House Music Is Fast Catching Music Lover's Fancy

The kind of music that refers to a style of electronics dance music is known as house music. The earliest form of house music was played in the early to mid 1980's. House music was developed by club DJs in the city of Chicago in United States. The influence of certain elements like the funk infused dance music style and disco style can be seen heavily in house music. The origin of the name house music is uncertain. Some suggest that the name is derived from the name of the club called The Warehouse. In the late 70's and early 80's warehouse parties that were held underground were very popular in the city of Chicago. Now one of these underground parties that were frequented mostly by Latino and black gay man was known as the warehouse.

The Dj at The Warehouse Frankie Knuckles mixed European synthpop music with mixed classic disco music, punk recordings, industrial music and the new wave music for people who were regulars there. Frequent clubbers referred this music as House Music and thus the name cam into being. But as mentioned earlier this is disputed. Musician Larry Heard claims that the term House Music comes from the fact that most of the Djs records the music at their house. Generally these Djs use drum machines and synthesizers to record the music at their house and hence the term House Music came in to being. Dj Chip E has another story to tell behind the popularity of the name House Music. Chip claims that the name came from the method of recording at a studio. However none of the claims are conclusive.


House music developed in houses, clubs and garages where mostly teenagers and local club goers used to assemble. The popularity of house music increased when the music was played in commercial radio. House music was much longer and conceptual then any other type of music and also this music was not meant for widespread commercial use. Basically house music combined the traditional elements of the musical instruments to give it a more humane touch. The house music scene is very popular worldwide even today as many musicians have made huge contributions towards this. Many new generation producers and Djs have emerged in the house music scene and their main purpose is to make House Music popular.

House Music is popular these days and this music can be seen to be catching up in Detroit, New York, Atlanta and some other cities in America where people of racially mixed origin reside. It is not only in USA that the music is catching up but also in several countries worldwide like Germany, Australia, Canada and Scandinavia. Recently the Mayor of Chicago proclaimed that 10th of August to be celebrated as house Unity Day in the city. The craze for House Music is one the rise and this is evident worldwide.

Wedding Disco Jockey Services


When planning for an event, couples should consider hiring a wedding DJ mainly because they have the ability to keep the guests entertained throughout the ceremony. Music is a central factor in any Toronto marriage ceremony and this explains why many people access deejaying services. Many people access their services over the internet because it allows them to visit different sites at the same time and provides them with all the details that they need to know concerning the deejays. Some of the information a couple is likely to find include the type of services offered the physical address of the business, the charges and the conditions for hiring them. When shopping online for a deejay, one should consider a number of things.

Couples should avoid hiring their friends as deejays. Instead, they should invite them as guests. Inviting a friend as a wedding DJ may convey the wrong impression to them and couples may avoid this by inviting DJ's that they have no friendship or family ties with. Nuptials are one-time events therefore, people should hire professional Toronto DJ's to play music at their marriage ceremony. Professionals tend to have the ability to keep the guests entertained through out the ceremony and most of them are talented at reading the mood of the guests. Many people residing in Toronto prefer to hire deejays as an alternative to hiring a live band. Hiring live bands can be very expensive and people who cannot afford such services opt to hire wedding DJ services. Before hiring a deejay, a couple should Blog onto their websites in order to obtain views from other customers concerning the DJ's services.

Disco Birthday Party Ideas


When you are looking for ideas to plan the next birthday party for your favorite child make sure to investigate the many wonderful ideas available by making it a disco party. Children love these energetic events as the dance music makes an invigorating atmosphere and allows them to burn off excess energy in a positive manner.

Adding karaoke to your disco birthday party will enliven it even more. Every child wants to be a star. With the ease at which karaoke helps them get the words to their favorite song right, there is seldom any embarrassing moments to ruin the fun. It allows every participant to get the feel of being a real music pop star and helps reinforce positive social skills.

If you want to set up a specific theme idea for the disco birthday party, costumes can add to the fun. You can pick a specific retro decade for your theme and it shouldn't be too hard to find outfits to fit the mood. Adding karaoke to the mix will involve only a bit of work to find just the right songs to fit the event.


A bit of video editing can turn your child's disco birthday party into a fun documentary or an "episode" of a popular dance show. Creative editing of the dancers and performers can give you child a memento they can treasure for years.

