La Vie En Robe

In The Basement With DJ Silky D

Our NC/SC vacation is over, but the good memories linger on — not the least of which was the totally rockin' engagement party for Miss Howerton and me, which was hosted by Mark Connor last week at The Cave, his extremely funky Chapel Hill basement dive.

Not only was it wonderful to catch up with old friends, but two of them — DJ Midnight Cowbwoy (aka Brian E. Harris) and DJ Suggadelic (aka Erik Sugg) — also raised the roof (as much as it was possible in a place called "The Cave") with a delicious array of righteous sounds. I also brought a stack of wax of my own to the party; and when I wasn't too busy enjoying the conversations and libations, my DJ alter-ego Silky D enjoyed some time on the wheels of steel. And since I somehow managed to keep my 45s in order after I spun them, here's the playlist from my "set":

UFO — Doctor Doctor

The Move — Do Ya

Queen — You’re My Best Friend

Eddie Money — Think I’m In Love

Flamin’ Groovies — I Can’t Hide

The Floaters — Float On

Van Halen — Dance The Night Away

Raspberries — Go All The Way

Bee Gees — Jive Talkin’

Benny Mardones — Into the Night

Beach Boys — I Can Hear Music

Hollies — On a Carousel

Left Banke — She May Call You Up Tonight

The Kinks — Till the End of the Day

Pawnee Drive — Ride

Creedence Clearwater Revival — Long As I Can See the Light

Once again, I'd like to thank everyone who came out to celebrate with us — and of course Mark for letting us have the party there, and Brian and Erik for schlepping their records and gear to Chapel Hill. It was a truly unforgettable evening, and Miss Howerton and I were deeply honored to share the good times and good vibes with y'all.

(photo by Jay Winfrey)

Show Me The Way To St. Louis

October is here, and with it comes all sortsa baseball madness — especially this year, it would seem. My latest High and Tight column for Rolling Stone Online takes a look at the sublime craziness of the first week of the postseason — and it was written before Raul Ibanez belted his way into the history books, or the Oakland A's burnished their "team of destiny" credentials by pulling off a come-from-behind victory to stay alive against the increasingly frustrating Detroit Tigers.

The St. Louis Cardinals are in the mix as well; even if they no longer have Tony Scott and Garry Templeton (pictured above in a wonderful 1979 Walter Iooss photo) and no longer play on Astroturf, they're still pretty fun to watch right now, especially if you have less-than-positive feelings for the Washington Nationals. (Yeah yeah, I know, they're descendents of the Montreal Exposl but gimme Ellis Valentine over Bryce Harper, any day.) St. Louis has to be rocking with playoff fever at this point, and I'm heading right into the thick of it — or, at least, the outskirts...

Thanks to the friendly folks at the Steelville Arts Council, I will be doing a reading and signing event for Big Hair and Plastic Grass tomorrow night (that's Friday, October 12) in Steelville, MO. The shindig will be held at the newly-opened Gallery Zeke on 106 East Main Street (next to MO Hick BBQ) in Steelville, and starts at 7:30 pm. Junction 19 will kick off the good times with an acoustic set — the first time I've ever had an opening band for one of my readings — and then I'll take the stage around 8 to preach the 70s baseball gospel, followed by a Q&A session. The new paperback edition of the book will be on sale, and beer, wine and appetizers will be served — click HERE for more details. Oh yeah: The event is FREE and open to the public.

It's the only event I'm doing in the St. Louis area, and the last reading I'll be doing this year. And need I mention that an autographed copy of Big Hair & Plastic Grass would make a great gift for that baseball fan on your Christmas list? Hope to see ya there...

Memoirs of a Reluctant Catcher, Part Four

(Author's note: I meant to finish up this series of Cubs Fantasy Camp diaries, uh, three weeks ago — didn't mean to let it sit so long, but deadlines and other life stuff got in the way. So apologies if you've been waiting for the final cleat to fall; and if you're just tuning in now, you might wanna go back and start here to get the complete context.)

As we were packing up after losing the one-game camp playoff championship on Friday afternoon, I realized that I still had no idea if I was going to be playing in "The Big Game" the next day against the coaches. I approached our coach, Rick Reuschel, in the clubhouse afterwards. "So, Big Daddy," I asked, "what's up for tomorrow?" "Oh, you're definitely playing, Theo," he replied. "Be here and ready to go at 9 a.m.!" Which is great news — except for the fact that I haven't caught live pitching since, oh, 1976 or so.

A little background on "The Big Game": Each year, at the end of the camp session, the fantasy campers face off against their ex-major leaguer coaches at Hohokam Stadium (pictured above) where the Chicago Cubs play their Spring Training home games. Some of the coaches are too old or too racked by the aches and pains accumulated during their own careers to actually play, so their ranks are usually bolstered by a few minor leaguers from the Cubs' system; campers who have been coming to the camp for 10 years are more are also offered the option of playing an inning or two in the field with the coaches.

Each of the eight camp teams gets an inning in the field and at the plate — rather than being limited to three outs, your team goes through its entire batting order, trying to score as many runs as you can before your turn is up. The coaches, on the other hand, play the whole game and follow the standard three-outs-per-inning format. In the thirty years since Randy Hundley founded the camp, campers have beaten the coaches exactly once...

