steamed crabs, sno-balls, sweetcorn and baseball at the Yard. It's a whole new ballgame.

The Bird Will Fly

2007-06-18T20:19:00.000-07:00

H.L. Mencken wrote, "I hate sports as much as sports fans hate common sense." If you are an Oriole fan then today was a groundbreaking one. Late this morning word traveled across the wires that manager Sam Perlozzo had been fired. But that was not all. Andy MacPhail had been hired as Chief Operating Officer, and they weren't stopping there. The main target for manager is former Marlins skipper, Yankee catcher, Northwestern grad, and industrial engineer, Joe Girardi. Tomorrow, a delegation will attempt to hammer out a deal with him to lead the team. OriolesHangout.com, the online community dedicated the Orioles, crashed when I went to check in late this morning and I knew something had happened. Another piece of the new approach is a reported back seat role for Mr. Angelos. The baseball people will be allowed to do what is necessary to win games. It's as though the season has begun anew. It appears we may have a future. I have followed this team since 1969, when I can vividly remember watching the last out of the World Series by myself alone in a room. Everyone else had left and fans were pouring onto the field at Shea stadium. A year later, a devastating thing happened. My parents divorced but the Orioles won the World Series--all was not lost. I have stuck with the Birds over the last decade, even moved to DC to be close to my team, showing a complete lack of common sense.

Swept Away

2007-06-17T20:52:00.000-07:00

Swept by the Nationals and the Diamondbacks. I actually think that the Orioles would make a great Harvard Business School case study. Peter Angelos as the despotic owner who micromanages everything and his approach spreads like a cancer throughout the organization. The manager plays it not to lose. The players second guess themselves. There is a malaise, a bad luck schleprock cloud over the team's head. There is a nasty steroid controversy surrounding some of the players who just happen to be underperforming this year. A "once-proud" franchise sinks to new depths. Many of the best free agents refuse to even consider Baltimore as an option. What is needed to turn things around? An intervention? What is a franchise? It's the players, the organization, and the brand. It's also the fans--without the paying customers the franchise goes under. The most important asset of any organization is the fan base. There are Yankee fans replicating by the second in their pink caps and Jeter jerseys. They have a product on the field. There are Dice K fans wearing garb at my neighborhood pool because there are players in Fenway Park who win basbeall games. My ownership won't put the name of the city on the away jerseys because it is a feudal dictatorship. What is needed is a revolt, a revolution, a coup d'etat. Hundreds of thousands of fans surrounding the warehouse demanding change. We need to stand up to this ineptitude or move on. If change doesn't come, the only people attending Oriole games will be the owner and his friends.

SopranO's

2007-06-13T19:13:00.000-07:00

Tony Soprano didn't go out with a bang or a whimper, he just went. He was in the moment enjoying an onion ring at a local diner with his family. There wasn't anybody capable of taking him out. The Feds were moving in, but that's not an interesting ending. The season was about what didn't happen. Tony was on the verge of killing Bobby and Paulie in the first few episodes. Instead, he ended Christopher's life who had increasingly become a liability. Christopher unexpectedly and senselessly killed his altar ego JT. There was promise. Many incredible scenes such as AJ's truck exploding as Dylan's "It's Alright Ma" melted into the dashboard. There was the bullet from Bobby's first killing that entered the dryer and kept spinning. There was a peyote trip. In the end, Tony experienced an epiphany over a stack of onion rings. It's hard to say what motivates my Orioles these days, not a bang or a whimper, a plate of onion rings, nothing.

Schilling

2007-06-09T01:30:00.001-07:00

I happened to be in San Francisco on business when Schilling mastered the A's for eight and two/thirds innings. I'd been following the game from the sports ticker on ESPN. Then I went to my room and listened on the radio. Two outs came quickly and the warhorse and former Oriole went to work on Shannon Stewart. The Oakland crowd was boisterous, filled with Bosox fans. He left one up and Stewart drove it into right field for a hit. Then Francona was faced with a dilemma. Mark Ellis was at the plate, the winning run in a one-run ballgame. He doesn't dare take out Schilling, a veteran. Doesn't even think about it. It is still Curt's game to win and he gets the out. Schilling is the John Wayne of baseball: true grit. Perlozzo micromanages the Oriole pitchers as if they are precious gems. It's a push-button staff, driven by a mechanical approach, and more often than not, the process malfunctions. Balls start flying out of the park. Nobody is allowed to thrive off emotion or gut instinct. The Orioles have invested $42M in last year's technology. I can't believe I'm still following the Orioles as passionately as I ever have, living off fumes from 1983.

Wake-Up Call

2007-06-05T00:59:00.000-07:00

As the Oriole bullpen continues to implode night after night leaving a trail of gut-wrenching losses in their wake, I feel fortunate not to have invested hours of time watching this hapless collection continue to flagellate themselves. I did attend the opening address of the Special Libraries Association given by Al Gore on Sunday night. I bought his new book, Assault on Reason, somewhat on a whim at the meeting, and had him sign it. "Wish you were in the White House," I said as I approached. "Me too," he said. I haven't seen the movie yet but I get the gist of it. His speech was entertaining and clearly revealed a new, less wooden orator capable of effective self-deprecating humor. Three thousand people listened as he recalled his days as an investigative reporter using information tools to find "needles in haystacks." He did his best to illuminate the importance of getting the right information against the backdrop of 9/11, Iraq, his new book, and global warming and nearly succeeded. Information is important to him and he shared that 2006 was the hottest year in history and that the country could be in serious trouble with the environment in 34 years (Read McCarthy's THE ROAD). The talk was somewhere between lecture and stump speech. And then, a person asked THE QUESTION. He actually sounded pretty certain he wasn't going to run for President at first. "Right now, I'm on a book tour," he said. He told us his time would be better spent on the Global Warming crusade. "I haven't ruled out running again in the future," he said. Curiously, this was the most impassioned part of the speech. "Don't get me wrong, I would LOVE to be President," he said. He just doesn't think that the government cares about the issues and too many people think Saddam caused 9/11 and are uninformed and mesmerized by Anna Nicole for him to make a difference. It was book tour schtick. "I will be in Russia giving my slide show in Russian, In Turkey in Turkish, In Athens in Greek--All next week!" He screamed. "I don't want my grandchildren asking the question thirty years from now, 'What were they thinking?'" After I got back to my hotel I pondered what I had just heard. Here is a man at the height of his popularity, vested in the future of our country, with an opportunity to make a difference. So, if I am getting this right, he would rather take the role of a doomsday prophet and carry his slide show or "side show" around the world. I don't buy it. I just don't.

Box Score

2007-05-30T22:30:00.000-07:00

Her parents met my parents at Yankee Stadium with the Orioles in town. It was the "Why Not" year of 1989. My bachelor party took place at Memorial Stadium and we ate crabs. She hated baseball and I had no clue what it took to be a husband or to work on my issues at 27. I went to 2130 by myself and the marriage ended in the October rain after the playoff loss to the Indians. The Baltimore Orioles helped me through my parents divorce in 1970 and my own. They continue to be in my heart at all times.

Hold the Bat Level

2007-05-28T22:48:00.000-07:00

My grandfather, Dino Bartoli is in hospice care in Florida at the age of 90. I spoke to him on Friday night and again on Saturday morning. He played baseball for Shickshinny in the Pennsylvania minor leagues in the late '30s. He won the MVP for hitting .368 one year. He received a $5 check from Chick's Auto Service, one of the team's sponsors. He loves baseball and the Orioles. He watched every game the Orioles played on TV for decades. He taught me how to hit a baseball. "Hold the bat level, hit line drives." When I spoke to him, he told me to call his two brothers, Sergio and Renato, both deceased. I tried to talk to him about baseball. "Have you seen the Orioles play?" I asked. "Nah," he said. He was confused for most of the conversation until I said, "Do you remember Earl Weaver?" He said, "Oh not him. Don't send him here." He remembered Weaver ferociously arguing calls with umpires. Ever since I made that call, the Orioles have been winning games. I found his 1932 Shickshinny School football picture by searching on his name. He's in the upper right corner with a bandage on his hand. I was named after him.

