Fido Murphy left his mark

Life is full of poor imitators, and a few good ones. Whether Raymond "Fido" Murphy had a model to go by or not, he left enough of a mark of his own for classification as one of baseball's great characters, if not promoters.

By Bryce Martin
8/7/2004

In Bill Veeck’s classic biography, Veeck As in Wreck, there is not a mention of Raymond “Fido” Murphy. That is likely because the legendary public relations stunts pulled off by baseball owner Veeck were original, memorable and still talked about today.

You do not make comparisons to an original. Especially when you are the original and it is your book.

Veeck promoted his teams, the game itself, mostly with substance and sometimes with schlock. Murphy promoted himself, and he did it quite well, if not as lasting in lore as Veeck. As early as 1937, Veeck was etching his name in the annals of baseball history. Working for the Chicago Cubs on a project to refurbish Wrigley Field, it was his idea to plant the ivy for climbing the outfield walls.

Veeck later, as a Major League baseball owner, introduced the spectacle of fireworks following home runs, names on the backs of uniforms, a midget batter, and a host of wacky promotions.

Murphy danced more on the periphery – a legend, if you will, on a smaller scale.

Murphy was an umpire for the minor-league baseball Western Association just before the Great War, an in-the-shadows assignment for a schemer of his repute. Still, he sang his own praises loud and long enough until he found the big ear he was looking for.

It came in the form of an article in Esquire, a national magazine at the time aimed specifically to a male audience. Leo Fisher wrote the piece for the June 1942 issue. The title: “World’s Greatest Athlete; Recalling Fido Murphy’s Amazing Exploits in Baseball, Football, Basketball, Coaching and Umping.”

You got the feeling, before even beginning to read on, that the title may not have covered it all, that Fisher was purposely being grandiose as befitting his subject.

During the mid-1940s, Murphy ventured north to the Providence, Rhode Island, area. It was there much work awaited to outplace products of the war machine, in such locales as the Walsh-Kaiser Shipyard on Field’s Point, where some 21,000 workers built Liberty ships and manifold weapons for battle in early 1945. In addition, the nearby Quonset Naval Base, opened in 1941, was awash with activity.

A company team at Quonset, assembled and managed by Murphy during this time, formed the core for the team he would later introduce in Kansas as the Topeka Owls in 1946. It must have been a whale of a team. Tales of Murphy and his Quonset crew hammering heavyweights such as the Boston Red Sox in exhibition tilts were commonplace.

Not commonplace, however, was the duality of the athletes who went to Kansas with Murphy. A few of the transplanted Owls now in Topeka were also members of the Chicago Bears football team, said to include running back Ray “Scooter” McLean and Jake Watkins. As the Owls’ baseball campaign neared finality and a new football season was just a blink away, the Owls/Bears players scurried to make the transition to Chicago, but not before trying to recruit some of their baseball counterparts.

Just how enticing those offers were taken by athletes from a comparatively leisure sport is a matter lost to history, and anecdotal at best. Much of the names, numbers, and facts from that era of the National Football League, and perhaps even more so for independent teams in minor-league baseball, are difficult to find and corner.

However, it would have been a big jump from pro baseball to pro football. Perhaps more so than even what it would be years later.

While today’s football players are bigger, faster, stronger, and, yes, better, they are also better equipped and better protected. Football in the 1940s was just plain rough. Padding was rock hard and did not absorb blows well.

In addition, the pads were difficult to adjust and tended to ride the body in all the wrong places. Shoes were heavy and the screw-on cleats collected clods of dirt for even more weight. Cleats, too, often dislodged and fell off and created bad footing. The helmets – caps, really -- were leather and folded with ease to fit in a pocket when not in use. Nose guards did not exist.

For those with injuries, it did not matter much. They played anyway. Slimmed-down rosters equaled few substitutions.

Still, the enticement of playing pro football, especially with the Chicago Bears, had some appeal.

During the 1940s, the National Football League’s makeup mainly amounted to just 10 teams. Coach George Halas’ Bears held the most formidable talent by far. The Bears won championships in 1940, 1941, 1943, and 1946, narrowly missing out in 1942. In fact, it was only in 1945 that the Bears did not win a divisional title or push for the lead during the season.

Available talent, and the skills required for playing in the NFL, fell dramatically with the arrival of WWII. When the 1943 season approached kickoff, 376 players on NFL rosters during the previous three years were now serving in the military.

Common players during the war years could expect to receive in the area of $100-$250 per game. At the other end of the scale were stars such as Sid Luckman. Halas signed him in 1939 for a $5,000 per year salary.

Baseball’s talent pool dwindled, too, during the war years. Looking just at the National League rosters in 1944, 33 rookies age 28 and older were on teams. Another 13 were teenagers, including for a brief moment 15-year-old Joe Nuxhall of the Cincinnati Reds.

Even after the war, athletes in both sports seemed to have an identity crisis of sorts. In 1948, Branch Rickey, as owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers football team, tried Pepper Martin, a charter member of the fabled St. Louis Cardinals’ Gas House Gang, as a place kicker. Steve Filipowicz was probably the most noted name to play in both pro leagues during this era.

Murphy’s 1946 collection of players held spring training in Carthage, Mo. From that group, he fashioned two independent teams, one to compete for Chanute, Kans., in the Class D Kansas-Oklahoma-Missouri League, and the other for Class C Topeka in the Western Association.

Carthage was also home to the Cubs in the K-O-M League.

Minor league baseball was expanding at war’s end like never before. It seemed a person anywhere in the United States could leave home with a hot cup of coffee, drive in any direction, and find a minor league game before their brew cooled.

Murphy was either a poor judge of talent or one blessed with a creative business sense. The Chanute Owls team won a K-O-M pennant and rubbed it in against its parent team by traveling to Topeka and soundly drubbing “The Kombat Kids” in an exhibition series arranged by Murphy to bring in some extra revenue.

In fairness to Murphy, he may have purposely dealt his best overall talent to Chanute. One could speculate that in the larger, state capital city of Topeka, a decent team would do well in attendance because of the size of the population in which to draw from; whereas, a really good team in a small town like Chanute would pull in the bigger part of the region.

Murphy promoted his three biggest stars from the Chanute team – Ross Grimsley, Bob Curley and Lee Dodson – to his 1947 Topeka roster. The Owls won the Western Association title.

Always the promoter, Murphy’s eccentricities, not his baseball or business acumen, found a national focus when writer Carlton Brown contributed to The Saturday Evening Post an article about Murphy. In the weekly publication, he was heralded as “Baseball’s Dizziest Owner” for the popular magazine’s Aug. 9, 1947, edition. Households in middle-class America now knew a little something about Murphy.

An incident that helped inspire the article, though it was not part of Brown’s writing, came about on fan appreciation night in Topeka. A local meat packer presented a large ham to Murphy, and in so doing could not help adding a tasty line about how much the two had in common. Murphy heaved the hefty pork backside to the backstop from home plate and stormed to his dugout.

