Big Hair and Plastic Grass

Happy Vida Blue Day!!!

Okay, quick — how many pitchers have won a Cy Young and an MVP award, started the All-Star Game for both leagues, had not one but two funky 70s jams named after them, and appeared in a vintage 70s blaxploitation film?

Just one man: Vida Rochelle Blue, Jr.

Born today in 1949 in Mansfield, Louisiana, Vida Blue just about literally came out of nowhere to capture the imagination of the baseball world in September 1970, when he pitched a one-hitter against the Royals and a no-hitter (with only one walk) against the Twins within just a few weeks of being called up from the A's Triple-A Iowa farm team. By 1971, the high-kicking bad-ass lefty had become a veritable folk hero; on track at one point to win 30 games, he finished the season with a 24-8 record, a league-leading 1.82 ERA, 301 Ks and a .0952 WHIP in 312 innings, and a league-leading 8 shutouts, leading the A's to their first post-season appearance in 40 years. He started the All-Star Game for the American League against Dock Ellis (the first time the Midsummer classic had ever been started by two black pitchers), won the AL Cy Young and MVP award, was featured on the covers of Time, Sports Illustrated, Sport, Ebony and Jet, was immortalized in song by R&B singers Albert Jones and Jimmy Bee, and was even given a small part in a Jim Brown vehicle called Black Gunn.

Unfortunately, while things would continue to improve for the A's — to the tune of three straight World Series championships — things for their own "black gun" quickly became a lot more difficult. A's owner Charlie Finley, who'd unsuccessfully tried to get Blue to change his first name to True, refused his demand for a $100,000 salary (Blue made only $14,750 in '71), and negotiations quickly got ugly; Blue sat out the first part of the '72 season, even announcing at one point that he was quitting baseball to become the VP of Public Relations for the Dura Steel Products company, who sold plastic plumbing fixtures.

There was also talk of him co-starring with Richard Roundtree in one of the Shaft flicks, but Blue finally came back to the team in May, after settling for a $63,000 deal from Finley; he never quite found his groove, however, finishing the year 6-10 with a 2.80 ERA. Blue did bounce back well enough to win 20, 17 and 22 games over the '73-'75 seasons, but he never approached the stratospheric greatness of his '71 season; by now, he was merely a very good pitcher, posting an ERA above 3 each year. As with many of the A's players, dealing with the constant barking and meddling of Charlie Finley had taken a lot of the fun out of it for him. His cocaine use probably didn't help much, either.

The old Vida brilliance flashed a bit in 1976, when he went 18-10 with a 2.35 ERA, 20 complete games, 6 shutouts, and a 1.109 WHIP in 298.1 innings, his best season by far since '71. He might have even ended up in the World Series that year, if Finley had been successful in his attempt to sell him to the Yankees; alas, like the Rudi/Fingers sale to Boston, it was voided by the equally meddlesome Bowie Kuhn. Kuhn would also later scotch Finley's attempt to sell Blue to the Reds for outfielder Dave Revering and $1.75 million in cash, saying that there was too much money involved in the deal "for the good of the game." Finley was finally able to deal Blue away in early '78, sending him across the Bay to the Giants in return for seven mediocre players (including the shaven-headed Dave "Kojak" Heaverlo) and around $390,000 in cash. You see, Kuhn had proclaimed that no more than $400,000 could be involved in a transaction...

Blue had probably the third best season of his career in 1978, his first year with the Giants. He went 18-10 with a 2.79 ERA, was named starting pitcher for the NL in the All-Star Game, and placed third behind Gaylord Perry and Burt Hooton in the year's NL Cy Young balloting. But 1979 was a disaster; though he won 14 games, he posted an unsightly 5.01 ERA, the worst of any full season of his career. He seemed to find his groove again for a few years in the early 80s, but cocaine — which he'd been using with some regularity since the early 70s — finally caught up with him to the tune of jail time, and a suspension for the 1984 season; he finally retired in 1987 after being busted for a probation violation when drug tests turned up more cocaine in his system.