When Bad Teams Happen to Good People

2007-05-25T18:59:00.000-07:00

The Orioles are playing like there is an unfavorable steroid report implicating the whole team on a reporter's desk about to be published. They are on a pace to hit the fewest home runs in the team's history and they play in what Mike Lupica once called a Little League park. They lost games this week to the Nats, the Jays, and now the A's. Tonight's game ended with two men on and a strike out. In the offseason, the only players who agree to come to Baltimore are relief pitchers, mostly from the national league who are coming off good years when batters from other teams forgot to swing the bat against them. When they arrive in Baltimore, they are shellacked from that point on. I used to tell my wife that I wanted to watch the Orioles until they start playing well so I can witness how things got turned around. However, things continue to move in the wrong direction and it's only May.

Losing the Oriole Way: The Dave Criscione Story

2007-05-17T19:47:00.000-07:00

Whenever I think of the "Oriole Way" I think of Dave Criscione, a seemingly nondescript catcher who played in seven games during the 1977 season. He batted nine times and collected three hits--a career .333 hitter. He was originally drafted by the Senators in 1969 and played for the Rochester Red Wings. One night in late July, the Orioles were tied 3-3 with the Brewers going into the bottom of the eleventh inning. Weaver sent Criscione to the plate to pitch hit for Dave Scaggs. I remember watching this game on a black-and-white TV. Criscione drilled a Sammy Hinds pitch into the left field bleachers to win the game. I remember him jumping the last few steps to home plate like it was the greatest moment in his life. He was never heard from again and out of baseball soon thereafter. In those days, Earl could insert a role player in any situation and that player would deliver. That was the Oriole Way. That was Oriole baseball. What I want is someone with the heart of Dave Criscione who can step up to the plate with the game on the line and jack one out. In only nine major league at bats, all for the Orioles, Criscione won a game. For the past ten years, we have been the team that gives up that homerun.

Fire Perlozzo Now

2007-05-16T06:49:00.000-07:00

Leyland, Torre, Weaver, Stengel, LaRussa--are managers who can impact a game. Perlozzo is not that type of manager. He validates and enables, sends mixed messages, second-guesses himself, and most of all does not inspire in the least. His postgame news conferences are, even in their most energized form, banal. He's likable and a good guy, but his presence will not win games.

The Oriole Meltdown Continues

2007-05-14T18:37:00.000-07:00

I watched enough of tonight's game to see a dispassionate collection of million-dollar salaries attempt to put the past behind them. They wasted a solid performance by Erik Bedard after scoring their requisite three runs. In the fifth, with one on, and the Jay's Ohka on the ropes, Tejada golfed what was definitely ball four into a ground ball out. Miguel is going through the motions and his .320 batting average has been hardly impactful--mostly singles. He clearly wants out. In the eighth, Baez grooved a high fastball to Glaus and the ball is still traveling as I write this. Down 5-3 in the ninth, any kind of comeback was out of the question. Another lackluster showing in an increasingly dismal season.

Who is Jeremy Guthrie?

2007-05-13T18:21:00.000-07:00

Heading into the ninth inning today with a 5-0 lead, we were a franchise on the rise, poised to beat the Red Sox for the second time in three days. For an instant, I thought the year might be salvagable. Jeremy Guthrie had stymied the Sox for eight innings with a masterful three-hitter. Francona had removed Ramirez who looked as though he had been playing left field in a lawn chair for the entire series. One out in the ninth and I'm almost ready to turn the TV off. A pop-up to the catcher for out number two, it seemed, but the ball squirted out of the catcher's glove. Guthrie pleads his case to stay in but Perlozzo opts for the safe bet and the $20M revamped relief corps. Enter Danys Baez. What damage could he possible do? Baez is another in a long line of relievers who've joined the Orioles over the last decade who have done nothing but damage. Trombley, Timlin, Kline, somebody from the Brewers, and others--all shellacked. Baez has aimed the ball from his first pitch with the Orioles and today was no different. We would have a better chance getting outs with Joan Baez on the mound singing, "The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down." Danys serves one up to Big Papi and he pounds it off the wall in left center. It's 5-1. Then Willy Mo singles. Chris Ray took it downhill from there and the rest is history. One of the worst losses in franchise history, in a decade of melting down, a colossal collapse. Like the 1986 World Series in reverse. Get used to seeing the Red Sox celebrate. Sam Perlozzo manages not to lose. He doesn't manage to win baseball games. Someone asked the question, "Who should replace him?" How about someone who knows how to win as an Oriole like Dempsey or Dauer or Murray or Frank Robinson? Jeremy Guthrie is a winner. He won the College World Series--more than anything the Orioles have done in the last 24 years. The Orioles have become predictable bad theatre against the Red Sox and the Yankees--inventing ways to lose games from intimidation and lack of confidence. They play passionately until the denouement--and then they disappear. The collection of players, not a team, has played best over the past decade when they are 20 games out of first. When he left the game in the ninth, Guthrie dedicated his performance to his mother. The rest of the team owes her son an apology.

Bosox Blowout

2007-05-13T09:55:00.000-07:00

You need to do things to win games. Take Jay Gibbons for example. He hit the ball where Schilling pitched it yesterday. Not one other player saw the need to take Schilling's first pitch offering on the outside corner to the opposite field. Tejada, Mora, and Payton saw first pitch strikes there with regularity and never once punched the ball in that direction. I know it's easy for me to second-guess from my perch on the couch, but you can't simply play catch-up with Boston and hope their bats will go to sleep. If I can see enough from the television to have an opinion then what are the coaches doing? You need to step up to the plate and do things to win games, change your routine, alter your approach. Wade Boggs turned the Yankees into a winner because he acted like a hitting coach. He taught them patience and they won championships. It was Torre and Stottlemeyer as well but Wade provided the example for Bernie and Jeter. Where is the leadership? Yesterday, we had the Big Curt on the ropes and didn't cash in. Another thing that defies my sensiblity. We are not a good defensive team and yet we have the best fielding percentage in baseball. I've seen errors this year that I have not witnessed in the last fifteen: botched double play exchanges, hockey goalie deflections at first, dropped balls, etc. One of the goals of this blog is to attract players the caliber of the Big Curt to witness the ongoing pain we experience as Oriole fans and hope they take an interest in our plight and come to Baltimore. This post is dedicated to Queenie Swift and Carolyn Bartoli, two great mothers and grandmothers who have passed on, and who loved the Orioles like their own children.

Biggest Win of the Year

2007-05-11T19:32:00.000-07:00

I turned on tonight's game with guarded optimism. It's a special treat to watch a game at Fenway regardless of whose playing. The Red Sox have the largest division lead in May since the 1984 Tigers team that went 41-9 to start the season. Tonight, I felt we had a chance because Julian Tavares was pitching for Boston--someone to get them from Point A to Schilling and Beckett and the rest of the series. It's hard to imagine that Tavares is still in the big show. The Birds and the Sox both had opportunities to cash in early and it looked like we were going to give them the game after competing for much of it. Nick Markakis would not let it happen. He went 4-5 and saved the game with a leaping catch that robbed V-Tek of extra bases or a home run. He then threw to first from right center and nearly doubled the man off. Nick is a steely-eyed killer. Melvin Mora hit the ball hard. Burres battled. A gutsy, heart-wrenching, nail-biter of a victory to the end. The Sox smoked the ball but the hits didn't fall. Willy Mo Pena, who destroyed the Orioles two weeks ago, botched two catchable balls. It wasn't their night. We play well in Fenway and my theory is that the O's are more comfortable playing the Red Sox in Boston then at home in Camden where half of the faithful are rooting for the cherry hose. We will either steal another one or get pounded tomorrow against Schilling. Even with the gluttonous and hated Yankees hiring Clemens to save the day, the Sox are still the team to beat this year. We're better than last year, and continue to improve.