With the conclusion of the 1947 baseball year, Murphy sold Dodson to the New York Yankees, and Grimsley and Curley to the St. Louis Cardinals.

Dodson, however, did not plan to go quietly.

With Dodson’s elevation to Topeka, Murphy had promised the pitcher a bonus if he won 15 games. Dodson came to collect and did not like what he heard. A confident Murphy informed him that since no actual contract existed, he did not have to honor the agreement. Murphy was wrong, and it nearly turned out to be his downfall.

Dodson sent a letter expressing his complaint regarding the standoff to George Trautman, President of the National Association of Professional Baseball Leagues (Minor League Baseball), at headquarters in Columbus, Ohio. Trautman had been involved with minor league baseball since 1933 and most recently served in an executive position with the Detroit Tigers. He replaced William Bramham (1933-1946) at the position during the NAPBL Winter Meetings in December of 1946.

Murphy discovered the hard way about contracts: they can be oral as well as written.

With his leadership reputation in tow Trautman issued his decision. He decided Dodson was deserving of his bonus money. He banned Murphy for life.

Trautman knew his territory. In September 1947, Bill Propst, peddled to Greenville (Miss.) from the Fulton Chicks of the Kitty League, had an oral agreement for compensation if sold. Propst got some but not all of his money. The club received a $1000 fine and K.P. Dalton, club president of the Chicks, $500 more for circumventing the bonus rule. Trautman cited two violations of rules: (1.) Full disclosure of all contracts and (2.) A requirement to designate players receiving a bonus. Trautman levied the fines in January 1948.

Murphy rebounded from under the ban and resurfaced in 1949 after a year’s layoff to head an independent Leavenworth (Kans.) Braves team in the Western Association. It was a bad team. After a long losing skid, Murphy fired the manager and named himself as the new skipper. He went on to lose as pathetically as before.

Murphy was still good for a quote or two clear into the 1960s. A former NFL scout for the Bears and the New York Giants, when asked to appraise the talents of Terry Baker, the bald Oregon State quarterback who won the Heisman Trophy in 1962, Murphy was in vintage form.

“For carrying around a trophy, he’s got a great arm,” Murphy said. “For throwing a football, no.”
...

McNamara not far from the field

In a baseball career dating back to the 1950s, John McNamara has retired -- well, maybe not quite retired but with a view from a different corner of the field.

Bryce Martin
6/21/2001

John McNamara has found himself a new spot of sunshine, right in his own backyard.

The former big-league manager and all-around baseball veteran is mostly content these days just to watch his tomato plants sprout as June daytime temperatures regularly soar into the 90s at his home in Brentwood, Tennessee.

McNamara, who spent all or parts of 19 years as a big-league manager, resigned as minor-league catching instructor with the Angels before the regular season began. He managed the Angels as recently as 1996, replacing Marcel Lachemann for the final two months of the season.

Back in April and up to now, he noticed his life had changed.

"This is the first time in a long time that I haven't felt the warm sun on my back this time of year." His soft words hinted that he didn't seem to mind.

He was a minor-league catcher whose career was interrupted by a two-year stint in the military during the Korean War. He never made it to the bigs as a player. McNamara began his managerial career in 1959 at Lewiston, Idaho. He made the big step up as skipper with the Oakland A's in 1969.

So with the season now well underway -- does he miss it? "Not at all," he said. "I'm growing my tomatoes and enjoying the family. It's quite nice to not have a lot of responsibilities. I don't fish or hunt, but I do play golf occasionally."

Besides the Angels and A's, McNamara served at the helm for San Diego, Cincinnati, Boston and Cleveland. All told, he managed in 2,393 games over a span of four decades. He was named AL Manager of the Year with the Red Sox in 1986. The BoSox won the AL East that year, beat the Angels in the LCS and lost to the Mets in the seven-game World Series.

The season was well chronicled by Dan Shaughnessy in his book, One Strike Away: The Story of the 1986 Red Sox.

"(Bruce) Hurst and (Roger) Clemens did well," said the soft-spoken McNamara of the solid lefty-righty starting combination. "And we all got along."

He said that he does not root for any particular team, nor would he name the best player who ever played for him.

"How could I? A number of them are in the Hall of Fame. The closest would have to be Johnny Bench. He was a great defensive catcher, he could hit, could hit for power. There was Davey Conception. I think he was vastly underrated."

McNamara may be off the playing field but he is not entirely away from the game. He is in the booth helping on telecasts during home games for the Altoona Curve, an AA squad in the Eastern League affiliated with the Pirates. At age 69, he has finally found the shady side of the diamond.
...

King George rules with a soiled hand

Is he a dolt or just colorful, and determined to win at all costs? The boss of the Yankees is all that and less.

Bryce Martin
3/27/2003

Integrity? The New York Yankees?

"One's a liar, the other's convicted" - Billy Martin.

The "convicted" was Yankees owner George Steinbrenner, the "liar," Reggie Jackson. Just another Yankee airing some dirty linen.

And how about former Yanks infielder Martin? Brawling, belligerent and boozy. Booze, however, and Mickey Mantle were synonymous. No, wait that was the Babe.

Yankees GM and sycophant, Brian Cashman, handed out a $100,000 team fine to pitcher David Wells, because Georgie did not like comments Wells made about the storied franchise in his recent biography. It was reported this spring that Steinbrenner was treating Wells as if he did not exist on the planet.

Was there not a book or two in the past with titles by former Yankees, namely "Ball Four" and "Bronx Zoo," edging none too kind to the boys in pinstripes? Was not Wells just exercising his option to do his part in covering each decade?

Steinbrenner, to borrow from Rosco of the Dukes of Hazard, is a "dipstick."

Sure, he wants to win and all that. I get sick of the apologists who use that tired line. That does not make him a less blathering and bloated figure. Boss Tweed with an odious reputation.

Onetime Yankee Jim Spencer once said his boss knew nothing about baseball. That has always been painfully clear.

One example, or maybe 17: Steinbrenner has made 17 managerial changes in 17 seasons. What does that say for the person who hired them?

In addition, such comments from the top as "integrity of the team" regarding Wells' overtures rings hollow. In 1974, Steinbrenner was ousted from baseball for two years after being convicted of making illegal campaign contributions to Richard Nixon and cronies. Okay, he was just doing his patriotic duty. More: In 1990, headlines beamed his banishment from daily operations of the Yankees for life, a little matter of paying a gambler to get some damning information on Dave Winfield. That may have been a harsh judgment meted out. Reinstatement came in 1993.

Those are just the lowlights. A picture of sleaze, power gone haywire, and, well, a guy who does not know baseball - except he has the money to put the best you can buy on the field -

Steinbrenner, the man, is still a joke. He needs the spotlight. He has to have it. Too bad he is such a poor actor. We would all be laughing if only he was less pathetic.
...

Chewing on some baseball memories

Random ruminations while wondering whatever happened to Wonderful Monds.

Bryce Martin
8/22/2002

Some baseball anecdotes and oddities stick with you over the years like gum on a hot sidewalk.

