Baseball, Car Talk, and the Search for Heroes

It all started with the static of a radio.  It was an old classic, a JVC Radio/Cassette Player/TV.  The TV was the size of my tiny hands, black and white, and only carried three channels.  We used it occasionally when the tornado sirens would go off.  I would race down to the basement, turn on the screen until the static was too much, and then switch to the radio where Joe Winters and Bruce Aune told me that the storm would miss my small town once more.  But on this spring afternoon there were no sirens, instead the only sound was a light breeze that wrinkled the leaves on the top of our hundred year old oak trees and of course the static.  I had been searching for WGN for what felt like hours (in reality it was ten minutes), and despite running past 720 AM half a dozen times there was nothing.  Finally there was a blip and the crack of the bat and the dulcet tones of Pat Hughes emerged from the box.  "Servais has been a good catcher in the early season but not much for the bat with only a .212 batting average.  Here's the 1-2 pitch from Drabek, Servais hits a grounder up the middle to Biggio.  Over to first with Bagwell and there's one away in the fifth."  Naturally he would pass over to Ron Santo who would make some comment about Servais' catcher stance and then spend five minutes talking about cloud formation.  But that was Ron Santo and that was Pat Hughes.  It was the spring of Riggleman, Jenkins, and Williams on the bench, the spring of The Human Rain Delay Pitcher, Steve Trachsel and my idol, Mark Grace on first.  I listened from a tool box in my garage as Trachsel one hit the Astros and I was content.  I didn't know the Cubs would go 10 under .500, I didn't know that it would be Harry Caray's second to last season, I didn't even know if I could watch the next game.  All I had was Santo, the clouds, and a little spring breeze.  

This year a panda fell in foul territory and the San Francisco Giants won the World Series.  It was their third series win in five years, assuring Bruce Boche a spot in Cooperstown and Madison Bumgarner one of the greatest post season pitching performances on all time (Did you know that Bumgarner is only 25 years old?  I'm older than the MVP of the World Series).  It was a great series that pitted the Kansas City Royals, perennial losers of the American League against the October born Giants.  Despite the seven games it received average to low numbers for a World Series, having to compete most nights with the NFL.  With America's new favorite sport, football, baseball has had a ratings dip in October.  Many feel that America's Pastime should stay in the past.  Unequivocally I pronounce this sentiment to be hogwash.

In 1989, a movie theatre in Iowa heard the lines, "Is this Heaven?"  "No, this is Iowa."  It also heard the word's of James Earl Jones as he sent shivers of nostalgia down audience's spines.  "People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again."  Jones in Field of Dreams sums up everything I love about baseball.  It's the reason that no matter how many fantasy football drafts I have, no matter how many touchdowns I celebrate, no matter how many times the Dallas Cowboys go 8-8, that I will first and foremost be a baseball fan and a Chicago Cubs baseball fan for life.  

People have trouble watching baseball these days, myself included.  In the course of one touchdown drive, only one batter with a few fouled off pitches will have batted.  In a society that is built on the pace of the next fastest mode it can be hard to focus on such a sport as baseball.  In the past few years I have only watched one game through to it's entirety, a Cubs game last year, but as I watched the final five innings of Game 7 in this years' World Series I was reminded of all the times I spent Saturday afternoons with Ron Santo and the radio.  I was reminded of the five game Braves series of 2003 and the subsequent Bartman Ball in the following series with the Marlins (to this day I contend that it wasn't Bartman, but Alex Gonzalez letting the ball get past him at short in the next play that doomed the game).  I was reminded of the good and the bad, the beautiful and the disastrous.  What was and what can be again, baseball America's game.

However the biggest problem with the game isn't how long it takes but in what ways we consume the length.  I was blessed to have Harry and Chip Caray on TV and Santo and Hughes on the radio, but for most, baseball cannot be consumed betwixt the plastic box and the audience.  It must be smelled, tasted, and felt.  For true baseball you have to go to the ball park.

You buy a hot dog, on the way in, that has sat in oil and grease for far too long.  You go to the ball park and sit in seats long past due for maintenance and far enough away from the field that the nosebleeds have nosebleeds.  You wear the hat of your favorite team, even if they aren't playing, because you still have to represent your colors.  You sit next to Republicans, Democrats, gays, straights, Blacks, Whites, and Hispanics.  You learn the lessons of the game from the old man who as he says " Hasn't missed a game since the fifties."  You have crazy, half baked conversations about Congress, the debt ceiling and intermix them with how Wade Davis throws a fast ball and why can't the Padres get a new logo.  You make up silly games like the dollar game where everyone pays you if your player gets a hit.  You yell and scream without a care for who hears you.  You do the wave even though it wasn't your idea.  You brought your mitt, even though it won't happen, but just in case you want to get a ball for the cute girl in row q.  You talk to people you never would ordinarily talk to.  You hug people randomly when Cruz hits a triple and curse Girardi for taking out Sabathia in the sixth.  You feel the cold chill as the game goes into extra innings.  You celebrate with the new stupid song the team picked when they win.  The fireworks soar into the sky guiding you to the metro, the L, or the subway.  You go home with a smile, the smell of the hot dog, and the feel of the bleachers still imprinted in your head (or in the case of the bleachers your butt).  And finally you dream of the day when you can take your son to the ballpark and watch the magic course through his veins.  That's real baseball.   