Saturday morning arrives (maybe a bit too early, when one factors in the martinis and wine consumed during our celebratory team dinner at Morton's Steakhouse on Friday night), and I don my "home" pinstripes for the first time since my arrival. After one more round of game wrap-ups and stories at the Fitch clubhouse, we head over to Hohokam. It's a gorgeous, glorious, picture-perfect Arizona day, and we mill about the field waiting for the lineup announcements and the national anthem, shooting the shit with each other and taking photos. (That's Big Daddy Reuschel and yours truly, above.) Even if you've been here before, you can't help feeling a little awestruck when you look out over the perfectly-manicured field, and then turn around to see players like Jose Cardenal warming up...

Since our team finished second in the camp standings, we'll bat and field in the second inning. Coaches sometimes pitch to their own teams, and I was hoping that Big Daddy would pitch to us during our at-bats, but no dice; his knees and shoulder are giving him too much trouble. Instead, we get to hit against... Lee Smith. Yep, the seven-time All-Star who led the league in saves in four different seasons,  eventually amassing 478 of them over an 18-year career, and who at 54 years of age still looks like he could fill the bill for any major league team looking to shore up their bullpen. So basically, I'm the last batter up for our team — and the first live arm I've face in two years belongs to Lee Arthur Smith. Damn.

"Now batting, Dan Epstein!" announces Jim Volkman on the PA, and it's time for my date with destiny. "When the hell did YOU get here?" laughs the umpire, and I realize that it's my pal Jon DeBellis behind the mask, who I met at camp in 2010 but who wasn't working either of my games yesterday. "Thursday night," I tell him. "Late-season call-up, baby!" "Nice to have you here," he says, as I dig in against Lee Smith. There were whispers in the dugout that Lee would serve you some chin music if you smiled at him, so I'm keeping my expression suitably grim. In truth, he's pretty much just lobbing them in there, though the ball is still "moving" — and just his mere presence on the mound is intimidating as all hell. I don't come within a foot of the first two strikes he throws me, but I somehow connect with the third one, hitting a sharp grounder up the middle.

What happens next is a bit of a blur; I think somebody must've bobbled the ball, because I reach first without a throw, at which point someone yells to me, "You're the last batter — you can keep running!" So I do. My pal Jerry Gaul, a longtime camper, is playing short for this inning, and he mimes a beautiful Keystone Kops "missed tag" on me as I round second. What the hell, I think — I may as well try for home! The former major leaguers, who up 'til now have been taking the game very casually, shout for Jerry to tag me... and by the time he finally stops me, about halfway between third and home, we're both giggling like little kids.

Jim Angell, our team's shortstop during the week, will be pitching during our inning in the field, so we commiserate beforehand about what kind of pitches he'll be throwing. "I've got three pitches," he tells me, "A four-seamer, a two-seamer, and a circle change." Jim, a lovely guy, does indeed have those three pitches — what he doesn't have, unfortunately, is any degree of accuracy. After a couple of walks, I take it upon myself to make a catcherly trudge out to the mound and make sure we're on the same page. "Let's just try for fastballs down the middle, until I can get this straightened out," he laughs. Good plan...

What follows is a series of walks, hits, wild pitches, passed balls and other mishaps, punctuated occasionally by a sweet strike from Jim or an excellent defensive play from our guys in the field. The coaches score five or six runs off us, but rather than brood about it, I'm just enjoying the chance to bullshit with the former players as they come up to the plate.

"How do you like catching?" Todd Hundley asks, tapping my shinguards with his bat. "Think you'll do it again?" I laugh and tell him I have no idea how he did it for so many years. "I'm gonna take pity on you and try to hit into a double-play," announces Keith Moreland, though that plan goes out the window once Jim buzzes him inside and rekindles Zonk's competitive fire. "Where do you want it, Willie?" I ask when Willie Wilson steps to the plate. "Oh man, if only it were that easy," he sighs, before stroking a vicious double to right-center. "You gonna steal against me?" I ask Ron Coomer, who thinks about it for a comically long minute. "No," he laughs.

Okay, so the campers never really recover from the deficit our team spots the coaches — the "celebrity team" led by Eddie Vedder do actually hold the coaches to a 1-2-3 inning with no runs or hits — but it's a total blast, and it's over way too soon. I hang around the dugout and take some more pics, including this one below with the aforementioned Mr. Vedder. (Eddie, I'm sorry that I can't stand your band, but you are unquestionably a sweet and righteous dude.)

My favorite moment of the day comes about half-way through the game, when I spy Billy Williams relaxing in front of the coaches' dugout. About 15 years ago, when I first started buying throwback jerseys, the very first one I ever purchased was a Mitchell & Ness repro of a 1969 Billy Williams jersey. I brought it to camp with me, just to give Miss Howerton the option of wearing it during the games, having no idea that Billy would actually show up. But now that he's here, I know I can't leave Arizona without getting the sweet-swinging Hall of Famer to sign it.