Yardbirds

2007-05-10T11:21:00.000-07:00

Thank God For Tampa Bay

2007-05-09T05:22:00.000-07:00

At first I bristled at the idea that the Devil Rays were our biggest rivals when a friend of mine who is a Red Sox fan recently suggested it. I refused to watch the Orioles play Tampa Bay in the first few years of the franchise. Games at Tropicana Field were dimly lit and boring and reminded me more of a jai-alai arena. The games have the energy of being played in a baseball funeral home. But the Rays were beating us and beating us soundly. Against the Orioles they mounted at least three late inning comebacks courtesy of Jorge Julio. So then I started watching. I'm sure Peter Angelos sent out an edict in his sonorous tone: "YOU MUST NOT LOSE TO TAMPA BAY." And now we are dominating--at long last! Peter Angelos should pay a luxury tax to the D-Rays for keeping the Orioles out of last place the last several years. Without Tampa Bay, we would have finished in the basement every year and Angelos would have been under more pressure to field a winner.

Sell the Orioles Now

2007-05-07T19:41:00.000-07:00

All one needs to do is look at the ownership of the Yankees and Red Sox to realize that we don't have anything close to an owner who is interested in the fans. The game has passed him by. All of the 70's cartoon bird kitsch and the old Orioles hanging around the park creates the illusion that we as fans should still care about this team--but it isn't getting the job done on the field. I heard Dempsey say last week what a "gorgeous park" we have. "It's one of the most beautiful parks around." Last time I checked someone still needs to play baseball in it. I'd trade a crumbling Memorial Stadium any day of the week for a winner. Suddenly, everyone on this team has warning track power and the pressure on the young arms to deliver has resulted in injuries. Loewen's injury reminds me of what happened to the Met's Bill Pulsipher years ago. Sell the team to Cal now and let him build a winner.

The Boston Barrage

2007-04-26T09:25:00.000-07:00

Last night's game revealed the myriad ways the Red Sox can beat you. They have power but they also have the patience to beat you with singles as they did last night. Big Papi against Jamie Walker was a classic duel showing that Papi can sometimes revert to Rod Carew if he needs to--meaning he'll take what he can get. They have middle relief. And perhaps the scariest thing of all, they have Theo Epstein applying the principles of MoneyBall with an unlimited budget. They are the new Yankees but not as nefarious in this fan's opinion--and their decisions all seem to be paying off. When I was in Fenway last summer, I felt the bond between the fans, the ownership and the team. They have upgraded all phases of their game with Dice-K, JD Drew, and Okijima. They have players who can step up to the plate and change the game. They have always been tough to beat--with Lynn, Rice, Evans, Yaz, and Tiant--and that hasn't changed. I like the principle of taking back the Yard, but it will not happen any time soon against the Red Sox. They will be tough to beat this year.

Straight A's

2007-04-23T20:00:00.000-07:00

A tough loss to the Oakland A's. From 1972 thru 1975, I lived through one miserable loss to the A's after another. In the playoffs, during the regular season, it didn't matter: they owned us in their greenskeeper garb. I saw the O's play the A's many times as a kid. There was Bat Day when the A's sent Vida Blue and Mudcat Grant to the hill for two wins against Doyle Alexander and Ken Holtzman, the sound of 25,000 Adirondack bats pounding the Memorial Stadium concrete in unison still ringing in my ears. There was Bert "Campy" Campanaris leading off the game with a walk, stealing second with his white golfing spikes high into Bobby Grich's shins, stealing third and then scoring on a ground out. A's ahead before you uncapped a watery soda. Then Campy would ding the foul pole for a late inning homerun. He was brash and obnoxious, just like the rest of them: Bando, Tenace, North, Washington, Garner, Rudi, Reggie and Rollie. If Campy didn't psyche you out then Rollie Fingers with his handle-bar moustache would shut you down in the late innings. These days the A's are Terminators. They are all around the same height and weight, hit with power, and apply the leather. They keep coming at you spraying line drives everywhere. And tonight, with the bases loaded and Tejada at the plate (after a free pass to Markakis), down one run in the ninth after a tenacious comeback, he grounds out on the first pitch.

Birds Sweep Jays

2007-04-22T19:48:00.000-07:00

I drove to the Yard today from Virginia to see my first game of the season with my friend Ralphie. The Birds efficiently defeated the Jays with solid pitching, defense and timely hitting for their first sweep of Toronto since 1994. They played like the Weaver teams. They completed one turn of the order against Chacin, made adjustments, and started to unload. Nick "The Greek" Markakis bounced one off the top of the wall in deep center for a triple to plate two runs and put the Birds ahead for good. Jay Payton started in left and added three hits. Tejada chipped in with three ribs. Steve Trachsel tossed 4-hit ball for six innings. The bullpen remains solid. Things are beginning to take shape. We still need another stick but that's been the case for thirty years. I saw one spectator wearing a Virginia Tech t-shirt and the flag flew at half-mast. This year, I've noticed more retro Oriole wear featuring the cartoon bird for sale. Markakis shirts have sold out. I brought dinner home from Matthew's Pizza--the best in Baltimore. Ralphie and I talked about "The Road" by Cormac McCarthy, Johnny Unitas, John McGraw and what it would be like to live at the ballpark. Ralphie wonders whether we'll see another World Championship in our lifetime. We need to raise our children as Oriole fans so they can inform us of any future World Series glory after we leave this place. We both attended the same game of the '70 series when McNalley hit the grand slam. We're old timers and we're living in the past. It's my daughter's birthday tomorrow. Julia's three years old and wants a fish tank. She also plays organized kickball and runs the bases well.

Hokies Trump Orioles and Cavaliers Tonight

2007-04-16T19:53:00.000-07:00

This is my first post from Brazil and it is called a "postagem" according to the Portugese translation of my site. I am in Brasilia, the DC of Brazil, with some amazing modern architecture. I followed tonight's game on espn.com and nearly gave up until the Orioles began their comeback from a 7-1 deficit. At 7-5, I signed up for the radio broadcast. I listened to Aubrey Huff hit his first Oriole home run. There were some tense moments but the Devils Rays capitulated. Parrish ended a one-out threat with two in scoring position. A Red Sox fan and colleague suggested that the D-Rays were our biggest rivals now, that we can't really have rivalries with the Yankees and the Red Sox until we challenge them for the Division. The last time we were over .500 before tonight was April 29th of last year. The best Oriole teams often started slowly. Perhaps we can prove them wrong this year.

In the end tonight, my thoughts and prayers are with the entire Virginia Tech community. As a graduate of UVA, I can easily say that the Hokies are our biggest rivals and that I sometimes engage in spouting anti-Tech rhetoric, much of which has been the result of my own jealousy as they have excelled in recent years on the football field and now on the basketball court. I watched the news conference on CNN and wondered what the people of Brasil must think of my country. The barrage of questions from the reporters seem to telegraph the facts that will be a part of some lurid documentary in years to come. Questions that you never want to hear. "What kind of gun was used? Did he shoot in one place or move around? Did he turn the gun on himself? What was the scene inside like?" A co-worker of mine has a son who is in school there. I hope he is okay. When will our collective outrage at this behavior make a difference?