Children do like to emulate adults so your disco birthday party ideas can range from the most casual of party events or go for an ultra formal event. The main idea is to make sure the fun factor is high. Whether your party is down to earth or a flight of high fantasy, adding the excitement of the dance will have them looking forward to the next birthday party so they can do it all again.

Disco Fever Dance Party


Do you have Disco Dance Fever? If so, you need to celebrate! A Disco theme party can be a great way to celebrate a birthday of any age, honor a retiree or just plain have fun. Costumes and decorations will make this party even more fun and realistic.

Pick a theme for your dance party, whether it be disco, break dancing, rap or country and find coordinating decorations. A party supply store will have every theme for dancing the night away and all the trimmings to make your party a smashing success.

If Disco is your chosen theme, buy, rent or make a disco ball to hang in your party room. Whether it functions or not doesn't really matter, it adds to the ambience of the set. Find old posters of bands and singers from the disco era and hang around the house or room.

Wedding Day Disco


Your wedding day should be one of the happiest days of your life and one of the most memorable images from the day is often people dancing and enjoying themselves during the evening at the disco.

Along with all the other crucial decisions, choosing the right D.J. to host your evening is paramount. Everyone has different tastes and favourites in music and wedding crowds traditionally offer the widest appreciation going. From boy band loving teenage girls to grannies who can't resist the chance to jive, you are guaranteed to have them all.

Our professional DJ service know what songs are likely to get the party started and we make sure no one is left all by themselves. While the mobile disco is traditionally associated with the wedding evening, modern matrimonial occasions tend to happen over three days with arrivals the day before and departures the day after, all providing the opportunity to keep guests entertained with mood music, ceremonial compositions and all out party tunes.

House Music - A Brief History of Early House Records

In the Beginning

The origins of house music can be traced back to the early 1980's in Chicago, Illinois. House rhythms were originally rooted in disco, but the music was influenced by a wide range of styles including blues, jazz, soul, R&B, and funk.

Framing the "House"

The coining of the phrase "house music" is a hotly debated topic among musicians and DJ's. Some say it originated from a club called "The Warehouse" where longtime resident Producer/DJ Frankie Knuckles played his unique brand of dance music until 1982 when the venue closed. Knuckles himself said he first heard the term while passing by a bar on the south side of Chicago that displayed a sign in its window reading "We play house music". DJ Leonard "Remix" Rroy claims the sign was a reference to the type of soulful music one would play at home.

Another opinion is that the term referenced the creation of music in the homes of pioneering DJ's and dance producers. These early creations would be recorded using synthesizers, drum machines and sequencers. Others claim that "house" references the correlation of certain tracks with their respective DJ's, as in the house DJ's played their own house records.

How to Choose the Right Music for DJ Mixes

What makes a DJ stand out from the rest? Is it the equipment they use? Is it the image they project? Is it the logo or how they're able to pull in huge crowds? Not necessarily. What truly makes a DJ is their ability to select music that is going to make the crowd go wild.

This article will share how to find those music tracks that will light up the dance floor and turn your DJ skills into a powerhouse force to be reckoned with.

The Right Music for DJ Mixes

Although music will vary depending on what genre you wish to spin, there are some common, underlying factors which make people fall in love with what you do.

Dropping the exclusive track

The 'white label' is some of the hardest to find tracks but they can be infinitely powerful when it comes to creating a DJ mix that blow people away. Exclusive tracks are generally given out to those that are well up there in the DJ ranks but you could always try to get in contact with record labels to see if they would be willing to send some your way.

The reason why exclusive tracks work is based on the fact that people don't want to just hear the same thing over and over again. They are all secretly looking to hear a track by an artist they know and if you drop that one that isn't even out yet - people go nuts!

Try to throw in a few unreleased tracks in the middle of your set that cranks up the power of your mix; that will get people hyped up and dancing like crazy when you do.

Hitting them with mainstream then obscurity

A great DJ set is a mixture of mainstream and obscure music. I know this sounds a little out of your comfort zone to play radio type music but they're very effective for getting people interested in your DJ mixing. The reason for this is that people may not know nearly as much music as you because, after all, you're a DJ and you have access to a lot of music.

