Alligators 'n Roadkill

Alligators 'n Roadkill
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Wednesday, September 2, 2015

The Field is once again just dirt, and the Dream has flown.

          "Tinker to Evers to Chance." 
For some of us old guys, those words still bring a chill to the spine, a thrill to our hearts, and maybe a tear to our eyes.  There was a time when those words evoked more than just what the names represented.  There was a time when those words stood for a game that was indeed our national pastime.  There was even a time when most boys spent their entire summer, playing the game of summer, on sandlots, and pastures, in back yards, and even on real diamonds in parks and schools across the land.  And, we did play from sun to sun, everything from 'Three Flies Up,' to 'Work-Up' to Little League, all summer long.
          "Tinker to Evers to Chance." 
          And, in the evening, we'd listen to whatever game we could get, all across this once great nation, on the radio.  That's right.  The radio.  There is no way to describe for someone who has never experienced it, just how awesome, just how special, a radio broadcast of a live baseball game could be.  Even, if you can believe this, a game that was being played in, say, New York City, involving the beloved Brooklyn Dodgers vs. the hated New York Yankees, but what we were hearing was the voice of a local sports announcer, who was getting the game information over either a telegraph, or a ticker tape or teletype machine.  You see, he had to try to visualize the ball park, the crowd, the weather, the players, and all the action, based on the scanty words that were sent to him, and then try to tell us what was happening, all the while trying to instill in us that sense of a "live" baseball game.  And, what we heard, besides his voice, was the sound of the teletype or the telegraph.  We could only imagine the roar of the crowd.
          "Tinker to Evers to Chance."
          My first baseball glove had the autograph (stamped into the leather, of course) of the great Pee Wee Reese, who played shortstop for the beloved Brooklyn Dodgers, and later, the LA Dodgers, after they moved to the West Coast.  I knew of him mostly later on, when he was an announcer on radio and television, first with Dizzy Dean, and later, with Curt Gowdy.  Like many of the greats from that era (1940's - 1950's), Reese lost a few years while he served in the U. S. Navy during WWII.
          "Tinker to Evers to Chance."
          I played mostly 2nd Base during my childhood, first in Little League, and later, on a Softball team.  I will never forget the thrill of having to win the position over all challengers, on one softball team.  I mean, in order to be on some teams, you actually had to show your stuff against others who wanted to play the same position, especially if you were trying to be an infielder.  (They called it competition, and they told us that it was good for us.  I know that is a bad word today, which explains why we have so many monopolies running things.  Oh, and another thing?  I never did get a trophy for anything).  I do not remember any particular big leaguer who I may have tried to emulate, but I learned to play the position, well to the right of the actual base, and way back, almost on the outfield grass.  But, before I played on any organized team, there were the pick-up games, the pitch and catch, the playing in the pasture with all the kids in the neighborhood.  And, I'm sorry, it was boys only, however misogynistic you might think that makes me. 
          "Tinker to Evers to Chance."
          And, yes, we actually played in a pasture.  We used cow patties for the bases.  Our bat was so old, the wood was gray, and splitting.  Any label was long gone, and only a memory.  The handle, where it was supposed to have a nice, smooth ridge all the way around, was like the cogs of a wheel, with most of the cogs missing.  Our baseballs were held together with friction tape, which was the duct tape of the 1950's.  This stuff was black, made of cloth, and sticky as hell, for at least one inning.  Then, it would start to unravel, so we'd wrap more tape around our ball.  We rarely saw a new baseball, and most of ours were hand me downs, or cast-offs, from bigger kids.  And, when someone miraculously cracked the bat one day, we held it together with that same black friction tape, too.
          "Tinker to Evers to Chance."
          Usually, there were only two or three of us, so we'd play something we called "Three Flies Up."  This consisted of one guy hitting fly balls to the others, who tried to catch them.  Once you had caught three total fly balls, then you went up to bat.  And so on.  When we had more guys, then we'd play "Work-Up."  This usually meant three guys were batters, and the rest took the positions of Pitcher, maybe First Base, and one or two other infield positions, then as many outfielders as we could fill.  Each batter was allowed to continue to be "up" until he had struck out (never happened), flied out, or was otherwise tagged out.  Then, everybody moved up one position.   This was actually a great way to experience the different positions, while playing the game we all loved so much.
          "Tinker to Evers to Chance."
          My organized playing only lasted a year or two, and then came to an abrupt end when I crossed my coach one day.  I was up to bat, in a very tight game, and he yelled to me to 'take' the pitch.  I thought he meant I could go ahead and take it for all I had by swinging at the ball, and he meant take it, as in let it go, and do NOT swing!  So, naturally, I hit a weak grounder that went into the hands of an infielder, who threw me out, and the coach was so mad at me for not following orders, he kicked me off the team.  I was, of course, devastated.  That may have been just because I was kicked off the team, but part of it had to be because I did not know what it meant to say to "take" the pitch.
          "Tinker to Evers to Chance."
          So, you ask, who were, or what is, Tinker to Evers to Chance?  Well, they were, or rather, "They are, arguably, the best-known Chicago Cubs of all time."  (from a 2010 Chicago Tribune article).
They were Joe Tinker (shortstop), Johnny Evers (second base) and Frank Chance (first base), and they last played together in 1912.  The phrase, "Tinker to Evers to Chance" refers to their smooth turning of double plays, back when the Cubbies were actually a dominant Major League team.  http://articles.chicagotribune.com/images/pixel.gifAnd, we remember these threehttp://articles.chicagotribune.com/images/pixel.gif all because of an eight-line poem, called "Baseball's Sad Lexicon."  This poem first appeared in print more than 100 years ago. It was written by Franklin P. Adams, a New York Evening Mail columnist who had been born in Chicago (and was a Cubs fan).  The poem was written in a hurry because he wanted to get to the ballpark to see his beloved Cubs play their arch-rival New York Giants.  His editor told him he needed just a few more lines for the next edition of the newspaper before he could leave for the ballpark, and that led to the poem:
These are the saddest of possible words:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."
Trio of bear cubs, and fleeter than birds,
Tinker and Evers and Chance.
Ruthlessly pricking our gonfalon bubble,
Making a Giant hit into a double—
Words that are heavy with nothing but trouble:
"Tinker to Evers to Chance."
          I have to admit that I have misstated the key words for more years than I can remember by reciting, just as if I knew what I was talking about, "Evans to Tinker to Chance!"  Not only did I get the second baseman's name wrong, but I put him out of order!  Oh, well, I hereby stand corrected, and I apologize for this most grievous of errors.  No matter, because baseball has lost, at least for me, most of its charm, and I have not followed it much since maybe the days of Reggie Jackson, when he was Mr. October.  Just like basketball, I don't like the changes that have come to pass, and I hate the changes to the uniforms.  Imagine long pants to play baseball!  And, a cap with a flat bill?!  Really?!  Oh, and plastic helmets, instead of caps.  Aluminum bats?  Please!   Designated hitters because everybody knows that pitchers can't bat, and designated runners?  No, thanks.

The article I mentioned about the old time Cubbies can be found here: