"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. 
And,
we remember these three
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:
And,
we remember these three
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:
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