Once you get people's interest, it's time to start working in the obscure tracks that will get the music lovers in the crowd; the people that spend all day finding obscure tracks. You want to have a blanket approach in your mixes so you can get everyone in the club rather than scaring them away with music that no one has heard of.

Pulling the ladies in

A trick that a lot of beginner DJ's seem to miss out on is the fact that if you can get ladies to the dance floor, the rest will follow. People go to clubs to have fun but the biggest reality is that people are there to score with the other genders. The music, club, drinks and everything else are social lubrication for people hooking up; that, at its core, is a lot of what DJing is about - creating the environment.

Although it may not completely fit your DJ mix, you'll want to throw in a few tracks that you know ladies love. Play something that may be a bit more mainstream that they're likely to know and want to get to the dance floor with their friends. If you can single out a group of women to come dance than you'll also begin to pull the guys in. Once you have people on the dance floor, they're yours to control.

Good DJ Music Will Make Your Event Shine

When planning a party, you spend a lot of time deciding on decor and menu offerings. You also carefully include friends on the guest list that you know will contribute to the mood and bring out the best in the crowd. You also need to pay attention to the DJ music. Music provides the background that sets the ambiance of your event. Careful selection is necessary to get the desired results. Don't just rely on someone else's mix. Take a minute to assess your party, the guests and the mood you want to create.

When you are working with children, there can a lot of difficulties. First, kids have an unbelievable amount of energy. When choosing DJ music, you need to determine whether you are going to play off that energy or calm your young guests down. Depending on what the particular activity is, you may want to vary the mood throughout the event. If a game is being played, choose upbeat tunes. For the gifts or food, put on something that is a bit more mellow. Another thing to play close attention to the is the content of the music. Try to keep the values of your guests in mind. Even if you find something appropriate, you may have a more conservative family coming. If you unsure, ask a friend or family member whose opinion you trust.


For an adult party, you have a lot more leeway. Your choices in DJ music will vary all the way from classical to hard rock. If you have a diverse guest list, it's a good idea to avoid extremes on either end. Easy listening, contemporary or modern pop are probably good choices. For a wedding, an eclectic mix of love songs is appropriate. If you are throwing an event celebrating a life event, choose songs that celebrate life and triumphs. Take the extra time to tailor your playlist to your intended mood.

There are many choices when it comes to DJ music and only you can be sure what is the best choice. Even if you hire a professional disc jockey, you will still need to work closely with the professional to ensure that the final product is just what you had in mind. Good music will always be noticed and can really make your event shine.

The Resurgence Of The Disco Ball


Remember walking into clubs in the 1970s and 1980s? What was the one staple that every room had? If you said, "disco ball," you would be 100% correct. This room accessory was the one must have item for any club to be considered hot and they are making a huge comeback today.

Once the disco craze died down, having a disco ball became a thing of the past. Many of the clubs that had them up ended up removing them for fear of being classified as a disco club. For whatever reason, people started to once again realize that they added some interesting effects to the room and they slowly started to show up again at night clubs.

Today, a disco ball of some sort seems to be the focal point of clubs all over the country. Regardless of the type of music that is being played, DJs and club owners are integrating the effects into the scene. When ball gets turned on and the lights start flying across the room, it is not uncommon to hear a loud roar come out of the crowd.

5 Best Nightclubs in Rome, Italy

If you have scheduled a trip to Rome and are eager to sample some of the city's nightlife, then you are sure to have the time of your life as Rome plays host to a large number of nightclubs, lounges, bars, cafes and restaurants. The people of Rome know how to party and their nightclubs are based on this ideology of entertainment and pleasure. Here is a list of the top five nightclubs in the city.

1. Bar Del Fico - This nightclub is very popular amongst the artistic crowd in the city, and is located at the Piazza Del Fico. The club serves up a heady blend of great music and well mixed drinks, making it very popular among young crowds. The Bar Del Fico is also a popular hangout for many of the famous artists and actors from around Italy.

2, Piper Club - This was the first discotheque to have been established in Rome. The address of this club is 9 Via Tagliamento Rome 00198. The Piper Club mainly plays house and underground music, but is also famous for their 70s disco and rock music. In the summer months, the Piper club moves to an open air setting at the Via degli Eugenii.

