July 21, 2012

A Love Story

I cry every year.  Not out of pain or sorrow (although this year was a little different, due to the egregiously late, but ultimately satisfying, inclusion of Ron Santo)  but out of joy and appreciation for the sense of accomplishments. . . of others!  Thanks to the MLB Network, the Baseball Hall of Fame Induction Ceremonies are carried live, annually.  I never miss them.  The part I like best?  When the attending members make their way individually to the stage while a short 'bio' of their career accomplishments on the field are rattled off by the master of ceremonies.  The heroes of my youth.  Hell, my heroes of today!  Sitting, alone, in my kitchen watching this spectacle I started to wonder why I was constantly fighting to choke back those stinging tears.  It's because I love these men.  I love what they did and how well they did it.  And I love the game that they played and the way that they played it.  I always have and I'm sure I always will.



Ah, the Baltimore Orioles.  One of the true loves of my life.  Who have broken my heart more than any combination of women I have ever known.  Actually the franchise existed in the 1890's, just slightly before my time.  A perennial championship team starring Wee Willie "Hit 'em where they ain't" Keeler.  But they were contracted out of existence after the 1899 season.  In 1901 they were reborn in the newly formed American League, only to be sacrificed in 1903 in favor of a New York franchise. . . which eventually became the Yankees.  Can you believe that crap?  The fucking Yankees???  From 1903 to 1953, they were a AAA team in the International League.  In 1914, owner Jack Dunn signed a young local kid to play for the Orioles.  The kids name?  George Herman "Babe" Ruth.  The Babe pitched for the Orioles for one year before being sold to the Boston Red Sox.  After the 1953 season, the St. Louis Browns moved to Maryland and became known as my beloved birds.  I was 4 at the time, so I don't remember the hoopla or the parade or any of that stuff, but I do remember the players.  Even the early ones.  Clint Courtney, Connie Johnson, Bobby Boyd, Jackie Brandt, Gus Triandos, Bob Turley, Hoyt Wihelm.  I could go on and on.  Then came 1957 and the call-up of a gangly third baseman/catcher named Brooks Robinson.  A redneck kid from Little Rock, Arkansas.  Or so I first thought.  An unassuming young man who kept his head down and just played.  And, boy, could he play.  If you never had the chance to see him on the field, you missed something special.  And by all accounts he is as exceptional a human being as he was a ball player.  He's 'my' Baltimore Oriole.  For some, it's Cal Jr.  Or Eddie Murray.  Or Jim 'Cakes' Palmer.  Or Brooks' brother, Frank.  Or Boog Powell.  But for me, it's Brooks.  A sportswriter once wrote, "In New York, they named a candy bar after Reggie Jackson.  In Baltimore, they name their kids after Brooks Robinson."  Enough said.
  (1957 Topps Rookie Card)



Cut to. . . Saturday morning, late March, 1960. (Actually, the year is irrelevant.)  It's the first warm non-school day of spring.  I get up, don jeans, a white tee shirt and sneakers.  Down to the kitchen for one or two hefty bowls of Cheerios, then grab my gear.  The gear consists of a beat up old baseball, a couple of dinged up wooden bats (they weren't using aluminum back then) and my prized possession, my baseball glove.  A Brooks Robinson model I got for Christmas which I would have gladly sold my sister, and the sisters of others, just to call it mine.  I take the ball out of the glove (where it had been cradled the entire winter), bury my face in the pocket of the mitt and inhale deeply through my nose.  It is a scent that stirs the soul.  Genuine leather plied with linseed oil can bring tears to my eyes and a smile to my lips, simultaneously.  Then it's outside, jump on my bike and pedal the mile and a half to the fields at Parkville Junior High.  And that's where I spent my day.  That Saturday and every Saturday until school let out for the summer.  And then it was every day.  And I do mean e-v-e-r-y day.  From 8 or 9 in the morning until dinner time, we played baseball.  Rain or shine.  Not enough people for teams?  Didn't matter.  We hit grounders, practiced pitching, shagged fly balls, played run-down, played Home Run Derby.  Or we just played catch.  For about10 hours a day.  E-v-e-r-y day. For y-e-a-r-s.