Blue finally got his shit together, thankfully, and has done some great charity work in recent years. But even though he retired with 209 career victories and a lifetime 3.27 ERA, one can't help but wonder how brightly he would have burned if it hadn't been for the dual-pronged negative influence of Charlie O. and, well, "charlie". Still, there's much joy to be had in remembering him in full-flight, like on this "In Action" card from 1972: He seems to be waiting for first baseman Mike Epstein to catch the final pop-out of the game, so he can seal another shutout before hopping in the limo to the Black Gunn set. Or as Albert Jones put it, "Whoo! Vida Blue!"

 

Vida Blue

(Click the bar above to hear "Vida Blue" by Albert Jones.)

 

 

Let's 'Fro Mets!!!

On this day in 1978, Johnny Bench — one of the greatest catchers of all time, and the best of the 70s in my opinion — hit his 300th career home run on his way to an eventual (and well-deserved) enshrinement in Cooperstown. The server of gopher ball #300 was Mets hurler Nino Espinosa, who would never be a Hall of Famer, but who certainly belongs in the Big Hair & Plastic Grass Hall of Fame for his impressive afro alone. But just when I was about to crown Nino's coif as the greatest Mets 'fro of all time, I ran across this photo of Billy Baldwin...

Baldwin — who just passed away a few weeks ago — didn't get much playing time in the Bigs, so you (or I) wouldn't be faulted for not remembering him. The Tigers called him up in late July '75 after he'd hit a combined .302 with 16 homers for their Montgomery and Evansville farm teams, and started him in right and center during August and September, as one of the worst Tigers clubs in history played out the string. He hit .221 with 4 homers and 8 RBI in 30 games for Detroit, who then shipped him to Queens in the off-season as a throw-in in the Mickey Lolich-for-Rusty Staub deal. He spent most of the '76 season the minors, but earned a late-season call-up to the Mets with a .271, 17 homer, 72 RBI performance at Tidewater. He posted a .273 mark with the Mets in September, but failed to catch on with the team the following spring — and despite turning in a nearly identical performance at Tidewater in '77, never played an inning in the Majors again. He did, however, leave us with this stunningly 'fro-tastic photo.

Rest in peace, Nino and Billy. May you both be grooving mightily on the Soul Train line in the next world.

Happy Biff Pocoroba Day!

1976 was the first year I started collecting baseball cards, and the above Topps card of the Braves' immortally-named Biff Pocoroba seemed to pop up in just about every pack I bought that summer. Not that I particularly minded it; I thought (and still do) that Atlanta's part-time catcher — he split the backstop duties that season with vets Vic Correll and Earl Williams — had one of the coolest baseball names I ever heard. And he looked so focused, so "pro" in his perfect catcher's squat, I didn't mind at all that the card photo appeared to have been taken on some nameless junior high school ballfield. If anything, it made him seem more relateable; during the short-lived period when I wanted to be a catcher, I fantasized not about nailing a runner at second like Johnny Bench, but being able to do a perfect squat like Biff Pocoroba.

Though often injured and not possessed of exceptional talent — his best season by a long shot was 1977, when he hit .290 with 24 doubles, 8 homers, 44 RBI and a .394 OBP in 113 games, though he also allowed a whopping 103 stolen bases — Biff managed to hang around for parts of 10 big-league seasons with the Braves, who finally released him a few games into the 1984 campaign. He didn't need a ticket to get into to the 1978 All-Star Game in San Diego, though NL skipper Tommy Lasorda basically just added him to the roster because he needed someone who could handle Phil Niekro's knuckler. Still, Biff acquitted himself well enough in the MId-Summer Classic, catching the entire 9th inning as Bruce Sutter and "Knucksie" finished off Jason Thompson, Fred Lynn and Darrell Porter in order to clinch the National League's 7-3 victory.

And, well, that was pretty much it for Biff, as injuries relegated him to backup status and/or the Disabled List for the rest of his major league ride. But that doesn't mean we can't celebrate his career — to say nothing of the totemic value of his name for baseball fans of a certain age — on this day, Biff Pocoroba's 58th birthday. Observe it by chanting his name, doing something decently but unspectacularly, or by squatting in the junior high school ballfield of your choice.

July 14, 1970: Rose Flattens Fosse

Forty-one years ago today, in the 12th inning of the 1970 All-Star Game at Cincinnati's brand new Riverfront Stadium, with the score tied 4-4, Pete Rose charlie hustled his way home from second on Jim Hickman's single to center. The ensuing collision at the plate between Rose and Indians catcher Ray Fosse resulted in a 5-4 victory for the National League, and a shoulder separation for Fosse.