The Women's Game

2007-04-13T19:08:00.000-07:00

The Imus media frenzy remains focused on the racist comments he directed at the Rutgers women's basketball team. There hasn't been much attention paid to the fact that he was also expressing his disdain for women's athletics as a whole. He was making a comparison between the "thugs" of Rutgers and the "pretty" southern belles of Tennessee. He didn't think much of the game or have any respect for it. So he decided to focus on the exterior qualities of the players.

My father, Snuffy Smith officially retired from coaching basketball last weekend. He most recently coached at Bryn Mawr High School in Baltimore, a prestigious girl's school known more for their lacrosse and field hockey teams. He's coached there for the past nine years and many of his players have gone on to play college basketball. This ends a 25-year coaching career that included stints at Wheeling College where he coached John Beilein, Johns Hopkins University, UMBC and Virginia Commonwealth where he met Tubby Smith. Tubby and my dad remain friends today.

One thing I've observed about the Mawrtians he's coached over the years is that they came to play. They executed his college system perfectly and defended with intensity. They ran their offensive schemes and presses. At times, they knew his inbounds plays better than he did. They discussed what word they would cheer before breaking the huddle. Was it DEFENSE or REBOUNDING? They reached a democratic resolution based on what the situation called for. His teams hustled and made the most of their talent. They shot the ball with arc and backspin. For moments during his nine-year tenure like the 100- year anniversary of Bryn Mawr and St. Timothy's, he turned the school's attention to basketball. He packed the house every year for the annual scuffle against Roland Park. He made the game matter to these young women and to the Bryn Mawr community.

As a result, I've started watching women's college basketball. One thing that is glaringly obvious to me about the women's game is that they are actually playing basketball the way it is meant to be played. They pass and move without the ball. They box out and rebound. They set perfect picks and shoot the three. They don't dunk with regularity or stand around. They don't leave after one year for the pros. They make their foul shots. It's a refreshing change.

I regret never playing for my father directly but he taught me the game. Growing up, I road the bus with the college teams he coached any chance I could. I poured over greasy stat sheets left in the pizza box on the way home. He taught me to shoot the basketball like he did--with backspin and follow-through--and I made my high school team.

If anything good can come from the Imus situation, I'd like it to be a heightened awareness of women's athletics. Post reporter Sally Jenkins suggested that Imus become an ambassador for woman's college basketball--an excellent idea. They play the game the way my father taught me to play it--with intensity.

Tigers 3, Defense 1

2007-04-10T19:08:00.000-07:00

All you need to know about this game relates to the Golden Glove graphic displayed on the TV screen before the sixth inning. The Orioles have won 58 Gold Gloves in their history. Only the Cardinals have won more with 78. Jared Wright looked good until the 6th. A Curtis Granderson comebacker nearly knocked him over and the carom was picked up late by Mora. Wright walked the next batter and left the game with an injury. I had just sat down to watch the game after returing home from my three-year old daughter's kickball practice. Her opening day is Saturday. She managed to field three balls kicked her way, after some coaching. Scott Williamson neglected to field a sac bunt and the bases were loaded. "That's not how you practice that in Spring training," Palmer said. Williamson struck out Sheffied in dramatic fashion. Pena grounded into a tailor-made twin-killing--the signature play of the Orioles in the seventies. Not tonight. Roberts threw wildly to first and two runs scored. Ballgame. Comebackers have been the precursor to two losses this year. Fatherhood, my friend, is all one needs to be remembered for.

Opening Day (Orioles 6, Tigers 2)

2007-04-10T18:43:00.000-07:00

I watched the rerun on MASN after getting home from work. During the fourth inning, Cal Ripken stepped into the booth to join Gary Thorne and Jim Palmer. He talked about the worst slump of his career going 4 for 55, pick-up basketball games with Jim in the nineties at Bryn Mawr high, the Hall of Fame and new players in the league. "I helped you win some pick-up games," Jim said, referring to basketball. "I know you did," replied Cal like someone who may have remembered the exact score of those games. It also sounded like Jim may have sustained an injury from Cal during one of those sessions. "Basketball was the only thing I chose to do in the offseason to stay in shape. The front office hated it," Cal said. Apparently, Lou Gehrig also played basketball in the off-season to stay in shape. Cal said he was trying not to think about the Induction. He really liked hanging out with Tony Gwynn at a baseball writer's dinner in NY. He talked about Justin Morneau, Joe Mauer, and David Wright as players who were "interesting to him." Kevin Millar led the inning off with a home run. As they talked, the Orioles slowly put runners on. When Mora launched one toward the left center wall, Cal responded. "Whoa!" He said. "There it goes." Palmer and Cal could barely contain their passion for the Orioles in that moment. Ripken talked about how he missed the crack of the bat.

There's a Heart in NY (O's Win, 6-4)

2007-04-08T19:41:00.000-07:00

I listened to most of today's game on the radio while driving to my father's house in Baltimore for Easter dinner. I'd alternate between bluegrass on public radio and the Yankees batting. When the Orioles bat, I relax. It's that simple and it's always been that way for the past thirty-seven years. The Yankee faithful rumbled to life in the eighth after Johnny Damon tripled and it was happening again, another late inning collapse. I pulled up to my father's house just as Parrish loaded the bases and I turned the game off to help get my children inside. It was cold and sunny in Batimore and my relatives were talking in the living room. I expected my father to have the game on, but it was Easter, and his family took precedence. He might say what he has said for the past decade, "A collection of banjo hitters." My dad announced on Saturday that he is giving up coaching basketball after 25 years. He will always be a coach to me. At first it felt good not knowing the outcome in Yankee stadium for awhile. Then I needed to know. On the way over from Virginia, I thought about A-Rod's game-winning grandslam. Yankee fans needed that comeback after what they went through last year. They needed something positive like that. I was also thinking about what my friend Rafael had said earlier in the day referring to the Orioles, "If this team plays to its potential, we won't be half bad." I'm sticking with that tonight. I checked the scores and saw the Orioles won. Patience has never been a virtue.

Harlem Shuffle (Yankees 10, Orioles 7)

2007-04-07T17:57:00.000-07:00

Good teams find ways to win and bad teams discover new ways to beat themselves. Today, the Orioles uncovered yet another way to lose to the Yankees. We've seen the Yanks come back to beat us many times before, leading me to the conclusion in years past that the Orioles were like the Washington Generals--the team the Harlem Globetrotters played and defeated every time. But we've never seen it like this so early in the season. On the verge of taking the first two games of the series with two outs in the ninth, the Birds handed one back to the Bombers today. The Orioles challenged the Yankees and then they backed off. Chris Ray busted Derek Jeter inside for strike two with two outs in the ninth, albeit nearly hitting Jeter, but he never went back after him. Jeter walked to load the bases. Instead of making A-Rod chase a bad pitch on a 1-2 count, Ray went down the middle and Rodriguez sent it over the centerfield wall for a grandslam. You need to do something to win the game. For the past several losing seasons, the Oriole Way has been to win a few games and lose a few more. The organization seems content with that approach. The players don't respond well to pressure and they don't honestly believe they can beat the Yankees, and haven't for the past nine seasons. It's too much to ask of them. These birds are happiest when they are not in playoff contention and they can focus on playing baseball. I've seen them fold in any number of ways in the Bronx or in Camden Yards against New York. It was cold in the Stadium today and the Yankees could have easily folded. A winning mystique allows them to be in every game no matter the deficit. They keep coming at you. Suddenly in the late innings we don't believe we can hit Rivera or retire Jeter or A-Rod in clutch situations. If we get a lead, our hitters retreat and wait for the Yankees to wake up. Instead of trying to score more runs, we swing at first pitches to shorten the game because we don't want to be there. Losing breeds more losing. Only champions beat other champions (e.g. Yankees vs. Red Sox). We don't believe.