And dreamed.  Dreamed of hitting a game winning home run, of starting a picture perfect double play from deep in the hole at short, of sliding safely into home in a cloud of dust, of diving into the stands while snagging a foul pop.  Dreamed of my heroes.  As a pre-teen and teen, my life WAS baseball.  I collected cards, I scoured the box scores and memorized stats (while eating those Cheerios), I became a student of the game.  As much of a student as a 10 year old can.  I studied the retired players.  Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Jimmy Foxx, Rogers Hornsby, Frank "Home Run" Baker.  I memorized Casey at the Bat.  I had a tiny GE transistor radio that I kept under my pillow at night so that I could listen to Chuck Thompson call the Oriole games after being told by my folks that it was bedtime.  West coast trips were the best!  I could listen to baseball until after midnight.  How great was that!  I was listening the night that Cleveland slugger Rocky Colavito hit four home runs against the Orioles at Memorial Stadium.  Wikipedia tells me that was June 10, 1959.  It seems like yesterday.  Years later, at the ripe old age of 20, I remember getting into my car, a God-awful 1961 duck-shit-blue Chevy Bel Air, and hearing the final inning of Jim Palmer's no-hitter against the Oakland A's.  (He walked the bases loaded in the ninth!)  Seems like yesterday.  I remember being at Camden Yards on September 6, 1995, along with my two youngest sons, the night Cal broke Gehrig's consecutive games record.  Had tears in my eyes and a frog in my throat as Cal ran his victory lap.  Seems like yesterday.

And, today?  Not much different.  From April to September I either attend or watch on TV all 162 Orioles games.  And since the O's haven't been in the post-season since 1997, I'm a crabby, crusty old fuck from the end of September until. . . the day that pitchers and catchers report for spring training the following February.  I find that I don't dream of daring on-field exploits nearly as often, but they're still there.  Occasionally.  If they win, I have a pretty good day.  If they lose. . .  not so much.  We find baseball imbedded in our daily lives.  Game jargon has woven its way into the fabric of our society.  Denny's serves up a 'grand slam'.  Anything done well is a 'home run'.  You can buy 'double play' lottery tickets.   I do a crossword puzzle every day and rarely does a day go by that there isn't at least one reference to baseball in the given clues.

And movies.  Baseball movies are the best.  Even bad baseball movies are pretty good.  Here are some great lines from baseball movies that I wish I had the talent to write:

Field of Dreams  -  "A chance to squint at a sky so blue that it hurts your eyes just to look at it. To feel the tingling in your arm as you connect with the ball. To run the bases - stretch a double into a triple, and flop face-first into third, wrap your arms around the bag."

A League of Their Own  -  Jimmy Dugan: Shit, Dottie, if you want to go back to Oregon and make a hundred babies, great, I'm in no position to tell anyone how to live. But sneaking out like this, quitting, you'll regret it for the rest of your life. Baseball is what gets inside you. It's what lights you up, you can't deny that.
Dottie Hinson: It just got too hard.
Jimmy Dugan: It's supposed to be hard. If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. The hard... is what makes it great.

Major League - "Nice catch, Hayes.  Don't ever fucking do it again."

The Natural  -  Pop Fisher: You know, my mama wanted me to be a farmer.
Roy Hobbs: My dad wanted me to be a baseball player.
Pop Fisher: Well you're better than any player I ever had. And you're the best God damn hitter I ever saw. Suit up.

It Happens Every Spring  -  Manager Jimmy Dolan: Kelly's not indispensable!
Monk Lanigan: I know, but the team can't get along without him.

Bull Durham  -  "This son of a bitch is throwing a two-hit shutout. He's shaking me off. You believe that shit? Charlie, here comes the deuce. And when you speak of me, speak well."

Field of Dreams  -  "Ray, people will come Ray.". . . "And they'll walk out to the bleachers; sit in shirtsleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines, where they sat when they were children and cheered their heroes. And they'll watch the game and it'll be as if they dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick they'll have to brush them away from their faces. People will come Ray. The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come."


For the record, I don't watch little league, college or minor league baseball.  To me, that would be like watching Roseanne Barr strip.  The game, at its highest level is a thing of beauty.  To see it done poorly is disheartening and unfulfilling.  It's the preciseness of the game and the level of talent it takes to play it well that I love.  Well played professional baseball is like a chess match played on a multi-acre board.  With 10 or more moving pieces.  One-run games are ridiculously exciting from the 8th inning, on.  Every pitch is crucial, every batted ball a potential disaster.  I will watch just about any MLB game that may happen to be on the tube.  Living in a city that has a major league team is a fringe benefit that gives me home town interest.  That being said, the Orioles won, today.  That makes five straight.  That makes it a good day.  Shit, damned near a good week!  Tonight, I can fall off to a restful sleep without a broken heart.  And the beat goes on. . .

July 14, 2012


My Soul.

I think I have found my soul.  An unexpected revelation for me as well as, I'm sure, for those who know me.  Frankly, I never thought it was lost.  In fact, I've spent all of my adult years absolutely convinced that it never even existed.  So, imagine my surprise when I discovered that it is, in fact, another person.  That person?  My soon-to-be 10 year old granddaughter, Abagail.