Here are some of my favorites:

Hall of Fame knuckleball pitcher Hoyt Wilhelm debuted at age 28 with the New York Giants in 1952. He hit a home run in his first at bat, and a triple his second time at the plate. In a fluttery career spanning 21 years and 432 total at bats, Wilhelm never homered or tripled again...

While warming up in the bullpen, then-Dodgers pitcher Jim Brewer was the target of a heckler. "Hey, Brewer, why don't you go back to the copper mines in Oklahoma." Brewer, not looking where the words came from, responded with, "I don't think they don't mine copper in Oklahoma." The sucker bit. "What do they mine?" Said Brewer, "They mine their own business." Rim shot, please...

Outfielder Mickey Rivers was talking bad about his former teammate Reggie Jackson to a reporter. Informed that Jackson had a reputed IQ of 160, Rivers asked, "Out of what, a thousand?" Another rim shot, if you will...

Identify this mystery voice: "What's the statics on this boy, Pee Wee?"

Credit sportscaster Red Barber with this one: "Baseball is only dull to dull minds." Red who? gets you no points...

A wooden baseball bat is likely to break if held in any rotation other than where, when held straight out, you can read the trademark. That is why you used to always see hitters slightly rotating the bat and adjusting their grip at the dish. "You've got your trademark turned down," a catcher jostled Hank Aaron. "I didn't come here to read," Aaron shot back...

While pitching for the Texas Rangers, Don Durham told me Manager Billy Martin requested he hit a player. Not unusual, except it was the runner at second base he wanted Durham to plunk...

Pitcher Don Dennis was the first player to ever hit a baseball to the roof of the Houston Astrodome, a distance of -- if memory serves -- 160 feet. He did it with a fungo bat in pre-game warm-ups...

Credit outfielder Glenn Burke with introducing the "high five" to the annals of sports history. It was less than monumental when he slapped palms with Dodgers teammate Dusty Baker in 1977 after Baker homered, but it is now part of the ritual...

Voice: Dizzy Dean asking TV-boothmate Pee Wee Reese to give him some statistics.
...

Saving Mr. Baseball

With Major League Baseball having been "saved" so many times in the past few years, you wonder why it seems headed downward instead of up.

By Bryce Martin
8/13/2002

The myth and romance of Major League Baseball is disappearing faster than Ben Grieve's playing time.

"Money Talks!" is what the construction worker turned souvenir chaser said while holding aloft the fence-clearing baseball Barry Bonds nailed for No.600. That utterance speaks volumes for much of what ails our once national pastime. I cannot blame the person, mind you. I am just using that to help illustrate the death of the rhythms and traditions of the game.

How many out there still want someone to just take them out to the old ballgame and let them root, root, root for the home team. Is such a simple notion as that now lame and hopelessly old fashioned?

There once was a day when we truly enjoyed the game just for itself, when the game was bigger than any of its parts was big. How much rooting can you expect in a traditional 81-game home schedule? Especially now with the MLB big boys using all the gimmicks they can muster to make each one an event, with targeted inter-league play and the melodrama of wild-card competition. That only helps to make the majority of the less-stellar contests - which takes in the majority of games -- in the long season even more meaningless and less worthy of our participation.

Some of baseball's most ardent fans keep looking for the hero that will save this most poetic of all sports. However, today's heroes do not seen to have the lasting power of those revered by the ancient Greeks and Romans. By contrast, our idols seem all too human.

In the process of chasing, catching and passing Lou Gehrig's consecutive game streak in 1995, Cal Ripken Jr. saved baseball. We are told. Three years later, Mark McGuire and Sammy Sosa saved baseball yet again in pursuing Roger Maris' single-season home run record. We are told.

From what fatal epoch was baseball saved from? If it needs saving so regularly, is anyone really applying the balm. Is it not more like a Band-Aid?

At last month's All-Star Game in Milwaukee, fans in attendance, and many who watched on television, expressed disgust at the outcome, or lack of one considering it ended tied at 7-7. It is true ties are more relevant to soccer than to baseball, and even more true when it happens in Major League Baseball's annual showcase game, if that term is still relevant.

Considering what is taking place in the seamy soap-opera of MLB for the past several years, I cannot imagine how settling for a tied ballgame after running out of pitchers would boil most people's blood.

Where has the outrage been for the real problems? If one is inclined to raise a nose in the air regarding an event that has lost its place and importance, where then have these same souls harbored themselves while the game has been systematically altered for the worse? Baseball needs all the help it can get. It certainly is not going to save itself.
...

Hitting a baseball not that difficult

Random ruminations while wondering whatever happened to World B. Free.

Bryce Martin
8/12/2002

Include me as one of Eddie George's biggest fans. Injured and sub-par in 2001 but now embarking on a new season, the Tennessee Titans running back is vintage once more -- so say the players and coaches. I decided to see for myself by viewing Saturday's exhibition game with the St. Louis Rams. George, who has never been fast, once, at least, had an explosive burst coming out of the blocks. Against the Rams, he looked the same as last year, slow with no explosiveness. In fact, the bevy of backs showcased by the Titans all looked better than what George showed.

As much as I despise those "things I don't get" lists, I couldn't resist the urge.

Three things I do not get: NASCAR, Garth Brooks, pay-per-view wrestling.

I feel better for it, but I won't do it again.

From the You Have Got To Be Kidding Dept.: Would you believe that No. 8 on the NFL's all-time passing yardage list is Vinny Testaverde?

I would pick Jim Rice for entry into baseball's Hall of Fame before Jose Canseco. Canseco has not helped his cause, either, by admitting to steroid use.

Ten-year veterans of Major League Baseball (after 1970) are eligible for a pension of $160, 000 annually, which is the federal maximum. Therefore, it is not just a matter of getting it while you can.

"Hitting a baseball is the single hardest thing to do in sports." You have heard that axiom. We all have. Taken literally (I do not know how else to take it), it has never made sense to me. Officially speaking, excluding walks, sacrifices and the like, when you hit a baseball, three things can happen: a hit, flyout, or groundout. If you bat 600 times in one baseball year and strike out 100 times, that means the other 500 times you either hit the ball for a flyout, groundout or a hit, but you hit it. That is difficult? The old bromide would be more accurate stated something like this: "Hitting a baseball for a hit is the single hardest thing to do in sports."

We all have to make difficult decisions. Try a new one. Pick the greatest player in the history of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays.

The baseball record that really, really will not be broken: managing one team, as Connie Mack did, for 50 years. Toss in wearing a hat (not a cap -- a hat) during the whole time.
...

It just so happens the past really was better

There was The Strike. There's inter-league play. Don't forget wild-card teams. Ugh! What else is there not to like for the baseball purist? Don't worry, I'll think of something.

Bryce Martin
10/18/2001

Call me a baseball purist, a legalist, or a similar word of your choosing.

I won't be offended. No apologies will be forthcoming. None are needed. And don't expect to hear any through-the-hoops bits from me about the past being better. The past is just that, the past.

That does not mean I have to like all that is current regarding Major League Baseball. The needless gimmicks make my stomach churn with disgust. Inter-league play is heresy. Wild-card teams are bl-ooo-ey.

