(Poor) Roger Maris, 1964 Topps

Poor Roger Maris, 1964 Topps, ed

Pocket-weary, scuffed, and battered, Roger Maris gazes skyward in defiant optimism. More than anyone, he should know how pinstripes can suppress the ecstasy of flight. At age 29, the navy blue cap sits atop a ravine-furrowed brow, conceals bald patches and tufts of gray—distressed vestiges from 1961. An expanse of black netting looms behind his back. In high, deserted tiers, no crowd of a thousand empetalled faces quivers with applause. But even bold trajectory always dips eventually. So Roger plays with bone chips, a broken hand; he wracks his knees on grandstand dives; and, come retirement, he combats the Hodgkin’s lymphoma whose cytology reveals periwinkle profusions among white blood cells. What history has since transpired: wrinkles extend in cellulose varicose veins from center to edges frayed. Yet still he stares through folds of time; he lifts his head, as if to trace the measured beat of ash wood—its resonant, aerial song arcing through the pale-blue down above.

*Previously appeared in Harpur Palate 13.2 (Winter/Spring 2014), page 63.

(Poor) Bull Durham, 1909-1911 T206 #156

1909-11 T206 156 Bull Durham

Player name: Louis Raphael Staub

A.K.A. / stage names / monikers:

Charles Staub, Louis Raphael Durham, “Bull Durham”

Roles cast in: pitcher; “Coach Nolan” in The Pinch Hitter (1917), see trivia below

Teams / Clubs / Allegiances:

Brooklyn Superbas (1904)

Washington Senators (1907)

New York Giants (1908-1909)

Era: dead-ball

In the show: 1904, 1907-1909

On the farm: 1902-1904, 1906-1909, ?-1913

Off/on dreaming of both: 1877-1960

Highlights: in 1908, earned a 19-7 pitching record and won five double headers, in the minors

Bobbles: ERA of 12.60 with the Senators in 1907

Trivia and/or trivial: silent movie actor in Hollywood, 1914-1922; later worked as a “geologist”; surprisingly, no connection with the story in Ron Shelton’s film Bull Durham (1988)

Under the cool, wet grass: Pleasant Valley Cemetery in Bentley, Kansas

More player info: Bull Durham at Baseball-Reference Minors and Majors, Bull Durham Wiki page, Bull Durham at IMDB, and “In Pursuit of Bull Durham” at SABR’s Research Journals Archives

Image courtesy of COMC.com.

(Poor) Bob Darnell, 1955 Bowman

1955 Bowman, Bob Darnell

I amuse myself in imagining how on one early crisped, freshly mown morn during the spring training session of 1955 some nameless Bowman photographer likely set up his tripod and checked his Logaphot light “extinction” meter—unawares he was about to lose his job later that year in what would be a monopolistic harbinger in the acquisition of Bowman by the notorious Topps company. But before that happened, this Kodak-wielding idealist spectacularly captured the magical moment wherein Bob Darnell defied the laws of physics and threw his fastball so fast that it subsequently vanished in flames and traveled the way of a nuclear-powered, time-bending DeLorean. And now—nearly sixty years later—it just crashed straight through the television screen!

That’s not all: Bob’s career stats also boast a lossless pitching record during his time in the majors. On the other hand, Darnell’s time in the show was so brief that he never won a game either. Yes, that’s right: poor Bob held an 0-0 record during his two-year stint with the Brooklyn Dodgers, the team who subsequently up and left town for sunny California by 1958.

Darnell’s minor league numbers tell a slightly different story. After playing roughly nine years and almost exclusively in AAA, kicking around from St. Paul to L.A. to Montreal and elsewhere, he amassed 778 strikeouts. Sure, his career ERA of 4.06 wasn’t exactly exemplary, but to have experienced that rush of fanning so many batters must count for something, right?

In any case, with the 1956 season—his second and last time called up from the minors to play for Brooklyn—Darnell only pitched one major league game (indeed, only “1.1” innings), during which he failed to strike out any batters and then allowed a hit.

But he tried, didn’t he? Goddamn it! At least he did that.

♦ ♦ ♦

Bob Darnell major league and minor league info and stats found at Baseball-reference.com.

Image courtesy of COMC.com.

Ephemera Found When You Move, Part III: Nolan Ryan Signed Baseball

Signed Nolan Ryan Ball--after the family dog had his way with it

Please humor me for a moment to follow (and perhaps check) my math here: according to Major League Baseball’s sanctified Official Baseball Rules, the distance from home plate to the pitcher’s plate at the mound is 60 feet and 6 inches or 60.5 feet. Now this means when Nolan Ryan hurled his fastest recorded pitch at 100.9 miles per hour in an official major league game that it took all of .408 of one second for the ball to travel from the origin of the mound to the destination of home plate.[1] You may also note that this time is not far off from the average blink of the human eye.

So while the length of time that the featured Nolan Ryan autographed baseball (above) remained in mint condition certainly exceeds that of Ryan’s official fastest pitch, this particular piece of memorabilia nonetheless existed in pristine form for a still relatively brief period.

The story goes that my physician father-in-law received the autographed ball as one of those curious gifts given by some traveling pharmaceutical salesperson. And whatever you may feel about that particular, perfectly legal and not uncommon practice and the lamentable ethics of the broader pharmaceutical industry, I can say with confidence in knowing this discriminating man (my father-in-law, that is, not the traveling pharmaceutical salesperson) that he more than likely said “why, thank you very much—that’s very generous,” while in the same breath, “but no thank you to that worthless poison you’re peddling.”