Disco Themed Weddings


Every wedding needs a great theme. The trick is to pick a theme that really showcases your personality. If you can pick a wedding theme that will also be a blast for your guests, so much the better. For a really good time, why not have a disco themed wedding?

The disco era was all about dancing and having a great time, so it certainly works for a festive occasion like a wedding. It is perfect for a bride and groom who love to dance, and are not afraid to have a wedding that is a little bit different. A disco theme also will make the wedding attire and decorations very easy to choose.

The bride at a disco themed wedding should wear something fabulous. There are two approaches to take: you can wear a cool disco inspired dress for the whole event, or you could wear a more traditional wedding gown for the ceremony and change into a slinky little number for the reception. The perfect dress would be a body conscious style made out of a fabric with a sheen or shimmer, like a charmuese or a sequined fabric. The dress should look great moving and twirling on the dance floor as you show off your moves. Accessorize it with low platform sandals and crystal bridal jewelry. Your crystal bridal jewelry should definitely include an impressively large pair of earrings, with a stack of bracelets on your wrist.

Zisk # 20



Catcher of the Future, Groupie of the Past (The Real Real Joel Skinner Story) by Dr. Nancy Golden

My Ballplayers Food All-Stars by Jake Austen

America's Team by Johnny Tsaur

Pale Blue Eyes by Mike Faloon

Disco Demolition Night by Todd Taylor

Mark Hughson Reviews Where Have You Gone, Vince Dimaggio? by Edward Kiersch

Steve Mandich Reviews The Underground Baseball Encyclopedia by Robert Schnakenberg

It's Not Working Anymore by Mike Faloon

Catcher of the Future, Groupie of the Past (The Real Real Joel Skinner Story) by Dr. Nancy Golden

Sometimes it’s telling to reach back and revisit how things started. Sometimes…not so much.

This one started between classes, beside my locker, 11th grade. We were just a few weeks into the baseball season and the guy with the locker next to me, a Red Sox fan, was systematically going through the Yankee lineup relating to me how each of them sucked. I, in turn, would counter each accusation with an anecdote of their awesomeness. It was trash talking at its purist: a declaration of the sucking of one team or player by Party A, followed by a refutation with supporting evidence by Party B. We sparred like this all the way around the bases until we got to the catcher, Joel Skinner. Joel Skinner? I had never heard of him. Nevertheless, I defended his honor as if he were Don Mattingly or Dave Winfield, or hell, even Mike Pagliarulo.

“His hitting will pick up,” I countered. “And besides, he’s a great defensive catcher.” It was easy to make shit up. Anyone practiced in trash talking can do this.

That night at home, I looked up the stats on Joel Skinner. And not on Google or ESPN.com. Back then we opened the Sports Section of the New York Times and checked the stats box. And the next day we checked the stats box again to see if anything changed. And, wow, this guy really couldn’t hit. I wondered how long the Yankees would let this go on, let a guy hit below .100. Here in New York, in the major leagues. But then these weren’t the Yankees of Joe Torre and Derek Jeter and fistfuls of championship rings. These were the Yankees of my youth, of their long pennant-free draught that was the 80’s. Perhaps this was all they could come up with.

As it turned out, Joel Skinner really was a great defensive catcher. I learned this as I began following him, watching his at-bats, listening to the announcers try to accentuate the positive as they simultaneously spoke of his batting average in terms of Bingo (O-74!) or, in better days, the interstate (I-95!). I really began to pull for this guy. And he wasn’t too harsh on the eyes either. Thus he became not only my guy, but “Joel Skinner—Catcher of the Future,” a way for me to firmly establish my belief in his potential with the team, while fully acknowledging his current lack of hitting skills. The guys at school brought me Joel Skinner baseball cards, all too willing to cast off their extras to the kid with the unexplained obsession. And fearing that I was his only fan, I lugged an old sheet spray-painted with his future superstar status to games in the Bronx, just in case the other fans were unaware. I even took the time to craft elaborate scenarios every time he got sent down to the AAA affiliate in Columbus. None, of course, mentioned his poor batting skills, rather they fingered Rick Cerone, who competed for the Yankees catching position that year, for trying to sabotage Joel’s career. (At its extreme, I authored an episodic soap opera while working the slow shifts at the local movie theater, starring my best friend and me. In the series finale, Joel is killed by a wayward ice cream truck, later revealed to be driven by a disguised Cerone. The story was written in flashback and chronicled the development of a film—Passion: The Real Joel Skinner Story—intended to replace an earlier exploitative made-for-TV biopic starring Tori Spelling and Jennie Garth. It was very meta.)