It also resulted in a double-barrelled controversy that continues to this day: Was Rose's hit clean (and even if it was, was that kind of "win at all costs" aggression really appropriate for an "exhibition game")? And did Fosse's career suffer as a result of the collision? My take on the latter argument is that, while Fosse (a damned fine defensive catcher) continued to play through the end of '79, he was never the same sort of power threat after the collision. The 23 year-old catcher had hit 16 home runs before the 1970 All-Star break; he hit only two more afterwards, and never hit more than 12 in a season again — though Fosse's continued power outage was certainly compounded by several other injuries he incurred over the course of his career.

As for former argument, I pretty much have to leave it with: Fosse was blocking the plate, and it was Pete Rose in Cincinnati — what the hell else would you expect to happen?

 

It Was 32 Years Ago Tonight...

...that WLUP DJ Steve Dahl blew up a stack of disco records in the outfield at Comiskey Park, triggering a field invasion by hundreds of stoned rock fans. Equally thrilling and moronic, "Disco Demolition Night" has been endlessly debated ever since by pop cultural and social historians, many of whom continue to cast the event as a racist/homophobic rally and/or the final nail in the coffin of disco music. It was, in fact, neither. Disco continued to thrive well into 1980 — "We Are Family," the theme song of the Pittsburgh Pirates as they fought their way to a World Series championship in 1979, was about as disco as you could get — before going underground and mutating into house music, electro, etc., etc. And while some of the revelers in attendance may well have been racist or homophobic (working class white Chicagoans have never been known for their tolerance or open-mindedness), the event was really more about rock fans worrying that their precious rock n' roll was being supplanted by disco. Sure, it seems pretty silly now that anyone could have worried that Led Zeppelin or The Who would be somehow eradicated from the airways; but at the height of disco, this was a real worry for rockers of a conservative stripe.

There are several clips from "Disco Demolition Night" floating around on YouTube, but this one is my favorite. For one thing, you see the White Sox players on the field, preparing to play their second game of their double-header against the Tigers — only to retreat as the field suddenly swells with revelers. For another, you get to see and hear Sox broadcaster Jimmy Piersall completely lose his shit as the promotion gets way out of hand, and opining that there are many things (including swimming) that are more worthwhile than making an unauthorized dash onto a baseball diamond. In other words, it's a pretty priceless time capsule that's sure to make Chicagoans of a certain age chant "Coho! Coho!"

 

 

I Played Ball With A Zombie

Zombies: They're kind of a big deal these days. You've got AMC's The Walking Dead series, Seth Grahame-Smith's (and Jane Austen's) best-selling Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, and that's just the tip of the cranium-gnawing iceberg. Chicago-based artist Jeremy Scheuch has even created a thoroughly entertaining series of zombie baseball cards based upon classic players, my personal favorite being "Harold Brains."

But the other day, like the archaeologist in The Exorcist who unwittingly unearths and unleashes a long-dormant evil, I accidentally stumbled across Penn Emblem's series of baseball player patches, which appear to (however unintentionally) predate Mr. Scheuch's zombie ballplayer concept by several decades.

Produced in 1978 and 1979 by the Penn Emblem Co. of Philadelphia, these patches measured 2 3/4" by 3 1/4" — the sort of multi-colored, three-dimensional things you might sew onto the arm of your denim jacket underneath, say, your Led Zeppelin Swan Song logo or "Keep On Truckin'"patch. You could order 'em for $2.50 a pop, which seems kind of expensive for the time, especially given the rather shoddy "craftsmanship" involved.

Aside from being completely devoid of all but the vaguest visual reference to the players' teams (i.e., no cap logos or franchise names allowed, due to MLB's short-sighted licensing restrictions of the day), the players themselves are rendered with such ham-fisted crudeness that many of them appear to be, well, card-carrying, brain-eating members of the Undead union. Check out the first patch I found, one of Tigers slugger Jason Thompson, and tell me that his heavy-lidded yet unblinking stare doesn't chill you to the core:

"UNNNNGH!"

The next one I unearthed was the Zombie Rawly Eastwick, pictured up top, which may as well have the caption "BRAAAAAIIIIINS" sewn underneath it.

