Major League Baseball’s ‘Midsummer Classic’- the All-Star Game – was held last night in Minnesota. It was a decent match, as these things go, but nothing to write home about. They’ve tried to spice things up in recent years by granting World Series home field advantage to the winning league. This makes one wonder what Pete Rose would have done to Ray Fosse in 1970 if the game had counted for something. Last night’s designated hero was the Yankees’ star shortstop Derek Jeter, retiring this season at the ripe old baseball age of 40. They broadcast Jeter’s pep talk to the victorious American League squad before the game where he advised the younger players to make the most of their time in uniform because “it goes by fast.” Sage advice I suppose but nothing they wouldn’t get in a Minneapolis tavern, perched on a stool next to some forty or fifty year-old dude. The announcers made much of Jeter’s unrivaled character and ‘class’ .. but let’s face it, the bar is set rather low when it comes to major league ballplayers.There was an article in the NY Post a few years back about Jeter’s habit of leaving his female conquests with a gift basket filled with autographed swag, waiting for them the following morning in his chauffeured car to take them home. I suppose this could be considered classy, depending upon your slant on things, and it’s likely more than most women (or men) get to commemorate a one-night stand. It certainly seems to top that bestowed upon the conquests of ex Giants and Phillies slugger Pat Burrell. Stories circulated around the time of the Giants’ first World Series victory in 2010 of the legendary swordsman’s exploits. Pat was rumored to pose naked at the foot of the bed in full batting stance post-consummation, urging the young lady to “take a picture .. you just f****d ‘Pat the Bat.'” If this seems overly crass she could be thankful that he didn’t leave an even less appealing surprise on the carpet by the bedpost. I’m hoping that, at the very least, this second rumor is mere urban legend .. but Burrell likely never sat front row at the Derek Jeter Class Act Awards.
Ballplayers are often among the first indicators that our parents’ emphasis on intelligence and nobility isn’t a prerequisite for financial success in the proverbial ‘real world.’ I was a fan of Giants’ outfielder Jack Clark in the late 70s, mostly because my brother liked him. I recall a post-game interview between Clark and announcer Lon Simmons where Clark described his performance that day as ‘good.’ When asked to elaborate by Simmons, Clark replied “yeah Lon, I played real good.” Jack was a member of the Giants’ ‘God Squad,’ a tightly-knit group of players who all coincidentally found the Lord during the same June slump and subsequently credited Him every chance they got as the team’s fortunes improved in July and August. Clark had a good outfielder’s arm but lacked accuracy and the running joke was “why is it Jack Clark can find God but not the cutoff man?” Even as a kid I had to wonder why the Almighty would choose a lousy ballpark with artificial turf to make His presence known. The aforementioned Pete Rose was another example of superhuman hustle and skill with a wooden bat not translating into book smarts. I recall being out at a typically cold Candlestick night game once with my old man, late in Rose’s career. He was playing first base for the Phillies wearing his trademark infielder’s batting helmet and came bolting over toward our seats to make an impossible catch on a spiraling foul ball. It was the kind of catch that only Rose would make, sacrificing his ageing frame for a meaningless out late in the season between two teams that were going nowhere. As he went to retrieve the helmet and put it back on his head my dad commented “my father used to say you could tell a lot about a person’s intelligence just by looking at their face ..”
Baseball and the All-Star Game in particular have become a convenient excuse for meaningless nationalistic grandstanding, with cheesy second-tier stars singing the National Anthem and America the Beautiful, massive American flags being unfolded in the outfield, and military jets performing the mandatory post-anthem flyover. It would be OK if the game itself lived up to the hype, but it rarely does. Instead we get four hours of being constantly reminded how damn great our national pastime is and just how unique the young men who play it are. Baseball is special; I can attest to this as one who has consistently followed precious little in his long and meandering lifetime. But it’s typically special in postseason play or in those rare moments requiring having followed something as it’s unfolded over the long and measured course of the season. It’s special in knowing that only Pete Rose would make a catch like that or in sitting at a cold night game with your father, silently and mutually appreciating that the loudmouth waxing baseball-philosophical behind you knows nothing of the game. And it’s special in the legendary exploits of Pat Burrell, regardless of what he may or may not leave at the foot of your bed.
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