Put "Baltimore" on the Away Jerseys Now

2007-04-07T10:08:00.000-07:00

I recently read that the Orioles are considering putting "Baltimore" on the away jerseys. It makes perfect sense to me. We're not the Nova Birds or the DelMarVa Orioles or The BWI Orioles. We're the Baltimore Orioles and we should flaunt our glorious city and its uniqueness. Baltimore is my Rome and my Dublin combined, a place where my feet are on familiar ground and where I first embraced my Italian and Irish heritage along with Oriole baseball. My grandmothers, one Italian and the other Irish, were passionate bird fans. Carolyn Bartoli and Mary Swift each made "the best crabcakes in the city" and I made sure to never favor one over the other. They were Baltimore matriarchs who ruled their families like Earl Weaver ran the Orioles.

Baltimore possesses a rich baseball tradition and "Orioles" should not be the sole brand experience. I don't like the hats that simply say "O's" and nothing else as this signifies decades of failure on the field, a big "zero" or an "Oh-for" the last ten years. I remember a game in Yankee Stadium in the mid-nineties when I first witnessed people wearing air-brushed O's graphics on their tee-shirts with pictures of Camden Yards and thinking I don't know my team anymore. I'm okay with the ornithologically correct bird but that's where I draw the line. Let's put our city's name back on the jersey the way we had it when we won championships, contended with regularity, and jumbo crabs ran abundantly in the bay.

Birds Topple Yanks, Mussina

2007-04-06T19:24:00.000-07:00

It's never easy in the Bronx and there is no better feeling on this earth than beating the Yankees. The season starts now.

Only Eighteen Losses Needed to Break the 88' Streak

2007-04-05T06:05:00.000-07:00

Last night's Metrodome disaster against the Twins does not bode well for the 2007 campaign. We committed three errors. Tejada is becoming a defensive liability. Jared Wright looks like the next player to end his career in Baltimore, following a long and growing line from Albert Belle to Javy Lopez. This group will soon include Kevin Millar. The only players who want to be in Baltimore are those in a downward career spiral. Sam Perlozzo is a player's manager, meaning the player's love him, which translates into Mr. Softee. He told reporters last night that his players did nothing to win the first three games. What that really means is the Birds didn't pitch, hit or catch. We're playing like it's September and we're 28 games out of first. The Yankees will show no mercy. Next up, Mike Mussina. The best news of the year thus far is that the Washington Nationals may be worse.

A Snowy Night in Minneapolis

2007-04-03T18:48:00.004-07:00

It's the second game of the year and the Orioles are playing in a racquetball court known as the Metrodome. They lost last night to the Twins 7-4 but Daniel Cabrera is pitching like Bob Gibson tonight. His new contact lenses seem to help him find the plate. The score is 2-2 and we have some new players like Aubrey Huff and Paul Bako to help the cause. Cabrera allows the Twins to tie the game with an error on a comebacker but he recovers to strike out the side. It looks like Daniel has developed a new pitch that cuts back inside at the last second on lefthanded batters. I'm watching the game on Peter Angelos's new television network MASN--his viewing rights deathgrip on the region which has bred bad feelings toward the Orioles among National fans. The commercial spots between innings feature digs at the Yankees. I'm feeling optimistic about the season, as I always do in the first few months, and my allegiance for the most part remains intact. Cabrera's stuff is amazing--dipping and diving across the plate--and the Twins look confused. Cabrera walks the lead-off man in the seventh and the Twins take the lead on a broken bat single from the ninth place hitter. They have developed a winning formula with homegrown talent. They are wholesome, prairie-home companion types. The Orioles put two on in the eighth with one out. With his frosted hair and great clubhouse attitude, Kevin Millar flies out to end the threat. He looks like he may never get another hit after an 0-8 start to the season. I need to turn in. It's too early to start bleeding orange.

Demystifying Oprah and The Final Four

2007-03-29T22:27:00.000-07:00

So, my mom attended an Oprah taping today. She had wanted to watch the show in person for ten years and today her wish was granted. My brother, who has recently bagged a big job with the King of Beers, made it happen. My mom brought her paralegal Julie and my sister-in-law Elaine. I was happy for my mother who was so excited about the chance to see one of her idols. They arrived at the studio by 7am, only to be herded, prodded and screamed at by Oprah's handlers. When they did finally glimpse the talk show queen, she was doing her "mi-mi-mi," vocal warm-ups and shouting at an employee trying to give her advice, "Remember Bennie, you work for me." It was a pajama party of sorts, as the crowd was asked to bring pj's for a woman who was making a difference at homeless shelters after noticing that the kids often slept in their clothes. The Power of One, of one person to make a difference, was the show's theme and Oprah produced 35,000 sets of jammies. My mom left a little deflated after Oprah signed off to the audience with, "I've got to go on the roof and take pictures with Miss USA." I remember watching Oprah as a youth in Baltimore and today she is an inspiring entertainer. Oprah provides a kind of trusted cultural barometer for her large and growing following. She introduces societal issues in a non-threatening and positive way. She has the ability to apply a large bandaid to problems and this is a good thing. However, it sounds as though more than 20 years in the limelight has left its diva scar. They even confiscated my mother's business cards. I ran some postgame this afternoon with mom about the whole thing and equated it to my experience at the NCAA tournament last year at the Georgia Dome. This stage of the tournament is about making money, not about basketball. I watched Duke, WVU, LSU, and Texas slug it out in the freezer-like Georgia Dome--more suited to monster trucks than roundballers. It wasn't about basketball as the teams with great outside shooters floundered without any perspective but an endless domed sky. J.J. Redick's three that would have vaulted Duke to a seven point lead went half-way down and caromed out with the basket shaking. It is an awful place to see a game. Attending the NCAA tournament was a once in a lifetime thing, like going to see Oprah. However, The Final Four and Oprah, like a lot of things, look better on television.

Hoos Got the Next Dance

2007-03-11T07:08:00.000-07:00

The Virginia Cavalier basketball team had an exceptional season this year and will certainly be invited to the big dance when the results of the selection committee are released tonight. They finished first in the ACC with North Carolina. That's right, the Tarheels, whose talent is enough for three teams to compete let alone one. The Hoos did it with hustle, resilience and class. They had two talented guards in Reynolds and Singletary and a heap of scrap metal, both young and old, filling out the roster. They were picked to finish 8th in the ACC based on their talent. They overachieved from the beginning, defeating Arizona in the home opener, and stealing victories against Clemson, Duke, Maryland, Va Tech and Georgia Tech. They had folded in difficult situations over the past five years, but not this time. I managed to resist the temptation to have expectations for this team well into the season. When they had a chance to win the ACC league title outright against Wake, I got greedy and was disappointed. When they built a large lead against State in the ACC Tournament, I started singing the Good Ole Song. Again, more disappointment. It was a one game at a time year and I had abandoned my approach. I had forgotten that the only postseason action I'd witnessed over the past five years was in the NIT. Other teams had adjusted to the Reynolds and Singletary barrage and placed emphasis on stopping them. These teams sent a clear message stating that they wanted the other players to beat them. The program is still rebuilding, but a strong foundation is being built. We need horses, especially inside, and with the most exciting new arena in the nation we hope to attract some blue chippers such as Patrick Patterson from West Virginia. Players who can walk in and reestablish the University on the basketball map in their first year. In his second year at Virginia, Coach Leitao will lead this team into the NCAA tournament. Taking the floor in the first round will be a major triumph, even if they lose.