Billy has, by all accounts, been an absolute joy to be around since he arrived mid-week to sub for fellow Hall of Famer Fergie Jenkins; yet I don't think I've been this nervous about asking for a player's autograph since I saw Gates Brown in the stands at a University of Michigan game in the mid-70s. There's nothing to be nervous about, though; I tell him about how it's the first throwback jersey I ever bought, and he lets out a big "Heh heh heh!", like I just told him a dirty joke or something. While he's signing it, his old Cubs teammate (circa '72-'74) Jose Cardenal asks me how I did in the game; I shrug and say something self-deprecating about letting a few passed balls go by, but Billy's having none of it. "Aw, you good, you good," he says, patting me on the back. My inner fourth-grader is now officially floating about five feet off the ground...

Towards the end of the game, Billy makes a surprise pinch-hit appearance in the coaches' lineup, and hits a textbook-perfect double down the right field line to clinch the coaches' victory. That night, at the annual end-of-camp banquet, he delivers — in a voice so honeyed and heartfelt it would shame Pops Staples — an incredibly moving speech about the late Ron Santo, who will finally join Billy and Fergie and Ernie Banks in the Hall of Fame this summer. It's the highlight of the evening, though getting called up to the podium, along with the rest of my teammates, by our coaches Glenn Beckert and Rick Reuschel — the latter of whom announces to the room that I've been nicknamed "Theo" because Theo Epstein and I look so much alike — is pretty great, too. We all get baseballs autographed by the coaches to take home; mine was signed twice by Jose Cardenal, which I figure must be some kind of good luck charm.

The evening ends with a good old-fashioned karaoke knees-up at the hotel bar, where — remembering my missed opportunity in 2010 — I attempt to convince Keith Moreland to sing a duet with me. "Hey Zonk, will you do a song with me?" I ask. "Aw, I don't know," he says, "I'm not really a singer." "How 'bout 'We're an American Band' by Grand Funk Railroad?" Moreland's eyes light up. "You know," he says, "that's a really good song!" Twenty minutes later, the Cubs' color commentator and I are bringing the house down with our rendition of the finest road debauchery rock song ever written. It's a beautiful, surreal, magical moment...

It's been a month now since Cubs camp, and not a day goes by where I don't think about my experience. I haven't made it back to the batting cages yet — my cat Oscar, pictured above, has adopted my rubber thumb guard as his new favorite plaything — but I'm already thinking about getting my swing together for next January. I'm also thinking about two of my friends from Cubs camp, Bobby "Skates" Farinelli and Kevin Mallehan, who are dealing with some unexpected and most unwelcome health issues at the moment. When we hung out at camp, Skates was lamenting his dead legs and general lack of energy — turns out he was dealing with thyroid-triggered heart failure. "My doctor told me, 'You probably should have died on the ballfield in Arizona,'" reports Skates, who happily seems to now be on the mend. "He said, 'You’re either very tough, or very stubborn.' Of course my wife piped in 'or very stupid!'" Kevin, on the other hand, seemed fine and happy at camp, but he's recently been diagnosed with a brain tumor, and has to go in for surgery tomorrow. Kevin's doctors thankfully seem very encouraging about his prospects; but if you're the praying type, a prayer for my boys Skates and Kevin would definitely be appreciated.

It's easy enough to joke about fantasy baseball camp as some mid-life crisis manifestation, or a place where baseball fans pay a lot of money to relive the glories of their youth, or belatedly make up for the fact that they never made it to "The Show". There's some truth to all of this, of course, but such a flat assessment fails to factor in all the joy that also comes with the territory, that mainlined hit of pure Ernie Banks-style positivity that Skates, Kevin, all my other Cubs camp pals and I feel when we put on that uniform and head out onto the field. The good times and sweet memories you bring back stay with you, and remind you to savor those moments of childlike delight that can enrich your everyday life, if you'll only just get out and play — whether it's baseball or anything else that makes you giggle like a little kid again. Because, as Skates' and Kevin's situations remind me, the period between your first pack of baseball cards and your final innings are way too short, and you've gotta enjoy it while you still can. So let's play ball, y'all...

 

Memoirs of a Reluctant Catcher, Part Three

The last time I was at Randy Hundley's Cubs Fantasy Camp, I led the camp in nicknames: "Eppy," "Pepi," "Juan," "Dynamite," "Samardizja" and "Haircut" were among the things I was called, but the one that stuck was "Wheels," which — in the time-honored tradition of calling a big player "Tiny" — derived from the fact that I was painfully, comically slow on the basepaths. Bobby Dernier, my coach in 2010, even claimed that he timed me going from second to home on a play, and that it took me over a minute; if he was exaggerating, it admittedly wasn't by much.

This time, however, the nickname is "Theo" — which, given the fact that the Cubs' new president of baseball operations is by far the most high-profile (and possibly the only) Epstein in franchise history, makes perfect sense. Theo Epstein and new manager Dale Sveum visited the camp earlier in the week, but are gone by the time I arrive.

"So, are you any relation...?" Rick "Big Daddy" Reuschel asks me, early in my first game with his team.

"Yeah, he's my Dad," I wisecrack.

"Really?"

"No."

"Oh, so you're funnin' me," says Big Daddy, shooting me an annoyed look. Even though Theo Epstein is seven years younger than me, and we look nothing alike, I feel like kind of a jerk for funnin' Big Daddy. Mr. Reuschel is a man of few words, but let's just say that he has no problem communicating...