My father-in-law couldn’t care less about baseball or Nolan Ryan, though, so he in turn gave the signed ball to his teenage daughter (my future partner-in-crime). At the time, she was an avid sports enthusiast, immersed in all manner of scores and statistics, nightly basking in the glow of broadcasts from the soon-to-be imperial ESPN. In fact, she even once attended a Texas Rangers and New York Yankees baseball game.

This inked orb of ephemeral memorabilia did not remain long in her possession, however, before a younger sibling (of yet fully developed capacity for appreciating material values) looked up towards a lofty bedroom display shelf and gazed upon said perched orb. Of course, the first thought that popped into this young child’s noggin proved just too tempting to resist: now isn’t that the perfect little bauble for me to throw and to catch and to play with—with my dog. Thus shortly thereafter Nolan Ryan’s still freshly scrawled autograph met with much smudged and slobbered disaster in the jaws of the family dog. . . .

But the ball survived just fine, albeit a bit lopsided, smeared, and worse the wear.

[1] After much nocturnal, numeric agony and my own feeble math skills, the calculations first require conversion from mph to ftps, or miles per hour to feet per second; hence 100.9 is multiplied by 5280, since 5280 feet equal one mile, and then that product of 532752 is divided by the 3600 seconds that comprise one hour. This yields 147.986 ft./sec. Given this rate, then divide the distance of 60.5 feet by 147.986 ft./sec. (as t = d/r, or time = distance/rate), all to arrive at the .408 seconds travel time.

 

Ephemera Found When You Move, Part II: Superman’s “Real Power”

2014-05-13-6149

Back when I was about little league age, though I never played in little league (for better or worse, and probably for better from what I have heard), my dad traveled to various book conventions around the country as part of his work. We lived at the time in a creaky floored, three-story Victorian house—of the North American variety—complete with eerie, Civil War era “dungeons,” stone foundation, and a domed turret façade. In short, to a young child the place felt rather expansive and a little unwelcoming; by night, I swore it was even haunted, especially with a massive cemetery cradling those soldiered dead only a few blocks away. Much of that was somehow ameliorated, however, when my dad returned after a long trip from one of those book shows. The hollow, old Victorian house seemed to grow warmer and shrink to a more comfortably sized dwelling space. Also, material fiends that consumerist children can be, it certainly improved my spirits when he came home bearing gifts snagged from whatever recent New York or Chicago convention.

Take, for example, one such book show freebie of the Man of Steel soaring through a veritable metropolis of enormous library books stacked as high as skyscrapers. And little matter how haphazardly this bookmark from 1983 stayed closeted away among so many other dusty possessions from my youth: the paper has nevertheless maintained much of its original crispness and gloss, while the colors likewise remain agelessly sharp and bright—from the blues and reds of Superman’s carefully inked super suit to the fleecy down of the clouds above.

Again, the copyright printed at the bottom of this bookmark identifies the year as 1983 (with ownership claimed by none other than DC Comics), alongside the named sponsoring organization of the “America Library Association.” Of course the ALA’s founding principles also inform the well-intentioned if not inane physical strength appeal—for reading—with the blocked letters that proclaim “KNOWLEDGE IS REAL POWER!,” which almost every bullied, grade school bookworm understands as suspect rhetoric.

In any case, I have not yet researched where the ALA held their annual big convention in 1983, and maybe I prefer for this to remain a mystery to me. That way I can imagine it could have been anywhere—that perhaps my dad traveled to the moon to bring back this small but thoughtful gift to his son.

In fact, my dad returned from that year’s meeting of the ALA with a stack of these Superman bookmarks. If memory serves, though so often it doesn’t, I remember that at one time I had a drawer full with dozens of the colorfully printed bookmarks; actually, my stockpile may have numbered a hundred or more. I recall how they even felt like some curious, vibrant form of currency. Of course they held little monetary value, but Superman easily made up for that lack in other, more worthwhile terms. Over time, however, my formerly plentiful supply thinned, what with each new but changeable acquaintance made, upon whatever the latest family move (and that childhood Victorian house being left behind long ago). Strangely, or fittingly, this is the last remaining Superman placeholder in my possession. For me, that only increases its real value, its real power.

This is why I collect cards–not comics

I just read this contradictorily heart-breaking yet soul-cleansing story of one man’s comic book collection purge. . . . For me, this tale offers at least one reason to collect cards, not comics–i.e. if nothing else, cards occupy a lot less storage space, albeit depending on your collecting habits. (And as far as writing about and coping with the condition of ephemera-hoarding: taking advantage of the glorious catalog and generous image permissions by places like COMC.com or helpful, fellow collectors on the Bay of E may also help to keep clutter to a minimum.) In any case, financial columnist J. D. Roth provides some useful glimpses into what sounds like an initially overwhelming task in selling off his collection of roughly 7,500 comic books. What’s just as intriguing to me, though, is his revelation that his earlier divorce appears to have been so amicable that he even entrusted his ex-wife with, oh, just “a few thousand additional comics” from his collection–well after they had separated. However, I’m left wondering if that gesture was more indicative of good faith or rather some clever, passive-aggressive revenge.