Ravens vs. Colts Redux

2007-01-15T15:59:00.000-08:00

I wasn't surprised by the Indy victory in Baltimore. It was a set up all the way. How could the Ravens actually be favored against a team that has dominated the league for the past five years? The Colts had all the motivation they needed. After all, they only missed making it to the Superbowl last year by inches against the Steelers. Remember the defensive back who intercepted the pass and couldn't juke Roethelsberger because of a knife wound? Instead of acting like it was a done deal, the Ravens should have played it like they were the underdogs. The defense performed well but the offense never hit stride all season. They showed flashes of brilliance under McNair, but the unit never completely jelled. In fact, the Ravens have never had a potent offense in all the years they have been in Baltimore. Resurrecting the ghost of Irsay moving the Colts in 1984 made the loss even tougher to take. It was Irsay who ran the franchise into the ground. Many lackluster teams took the field under Irsay's ownership. Remember Columbia Lion QB Marty Domres at the helm of quarterback trying to compete against the likes fo Namath. Even when the Colts were good enough to challenge the Raiders and Snake Stabler, Coach Ted "Furrowed Brow" Marchibroda relegated Bert Jones, owner of the strongest arm in football, to screen passes and running plays. Stealing the Colts was a horrible moment for this fan. I will never follow the Indy 500 Colts, but I think they have a talented team and a great quarterback. They are exciting to watch and one day they will win it all with Manning at the helm. As a professional football fan, I am a disenfranchised soul wandering the desert. I jumped on the Giants bandwagon in the 90s when I lived in NYC, having played sports as a kid with Sean Landeta, but the Baltimore Colts will always be my team. Perhaps Manning is the quarterback for a new generation just as Unitas was, and it will be the city of Indianapolis that reasserts the prominence of the NFL in the years ahead. Peyton is the poster child for a league that badly needs some likable characters. And let us not forget the place of Baltimore in the history of the NFL as it helped put the league on the map in 1958 in what is still the greatest game ever played and once again in 1969 losing to the Jets. Needless to say, I will be pulling for the Bears in two weeks.

Even Richard Nixon Has Got It

2007-01-11T19:35:00.000-08:00

President Ford's recent passing rekindled memories of the Nixon era, one of the most interesting times to be alive in this country. I remember watching the Watergate hearings and Nixon's resignation as a boy. I was attending a conference in Anaheim when Nixon died in 1994. The night his body arrived in California, the Orioles were scheduled to play the Angels and I had tickets to the game. It was sunny in Anaheim but you could see clouds in the direction of Nixon's home. Hail pounded the coffin as it came off the plane, little balls bouncing off the lacquered finish. George Bush, Bill Clinton, Jimmy Carter, Gerald Ford, and George Schulz were all at the ceremony. The Orioles crushed the Angels that night, 18-6, unleashing an uncustomary barrage for the middling outfit they were in those days. They looked like the team that played when Nixon was President. He would venture over to Baltimore to see them play on occasion.

I also enjoyed the transcripts that were printed between Ford and Nixon during the Watergate days. "Tell them to get off their asses and say something, Jerry," Nixon implored his buddy to galvanize support around an embattled President. Nixon knew the importance of spin and Ford was the loyal soldier. In the end, Nixon revealed a human side never before seen.

His legacy is currently enjoying a mild renaissance as the subject of a hit play, Frost vs. Nixon on London's Broadway. The play takes a behind-the-scenes look at the Frost-Nixon Interviews wich captivated the nation in 1977. Nixon is played by Frank Langella who delivers an expert performance as our most demon-addled President. Langella, most recently of HBO's "Unscripted" where he played Godard, a creepy acting teacher, used his height to accentuate Nixon's authoritative presence. The play will be turned into a movie by Ron Howard at some point and I highly recommend it. The human side of Nixon entertained me for two hours as Frost frantically tried to save the interviews, going for the jugular in the last round. Did Frost know in 1977 how intertwined Hollywood and Washington would become?

The pardon of Nixon may have paved the way for questionable if not law-breaking acts committed by the Reagan administration and those of the current team in the White House. In fact, bugging an office looks innocent enough compared to what is happening today. Articles have speculated that he may relinquish his position in the basement as one of the worst leaders in our nation's history. Opening the gates of China through detente and introducing us to panda bears make him look prophetic now.

As of today, we have lost 6,000 people to the war against us (3,000 on September 11th and 3,000 in the Iraq war) and we are no closer to resolution than we were on those wistful, naive days before planes crashed into our buildings. We have not shut down the terrorists--we have gotten better at it--but we have not made a dent in their operations.

We are now poised to send over 20,000 more troops to Iraq to expand our presence in the region and enable the Iraqis to quell the unrest. There will never be "rest" as long as we are there. This action will accomplish something. We will effectively place more than 100,000 body parts at risk--heads, arms, and legs--newly susceptible to IEDs. When the smoke clears from this error in judgment, the Presidency will be an artifical limb.

Early Thoughts on Ripken in the Hall of Fame

2006-12-27T20:58:00.000-08:00

Last night, I spent some time surfing the web for tour packages to the Hall of Fame Induction ceremony next year. Cal Ripken will certainly be a first ballot selection and I'm investigating the possiblity of attending. There's not much else going on in Birdland these days--not a creature stirring all through the house. We've signed a couple of pitchers, a so-so outfielder and that's it. B-List actors in a B-Movie that might be good enough to surpass the Devil Rays. With the Orioles out of the race by August, Cal will take over the franchise spotlight. When he enters the Hall of Fame, the Oriole Way and all it represents will go with him. Writers will opine about the streak and it will surely eclipse the depth and versatility of his game. The many things he did right that never showed up in the box score, day in and day out, such as sacrifice bunts, hitting behind the runner, and hard slides reflected a vast knowledge of the game bestowed upon him by his father. A career .276 lifetime hitter, he constantly made adjustments to his stance to improve himself. He hit over 400 home runs and collected 3,000 hits. He was the first of a new breed of shortstops, tall and rangy, whose footwork was impeccable. Suffice to say, he did more than show up. He also excelled at soccer and basketball and those sports aided his defensive prowess. A friend of mine played in his pick-up basketball game at the gym in his house. Known for his outside shot, my friend let his man beat him on a fast break. Cal appeared out of nowhere and pinned the player's lay-up to the backboard. He told my friend that if it happened again, he could turn in his jersey and never come back. He also hated to lose.

Charisma?

2006-12-08T19:00:00.000-08:00

I caught a glimpse of British Prime Minister Tony Blair yesterday when his motorcade turned in front of me at 16th and M Streets in DC. The police had cordoned off the area and you couldn't really tell who it was until the limousine appeared from behind the lead black Suburban. The motorcade was long and wide with the bright winter sun glinting off chrome bumpers. The American flag waved from above one headlight while the Union Jack flew proudly from the other side. The two flags together under official auspices marked a rare and exotic moment. Immediately and instinctively, I gave Tony a thumbs up and pumped my fist in the air. I'm not sure what came over me. Tony Blair helped seal the deal for US involvement in Iraq. He brought credibility to the operation from the beginning. Without his unwavering support, the occupation may have disintegrated long ago. Over the past few years, I've watched him on CSPAN debate effectively and with aplomb in British Parliament against a barrage of difficult questions. I must have subconsciously gained respect for him on those occasions. A combination of Mick Jagger and Harry Potter, Blair evokes a boyish magic that is sorely lacking in his American counterpart. Blair is as British as bangers and mash, Wine Gums, and blood pudding. He possesses style and panache. However, his days are numbered as Prime Minister and his support of the war a major reason why. Still, I approve of him and even like him, regardless of the fact that he may be partially responsible for 3,000 dead American service men. I like him even as I speculate what deal he may have struck with our government for Britain's participation in the conflict. He has mojo, even gravitas, and at times, humility. The humility piece for me seals the deal. As the motorcade passed, he rolled down the window and smiled, waving to my friends and I standing on the corner. It felt like victory. "There goes a real leader," someone behind me said.

