ICYMI: A couple days ago, MLB posted the covers of old World Series programs on their Instagram. These go as far back as the first World Series in 1903 and features some of the best designs over the years.
Here is a video from 1957, featuring Phil Foster on the Ed Sullivan Show. No doubt the sentiment of “Let’s Keep The Dodgers In Brooklyn” was a widespread one at the time. Broken hearts abounded in New York that year.
I stumbled across this parody of “Casey at the Bat” this morning, first produced in February 1994 for A Prairie Home Companion radio show on Minnesota Public Radio. This piece replays the same events of Ernest Lawrence Thayer’s original poem from the perspective of the opposing team, and I have to say, it is brilliant.
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It was looking rather hopeful for our Dustburg team that day:
We were leading Mudville four to two with an inning left to play.
We got Cooney on a grounder and Muldoon on the same,
Two down, none on, top of the ninth- we thought we’d won the game.
Mudville was despairing, and we grinned and cheered and clapped.
It looked like after all these years our losing streak had snapped.
And we only wished that Casey, the big fat ugly lout,
Could be the patsy who would make the final, shameful out.
Oh how we hated Casey, he was a blot upon the game.
Every dog in Dustburg barked at the mention of his name.
A bully and a braggart, a cretin and a swine-
If Casey came to bat, we’d stick it where the moon don’t shine!
Two out and up came Flynn to bat, with Jimmy Blake on deck,
And the former was a loser and the latter was a wreck;
Though the game was in the bag, the Dustburg fans were hurt
To think that Casey would not come and get his just dessert.
But Flynn he got a single, a most unlikely sight,
And Blake swung like a lady but he parked it deep to right,
And when the dust had lifted, and fickle fate had beckoned,
There was Flynn on third base and Jimmy safe at second.
Then from every Dustburg throat, there rose a lusty cry:
“Bring up the slimy greaseball and let him stand and die.
Throw the mighty slider and let him hear it whiz
And let him hit a pop-up like the pansy that he is.”
There was pride in Casey’s visage as he strode onto the grass,
There was scorn in his demeanor as he calmly scratched his ass.
Ten thousand people booed him when he stepped into the box,
And they made the sound of farting when he bent to fix his socks.
And the fabled slider came spinning toward the mitt,
And Casey watched it sliding and he did not go for it.
And the umpire jerked his arm like he was hauling down the sun,
And his cry rang from the box seats to the bleachers: Stee-rike One!
Ten thousand Dustburg partisans raised such a mighty cheer,
The pigeons in the rafters crapped and ruined all the beer.
“You filthy ignorant rotten bastard slimy son of a bitch,”
We screamed at mighty Casey, and then came the second pitch.
It was our hero’s fastball, it came across the plate,
And according to the radar, it was going ninety-eight,
And according to the umpire, it came in straight and true,
And the cry rang from the toilets to the bullpen: Stee-rike Two.
Ten thousand Dustburg fans arose in joyful loud derision
To question Casey’s salary, his manhood, and his vision.
Then while the Dustburg pitcher put the resin on the ball,
Ten thousand people hooted to think of Casey’s fall.
Oh the fury in his visage as he spat tobacco juice
And heard the little children screaming violent abuse.
He knocked the dirt from off his spikes, reached down and eased his pants
“What’s the matter? Did ya lose ’em?” cried a lady in the stands.
And then the Dustburg pitcher stood majestic on the hill,
And leaned in toward the plate, and then the crowd was still,
And he went into his windup, and he kicked, and let it go,
And then the air was shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.
He swung so hard his hair fell off and he toppled in disgrace
And the Dustburg catcher held the ball and the crowd tore up the place,
With Casey prostrate in the dirt amid the screams and jeers
We threw wieners down at him and other souvenirs.
We pounded on the dugout roof as they helped him to the bench,
Then we ran out to the parking lot and got a monkey wrench
And found the Mudville bus and took the lug nuts off the tires,
And attached some firecrackers to the alternator wires.
We rubbed the doors and windows with a special kind of cheese
That smells like something died from an intestinal disease.
Old Casey took his sweet time, but we were glad to wait
And we showered him with garbage as the team came out the gate.
So happy were the Dustburg fans that grand and glorious day,
It took a dozen cops to help poor Casey away,
But we grabbed hold of the bumpers and we rocked him to and fro
And he cursed us from inside the bus, and gosh, we loved it so!
Oh sometimes in America the sun is shining bright,
Life is joyful sometimes, and all the world seems right,
But there is no joy in Dustburg, no joy so pure and sweet
As when the mighty Casey fell, demolished, at our feet.
On August 31, 1937, Detroit Tiger Rudy York smashed his 17th and 18th home runs of the month, breaking the major league record previously held by Babe Ruth. The rookie catcher’s round-trippers on the last day of the month helped the Tigers defeat the Senators at Navin Field, 12-3.