And then there's Zombie Lou Piniella, who seems momentarily stymied by a choice between fresh cerebellum or a meatball sandwich.

Zombie Larry Hisle'a blind, cat-like eyes remind me of something out of Val Lewton's immortal 1943 horror flick I Walked With A Zombie. And is that blood dripping from the left side of his mouth? 

To be sure, some of the players in the Penn Emblem sets look less than menacing. For example, I'd say this is a pretty fair approximation of Jim Palmer. 

And while this isn't the best picture of Dave Winfield ever drawn, it doesn't look particularly zomboid.

Whereas this All-Star foursome, if you start clockwise from Carlton Fisk, looks like a handy guide to various stages of zombie infection/cucumber paste ingestion. Pudge looks relatively normal (or perhaps freshly infected by a zombie bite); Pete Rose appears to be slowly losing consciousness; Rollie Fingers looks like he's completely lost his mind but hasn't yet felt the hunger for human flesh; while Dave Parker is clearly on the hunt for "BRAAAAAIIIIINNNS!!!"

Interestingly, Pete Rose is the only player of the sets who has multiple patches; Rose left Cincinnati for Philly at the end of '78, and I'm guessing the Phillies fans at Penn Emblem wanted to commemorate the move accordingly. 

His (former) teammate and rival Johnny Bench looks completely numbed by cucumber paste and ready for a brain feast.

And poor Rod Carew looks like someone slashed his face with a machete while trying to fend off his brain-eating advances.

But really, nothing can prepare you for the sheer horror of... FRANKENREGGIE. Seriously, what the hell is up with his face? It looks like he just got back from a particularly inept skin graft at the King/Drew burn unit. Given Mr. Jackson's legendary vanity, one can only imagine just how appalled he would have been by this egregiously awful depiction of his handsome mug.

Alas, Google searches for Garry Maddox, Reggie Smith and Amos Otis patches failed to turn up any exquisitely afro'd zombies. But it did turn up quite a few eBay auctions for other Penn Emblem "zombie ballplayer" patches — so if you're looking to add some to your collection (or your jeans jacket), they're definitely out there; just be prepared to fork over significantly more than the original $2.50 price for 'em. Out there as well, supposedly, is a Zombie Biff Pocoroba... and some day, one of us just may unearth him to wreak his mediocre havoc upon the world.

 

Dick Williams, R.I.P.

It is with a great sigh of sadness that Big Hair & Plastic Grass bids farewell to Hall of Fame manager Dick Williams, who reportedly passed away today of a brain aneurysm at the age of 82.

Williams had a fairly undistinguished playing career — though, despite a lifetime .260 batting average, he did manage to hang on for 13 years in the bigs — but he was an outstanding manager, winning 1571 times against 1451 losses for a career .520 winning percentage, and made it to the World Series four times: With Boston in '67, Oakland in '72-'73, and San Diego in '84. He was one of just seven managers in history to win pennants in both leagues, and one of only two major league managers to win pennants with three different teams. (The other? Bill McKechnie, who won the World Series with the Pirates in 1925 and the Reds in 1940, and made it to the Fall Classic with the Cardinals in '28.)

While I will always associate the hard-nosed Williams with Oakland's "Moustache Gang" dynasty — he led Reggie, Catfish, Rollie, Rudi, etc. to three straight AL West titles and two straight World Series championships, and surely would have won at least another ring with that team if he hadn't grown so sick of A's owner Charlie Finley's harassment and meddling — he also was the skipper of a very tough 1979 Expos squad that wasn't officially eliminated from the NL East race by the "We Are Family" Pirates until the last game of the season.

Of course, because I have a warped mind, I will also forever associate Williams with his January 2000 arrest for indecent exposure. While attending the World Series of Fantasy Baseball Camp in Fort Myers, Florida, guests at his hotel reportedly saw him masturbating in the nude on the balcony outside of his hotel room. (Hey, maybe that was his fantasy, amiright?) Williams angrily denied the masturbation charges, telling the New York Daily News that it was all "a terrible misunderstanding," but pleaded no contest in court.

The arrest probably delayed Williams' Hall of Fame for awhile, but the Veterans Committee had the good taste to finally induct him in with the class of 2008. After all, whatever he got up to in his free time, he was one of the greats: a true baseball man, and one definitely deserving of a place in Cooperstown. RIP, Dick.