Quinn Smith, Baby Bird

2006-11-25T22:59:00.000-08:00

My son Quinn Porter Smith was born at 7:42pm on October 6, 2006. He came three weeks early and narrowly avoided a trip to the I.C.U. From the moment he arrived on this earth, the Yankees began a free fall from the playoffs. With Quinn and Christina at the hospital, I watched Kenny Rogers mow down the Yanks with a wicked curve ball that night in Detroit and saw the Bombers lose again the next day, exiting the playoffs. I will do everything I can to bring my son into the Oriole family, short of baptising him at Camden Yards--and that's not out of the question.

Save Sunny's Surplus

2006-11-13T12:24:00.000-08:00

I met a nice woman this week who recently quit her job as a buyer for Sunny's Surplus. I had no idea it was a Maryland operation. I spent many afternoons in the store on Harford road in Baltimore with my grandfather searching for the one item I was allowed to buy back in the late sixties. The gas masks, the cap guns, the grenades like miniature iron pineapples, the compasses and canteens, the helmets and the camouflage, the bayonets, the machetes, the gold .50 caliber dummy ammo that I grasped as a baton, the bolt-action wooden rifles from WWII, the myriad patches and decals, and the shining Marine's sword up by the check out counter. I spent hours there imagining what it was must be like to be in Vietnam. The Sun reported B-52 bombings every day above the fold and during baseball season kept a small box reserved for the Oriole scores below it. Sunny's is going through tough times these days. Walmart carries a similar inventory. War is a different ballgame.

For the Birds #7

2006-09-01T09:44:00.000-07:00

I will always remember Mark Belanger as #7. "The Blade" as he was affectionately called was one of the first of a new breed of shortstops at over six feet tall. The Blade could lay down a sac bunt with his eyes closed and often gunned down runners from deep in the hole. He hit .270 in 1976 and I remember his one home run that year, just grazing the foul pole. Attending 2130, the game Cal Ripken tied Gehrig's record, the crowd parted and I was standing there with what looked like a miniature Earl Weaver, Lee May, and The Blade himself--all of whom were feeling no pain. I was speechless. Belanger's wife also contributed to the team's success and mystique by suggesting in 1975, after the switch from organ music to recorded songs, that the team play John Denver's "Thank God I'm a Country Boy," during the seventh inning stretch. This often ignited the crowd in Memorial Stadium, and subsequently the team, who recorded many late-inning comebacks after the song was played. Wild Bill Hagy in Section 34 led his "O-R-I-O-L-E" cheer and, with moths swarming the klieg lights, Lee May would step to the plate. A poor man's Hank Aaron, The Big Bopper franctically waved his war club at the opposting pitcher. I remember one humid August night in the bleachers tracking a wallop that the crowd willed over the fence in left center, the ball traveling inches over the outfielder's glove to give the Orioles the lead.

Two more "moments" have occurred in the last ten days. The promising rookie Nick Markakis clubbed three home runs against the Twins in one game and the Orioles defeated the Devil Rays in the bottom of the ninth after Patterson stole second and Hernandez blooped a two-out single. "It looks like a line-drive in the paper," my grandfather would have said. In Belanger's time, the Orioles won bushels of games this way.

For the Birds #6

2006-08-19T18:50:00.000-07:00

The Orioles have won four in a row, the longest streak of the year, and I am beginning to see progress. They pounded the Blue Jays today, 15-0 behind a great performance by the oft-erratic Daniel Cabrera. Kevin Millar, silent with the bat for most of the year, sprang to life today with five RBIs, much to the chagrin of Red Sox fans who are reeling from three straight losses to the Yankees and need a positive force like he can be. I remember the first Blue Jay season and their early years with likes of Bob Bailor, Ron Fairly, Rico Carty and John Mayberry. They caused me great pain in 1989, when the Orioles cobbled together a cinderella season under the slogan, "Why Not?" and lost the Division lead in the last week to the Jays, loaded with Roberto Alomar and Joe Carter. The Orioles had a pitcher that year named Dave Johnson, a journeyman minor-leaguer who drove a truck in the off-season, and he handcuffed the Jays for seven innings during the second game of the season-ending series, inducing pop-up after pop-up, until the Jays pulled away and clinched the division. I was in New York city that day, and ran into a Jays fan for the first time. I asked him if he clapped throughout the game like they did in Montreal and he didn't appreciate it. I also learned while living in New York that the Northern Jay can be quite aggressive, as one regularly appeared in the tree outside my window each spring to terrorize the sparrows. I hate the Skydome with its retractable roof and resent the fact that it was the venue where Alomar, in an Oriole uniform, spat upon an umpire. I consider no amount of runs sufficient in defeating them.

For the Birds #5

2006-08-17T14:29:00.000-07:00

This is my fifth post on the Orioles and when I see "#5" anywhere, I think of Brooks Robinson. I wore "5" and played third base when my traveling team won the Baltimore County championship at age 10. My cleats were black with orange stripes, just like the Birds. I learned to play the hot corner by watching Brooks set himself, knees bent on the balls of his feet, ready to lunge in either direction. Along with my teammates, we pretended we were Brooks or Frank or Jim Palmer--they were our role models, and, I'm pretty sure, never took steroids. They taught us how to play the game, and we bought the same gloves they used, bent our caps and wore our stirrup socks yanked up over our sanitary hose they way they did. Sometimes we kept their baseball cards in our pockets for good luck. On game days, I was dressed in full uniform at least four hours prior to the first pitch. We followed their examples and routed Woodlawn in the championship, 18-5. The Orioles defeated the Yankees today, 12-2 in the Bronx and have won their last two games against the Yankees. The rookie, Nick Markakis homered to right to give the O's a 7-2 lead. The kid has made himself into a good hitter. These two games will get me through the winter. My dad says we're three players away. I'm happy to end the season now.

For the Birds #4

2006-08-15T22:53:00.000-07:00

Tonight, I attended a Red Sox game at Fenway park. They played the Detroit Tigers and lost 3-2 in a pitcher's duel. Curt Schilling pitched brilliantly for the Sox through six and received no support tonight, save for a Coco Crisp line drive home run. Fenway is a glorious venue for baseball, packed to capacity, and buzzing with pennant fever. The scoreboard flashed a score for the Orioles and the Yankees in the Bronx. The Orioles held a slim lead, 3-0. Detroit edged ahead of Boston 2-1, after Schilling ran out of gas, and Ortiz tied the score with a single in the 7th. To give you an idea of Schilling's mental toughness, after he gave up the two runs with none out, he struck out the side. The Yankees pushed a run across making it 3-1, Birds. Would it be possible for Erik Bedard to outduel Mike Mussina? The clear Boston night looked promising for both Boston and Baltimore. Then Detroit captured the lead in the top of the ninth. The Yankees tied the score in the Bronx which spelled certain doom for the "O's." As Todd Jones, the Tiger closer stared in at his catcher with two outs and two strikes on Willy Mo Pena, the man in the scoreboard pulled the "3" from its place next to "NY," leaving an open square for a second. The ball blew past Pena for strike three, and the "4" nestled into place for the Yankees, who distanced themselves by another game from the Sox, and look poised to enter the postseason with resilience.

