Big Hair and Plastic Grass

Wallopin' and Boppin'

Hey, Everybody!

It's been a long time since I've posted over here, but I figure some folks may be stopping by to see if I have anything to say about Dick Allen and Dave Parker's election to the Hall of Fame.

I do indeed — but like everything else blog-related that I'm doing these days, you can find my thoughts on the matter over at Jagged Time Lapse, my Substack.

I write mostly about music over there, but baseball (at least, baseball of the 1970s) often finds its way into the conversation. I hope you'll join me over there if you haven't already, and maybe even become a subscriber...

Peace, Love and Soul,

Dan

 

 

A Glove Language

Though my wife Katie and I split up last year, we remain good friends. So when she asked if she could write an Opening Day guest post here in tribute to her late father Steve — a massive Braves fan who passed away in September 2020, a year before his team won their first World Series in 26 seasons — I was happy to oblige... 

For better or worse, the Atlanta Braves occupied a large part of the relationship I had with my dad. He rarely went a phone call or visit without an update on the current season, most of which were grim. The older I got, the more I spaced out during these "Braves du jour" talks. I always tried to throw in enough mmmhmms to seem like I was listening, but got called out every damn time. My dad would have been a great umpire, now that I think about it.

No question my dad was a loyal man — to the Braves and, more importantly, to me. My parents split when I was two, so the only life I remember is the one where he lived apart from me and my brothers. It was complicated, to say the least — much like being a Braves fan I suppose. It would take me decades to understand the difficulties of either situation. But there were two things I never doubted: My dad would always be there for me, and our summer vacations would always be to Atlanta for the annual worship of Braves baseball. (There was one summer he threw me a curveball and took us to Tampa Bay for the away game experience).

Before our pilgrimages to Fulton County Stadium and Turner Field began, my dad taught me and my brothers how to play baseball in the yard on weekends. He took us to many a minor league game, and even coached local little league teams well past my brother's tenure. And from the time my memory began until his memory ended there was a Braves game on the TV every visit. Baseball was and is a big part of my life because of him. It was a big part of my marriage, too, and I have him to thank for that. I wish I had told him that before he died. I wish I had told him a lot of things.

I wish so much had been different about it all. I wish he had seen the Braves take it all one more time. By the time I was permitted to visit him for what would be the last time, he didn't recognize the baseball game in front of him. But he recognized me and I am grateful for that. He died a few weeks later, leaving me with so many questions. One of them being why he talked so much about baseball and the Braves above so much else.

But I know now how difficult his life was, and I understand why it might have been easier to connect with me and those he loved over baseball instead of the pain and hurt I know he carried. The Atlanta Braves were my dad’s love language. Or Glove Language, if you will.

Losing him in what became a personal World Series of losses has led me back to the sport where it all began. And these days I don’t often have the words to share with those I love, either. But I found my way back to baseball and the Braves, both of which have become a comfort to me. I’ll carry the loves and losses always, glove in hand just like my Dad taught me. And while I strayed over the years and began a pretty heavy relationship with the Detroit Tigers along the way, I’ll still be pulling for the Braves to win it all. For Steve, forever.

 

 

 

 

 

The Trial Of Billy Jack

Today marks the 60th birthday of a Dodger pitcher that I'm guessing 99.9% of you have never heard of: Rex "Billy Jack" Hudson. It's kind of appropriate that the only decent-sized photo I could find makes him look like a ghost, because his mark on baseball history is as gauzy and vaporous as ectoplasm. But if you look close enough, it's there.

Drafted out of Tulsa, Oklahoma's Hale High School in 1971 at the age of 17, Hudson earned his "Billy Jack" nickname as a result of his penchant for wearing wide-brimmed western hats. Billy Jack, starring Tom Laughlin as the half-breed Navajo 'Nam vet who chop-sockys the shit out of some marauding bikers while wearing a fetching cowboy-hat-and-denim ensemble, was originally released that same summer, though the film wouldn't become a huge hit for another two years. Hudson, on the other hand, made an impression immediately, whiffing 127 batters while walking 26 and giving up only one home run in 90 innings for the Ogden Dodgers of the Pioneer (Rookie) League. In 1972, he pitched for the Dodgers' Single-A team in Bakersfield and their Double-A squad in El Paso; he also struck out 151 batters in 181 innings for the Double-A Waterbury Dodgers in '73. By 1974, Hudson was being touted as one of the Dodgers' hotter prospects; in late July, when Tommy John hurt his arm and went on the disabled list, the parent club called "Billy Jack" up for his first taste of life in the majors.

Quick pop culture aside #2: Hudson came up to the majors the week before The Hudson Brothers Show, a summer-replacement variety show starring the Hudson Brothers of "So You Are A Star" fame, debuted on CBS. Rex Hudson and these Hudsons were not related.

On July 27, with the Dodgers already down 5-0 to the Braves at Atlanta Fulton County Stadium, Dodger skipper Walter Alston sent Rex Hudson to the mound in the fifth inning to relieve Al Downing. Hudson did okay in his first major league inning, getting Darrell Evans and Hank Aaron to fly out, giving up a double to Dusty Baker, and then getting the immortal Marty "Taco" Perez to hit into a fielder's choice. Returning to the mound in the sixth, Hudson set the bottom of the Braves' lineup (Craig Robinson, Vic Correll and Phil Niekro) down in order.

If Hudson had done the same thing as a rookie call-up today, he most likely would have been taken out of the game at this point. But with the Dodgers (who were in first place in the NL West, 5 1/2 games over the Reds) seemingly unable to do much with Niekro's knuckler, Alston apparently wanted to give his regular bullpen guys a rest. Mike Marshall, the team's indefatigable fireman, had thrown 5.2 innings over the last two days, while losing both of the games that he appeared in; so perhaps there was some concern that "Iron Mike" was starting to falter, and that — with fellow reliever Jim Brewer already on the disabled list — bullpen hands Charlie Hough and Geoff Zahn would need to be well-rested in order to take over the workload. But whatever the reason, Alston sent Hudson back in to face the Braves... and that's where it all fell apart.

Ralph "Roadrunner" Garr, who'd come in to the game batting a NL-leading .358, led off the bottom of the seventh with a single, then scored on a double to right by Davey Johnson. Darrell Evans sent Johnson to third with a single to right, whereupon Hank Aaron crushed a Hudson pitch over the fence for a three-run homer, the 726th round-tripper of his career. Hudson was so shaken up by the Home Run King's mighty wallop that he promptly gave up another gopher ball, this time to Dusty Baker. With the score now 10-0 in the seventh, and still nobody out, Alston finally yanked Hudson and brought in Hough. The trial of Billy Jack had come to an end.

Aaron, ever the class act, tried to offer some comforting words to Hudson through the press. "Hey, I saw Koufax get bombed when he first came up back in Brooklyn," he told reporters after the game. "This kid has a good arm... He's probably going to be around for a long time." But it was not to be. Hudson stayed with the team until August 8, but didn't get into another game during his "cup of coffee". When Brewer came off the disabled list, Hudson was sent back to the Dodgers' Triple-A farm club in Albuquerque, which was where he stayed until the end of the 1977 season. After going 8-14 that year with a 5.42 ERA in 166 innings, Billy Jack was traded to the Minnesota Twins for reliever Bill Butler; by next spring, he would be out of baseball entirely, washed up at age 24 with a 22.50 lifetime major league ERA.

Still, who among us wouldn't like to have traded places with him for those two weeks in July/August 1974, seeing life in the big leagues from the dugout of a team that would eventually win the NL pennant? Billy Jack, we salute you.