Dictionary.com defines 'soul' as: "the principle of life, feeling, thought, and action in humans, regarded as a distinct entity separate from the body, and commonly held to be separable in existence from the body; the spiritual part of humans as distinct from the physical part."  That's what stunned me.  It is absolutely spot on to the internalized feelings I had.  In a wave of thought that flashed through my mind in mere microseconds, I realized that there very well may be a purpose as to how we live our lives.  Only took me 63+ years, but I'm not complaining.  I'm sure many folks never get to this point.  All of this translated to me as, if my physical actions are not heinous, deplorable, illegal, etc., then Abby will have no reason to think poorly of me.  Which would satisfy my spiritual needs.  (Of course this is selfish.  It's my soul!)

So. . . what does it all mean?  Now, this is extremely personal, but what it means to me is that I never want to do anything to disapoint her, either directly or indirectly.  (Not that she has these lofty expectations.)   It means I don't want her to find out that I died in a fiery car wreck, with a hefty blood alcohol level.  It means that I don't want to be arrested in a strip club during some random police sting that just happens to reel me in during the raid.  It means that I don't want to be a real-life-Salisbury-family-edition of a Len Bias.  It means that I don't ever want to show up as a news item with a mug shot broadcast out over the airwaves.  It means a million things.  Maybe more.

As of today my life has changed.  Not dramatically, but it has changed.  No more binging on shots at the local pub.  No more 'all-nighters' fueled by chemicals that may be most favorably termed as 'illicit' and alcohol consumption looked upon as 'excessive'.  (Not that I've done these things in recent years, but, until now, I had never ruled them out for the future.)  No more trips to Dreamers or Kaos.  (Okay, that one hurts a little.  I certainly do admire the undraped, female form.)

Yeah.  Abagail, as it turns out, is my spiritual self.  It's how we connect.  My day gets better every time I see her.  Or talk to her.  She seems to enjoy our time together, too.  I'm on her 'short list' when she needs a sitter for the occasional off day from school, and that's a really nice feeling.  She likes to come here because (her words, not mine) I don't talk to her like she's a little kid.  And she isn't.  She is wise beyond her years and has a really droll sense of humor.  (Yeah, it's that Salisbury Sarcasm Gene.)  Who knew?

Thank you, Abby, for helping to me learn something so important.  Thank you, Sean and Tina, for the incredible job you have done in raising this amazing young lady.  If you aren't, yet, you should be proud.  You done good, and I am the better man for it.

Date: July 5, 2012 4:18:28 PM EDT
Subject: The Aftermath, Day 1

At 9:00 this morning more than 23k county residences/businesses were still without power. And the heat index should hit 107, which only slightly exceeds the relative humidity. I feel for them, I really do.

Based on what was saved from the freezer, my meals for the next few days will consist of bacon, hot dogs, bacon, cheese, chili and bacon. All fried up in bacon fat. Didn't know I had a bacon jones.

So much food was put down the disposal, last night, that it overheated and tripped the protection relay. I guess the 4 pound, super-value pack of Italian sausage was more than it could take. Another outstanding cost saving decision on my part.

Some stuff was salvaged, however. Example: Entenmann's chocolate covered devils food donuts are still delicious, even if they've been fused together by heat and then eaten with a fork.

I also discovered some unexpected treasures in the refrigerator. Example: a jar of bread & butter pickle slices left over from Nestopalooza 3. For those who attended, yeah, that was a while ago.

The washer and dryer are both screaming for mercy. Fuck 'em. If I'm working, they're working.

There are a lot of different items, mostly condiments for some odd reason, that have no expiration date. Note to self: add Worcestershire sauce to the 'meals' list.

My refrigerator/freezer is as clean as the day it was delivered. And nearly as empty.

Did I mention I have LOTS of bacon?



A couple of things I have learned:

Never buy so much bacon.

Instead of loading the freezer section with stuff that may eventually rot in a situation like we just had, load it with containers/bags of water. Makes the unit more energy efficient, reduces waste and lowers ones LDL levels.


For those of you in the Baltimore/DC corridor, try to stay cool. It's a scorcher out there.

Date: July 4, 2012 9:14:20 PM EDT
Subject: Lights

Power restored at 8:47pm. Now the fun begins! People are dancing in the street. (not really)

I, on the other hand, will continue to sit and swelter in the heat until I can adequately compose a 'thank you' note to my friends at BGE. (No sense in being comfortable while you're trying to tear someone a new ass.)  Not the linemen, mind you.  Those guys had days and days of working around the clock in this humid, festering quagmire. They're saints. I'm talking about the 'concerned', greedy, corner shaving, cost cutting, narrow minded, nausea inspiring sock-fuckers that run that 'public service' corporation. . . along with our elected officials that condone their behavior. Hey, dickheads, the second part of that moniker is 'service'.