In any case, I am now "Theo" to one and all. "Wheels" wouldn't be appropriate anymore, anyway; having dropped around 15 pounds since my last time in camp, I can actually get around the bases at a pretty fair clip these days. And since I'm the only one in camp with fresh legs at this point, I can probably out-run about half the folks here.

After making a quick drive-thru run to Aliberto's for some killer burritos, Miss Howerton and I return to Fitch Field, and make a bee-line to the diamond where my team will be playing the Ron Coomer-Keith Moreland squad for the camp championship.

"As your punishment for showing up to camp late, you're going to catch for BOTH teams," jokes Coomer, giving me a hug as I step onto the field. All of the former players at camp are pretty approachable, but Coom is far and away one of the coolest, friendliest and most down-to-earth people I've ever met — so much so, in fact, that when we ran into him at the camp BBQ on Thursday night, Miss Howerton figured he was just one of the campers.

In further testament to his utter righteousness, Coom volunteers to give me additional instruction regarding my newfound backstop duties. "You're crouching too far back from the plate," he says. (This surprises me, though later examination of Miss Howerton's photos will prove him correct.) "Move up about another foot, foot and a half; that way, the pitches from the machine will come in to you at chest-high, rather than drop in on your legs."

"C'mon, Coom — whose team are you on?" cracks someone from his squad.

Coom laughs, then continues with our impromptu catching workshop. "Don't worry — you won't be close enough for the bat to hit you. Trust me, I wouldn't steer you wrong."

True to his word, Coom's instruction leads to a far easier catching experience, though early on in our game I get lazy or space out and forget to pull my right hand behind my back, and immediately receive a foul tip off my thumb for my insolence. "Gotta get that hand back," shouts Keith Moreland, who caught more than a few games during his time in the majors. Luckily, my thumb is just bruised, not broken or split; in any case, that's the kind of mistake you only need to make once.

"You never caught before? You look like Yogi Berra back there," Big Daddy tells me.

"I kinda feel like him, too," I reply.

"What, 90 years old?" he laughs.

My counterpart on the Coomer-Morelands, Len DiGati, is catching his first game of the week, filling in for their regular catcher who's out with a bad leg. He's also gracious enough to catch a few plays for our team while I'm busy struggling with my shinguards. When I thank him later, he says he's been wanting to meet me.

"I read all your blogs about the last time you were here," he tells me. "I was trying to decide whether or not to come here, but your blogs totally pushed me over the edge."

"So, did it live up to your expectations?" I ask.

"It's been even better than I imagined," he says.

I know the feeling.

It'll take a few more games behind the plate to get the hang of catching pop fouls, however. "Theo!" Big Daddy shouts from first, after a batter pops one up behind the plate, but I have absolutely no idea where the hell the damn thing is; I frantically whip my head around in both directions, trying to spot the ball, but only succeed in making myself dizzy. Not that I could have gotten to it in time, mind you...

Still, pop fouls are the least of our team's worries. Both squads are running on fumes at this point, but we're even more out of gas than they are. There's one inning early on where everyone on the field (even Big Daddy, who's once again playing first base) seems to make an error, mental or otherwise, and the Coomer-Morelands pull away to a quick lead. And then our bats start to go cold, mine included; I get on base via an error at one point, and smack a sweetly sizzling grounder up the middle in the fifth as we attempt to mount a rally, but I never make it past second base.

All of a sudden, it's 14-6 with two out in the last inning, nobody on, and I'm up. I take a deep breath and try to savor the moment; I don't know yet if I'll be allowed to play in the campers-vs.-coaches "Big Game" tomorrow, so this might be my last chance to swing a bat at camp. Unfortunately, for the first time all day, I find myself thinking about the mechanics of my swing; instead of just "see ball, hit ball," I try to put more weight on my back foot while simultaneously swinging harder...and as a result, I pop an easy fly to the first baseman. The game's over, and we've lost the championship. I feel bad for my teammates; an eight-run deficit would've been hard to make up, but I wish I could have gotten on base and given at least one or two of our guys a chance to take a few more cuts. There's also the brief bitter flashback to making the last out in Little League games, something I did more times than I care to count "back in the day"...

But once I hurl my batting helmet away in frustration, that's all behind me. I just got to "play two," as Ernie Banks would say, and had a total blast doing it. My new teammates, especially Don Carlson, Jim Angell, Ron Hoyle, Joe Fath and brothers Adam and Paul Ferguson, have made me feel really welcome, and the guys who beat us all seem like good guys, as well. And hey, we did beat the hell out of the "Celebrity Team" this morning. Just another life-affirming day at the ol' ballpark, then.

On the way back to the clubhouse, I run into Skates, my older brother from another mother. He's got a whole cheering section with him this year — his wife and two sisters, all of whom are attired in custom-made shirts reading "Skates" and emblazoned with a charicature of him trying to catch a ball while wearing rollerskates on his cleats. We didn't get to play together or against each other this year, which bums us both out a bit; but hopefully, we'll get the chance next year.