But that is the company line for purists, you say. Give me more, you say. Bear with me, I aim to please.

Not that long ago (or was it?), the American League and the National League had eight teams each. The two teams from each league with the best records met in the World Series. It was quite simple then, much like the game itself.

It was not a perfect system. There were times when a team had built a large enough lead near the end that they captured the pennant, but, due to injuries and declining production, another team had peaked late and was probably the better of the two at that point. Tough luck. Winners deserve their due. It was singular, clear-cut, and offered no distractions. It was two teams going for all the marbles. Take your pick.

Unfortunately, that method could not work today. With so many more teams involved, a playoff system seems only fair. The idea of having wild card teams thrown in dilutes the concept. It is about money, more of it, and not about creating more "fan interest," as some would like us to believe. Actually, few fans should be interested. The playoffs, in general, encourage an outcrop of problems. For example, I can't help but flinch when I hear certain snatch pieces delivered from national sports radio and television commentators. Ditto from the print media. Snippets such as those having to do with Derek Jeter's string of getting on base in 19 consecutive postseason games. The spoon-fed drama of his dancing on the precipice in challenging Lou Gehrig's total in postseason games is asinine. Gehrig only played in World Series contests, strung out over long intervals. A player on a hot streak can carry it through in as many as 17 games in the playoffs.

How about this one? "Jim Thome has 17 homers in postseason play, trailing only Reggie Jackson and Mickey Mantle, who both hit 18." So what? Mantle's efforts all came in World Series games, in 230 at bats.

It won't be all that long until someone has hit 100 homers in the new and improved, ever-expanding version of postseason play. Is that a fair or meaningful comparison? As for Jackson, he had 10 World Series home runs and the other eight were spread between divisional and league championship playoff series. All told, he hit his 18 in 281 at bats.

Furthermore, with the setup being the way it is now, it makes absolutely no sense to compare players of the past who contributed statistics only in World Series games, when playoffs did not exist, to those of today. I know what postseason means. My complaint has nothing to do with applying asterisks to allow for distinctions. It's that I don't understand the thinking behind what I hear and read. How could anyone lump it all together like it really means anything? There's nothing wrong with stating the facts as they are. The really irksome facet is how this apples/oranges drivel is dispensed so casually from people you expect to have some insight.

I have a respectful admiration and fascination with baseball statistics. I see it this way: to take offense is to recognize a problem where one exists.

Spoken like a true purist, don't you think?

I hope so, anyway.
...

Baseball's beanball out of control

Don Durham, an ex-Major League pitcher, feels that more hitters are getting beaned than ever before -- a feeling he does not share alone -- but it's not likely a readily available statistic that can be measured. He was once ordered to throw at a player other than a batter, by his manager, Billy Martin.

Bryce Martin
8/11/2001

Has anyone noticed the unusually high number of beanings taking place in this year's edition of Major League Baseball?

Baseball -- more than any other sport -- has been described in the past as a game of statistics. While I'm not sure if "cranium-rattlers" are in the category of kept information, right up there with Most Lifetime Broken Bats, someone being plunked in the head seems to be a part of the daily highlight reels more so than ever.

"More batters are actually being hit, it appears," said Don Durham, former pitcher for the St. Louis Cardinals (1972) and Texas Rangers (1973). "I don't know how much of it is coming from management, or from the pitchers."

Durham, who operates an automobile body repair shop in Nashville, Tenn., once pitched alongside Bob Gibson, a hard-throwing Hall of Fame right-hander, feared for his inside "purpose pitch."

"Gibson would yap at the batter," Durham said. "He'd let him know if he had a problem with him. I'd say he was the best known in his day of all the pitchers who didn't mind coming inside chest high."

Statistics aside, Durham said pitchers feel justified in throwing at batters for reasons that have not changed much over the years.

"Everything depends on the circumstances of the day. Someone who tried to show you up in a game in the past might be a candidate today, a hitter who hotdogs it around the bases after a home run, or it might be that you are getting beaten up so badly that you want to show your displeasure."

Durham remembers an unusual order he was once given at the pitching mound from Rangers Manager Billy Martin. "He had me throw at a runner," Durham said. "That was a first for me."

Whatever past ill deed the runner had done, Durham, in unleashing at his target, wasn't informed.

"Our second baseman, Dave Nelson, caught it instead of letting it hit him. Martin jerked me right out of the game. He made his point but he wanted it known he didn't really want to hurt anybody."

Like most pitchers, Durham prefers to talk about his hitting. But, unlike most pitchers, he has something to talk about. He batted just 14 times but sported a .500 average to go with his seven hits, two of which were home runs.

"That was pretty good for a skinny little guy who wasn't supposed to be able to do such things."

Good enough to be feeling some high heat after another time or two in the box.
...

When the brushback pitch was an art form

If baseball players were allowed to have sewn on their uniform backs most anything they wanted, like the ill-fated XFL, we might be seeing "He Hit Me," "I Hit Him," due to the proliferation of beanings and near-beanings taking place. What happened to to the skill and art involved in the old brushback pitch? It appears today's stable of pitchers prefer to chuck and duck and then hit someone for their own ineptitude.

Bryce Martin
7/9/2001

The brushback pitch -- thrown with perfection in the past by battlers like Bob Gibson, Don Drysdale, and Sal Maglie, to name a few -- is a lost art form. Pitchers today, to a large degree, do not know how to pitch effectively.

The batter as target is a situational grievance that has taken form, and escalated, in very recent times.

Past pitching masters were acutely aware they needed to establish their intentions early on in moving intrusive and daring batters away from the dish. To do so required some cunning, stealth, and the ability to see an overall, bigger picture. They aided and abetted their cause by coming inside in situations where there was no apparent reason to throw near or actually hit a batter. By initiating a pattern of pitching close at the onset and remaining consistent, the question of intent became less clear later on if a batter was hit or had to hit the deck to avoid being drilled. This is pitching as art.

Setting the tone was no problem. The most artful of the brushback artists did not have to pick their spots. They moved off the plate anyone who edged too close or nested too comfortably in the box. It was their way of mending the roof while the sun was shining.

Gibson was single-minded in "keeping hitters honest," in letting them have that little portion of the plate they rightfully deserved but no more than that. In demanding respect, he earned respect.

The brushback was less a matter of intimidation and more a desire to protect one's immediate territory. It was not only a pitcher's right, it was his obligation. A studied glare and jet-speed fastball helped, too.

Pitchers, and players alike, have veered far afield regarding the history and tradition of why pitchers throw near batters in the first place. Take Jose Lima. Clueless, he allows hitters to dig in before flinging watermelons to the plate. Then, when he gets walloped, he plunks the next batter in the backbone. No wonder the batter is irate, Lima has done nothing to earn respect. Instead of hitting a batter, he should be beating up on himself, like the guy in the movie Fight Club, for his own incompetence in allowing hitters to fortify their bunkers and take their best shots.

Someone once said that batters would be sporting .400 averages if they could wear armor. The brushback pitch, served in the proper doses, was a reminder that there was no such protection.