For the Birds # 3

2006-08-15T22:48:00.000-07:00

Who would have known that by age seven I would have witnessed the greatest Oriole triumph in their existence as a team, and maybe the greatest of all time as they defeated the Reds 9-5 in the 1970 World Series. I watched from the wooden bleachers in the upper deck behind home plate as Dave McNalley lofted a grand slam over the left field wall and Brooks Robinson speared line drives destined for extra bases. My dad had rescued me from second grade at Pleasant Plains Elementary. It was a crisp and beautiful day. I remember all three outs of the first inning. I'll bet McNalley hurled seven pitches at the most and all of them were crushed somewhere--two incredible stops by Brooks Robinson and one by Davey Johnson. After the game, I drank Shirley Temples at the Belvedere tavern with my father. To this day, I bleed Oriole orange.

Gawoompkies

2006-08-12T19:15:00.000-07:00

Former baseball pitcher Don Larsen died last week and I had been thinking about him because my Italian grandmother has recently been placed in a nursing home. She no longer makes her vintage crabcakes, meatballs and sauce, or Gawoompkies, a Polish dish of bolied cabbage wrapped around ground pork. She hasn't cooked for years because of a worsening Alzheimers condition. It's gotten to the point where she can no longer take care of herself. Though she's lost her short term memory, Carolyn can easily recall baseball games from a bygone era like they took place yesterday, including Larsen's perfect game no-hitter in the 1956 World Series.

"I was scrubbing the kitchen floor on my hands and knees with the radio on," she told me. "There were no kids around and your grandfather had left for work. I had the house to myself." They lived in a modest east Baltimore home at the time and my grandfather worked for Bethlehem Steel at Sparrows Point. "It was so exciting," she explained. "With every pitch I'm thinking, when is it going to end? I couldn't take it."

She would continue. "I like that manager the Yankees had. What was his name?" She looked at the ceiling. "Casey Stengel," I remind her. "That's right. He was one of those rugged old guys," she said. I like em like that."

When I was a young boy in her basement beauty shop, she would run in the other room when a tight Orioles game reached the ninth inning, sometimes leaving customers in her barber's chair. "I can't listen," she would say with a wave of the hands.

No one has ever pitched a no-hitter of any kind in post season play since Larsen and no one has come close to matching my grandmother's recipe for meatballs and sauce. Carolyn turns ninety years old next month and her picture, on the cover of my book, from a similar bygone era, is above.

For the Birds # 2

2006-08-05T09:31:00.001-07:00

My wife recently asked me, "Why do you continue to watch the Orioles? You know what's going to happen. Why do you do this to yourself?" She's right. I used to tell her, "I want to watch them now when they are bad so I can witness the progress that makes them good." That was three years ago. When you are a fan of a bad team, and the O's have stunk for nearly a decade, you remember moments, not seasons. A Brian Roberts grand slam when he was first called up to the majors in the ninth off Angels closer Troy Percival. A Rodrigo Lopez complete game win in the Bronx against the Yanks a few years back. Chris Ray's gutsy slider that froze Hideki Matsui with the bases loaded in the ninth this year, also in the Bronx. And today, a 5-0 shutout of the Yankees in Camden Yards mostly by a young pitcher named Adam Loewen. Moments, not seasons, keep me hanging on. Over this miserable span, I can see one glaring tendency. The Orioles are too nice. They have nice players: Melvin, Miggy, and Jay. They have a nice ballpark and nice fans. They have nice reporters. They even have a nice manager. When the going gets tough, they fold.

I much prefer the cavernous Memorial Stadium, a fire-brand manager like Earl Weaver, and a motley collection of prospects--scrappers, fighters, dinkballers--developed from the farm system and dedicated to winning. Part of the problem is the owner. A bloated carp who has devoured the Orioles, Peter Angelos has no intention of making this team a contender and there is no end in sight to his steady stream of asbestos winnings--so he can drive the franchise into the ground. One need not look far to see what's on the horizon. The Nationals are building the makings of a winner and will make life difficult from a market share perspective in the years ahead. The Birds are losing fans by the family load from the DC area. How are the Nationals doing it? They scrap and fight and resemble the Orioles of old. They have a manager with a mean streak, Frank Robinson, former Oriole. They have a Mt. St. Joe grad on their pitching staff--Mark O'Connor. While our scouts were busy around the globe unearthing the likes of Sydney Ponson in places like Canada and Aruba, Mt. St. Joe high school in west Baltimore produced Mark Texiera, Mark O'Connor, and Gavin Floyd. We'd be better off drafting their entire squad, that is, if we knew about their baseball program.

"I thought having an owner from Highlandtown would be the greatest thing in the world," my friend Rafael said at the Yard a few months ago. His comment caused me to remember an experience in 1999 on an elevator in Minneapolis when I ran into then Cincinnati Red, Jeffrey Hammonds. "Sorry things didn't work out for you in Baltimore," I said to him. "I was so excited when we drafted you." He was standing next to Barry Larkin who looked suprised that I noticed Jeffrey instead. "Yeah," Hammonds said, "it's a bad situation out there...and it's going to get a lot worse before it gets better."

For the Birds # 1

2006-07-27T14:10:00.000-07:00

The Orioles reached a new franchise low on June 22nd against the Florida Marlins. First, they squandered a four run lead in the ninth with their closer on the mound and then, in the tenth, pitcher Todd Williams, in an attempt to intentionally walk a batter, tossed one too close to the plate and it was slapped into right field for the game winning hit by Miguel Cabrera. The Oriole Way prided itself on a mastery of the fundamentals. The Orioles have lost their "way." I started watching the Orioles at the age of six. Brooks, Frank, Boog and Jim Palmer became my surrogate fathers and the late Oriole announcer Chuck Thompson was my babysitter as I sat through every inning of nearly every game on television. My favorite Oriole player back then was centerfielder Paul Blair. Blair was lithe and cool, with leopard-like quickness. I learned to catch flies one-handed and wave the bat slowly like him. I went to a game at Memorial Stadium with a sign, "Yankees Beware, Here Comes Paul Blair." My first lines of poetry.

Sweetheart Like You

2006-07-21T05:20:00.000-07:00

I drove to work today listening to Bob Dylan's 1983 release, "Infidels." Lyrics in the song "Sweetheart Like You" struck me, "Patriotism is the last refuge to which a scoundrel clings, steal a little and they throw you in jail, steal a lot and they make you king." Our present leadership seems to embody these lines, and I am transported back two weeks ago to Terminal One in O'Hare where I was stranded for eight hours awaiting a flight to China. I picked up a bottle of water, a Cubs jersey for a change of clothes (can't do Chisox) and the New Yorker (the 7/10 & 17 issue). I read Sy Hersh's "Last Stand" about the the military's policy on Iran. Hersh proves again that he knows more about our military than our current assemblage of Nixoneers who believe that we can actually win a Vietnam. Lawrence Wright's article about the Cole investigation is enough to make one consider living abroad for the rest of one's life. As a business case study, and a good one at that, you learn that abysmal and non-existent communication in the highest levels of government results not only in lost revenue but also in lost lives--3,000 of them on September 11th. Sure, we heard that communication was poor--but what actually happened is far worse and does not bode well for the future. Topping off an excellent issue, David Remnick's "Murrowesque" response to the administration's attacks on the media is also worth a read. The eloquence of William Safire speaking through Spiro Agnew is definitely missing from the present day. Suffice to say we live in interesting and passionate times. The current administration inspires us as artists to create powerful work in response. Take music for example. Springsteen's interpretations of our folk heritage on "We Shall Overcome" (The Seeger Sessions) through songs like "John Henry" and "Old Dan Tucker" uncover in my mind, what is the true American spirit. The "transformative power of song" brought solace to those working in the trenches of our history--on railroads, in mines, and in the fighting of wars. The true essence of our history resides in these songs, not in metallic decals on bumpers.