Back in the clubhouse, I sign and pass out a few copies of Big Hair & Plastic Grass — including one to Ed Lynch, who'd been so supportive of the project when I was here in 2010, and one to Eddie Vedder. In return, Eddie gives me a commemorative Pearl Jam notebook, filled with pictures and lyrics. "It's just a little something," he shrugs. He signs it, "All Hail The 'Fro — Eddie Vedder." Right on, Eddie.

Jose Cardenal — whose own 'fro has long departed — is sitting next to Eddie's locker. Lynch takes my book and shows it to him. "Hey, Jose," he says, pointing to the 'fro-tastic photo of Oscar Gamble on the cover, "I don't have my glasses — is that you?" "Aww, fushyoumang," grunts Jose, while Lynchie dissolves in a fit of laughter.

A few minutes later, I spy Billy Williams leafing through my book. I'm too awestruck to even introduce myself, but he looks up and gives me a nod and a Buddha-like smile. Pete LaCock comes over to look at the book, as well. "Big Hair?" he crows, "I had the BEST hair in the 70s!"

"Yeah, man, you were looking good!" I reply.

"Am I in your book?"

Oh, shit. I start to tell him that he's mentioned with the Royals in a chapter or two, but he goes straight for the index and starts looking for his name.

"Lerrin LaGrow... I'm not in there. Wait, Bill Lee's in there like ten times? You put that asshole in, and not me?"

Er, sorry, Pete. It feels like a good time to leave the clubhouse. But as I slink out the door, Jose Cardenal taps me on the elbow. "Joo did good today," he says, nodding solemnly.

Out in the parking lot, Miss Howerton greets me with a kiss. "Hey, get a room!" hollers a voice from the other side of the lot. I already know that, when I turn to look, I'll see Ron Coomer laughing his ass off. And I do.

 

 

Memoirs of a Reluctant Catcher, Part Two

 

(Above: Me catching, with Eddie Vedder at the plate.)

Back in the mid-1970s, when I first fell in love with baseball, I dreamed of playing catcher for a big league team. Not only did some of the best and most colorful players of the era squat behind the plate — guys like Johnny Bench, Thurman Munson, Carlton Fisk, Ted Simmons and Manny Sanguillen, to name a few — but the idea of the catcher as the "captain of the defense" really appealed to my inner Napoleon. And then there was the gear that came with the position — not just the special glove, but the whole bad-ass body armor ensemble, which could make even a relative scrub like Biff Pocoroba look like a man to be reckoned with.

My Little League catching career was short-lived, however; like, "one game" short-lived. The dream started to unravel before our 1977 season even began, when my coach had me warm up a pitcher on the sidelines — but without a mask, since our team's budget only afforded us one of those, and it was currently in use by our starting catcher. Failing to get my glove on an 11 year-old's attempt at a curveball, I took it squarely in the side of the noggin, triggering an expletive-laden tantrum that was a deep shade of blue even by my youthful standards. It also triggered a fear of the ball that stood me in lousy stead once I actually donned "the tools of ignorance" and caught a few innings in a real game; I think I caught most of the pitches that were thrown to me in that game...but only after they bounced off the screen behind me and ricocheted back towards the plate.

From then on — with the exception of a brief but equally unsuccessful attempt at becoming a 12 year-old junkballer — it was strictly IF/OF for me. During my previous visit to Randy Hundley's Cubs Fantasy Camp in 2010, I spent most of the games at second base (a position I can handle pretty well) and far right field (a position that, given our four-man outfield setup, adequately hides my lack of speed). So I figure that, this time around, I'll just tell my new teammates and coach that they'd be best off putting me at second or in right.

Of course, as I quickly realize, you can't just appear in camp on the last day of the season and decide where you'd like to play. When I show up at the Fitch Field clubhouse at 8:45 on Friday morning, my coach — Rick "Big Daddy" Reuschel — reiterates that I'll be catching today...in both games.

"Big Daddy, I've never caught a game in my life," I protest, lying only slightly.

"Then this is a great time for you to learn," he chuckles. He also mentions that we're in contention for the camp championship, and we'll most likely need to win both games in order to take home the trophy. So, you know, no pressure.

My stomach is beginning to churn audibly at the prospect, but I feel a little better once I don my blue Cubs road jersey (emblazoned with #8, in honor of Joe Pepitone) take a stool in the meeting room next to my pals Paul Malek, Beth Chaplin, and Bobby "Skates" Farinelli. Paul was my double-play partner in 2010, and though both Beth and Skates played on another team that year, they're dear pals of mine as well — Skates even made the four-hour drive from Iowa to come to one of my Big Hair & Plastic Grass Chicago events in 2010, and I hung out with him and Beth in Minneapolis last summer at a Twins game, followed by a legendarily festive evening with Ron Coomer, his wife Paula, and several other Cubs campers.

The morning clubhouse meeting is exactly like how I remembered it. The coaches take turns running down the games from yesterday, alternately praising their players and fining them for a variety of comical infractions. This year's crop of coaches include former players Bobby Dernier, Ed Lynch, Pete LaCock, Jose Cardenal, Lee Smith, Todd Hundley, Willie Wilson, Larry Biittner, Carmen Fanzone, Ron Coomer, Keith Moreland, Glenn Beckert and Rick Reuschel — all of whom were here in 2010 — and Hall of Famer Billy Williams, who arrived late in the week to fill in for a now-departed Fergie Jenkins. Joe Pepitone, who was supposed to participate in 2010 and didn't, apparently showed up for two days this year and then disappeared. Thus, my treasured copy of Joe, You Coulda Made Us Proud remains sadly unautographed...