Lima is easy to pick on since he gives up so many home runs. Yet he's average by today's standards, which goes something like this: Give the batter every advantage. After the batter beats you, hit someone. Get the other team riled so they can retaliate. And so on.

Baseball's bigwigs have clearly shown irresponsibility and a lack of professional skill in handling the problem of batters being hit with pitches. The idea of suspending pitchers the same number of games as everyday field position players is absurd. A six-game suspension would mean just that for a regular, but it would be just one start for a pitcher in rotation. A starting pitcher should get a 25- to 30-day suspension, just to equal the same amount of punishment.

Hitters are at the mercy of inept pitchers and redemption-fevered players on the opposing bench and field, wrapped in a bastard offspring of some warped code. Players are not just upset at getting hit only because it's their turn, they're roiled because what was once art for the viewing, has become a disrespectful, cowardly, and cheap act.
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The cream riseth not

When it comes to judging major league talent, scouts rely mainly on physical ability, often missing key factors such as motivation, love of the game, and sheer tenacity -- elements that elevated borderline prospects into some of baseball's best talent.

By Bryce Martin
6/16/2001

Major League Baseball's annual June amateur baseball draft of college and high school players brought to mind an intriguing quote I remembered from Hall of Fame second baseman Frankie Frisch: "There are better players walking the streets than there are in the big leagues."

He was right, of course, if you give it some thought.

I only had to recall a young lefthander with great pitching form who mowed down batter after tough batter in a high school game against a powerhouse team. The Kansas farmboy fanned 16 and made it seem routine. He threw hard. His form was perfect. That was close to the last game he ever threw. He was from a working farm family and chores at home left no time for baseball.

Was he a prospect? We'll never know for sure, but he seemed to be at the time. His name is not important. He is just one of the nameless that lives in the shadows of fame, glory and competition that Frisch knew so well.

With the passing of time and more examples to witness, Frisch's words became relevant, true. That farm lad was not odd or unique. It was a way of life, I decided, that the cream doesn't always rise to the top. Some great players will emerge from this year's draft. They always do. Some of the best, though, may never get the chance. They're too busy giving out speeding tickets, programming computers, and tuning up your car's engine.

A few will be overlooked simply because of the way baseball talent is primarily judged --physical ability. The five keys for position players include the ability to run, field, throw, hit, hit with power.

Sometimes it's an easy pick. How could a scout, even if he had never seen him play, not opt for Pete Incaviglia after the career he had at Oklahoma State? As a junior in 1985, Incaviglia set NCAA single season records for home runs with 48, RBIs with 143, and an astounding 1.140 slugging percentage. He ended his college career with other NCAA records: 100 homers and a .915 slugging average. Incaviglia was selected in the first round of the 1985 draft by Montreal and traded to Texas, where he became one of only five position players since 1965 to go directly from the amateur ranks to the big leagues.

In the big leagues, Incaviglia only consistently displayed one of the five keys scouts concern themselves with in the first place. He could hit for power. That's not so bad when you consider that all-time hits leader Pete Rose had just two: he could hit and was a better than adequate fielder. That was in the big leagues. Starting out in the minors, Rose was thought to be lacking in all areas.

An important factor, other than physical attributes, is motivation. Some players in Rose's day openly admitted that they could never be as single-minded (as Rose) in the pursuit of baseball excellence, that they had their limits. Guys like Rose, and Maury Wills, who labored for nine years in the minors before he got his chance to shine, and a few others who seemed limited, are the exceptions. These are the ones the scouts miss. Not enough can be said for patience, motivation, courage, optimism, a love of the game, pride in personal and team accomplishments -- factors that might rate higher than sheer physical ability.

But how do you make these judgements? Look at all that Ken Griffey Jr. has accomplished since his 1989 rookie year, yet have you seen anyone look more miserable in doing so much? Judging talent is not that complicated. Judging people is.
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Sure, and tell it to Ty Cobb

Manager Bob Brenly and his Diamondbacks need to drop the haughty preaching about Ben Davis and his bunt during Curt Schilling's bid for a perfect game. The game is played one base at a time.

Bryce Martin
5/29/2001

If former player and Arizona Diamondbacks Manager Bob Brenly wants to lay down the rules of Old Time Baseball he has picked the wrong generation to don a big-league uniform.

In Saturday's game with the Padres, Arizona right-hander Curt Schilling had a perfect game going after 7 1/3 innings. The Padres' Ben Davis came to bat and spoiled it all with a bunt single, causing Brenly and some Arizona players to make their case to the press after the game that a bunt in that situation violated some ancient rule of proper baseball sportsmanship regarding such matters.

The Padres trailed 2-0 at that point. Schilling settled for a three-hitter in a 3-1 win.

Before Davis' bloop bunt single, Schilling needed five outs to corral the perfecto.

I don't know the odds, but considering the fact that only 14 perfect games have been pitched in modern baseball history, it seems unlikely that Schilling would toss No. 15. Certainly, though, it would have been a tremendous accomplishment, even if some mediocre pitchers have done it in the past.

Brenly, who was most vehement in his protestations, needs to understand this: The rules - unwritten and otherwise - that long ago provided an underside are ancient history, gone and mostly forgotten. Brenly is mixed up. He's trying to use a vaguely remembered old tribal custom to his advantage while overlooking the fact that his people no longer worship the sun.

Ty Cobb would have bunted on you in any given moment. And if an overthrow at first occurred, he would likely have came flying and then sliding with spikes up into second base. Of course, that was back when players were taught that the idea was to get on base. You can't score if you can't get on base. What a concept, especially now when everyone swings from the heels - and in so doing give up any notion of bat control.

Willie Keeler, ("Hit 'em where they ain't!"), knew how to get on base. I don't think it would be fashionable today if the game was filled was Keeler-like hitters, as it once was, splashing the field with single after single, game after game, year after year. That was Old Time baseball, back when revolutionary things like getting on base were considered basic to the game.

If Brenly understood Old Time baseball, his hitters would not be slowing down as they turn their heads to watch the path of the baseball they just hit. Instead, they would be running head down with full abandon. In Old time baseball, that split second lost by the runner's curiosity could have been the difference between a hit and an out. It still means that - and Brenly wants to talk about unwritten rules?

One of the most distorted views involving Old Time unwritten rules involves the beanball.

There is a distinct difference between the classic brush-back pitch and the currently popular beanball. The brush-back is a lost art form. Mike Piazza's playing Krazy Kat to Roger Clemen's Ignatz is the artless beanball.

An extreme example of the brush-back was when pitchers (in the old days) routinely threw in the direction of Mickey Mantle's legs, not to hit him but to force him off the plate and hope that the sudden jerk to avoid the missile would result in an injury to Mantle's legendary brittle knees. That was considered to be a fair part of the game and not a reason for retaliation.

It was evident that the days of Old Time baseball had passed with the arrival of California Angels pitcher Jim Abbott in the late 1980s. Abbott had just one hand and had to do some quick switching to field his position. When I first read about him, I figured that hitters would bunt on him early and often. Not only did that not happen, Kenny Loftin was once criticized for actually doing it.

