THE SIGNAL from David Katznelson
“There will come a time when you believe everything is finished; that will be the beginning. ”― Louis L'Amour
“Put me in, coach. I’m ready to play…today”
It seems like every time my Dad and I approached Scottsdale Stadium in Scottsdale, Arizona…home of the cactus league San Francisco Giants…that song was playing, solidifying the fact that we were at Spring Training together again.
Doug Sahm was the first person to convince me to go to Arizona for the beginning of Spring. We were right in the middle of making The Texas Tornado’s Four Aces record and he thought we needed some fun. He loved the Giants and was in great standing with the Cubs organization. So we would get tickets to the Giants game…he would wear head-to-toe orange and black with a classic SF baseball cap on…and then we would load up in his Cadillac and cruise over to the Cubs side of town where he would pop his trunk, switch over to his Cubs uniform that he had stashed underneath his ring collection and escort me behind the scenes to meet the Triple-A ball team, introduced to us by former-great-player-now-Cubs-coach Manny Trillo. That was the day I met the greatest Cub Ernie Banks, and the day Doug bought me a many-gallon black cowboy hat (it keeps the sun out, you know) and introduced me to ginkgo (Doug was a true original).
So my Dad and I went a year later, starting a long annual tradition. We always stayed at the same hotel, always ate at the baseball museum/restaurant Don and Charlie’s the first night (eating and chatting with Robin Yount, Rollie Fingers, Matt Williams and on and on and on), and always attended “spring training” in the mornings where we would watch the Single-, Double-, and Triple-A Giants clubs practice and be assessed. We got to witness the era that Madison Bumgarner and Buster Posey were in the AAA’s, and you could tell even then that they were bound for great things. After taking all of that in, we would hit the the noon main event to watch the Giants play…knowing this was the year they would go all the way (and for the years we went, we were right much of the time).
My Dad and I were always close, but those Spring Training weekends were some of the best times we ever spent together. I watched him shake Willie Mays’ hand telling the legend that he was there for his 3000th hit. And then there was that moment that we took our picture with another Giant great Gaylord Perry. But the best part of the whole weekend was just being in this zone of mutual enjoyment together and getting to talk about everything—parts of his past I did not know, my evolving life aspirations, the state of the world—things you talk about between the pitches. I had my Dad all to myself.
It is officially Spring and the Giants are definitely headed to win it all this year as usual (right, Barry Simons?) and I would give anything to be able to sit in the front row of Scottsdale stadium again, with my Dad right next to me, looking over the list of players that were trying out for the team that week, with John Fogerty’s signature song in the air and the baseball players taking the field.
I cannot wait to take my son when the world opens back up.
The National Library Service for the Blind and Print Disabled has a music component that offers brail scores and has its own catalog of intriguing things. They have new transcriptions by Russian pianist & composer Alexander Scriabin (1871–1915) which seem to tell a fascinating story: “Scriabin’s later works were considered to be influenced by synthesia, in which he believed one could experience colors by hearing specific tones…It is a chord known as a “mystic chord” which served as the harmonic basis for some of his later compositions…”
William Shatner Reflects on Life, Career Ahead of 90th Birthday: ‘I’m Having the Best Time!’
We have been watching a lot of Star Trek in this house the past year. Capt. Kirk 90? Crazy.
PHOTOGRAPHER LEE MILLER’S SUBVERSIVE CAREER TOOK HER FROM VOGUE TO WAR-TORN GERMANY
I first heard of Lee Miller when at a Man Ray exhibition at the SF Moma. I had no idea of who she was or her incredible artistry.
Sally Grossman, Immortalized on a Dylan Album Cover, Dies at 81
I was one of the many who, pre-internet search, pondered the identity of the suave model with Dylan on one of his great albums. She has passed away, and the Times did a great job illuminating the details of her life…
CASEY AT BAT
by Ernest Lawrence Thayer
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
the score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play.
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
a sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.
A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
they thought, if only Casey could get but a whack at that –
they'd put up even money, now, with Casey at the bat.
But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
and the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake,
so upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,
for there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.
But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
and Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
and when the dust had lifted, and the men saw what had occurred,
there was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.
Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
it rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
it knocked upon the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
for Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.
There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
there was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
no stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.
Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;
five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.
And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
and Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.
From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand;
and it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.
With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
he stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
he signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;
but Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said: "Strike two."
"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and Echo answered fraud;
but one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
and they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.
The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;
he pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
and now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.
Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;
the band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
but there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out.