With Randy Hundley acting as MC, some of the coaches also offer up a few war stories from their playing days. Hundley Sr. tries to get Cardenal to re-tell his famous "Ham and Eggs" story (about how he ordered that dish virtually ever day during his first season in the minors, because he didn't know enough English to order anything else); but Jose has been suffering from a bad cold and can barely speak, so he calls upon Eddie Vedder to serve as his "interpreter". Vedder, a close friend of the Cuban outfielder, proceeds to tell the whole story in a hilariously note-perfect approximation of Cardenal's Chico Esquela-esque patois.

On my way out of the clubhouse after the meeting, someone stops me and lets me know that Robert Hegyes, aka "Epstein" of Welcome Back, Kotter fame, has passed away at the too-young age of 60. Though I had no love for the Epstein character — or for the amount of times I got called "Juan" in school because of him — I inwardly decide to dedicate my first game to my pop-culture namesake.

We're scheduled to face Vedder's team (coached by Cardenal and LaCock) in the Friday morning game. As anyone who knows me (or has ever read this blog) can probably tell you, I am not a Pearl Jam fan, to say the least. But I've gotta give it up for Eddie — not only can the guy cover some serious ground in centerfield, but he also turns out to be a genuinely sweet and open guy. His teammate, my friend Bryan Redington, introduces us in the dugout before the game, and tells Eddie about Big Hair & Plastic Grass; we immediately begin to riff on Oscar Gamble, Bake McBride, and the fact that we both have the best hair in camp. He then proceeds to take a hit away from me during my first at-bat of the game, spearing a sinking liner to dead center, but I can't really hold it against him. Is it possible to recognize a kindred spirit in someone, even if you can't stand their art?

Having taken the precaution of visiting a batting cage right before the trip to Mesa, I'm already swinging the bat as well or better than I ever did in 2010. It's one frozen rope after another for me, two of which drop for hits and kick off big innings for us. "Larry told me you couldn't hit a lick," chuckles Big Daddy, after I make it safely to first for the second time in the game. While we're laughing, Vedder's bodyguard nails me lounging off of first with the "hidden ball" trick. But Big Daddy claims that he called time out, and thankfully the umpire buys it.

Two plays later, I cross home plate for the second time today, and we're well on our way to a 20-10 hammering of the "Celebrity Team". Everyone on our team contributes, but it's Joe Fath, our stellar left fielder and cleanup hitter, who leads the way with a single, two triples, and an inside-the-park home run. We have qualified for a spot in the one-game championship playoff!

Unlike the three other games happening in camp, ours is fairly well-attended, mostly by curious fans who want to see Vedder, John Cusack and Chris Chelios play. For the record, Vedder's a very good player, and Chelios was reportedly playing great until he busted his ankle; Cusack (pictured below) hit some ropes in our game, but the consensus seems to be that he's, er, much less of a natural ballplayer than Vedder or Chelios.

I've gotta say — it's really nice to play a winning game in front of a crowd, but it's even better to play a winning game with your girlfriend cheering you on and blowing you kisses from the stands, which is something I've truly never experienced before. (Thanks for the support, Miss Howerton, and thank you as well for taking these awesome action shots.)

Oh yeah — this catching thing, while not easy, is a lot more fun than I thought it would be. It helps that we're not allowed to steal in our games, of course, and that I'm catching balls thrown by a (relatively) accurate pitching machine, but it's still a fairly rigorous position. You're literally involved in every play, every pitch, and catching keeps you on your toes (and on your knees) in a way that no other position does. The other team's leadoff hitter fouls one off my mask on the third pitch of the game...but much to my surprise, it doesn't hurt at all. Much more painful are the sinking pitches that land on my right thigh; my weak knees won't allow me to do a full catcher's squat, so I'm essaying a combination Manny Sanguillen/Randy Hundley stance, with my right knee down and my right hand behind my back. This leaves my upper right thigh relatively unprotected, though, and by the end of the day I'll have a bruise on my thigh running from knee to groin, looking like a sideways map of Great Britain fashioned from corned beef. But the satisfying "Thwhomp!" I hear everytime the ball lands in the mitt's sweet spot more than compensates for the pain.

The only drag about catching that I hadn't anticipated is that, with all the putting on and taking off of the shinguards and chest protector, you wind up missing a lot of the actual game — and you spend a lot of time anticipating when your next at-bat will be, so that you'll have all the equipment off in time to head to the plate. By the same token, you don't wanna "take it all off" and have the inning end before you get up to bat, and then have to put it all back on again. Thanks mucho to Rob Skinner, our opponent's impressively bearded catcher (pictured below), who not only gave me several helpful hints about donning the "tools of ignorance," but also volunteered on a couple of occasions to fill in for me on the field while I got my shit together in the dugout. That same spirit of friendliness and cooperation seems pretty widespread in camp this year, and that's truly a beautiful thing.