Aaaaaaah. Now I actually do feel better. Really. I do.

Thanks for putting up with all of this. It certainly was therapeutic for me, and hopefully amusing for you.

By the way, I don't really hate birds. Just that one mouthy little POS. . . it must die!

Sent from my faithful, current sucking iPhone

Date: July 4, 2012 8:35:26 PM EDT
Subject: I can't help it. . .
Back on the air.


Random thoughts:

I've resorted to spiritual guidance to help me through this. The first recorded word of God we have (Genesis 1:3, NIV) is "Let there be light!"  He missed a spot.


Old sayings just aren't making sense, anymore:

Two's company. Three's a crowd.    
I'm thinking one is fine and three just greatly enhances the opportunity for a double homicide.

Misery loves company.    
Bullshit. Stop on over. Let's see how much 'fun' we have. Misery loves gin.

Every cloud has a silver lining.    
Don't even get me fucking started on this one, okay?

Tomorrow is another day.    
Of what? Let's try to be a little more specific, Scarlett.

Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.   Okay, that one I can get behind.

Brevity is the soul of wit.     
What? You're reading this, right? I'm shocked that 'brevity' is part of my vocabulary. Where did that come from?

A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush.     
No. A bird in the hand is lunch. Or revenge. They both work for me.



Other thoughts:

Has Uncle Sam achieved the same status as Santa? I was wondering because my favorite BAR was closed, today. WTF? It's America's independence day. We're Americans. We drink to celebrate. It's what we do. (Probably some limey bastard conspirators are behind this. Let it go, Winston!)

I'm convinced that Apple is in cahoots with the utility companies. I just can't understand why an iPhone battery the size of a Cheez-It sucks a 450 amp jump-starter dry of juice in less than an hour. Thanks, Steve, wherever you are.


Sent from my current sucking iPhone (that I can't do without)

Date: July 4, 2012 6:20:48 AM EDT
Subject: Anticipation. . .

is making me wait. And tomorrow. . .
(Carly Simon sucks)


Captains Log: Year 0, Day 5

Actually, not much more to say. I'm tuckered out. I stink. I'm tired. I'm hungry. Yes, I am but one of a huddled mass. The 'mass' consists of approximately 38,555 (give or take a few. . . thousand!) county customers celebrating Independence Day in what I am referring to as "hobo mode".

And we ARE independent. Independent of BASIC creature comforts, which we are being denied,such as:

The ability to watch crappy reality shows on 60" plasma TV's. (with 7.1surround sound, of course!)

The ability to have Pandora stream our
blasts from the past through said sound system.

The ability to watch "Ishtar" on Netflix as it pours in through the wi-fi enabled blu-ray player.

I mean, what are we? Savages?


On the bright side, I ran into some old friends at the iPhone Docking Establishment last night. Hadn't seen them in years and they live all of a block and a half away from me. I felt like a douche, but I was really happy to see them. Good folks, and they're doing well. Also without power, they'll be spending the day at the laundromat. I wish I had that much energy.

Also on the bright side, the two waves of thunderstorms that came screaming out of the Ohio Valley last night broke up over the mountains in western Maryland, sparing us more aggravation. I love mountains. I hate birds, but I love mountains!

(By the way, I'm getting really good at picking up potential storm fronts on doppler radar maps! (Watch out, Bob Turk.)

Finally, thanks to everyone for bearing with me these past few days. Your words of encouragement, suggestions, offers to help, etc. really meant a lot.

This is probably my last mass transmission. Obscure alien life forms have started to appear in my peripheral vision. They, in some way, appear almost . . human. As if. . . they were. . . somewhat like. . . BGE repairmen! But I haven't lost my sanity. I know it's just a mirage.

Phasers on stun.

Kirk out.


Sent from my constantly dying iPhone

Date: July 3, 2012 8:38:12 PM EDT
Subject: Ramblings from the bunker

Questions, observations. . . but no answers. (there are never any answers)

Question. If you were really, really hungry and had limited foodstuffs on hand, which would you pick? Pungent or rancid? (sorry about the lack of voting buttons)

Observation. The rate at which mold grows on bread is directly proportionate to the storage temperature of said loaf. The good news is, if I get some kind of funky infection, I can whip up some penicillin. I'm sure there's an app for that.

Question. Does anyone have a simple, yet elegant recipe for 'mockingbird'?

Observation. Two month old shredded mozzarella can grow moldy while packed in ice. Who knew?

Question. Can darkness descend on hell, or is that redundant?