Abbott had a rather average career, but he did pitch a no-hitter.
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Where is Jane Fonda when Selig needs her?

Commish Bud Selig and his Gang of Thirty seem intent on destroying the traditions of the Grand Old Game with a little thing called "radical realignment." Can we be sure that this is not a scheme being cooked up by the misguided Hollywood Left?

Bryce Martin
5/21/2001

Who is guiding Major League Baseball? The misguided Hollywood Left?

Commissioner Bud Selig and his owner cohorts threaten to further unravel the seams and traditions of the Grand Old Game with their rad tinkerings. They even refer to it as "radical realignment," which it surely is.

The possibility of another strike is talked about more by radio and television sports show hosts at the moment, but we've been there before. Where we have not been is in that desecrated landscape that is Selig's vision for the game's future.

Selig may be the commissioner in title but as owner of the Milwaukee Brewers he is just one of 29 other owners. His only real power is that of mouthpiece for the mob dictate. In that role, he has said that he wants as many as 17 teams to switch leagues.

How can that be good for the game? We already have inter-league play, taking away much of the intrigue of "alien" teams meeting in the World Series, wild-card playoffs, and now a potential assault that would make past league records virtually meaningless. Why sacrifice the tradition, history and continuity of the game for no good reason?

Remember the maverick owner of the Oakland A's, Charlie Finley? Maverick? His ideas were mere surface gimmicks. Selig plans structural damage.

Radical can be defined as "a departure from (the) norm." There are many directions to go in making that turn and settling on a destination. Selig's proposals thus far in switching teams around, including from league-to-league, is more in line of Christmas-in-July radical rather than, say, switching from regular to decaffeinated on Saturday mornings watching the kids. It is revolution gone loony.

What's next? The image of Jane Fonda live on CNN in a radical-chic ally role, surrounded by a cadre of soldiers in green army fatigues in Havana's Central Park? There she is, meshed with a mingling of communist-approved citizens, extolling the U.S. baseball restructure but insisting that Cuba, our neighbor to the southeast, be included in any meaningful fair-play discussions.

Too far out, huh? But not too far left.

Selig's predecessor, Fay Vincent, actually made the first big push for geographical realignment, and got his ears boxed for suggesting it. He favored moving the Cardinals and Cubs to the NL West and the Braves and Reds to the NL East. A modest proposal compared to what is on the table now. The Cubbies, fearing that Vincent might actually pull it off, went to court and won. Vincent later resigned after receiving a vote of no-confidence from the owners.

Selig, de facto commissioner for six years after Vincent, and elected to the position in 1998, has pushed for a major restructure for nearly five years but has yet to gain a consensus. Unlike Vincent, however, he is gaining support.

"We must examine further realignment in order to prevent satisfactory schedules for both the clubs and the players," Selig said, in a much-quoted speech he made not long after taking office.

By "further realignment" he could only have been referring to his Milwaukee club, which he was allowed to switch from the AL to the NL, the first time such a thing had happened since an 1892 move involving the old Federal League. The circumstances of that switch can hardly be seen as setting a precedent to mollify what was done with the Brewers.

So, what was behind Selig's slick move?

Well, other than tearing at the tradition and stability of the game, it did seem to have some logic. Milwaukee's move to the NL Central left Detroit to fill its void in the Al Central, and allowed the expansion Tampa Bay Devil Rays to move into Detroit's vacated AL East spot. This left the NL with 16 teams and the AL with 14; with the NL having two divisions of five and one of six, and the AL two divisions of five and one of four.

This is all supposedly logical in that it makes scheduling purposes more efficient. More logical, though, would have been 15-team leagues with each league having three divisions of five teams each and no league switches. What nixed that were the edicts made to Tampa Bay and the Arizona Diamondbacks about which leagues they would join -- and could be moved to - as new franchises that worked against the leagues arriving at even numbers.

Still, does such a decided quirk as this call for such drastic action? Instead of moving Milwaukee why not have some unbalanced divisions until finding a more reasonable solution? After all, the 2001 season is surviving with some extremely odd, unbalanced match-ups.

Motives? Try this. The Brewers drew relatively small home crowds and were not a road attraction. Put them in the NL Central with the Cards and Cubs and they are guaranteed excellent crowds at both ends. Translation: Big buckos for Selig.

Here is what radical realignment is supposed to do to bolster the game: 1) Align teams closer together geographically. This will cut down on travel time and cost teams less money for transportation; 2) Create rivalries between teams in the same geographic bounds; 3) This has not been mentioned, but they'll think of it: reduced travel time would allow for a "fresher product" on the field. Hogwash. Here's the real slop: 1) Money that teams would save in traveling shorter distances would be squandered elsewhere (read higher salaries) and present no real gain. 2) Rivalries have a birth and life all its own and are not easily manufactured. 3) Extra time for players just means more time to exhaust themselves in other ways.

As long as Major League Baseball can keep union players on the field, it can solve most all of its ills with just two words: "Play ball!" In the meantime, the Gang of Thirty is holding the ball.

Chain, too.
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Nashville Sounds memorable for baseball card set

Featuring Don Mattingly, this 25-card set from 1981 is a beautiful reminder of the regional issues that were once the norm before giving way to the large, commercial card makers.

By Bryce Martin
4/16/2001

In seeking to gobble up all the action they can, trading card companies have furrowed to the depths of the minor leagues in recent years, signaling the death of the private, team-issued sets.

Where a major baseball card manufacturer might have produced select minor league teams in years past, the emphasis now is to leave no base unturned.

A product sameness is bound to result from such mass production. Bakersfield, Yakima, Medford, it will little matter, individuality suffers most. Team-issued sets – or team-produced sets, whichever you prefer – were always as unique as their locales, and often less conventional than the homogeneous efforts of the commercial card makers. Printed on lower quality stock-board in some cases to cut costs, the regional sets tended to evoke a homemade quality and had a whimsical appeal all their own.

A work of art: Bold, vibrant, and wonderful color reproduction is the hallmark of the classic team-issued set of the 1981 Nashville Sounds. A 25-card issue, it is worth $25 today. Aesthetically, it is limitless.

As in many sets, one card is sometimes equal to most of the entire set’s value. That’s the case here with the Don Mattingly card ( 1981, incidentally, was his only season with the Triple-A Sounds). There’s also Otis Nixon (then a shortstop), Willie McGee, Mike Morgan, and former Arizona Diamondbacks manager Buck Showalter. Steve Balboni, a Nashville fan favorite, is not in the set, leaving with his 36-ounce lumber the year before. Radio announcer Bob Jamison is included. Jamison, who went on to perform similar duties with the California Angels, is now a certified public accountant in Bowling Green, Ky.

Photographer Alan Loveless shot the players with a medium-focus camera, utilizing Ektachrome color slide film.

“A complicated, four-color separation process was used back then,” Loveless said. “Today, it would be digital and you wouldn’t get the same results. I’m keen on lighting and all the little details. The players were really happy with the outcome.”