 

Memoirs of a Reluctant Catcher, Part One

The original plan was just to spend a long, relaxing weekend in Mesa, AZ, cheering on my pals as they played out their final games at Randy Hundley's Cubs Fantasy Camp, and enjoying dinner and drinks with them afterwards. And then, two days before I was planning to hit the road, the injury reports started piling up in my inbox. "Wheels, bring your uniform," was the basic gist. "Everybody's getting hurt. We might need you to fill in!"

And so it is that Miss Howerton and I set off across the desert on Thursday morning, Boston and the Bee Gees blasting from my iPod (with some Flying Burrito Brothers on deck for the Joshua Tree-adjacent section of our trip), and my regulation Cubs home and road jerseys hanging in the window. The drive from LA to Mesa is, for the most part, a total pleasure. I think, with the right company and proper soundtrack, I could probably drive across the desert forever. The passing mountains, rock formations, and (in Arizona, at least) silent armies of saguaro cacti never fail to put my heart and mind in a state of peaceful contentment.

Other than a brief detour outside of Cabezon for gas and snacks, and a couple of bathroom breaks, our only real driving break comes in Blythe, CA, where we stop for lunch at the Courtesy Coffee Shop, which was highly recommended by my friends Gerry & Ante. (Thanks, Wendels!) A down-at-the-heels Googie-style diner, the place was probably a real knockout in its day, but still retains plenty of faded period charm...

Good sandwiches, too, though their fries have clearly fallen prey to the same "coated and seasoned" plague that has afflicted so many restaurants, great and small, from coast to coast. Should've ordered the onion rings instead. Ah, well... The other great thing about the Courtesy is their "Cocktail Lounge" sign, which is missing an "o" — I take it as a good omen, since we'll probably be doing a fair amount of cocktail lunges before the weekend is over.

The last 90 minutes of the drive — which involves fighting our way inch-by-inch through Phoenix-area rush hour traffic — just intensifies the need for one of those aforementioned cocktails. Happily, we arrive at the Dobson Ranch Inn just in time for the annual camp BBQ, that time of the week when the coaches man the grills and cook up a mountain of burgers, brats, Italian sausage, chicken breasts and veggie patties for the hungry campers...and there's always plenty of liquid refreshment on hand, as well. 

We say hello to quite a number of my old pals from 2010 (including coaches Bobby Dernier, Ron Coomer and Pete LaCock), and all the conversations pretty much hit on the same two points: The list of casualties from the week thus far, and how this year's "Celebrity Team" — whose roster includes Pearl Jam frontman Eddie Vedder, actor John Cusack and retired hockey star Chris Chelios — held a massive karaoke blowout at the hotel bar last night, in honor of Chelios' 50th birthday. Other guests included Cubs hurler Ryan Dempster and actors DB Sweeney and John C. McGinley; by all accounts we missed the party of the year, or at very least the surreal spectacle of Chelios (who looks like he's about 30, btw) and Dempster serenading Vedder with his own songs...

It isn't too surprising to hear the litany of injuries currently afflicting the campers; as I discovered during my week-long baseball fantasy camp foray in 2010, the fantasy camp experience will definitely blow your mind — but it may quite possibly blow your hamstring, as well. You play hard, at least 14 innings a day; and even if you're in decent shape and/or lucky enough make it through the week relatively unharmed, you may still find your body increasingly refusing to co-operate with your desire to play. ("Dive for that ground ball? Fuck YOU, pal.")

This year, however, two of my favorite teammates from 2010 are already relegated to the DL. Scotty Marks, always one of the fastest guys in camp, took a tumble on Tuesday while trying to beat out a groundball, and wound up having to have extensive surgery on his hand; by the time I make it to camp, he's already gone home. Jerry Cook, who anchored us at third base in 2010, has locked up his back so badly, he's decided to head home Friday morning to see his doctor. Larry Malcolmson, our catcher and team leader, isn't hurt, but he also has to leave on Friday due to some pressing business appointments.

With Jerry and Larry splitting town, their team is now down to eight players — and since the camp games are played with a four-man outfield, this leaves them at a one-man disadvantage, even with team coach Rick "Big Daddy" Reuschel taking over in the field at first base. (Glenn Beckert, the team's other coach, is in no shape to play.) Jerry, Larry and Big Daddy have arranged for me to fill in as a "late-season call-up," playing the last two games of the camp session for the Reuschel-Beckert squad. However, there's a slight, er, catch:

"I hope you brought your cup," says Big Daddy, "Because you're catching tomorrow."

Oh, shit.

Apologies To The Hotel Detective

For lusty anthems of rock n' roll road mayhem, you just can't beat Grand Funk's "We're An American Band." So it was my great pleasure to be invited onstage to sing it last week with my boys The Static Minds — one of the more kick-ass pure rock n' roll ensembles currently treading the boards — during their gig at Kings in Raleigh, NC. Check 'em out in the clip below, and then watch me wander onstage around the 6:50 mark to belt out Don Brewer's immortal jam. Feelin' good, feelin' right, it was Friday night; the hotel detective was indeed out of sight.