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On that same JVC radio I would spend between noon and 1 pm central listening to two men laugh about a subject, which to this day I still no little about.  I don't understand how a carburetor works or why we need spark plugs, but I know that these two guys loved to laugh about it.  Much in the same fashion as Ron Santo they could never sit still with just the car talk they would always have to bring in stories.  The Onion article about the US airdropping vowels to Ethiopia or the time Tom said his wife looks like a truck.  The walls in Ray's first apartment painted hippie purple and Tom's desire to take to discuss The Guy Test by Dave Berry:  Alien beings from a highly advanced society visit the Earth, and you are the first human they encounter. As a token of intergalactic friendship, they present you with a small but incredibly sophisticated device that is capable of curing all disease, providing an infinite supply of clean energy, wiping out hunger and poverty, and permanently eliminating oppression and violence all over the entire Earth. You decide to:

a. Present it to the president of the United States.
b. Present it to the secretary general of the United Nations.
c. Take it apart.

Tom chose option C.  

This was Car Talk every Saturday morning for the entirety of my childhood.  NPR was a godsend and their CD complications of best calls were all worn down to the scratches from use.  "Click and Clack the Tappet Brothers," became a weekend fixture in the Freeman/Swanson household.  Sometimes we would drive to the grocery store and would sit in the car until the Puzzler was done.  When I started bowling league tournament play I would try and be done by 12:30 so I could catch the last half of the show on the drive home.  But why in the world did I listen?  If you saw my car today you would see that very little was learned.  It was because of Ray and Tom, it was because through the magic of radio, laughter disseminated once a week.  It was because no TV show, movie, or even play could match the warmth felt every Saturday afternoon.  

One of my favorite moments came in 1997 when a letter to the show, from Patti McGuire read the following:  (The Exercise Diary)

For my birthday this year my wife purchased me a week of private lessons at the local health club. Though still in great shape from when I was on the varsity chess team in high school, I decided it was a good idea to go ahead and try it. I called and made reservations with someone named Tanya, who said she is a 26-year-old aerobics instructor and athletic-clothing model.

My wife seemed very pleased with how enthusiastic I was to get started. They suggested I keep an "exercise diary" to chart my progress.

Day 1: Started the morning at 6:30 a.m. Tough to get up, but worth it when I arrived at the health club and Tanya was waiting for me. She's something of a goddess, with blond hair and a dazzling white smile. She showed me the machines and took my pulse after five minutes on the treadmill. She seemed a little alarmed that it was so high, but I think just standing next to her in that outfit of hers added about 10 points. Enjoyed watching the aerobics class. Tanya was very encouraging as I did my sit-ups, though my gut was already aching a little from holding it in the whole time I was talking to her. This is going to be GREAT!

Day 2: Took a whole pot of coffee to get me out the door, but I made it. Tanya had me lie on my back and push this heavy iron bar up into the air. Then she put weights on it, for heaven's sake! Legs were a little wobbly on the treadmill, but I made it the full mile. Her smile made it all worthwhile. Muscles ALL feel GREAT.

Day 3: The only way I can brush my teeth is by laying the tooth brush on the counter and moving my mouth back and forth over it. I am certain that I have developed a hernia in both pectorals. Driving was OK as long as I didn't try to steer. I parked on top of a Volkswagen. Tanya was a little impatient with me and said my screaming was bothering the other club members. The treadmill hurt my chest, so I did the stair monster. Why would anyone invent a machine to simulate an activity rendered obsolete by the invention of elevators? Tanya told me regular exercise would make me live longer. I can't imagine anything worse.

Day 4: Tanya was waiting for me with her vampire teeth in full snarl. I can't help it if I was half an hour late; it took me that long just to tie my shoes. She wanted me to lift dumbbells. Not a chance, Tanya. The word "dumb" must be in there for a reason. I hid in the men's room until she sent Lars looking for me. As punishment she made me try the rowing machine. It sank!

Day 5: I hate Tanya more than any human being has ever hated any other human being in the history of the world. If there were any part of my body not in extreme pain, I would hit her with it. She thought it would be a good idea to work on my triceps. Well, I have news for you, Tanya: I don't have triceps. And if you don't want dents in the floor, don't hand me any barbells. I refuse to accept responsibility for the damage. YOU went to sadist school, YOU are to blame. The treadmill flung me back into a science teacher, which hurt like crazy. Why couldn't it have been someone softer, like a music teacher, or a social studies teacher?

Day 6: Got Tanya's message on my answering machine, wondering where I am. I lacked the strength to use the TV remote, so I watched 11 straight hours of the Weather Channel.

Day 7: Well, that's the week. Thank goodness that's over. Maybe next time my wife will give me something a little more fun, like a gift certificate for a root canal.

As a child I remember laughing so hard I fell over.  As someone who has dealt with weight issues for a long time, the line "As punishment she made me try the rowing machine. It sank!" was and still is one of the funniest lines I have ever heard.  Unfortunately this article isn't a sound byte but I encourage anyone who hasn't heard the show to listen to the Car Talk Podcast, which NPR posts an archived show once a week.  You have to hear Tom and Ray, because words don't do them justice.  

The world lost Tom Magliozzi yesterday.  He was 77 and dealing with complications from his Alzheimer's disease.  The world lost one of the greatest laughs it ever had.  

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I wanted to write something quick about baseball and something quick about Tom Magliozzi because both are incredibly similar to me.  Both brought me through hard times in the past, both bring such warm feelings to my heart, because I loved and still love both so dearly.  Too often people call other people their Heroes.  It happens so much that the word no longer has the powerful connotation that it once did, but for me I've always known who my heroes are.  They are my brother, Nate and sister, Katie.  The list includes Louis Zamperini, Martin Luther King Jr., and Maggie Ellison.  There are many more, people who inspire me, who lift my spirits, and teach/have taught me to be a better man.  Two men on that list are Ron Santo and Tom Magliozzi.  I will forever remember their wacky sense of tangential material, their laughs, and their warmth.  R.I.P. Tom.  Thank you for the memories.