A minor drawback with the set is that the cards are not numbered, making them difficult to reference. Also, the backsides list some biographical information but no performance statistics. All this, it can be argued, just adds to their “homegrown” appeal. Arby’s has its logotype on the front opposite the guitar-swingin’ Sounds imprint. Arby’s sponsored the set and its Nashville area locations are listed on each card back, as is Loveless’s name and phone number.

Larry Schmittou, then the principal owner of the Sounds, produced a team set from 1979 to 1996, after which he sold the team and began collecting bowling alleys.

“It was strictly a promotion,” Schmittou said. “With ‘baseball card night’ we tried to excite the crowd. The adults liked them as much as the kids.”

Another giveaway featured some years was ‘poster night,’ when the cards in uncut form were given out. “We gave them away to our fans,” Schmittou said. “There was no selling. A lot of dealers didn’t like that because they wanted to buy them in big lots. They were not inexpensive to put out, either. What didn’t get given away one year would go out early the next year.”

By the mid-1980s, Schmittou estimates, Star, Best, and Upper Deck, among others, began infiltrating the minor league market in working with the various leagues and teams and in selling cards on their own. The days of the team-issued sets are fast going the way of the Sunday doubleheader. For the cost, and for the eyes, the 1981 Nashville Sounds set is well worth scouting for.
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Hall of Fame selections not an exact science

How odd that long after a very good player has hung up his cleats, his stature and worth has risen to Hall of Fame greatness and we should have recognized it all along. For baseball's HOF selections, the past makes perfect.

Bryce Martin
4/9/2001

It seems somehow odd that long after a very good player has hung up his cleats, his stature and worth has risen to Hall of Fame greatness and we should have recognized it all along.

I have no axe to grind. Let me make that clear. Would I have voted for Bill Mazeroski? No. Did anyone ask me? No.

There are essentially two forces at work here, those who think more is fine when it comes to gilding the galleys at Cooperstown and those others who think it should be a more restrictive club, more like, say, a Hall of Fame. Most of these people, like myself, don’t count. The 15 members of the Veterans Committee who cast ballots in Tampa a little more than a month ago are the only ones who get to vote and decide.

The voters were comprised of five former HOFers, five from the media, and five former club decision-makers. (Mazeroski, retired since 1972, was bypassed in recent years by 12- and 14-member committees.) Selection choices, as currently directed, can come from four categories: former major leaguers; manager, umpire, executive (or a combination of); 19th Century players, and from the Negro leagues. Only one can be chosen from each of the four categories.

The Baseball Writers’ Association of America makes the front door selections for the HOF. After a person is passed over for the last time, the Golden Boys are their last resort. It should be noted, too, that the Baseball Writers Association has made HOFers out of some better suited for carcass-picking by the vets.

Not everyone, of course, is going to be pleased no matter who gets in or who goes knocking. Many, too, don’t think the process amounts to a hill of beans under any circumstances. I think it’s important, and I have my own mental list toward those I think need to exit and those I feel have been overlooked. I’ll keep the list to myself, because, like I said, my vote doesn’t count.

Concerning history in general, it has been said that it takes several years to reflect back and gauge an era and its developments with real discernment. Still, there have been some bad choices, no doubt -- some really indefensible ones.

At least one well-known sports writer was in support of Mazeroski’s back-door induction. "You have to compare him with players from his era," he said, in a recent bit on national radio, noting that second basemen in Mazeroski’s day didn’t hit for much.

Excuse, please – as Charlie Chan liked to say when he caught the villain in the cookie jar – but was Mazeroski not judged by those in his day and found wanting? Just asking. No way do I mean to imply that Maz is the least deserving of all in Cooperstown’s hallowed halls. He’s not even close. He’s the most recent controversial inductee.

Some choices are always going to be open for debate, by sides from the informed and the not so hip. I guess what I really wonder is why baseball even has its Veterans Committee.

What if other Hall of Fames had such a system? Let’s see how it might play out in the long haul:

· Billy Ray Cyrus, Country Music Hall of Fame. Taking a cue, perhaps, from the direct-to-video movie market, he pioneered demo-to-CD innovation, thus eliminating the need for actual recording sessions.

· Rick Dees, Rock ‘N’ Roll Hall of Fame. The Disco Era was way, way too serious about itself. Thank Travolta for that. "Disco Duck" gave us the opportunity to laugh this fad off the strobe-bathed dance floors and put a real jut in its strut.

· Pauley Shore, Comedians Hall of Fame. Say things funny, or say funny things, that’s always been the essence of comedy. Shore managed to ignore both of these tenet elements and he’s still working…I think.

· Tom Arnold, Actors Hall of Fame. While we were all studying mutual funds with the idea of getting rich, and mixing investment fever with Power Bars to keep up with the fitness craze, Arnold showed us the easy way to live off the fat.

Did I mention I have no axe…?
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Spring bursts eternal memories of Mickey Mantle

Tmes are such when the past glows bigger than the present, especially when the ago is filled with memories of a bright comet such as Mickey Mantle -- whose meteoric path was a joy to follow and remains a bittersweet memory to one fortunate enough to have tracked it up close.

By Bryce Martin
3/27/2001

The faint recognition of early spring brings revival to the spirit and another Major League baseball season in slow bloom.

I am overcome by an old and kindred feeling -- the nostalgia that is Mickey Mantle.

This is the time of year I really miss Mickey, when the sky's clouds are crisp over a background of light, dreamy blue, much the same as on his 1951 Bowman Gum Co. rookie baseball card #253.

Keeping tabs on Mickey and his New York Yankees teammate Roger Maris while they chased Babe Ruth's magic 60 home runs benchmark in 1961 was incredible theater. I even found time to be astonished at the Tigers' Norm Cash and his surprising long-ball power that summer. Mickey, though, was a personal matter.

The fact that the small Kansas town I lived in was only about 35 miles from Mickey's house made my hero accessible. He wasn't just some snowy image on a black-and-white TV that you saw occasionally on one of three, and only three, venues: CBS, NBC, ABC; or a gloriously smiling figure posing in a magazine layout with singer Teresa Brewer, whose 45 rpm vinyl, "I Love Mickey," was hot. He was the Mickey that I caught on KODE television out of Joplin, Mo., late in 1955, telling sports host Johnny Holmes that he was seriously considering quitting baseball and taking up professional golf. I didn't have my cap pulled over my ears. He said it, and I worried about it all winter.

The next year, when nothing more came up on the subject, I still had concerns. Mickey earned a rare Triple Crown in 1956 -- leading the American League in homers, runs batted in, and batting average. What more did he have to prove in baseball?

There was the thrill of playing on the same dusty baseball fields as the adolescent Mickey, especially the one in Baxter Springs, Kans., hearing the old-timers describing one of the "pro-de-jus clouts" the young son of a lead and zinc miner -- many of whom knew and worked alongside the elder Mutt Mantle -- had witnessed, and his blazing speed and raw ability.