Big Hair in the Bay Area

No, this is not a picture of me on the way to my next reading — it's John "The Count" Montefusco celebrating his new San Francisco Giants contract in March 1976 (on the heels of an impressive 1975 season in which he won the NL Rookie of the Year award and set a rookie strikeout record of 215 Ks) in the company of some of Hugh Hefner's finest.

But I've currently got San Francisco on the brain because, on top of it being one of my favorite cities in the world for eating, drinking and strolling, I'm gonna be up there next week to read at the truly awesome Litquake Festival. I'm going to be reading from Big Hair & Plastic Grass on Friday, October 8 as part of It's All Over But the Crying: A Night of Authors on Sports, which will also feature the august likes of Alan Black, Howard Bryant,  Dan Fost, David Henry Sterry, Jason Turbow, and Michael Zagaris holding forth on all things sport-related. It's happening at the Hemlock Tavern on 1131 Polk St; doors open at 6:30 pm, reading starts at 7 pm (no idea what the order of authors is, so please don't ask me), and admission for this thoroughly entertaining evening is 10 bucks. But if you think you wanna check it out, don't snail on it — the event will very likely sell out well before next Friday. Avoid disappointment by ordering your advance tix from Brown Paper Tickets. "The Count" would want it that way.

This is also something of a milestone event, in that it marks the last reading/BH&PG event I'm scheduled to do this year — and with baseball season winding down, I'm guessing that's gonna be it for 2010. It's been a helluva ride; thanks to the book, I've gotten to see a lot of old friends and make a lot of new ones. I'm still kinda processing it all, to be honest — I reckon I'll write a "post-season wrap-up" in the next coupla weeks — but I'd like to thank everyone who's bought, read, or otherwise supported this book for confirming that there is still a lot of love and appreciation out there for this amazing and complex period of baseball history. Mark Fidrych lives on, y'all...

Nothing Could Be Finer Than To Be In Carolina... On A Book Tour

I don't think it's too much of a stretch to say that Catfish Hunter was one of the best '70s ballplayers to hail from North Carolina — just as it's not too much of a stretch to say that you're gonna have one helluva good time if you make it out to Slim's Downtown Distillery in Raleigh this coming Friday night, or if you show up at the Regulator Bookshop in Durham this coming Saturday afternoon.

That's right, folks — the Big Hair & Plastic Grass groove line is pulling into Raleigh-Durham this weekend for the latest round of readings, shenanigans and general good times. The fun starts at 7 pm this Friday, July 23, when I'll be reading from and signing BH&PG at Slim's (227 S. Wilmington St., Raleigh). Copies of the book will be available for purchase courtesy of Quail Ridge Books & Music, and DJ Midnight Cowboy will be spinning some serious '70s soul and funk jams.

The event is FREE until 9 pm (and five bucks if you show up thereafter), whereupon things really kick into high gear: It's a birthday celebration for the bar's lovely Olivia, featuring live rock madness from The Infamous Sugar, The Royal Nites, and The Oscar Gambles — the latter being my boys The Static Minds and several pals in '70s drag, who will be kicking out a set full of '70s classics; I just may join them onstage for a couple of tunes, as well. It's going to be an epic night; if you live in the Raleigh era and dig baseball, rock, beer or all of the above, you really oughta join in the celebration.

The next day — Saturday, July 24 — we'll be behaving in a slightly more civilized manner over in Durham, where I'll be reading, signing and discussing BH&PG at the Regulator (720 9th St, Durham) from 2 pm to 4 pm. If daytime bookstore events are more your speed, or you can't make it to Slim's (or you just can't get enough '70s baseball... or me), come on out and say hello.

Big Hair and Plastic Grass in Chi-Town

In honor of the 39th anniversary of Ken Holtzman's 2nd no-hitter — which made him the only Chicago Cubs pitcher to hurl two in the 20th Century, and the only Jewish pitcher besides Sandy Koufax to rack up double no-nos — I figure it's time to pass along my now-confirmed plans for Big Hair & Plastic Grass events in Chicago later this month. I'm really looking forward to returning to my former home, especially on the weekend of what has to be the least-anticipated Cubs-White Sox series in the history of interleague play.

Thursday, June 24: I will be celebrating the book's publication with an evening of funky (and not-so-funky) music, cold beer, baseball talk and maybe a few surprises at Liars Club (1665 West Fullerton). I will be on hand to read aloud from my writings, sign BH&PG — copies of which will be on sale at the venue — and drink $2 Colt 45 and PBR tallboys while DJ John San Juan spins the 70s AM gold. Don your afro wig, your 70s threads and/or retro baseball jersey, and get down with us — and bring a crappy late-'70s rock LP with you to be destroyed as part of our "AOR Demolition Night" promotion (method of destruction still TBD). Festivities start around 8:30, and admission is FREE.

Friday, June 25: I will be reading from and signing BH&PG at the Book Cellar in Lincoln Square (4736 N. Lincoln Ave.). If you're looking for a slightly more sedate happening than the Liars Club thang — or you just can't get enough '70s baseball — come on out and make the scene. The store has a dynamite little cafe with beer and wine, so a buzz can still be obtained/maintained if you so wish. Admission is, of course, totally FREE.

Windy City citizens, please mark your calendars accordingly!