York’s one-month home run record would last until 1998, when Sammy Sosa hit 19 in June.
Joe Posnanski wrote for the Kansas City Star throughout my teenage years. In retrospect, I have come to realize that he is a big part of the reason that I became a Royals fan. Because during those years, the Royals were bad. Like, really bad. All the other kids at my middle school and high school would not be caught dead wearing Royals gear, that’s how embarrassing this baseball team was during those years.
Every weekend, my dad would buy the Sunday edition of the Kansas City Star. And every Sunday, I would snag the sports section out of that bulky stack of newspaper and spread out on the floor to read anything that looked even mildly interesting.
It was not long before I became a regular reader of Joe Posnanski’s columns, because this man can write. And he wrote about the Kansas City Royals in a way that I just could not help but love the team, no matter how badly they played. So when my parents gifted me a copy of Why We Love Baseball this past Christmas, I knew I was in for a treat.
The book is subtitled A History in 50 Moments, and the combination of the two titles sum up the book quite aptly. Posnanski writes about fifty moments over the course of the history of the game that demonstrate exactly why we love baseball so much. From Babe Ruth to Shohei Ohtani, from Shoeless Joe to Cal Ripken, Jr., this book curates the greatest moments and retells the stories behind them in a truly captivating style.
But the book doesn’t stop at just those fifty moments. As a bonus, Posnanski throws in multiple collections of five shorter stories. For example, “Five Barehanded Plays” or “Five Catches” or “Five Blunders.” And just before revealing the number one moment in the book, there is “A Moment for Every Team,” that way every fan can find something they can enjoy, regardless of which MLB team they might root for.
And that, I think, is the true value that this book presents: it is a book that any baseball fan can find pleasure in. I also love the fact that this book does not have to be read continuously to be understood. It is essentially a collection of short stories, and, as such, it can be picked up at one’s leisure, anytime the reader is in the mood for a little baseball.
And in the same way Posnanski made me fall in love with the Royals, this book will make any reader fall in love with baseball all over again.
On July 18, 1927, Athletics outfielder Ty Cobb became the first major leaguer to collect his 4,000th career hit. Cobb hit a double off his former Tigers teammate, Sam Gibson, at Navin Field in Detroit. The hit came in the first inning of a 5-3 loss for the A’s.
Cobb retired after the 1928 season with 4,191 hits, a record that will stand until Pete Rose breaks it in 1985.
In the 1985 season, Detroit Tigers second baseman Lou Whitaker was selected for the All-Star Game for the third consecutive year. However, upon arriving at the Metrodome in Minnesota, Whitaker realized he had forgotten to bring some crucial parts of his uniform. While he had packed his socks and uniform pants in his suitcase with his clothes, Whitaker didn’t have a cap, jersey, helmet, glove, spikes, or batting gloves. He requested that an emergency uniform be sent, but the uniform got lost in transit, and Whitaker was forced to improvise.
Whitaker purchased a replica jersey at the park and stenciled his number 1 on the back of it with a marker. He also managed to purchase an adjustable mesh Tigers cap. His All-Star teammates also stepped up to assist: Cleveland pitcher Bert Blyleven let Whitaker wear his helmet at the plate; Baltimore’s Cal Ripken, Jr. had an extra glove; and Damaso Garcia of the Blue Jays was able to provide batting gloves (I haven’t been able to discover what he did about spikes). Starting at second base, he went 0-for-2 in the game before being removed in the sixth inning, and the American League lost, 6-1.
But the story doesn’t end there. The Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. was so fascinated by his case of forgetfulness that they requested the garment. Whitaker obliged, and the jersey that he wore in that All-Star Game is still in the Smithsonian’s collection today.
Joe DiMaggio collected his 2,000th career hit on June 20, 1950 in the seventh inning against Cleveland. It was DiMaggio’s second RBI hit of the game, as the Yankees defeated the Indians, 8-2.
After winning seven consecutive starts to kick off the season, A’s right-hander Lefty Grove lost in eleven innings on June 10, 1930 to the White Sox, 7-6. The future Hall of Famer went on to finish the season with a 28-5 record and a 2.54 ERA for Philadelphia.
During a softball game when I was a teenager, I had a teammate who hit a foul ball, and next thing we all knew, the home plate umpire was on his back, his face beet red. We quickly learned that the foul ball had caught the umpire between the legs — an especially awkward occurrence for a male umpire at a high school girls’ softball game. While everyone waited for the umpire to regain his bearings, girls in both dugouts were noticeably working hard not to giggle too loudly. I felt bad for the guy.
It’s not uncommon for a player to get hit by the ball at some point in a game. However, as in situations like the one above, sometimes it is one of the umpires who gets hit. Someone put together the compilation video below of MLB umpires getting hit by the baseball, and watching it is like watching a train wreck. You feel bad for them, but somehow, you can’t stop watching.