There was the chance to see his cousin, Max Mantle, a smooth-fielding centerfielder, twin brothers Roy and Ray, boyhood chum Barney Barnett Jr., a giant hulk of a man, all playing in "townball" games, where a collection hat (usually straw) was passed around to pay the civvies-clad umps.

Where Mickey lived and where he played his first two minor league seasons -- Independence, Kans., and Joplin, Mo. -- were short car rides to all who lived in the Tri-State area of northeast Oklahoma, southwest Missouri and southeast Kansas.

Once Mickey gained some big attention, most everyone in the Route 66 region knew and discussed all things Mickey.

In 1955, I got to meet him. It was my grandfather's idea. It was a simple plan to execute. Just drive to Commerce, Okla. Arriving unannounced as it was, we found a modest home, no different than any other in the tiny hamlet. A station wagon was parked in the driveway. The front door was swung open to the inside and blocked by a closed screen door, the preferred manner of most households back then on pleasant mornings. Two hunting rifles stood upright against an outside wall. Then, as if on cue, Mickey emerged, along with pal teammate and second baseman, Billy Martin (who much later would be peddled to Detroit and cited as a "bad influence" on Mickey). Relating that they were going on "a little hunting trip," they were, nonetheless, cordial and friendly and didn't seem to be in a hurry.

Oddly, I recall little of the meeting. Maybe it's not good that we actually meet our idols in the flesh, and maybe God has a way of suppressing such epiphanies, an idol-check of sorts for our own good.

I miss keeping up with the young Mickey in all those golden, eternal summers. Mickey, the promise, dream and inspiration that he was. Always, I miss him the most around right now.

I feel sure that poet Robert L. Harrison would not mind if I share his tribute to Mickey, one concerning a "pro-de-jus" blast at the Tigers' Briggs Stadium in 1953. The poem is, of course, about more than that:

1953 Young Mantle Hits One

It was a shot like no other
tearing into the breath of God,
leaving earth and grass and fans.
A sphere for the ages racing along
casting no shadow in frozen space
finally arching for the great fall.
Described on the radio as a new star
a stellar moment of freedom expressed
bright and clean as a summer's dream.
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Baseball players and baseball cards

It might be a new TV, stereo or car, but for most Major Leaguers it depends on their status and the ability of their agent when it involves compensation for their likeness on a baseball card.

By Bryce Martin
3/19/2001

How much are baseball players paid by trading card companies for endorsement rights?

Considerably more than what George Culver pocketed as a mid-1960s cardboard prospect, that's for sure.

"A guy would come to spring training and sign you up when it looked like you might be a big league candidate," recalls Culver, who did go on to the big leagues. "He paid you $5 after getting your picture, for exclusive rights."

But the rights weren't all that exclusive.

"When someone came around from another company, he'd say, 'No problem. We'll just predate the contract.' Another five bucks," said Culver, 57, shrugging at the thought of an easy five.

That all changed in 1968. Mainly through union boss Marvin Miller's efforts, the Major League Baseball Players Association joined into a special agreement with Sy Berger's Topps Chewing Gum Co., then the world's largest producer of bubble gum, and the price for an endorsement went up to $250. And it's higher today, of course. In 1980, a federal judge ruled that Topps and the players association were violating federal antitrust laws by excluding other companies from the baseball card business. Fleer Corp., a Philadelphia gum company, filed the suit against Brooklyn-based Topps. Fleer was eventually awarded $3 million in damages as a result of the litigation, but they were asking for $16 million. Both companies appealed the decision.

"Fleer used to ask players to sign a pre-dated contract so they could compete with Topps," said Culver, who pitched for six big league clubs from 1966-74.

Longtime baseball manager John McNamara goes way back in his dealings with the card companies. A resident of Brentwood, Tenn., McNamara, 68, is out of baseball for 2001. He recently resigned as minor-league catching instructor for the Angels. With the exception of two years in the military, he had spent the past 40 summers on a baseball diamond.

"I've dealt mainly with Topps over the years," McNamara said. "When I was in Idaho managing my first club at Lewiston, in 1959, I met Sy Berger. He'd come around and discuss the talent with me."

McNamara, named AL Manager of the Year in 1986 while piloting the Red Sox, liked the concept. "Young players, it helped them out, televisions and items they could use. As I recall, they had a catalog to pick from. The bigger you were, the more you got."

But how much are we talking about here? Tyler Green, chosen for the NL All-Star team in 1995 as a Phillies rookie pitcher, has his story. "Everyone's agent does things differently," said Green. "They set up different deals. Some push the envelope. I didn't get a car or anything special."

The card companies don't always make it easy for the players, either. There's more to it than just posing for a photograph.

"A company called Front Row sent me 10,000 cards to autograph and send back, when I first started out," Green said. "I got paid a percentage of what they sold."

Did anyone consider the possibility of some serious hand cramps? "They gave me a month," Green said.

In 1981, a higher court decision shot down the lower court ruling against Topps. Other companies, apparently undaunted by the decision, re-emerged and new ones sprang up to form a wide mix, operating now larger than ever -- and doing it without the bubble gum.
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Baseball... starting early helps

Getting hooked on the game as granny listens to Harry Caray doing the Cardinals' broadcasts, discovering baseball cards and becoming a fan for life.

By Bryce Martin
3/12/2001

Early baseball memories can be indelible to the mind and soul.

Sure, the lure of the game will miss some people altogether, sad to say. For the rest of us it will unfold slowly, while we feel its first tugs and hang on for the full ride.... us lucky ones.

My first nose-dive into the game came from an uncle-in-law's grandmother. She would stretch out in a rocker on the high front porch of her Quonset hut home, dip a little snuff, and regularly cuss over the radio broadcasts of her beloved St. Louis Cardinals, while, also regularly, booting an orange-ringed cat from under her legs.

It was one of those love/hate match ups that I didn't fully understand at the time.

Then came the siren call: "It could be outta here...It may be...It is!"

Yep, home run, as only Cardinals announcer Harry Caray could call 'em.

When a neighborhood boy dug a fresh-opened batch of baseball cards from a front pocket, I was flabbergasted (yes, people once got that way).

I studied one for so long I took mental ownership. My unhidden ardor caused him delay. He refused to reveal any more cards. My passion just increased his suspicions of holding in his hands some unmeasured worth. He was right about that, yet neither of us could have guessed at the time how much those cards would increase in value. I had not known baseball cards existed. It wasn't just names on the radio anymore. Here was a color picture, the name Gene Bearden to go with it, pitcher, St. Louis Browns, a drawing of the mascot -- a brownie or elf -- and on the back, the guy's life story, practically. Dazzling before my eyes.

"Don't worry," the boy said. "There's more at the store."

Holy cow! Why didn't you just say so? Heck a mile.

Many more baseball cards followed. I learned the full names, birthplaces, birth dates, height, weight, career marks and season highs, measuring and memorizing without trying from the constant familiarization; other doses came in the daily reading of the box scores in newspaper agate type, baseball magazines, from television and radio. There were other diversions, but only when the summer ended - officially, after the last out of the World Series.

...