Eventually Joel Skinner got traded away to the Indians, his playing time lessened, and well, I became an adult and lost track of him. The Yankees of my youth were replaced by teams with winning records and no one ever questioned the selection process that produced future favorites like Paul O’Neill, David Wells, or Robbie Cano. Come game time, the ragged bed sheet with crooked blue letters explaining why you should like these guys was no longer in tow, as there was no longer need to explain. With their widely revered talent and all. In a dark blue t-shirt with my guy’s name and number written in white, from behind, the grown-up me had turned into any fan.

But Joel Skinner’s story didn’t end with my ascent into adulthood—for either of us. Years later during a visit with my brother, we reminisced about my fangirl days and wondered what had become of him. Thinking back to how we received letters from a retired Bud Harrelson on behalf of the local Chevy dealership while growing up, I was sure Joel would be a used car salesman by now. But he wasn’t. Instead of turning to the noble ranks of vehicular barter, Joel continued on with his baseball career without even telling me. After retiring as a player, he managed for six seasons in the Indians minor league system and earned numerous accolades for his five trips to the playoffs, including Minor League Manager of the Year in 2000, when he led the AAA Buffalo Bisons to the best record in the International League. In 2001, Joel returned to the majors and coached most of eight years for the Cleveland Indians at third base, with one year on the bench. During that time, he served as Interim Manager for the second half of the 2002 season, replacing the outgoing Charlie Manual, and compiling a 35-41 record.

And with this discovery, my fandom was reborn. Only not quite as public. The advent of Ebay saved me from having to explain my sudden interest in a retired catcher with a .228 career batting average, as I could work to complete my Joel Skinner baseball card collection from the comfort and anonymity of my home. I’d receive cards purchased for a dollar (including shipping) at my doorstep in unmarked yellow envelopes like others might receive porn. It didn’t take long until I expanded my collection to include Joel’s father Bob Skinner, who covered the Pittsburgh outfield alongside Roberto Clemente and Bill Virdon, and went on to manage the Phillies. Joel’s 76 games helming the Indians would make them only the second father/son managing duo in major league history. My favorite collectible—the Bob and Joel Skinner card from the Topps 1985 father/son collection, signed by each under their respective photos—pays homage to them both. But even more fun than the clandestine amassing of widely available and easily attained artifacts of a middling career is rooting for Joel again. Especially on the days when it means you’re the only one at the ballpark pulling for the third base coach instead of the cleanup hitter. To do what in that particular game, I’m not sure. Maybe wave someone home with particular vigor and finesse.

I’ve thought about trying to meet him, to wait for him after an Indians game or now an Oakland Athletics game, where he’s currently bench coach. Having stalked future Hall of Famers (sorry about that, Jeter), I imagine that I’d barely even have to flex my skills. But what would I say? I prefer the kind of celebrity encounter where no explanation of my presence is necessary—an author at a book signing or that astronaut that posed for pictures after his lecture. With Joel I’d always felt as if I’d need to provide the details of why I passed up, say Grady Sizemore, for a shot to talk to the third base coach. I’d find myself justifying why I killed off his character to provide a European ending to my story but how it was okay because I had kept the baby anyway. Or explaining how I was too cheap to shell out the $20 for his Triple A card in grad school but stuck the picture from Ebay in my album instead. Or how my favorite fake pickup line involves a sultry invitation back to my place to see my Bob and Joel Skinner baseball card collection. No, that wouldn’t do. None of it. This fandom was born of my youth, of the days before the compulsion to justify every action took hold. Maybe when Joel gets his major league team to manage and ushers them to the playoffs, I’ll wait for him outside the players’ entrance and get him to sign that old minor league card. And perhaps post a picture of us on Facebook that will make a couple of old high school friends smile. But for now, I think I’ll stick to quietly keeping tabs and anticipating my next brown paper wrapper delivery. And rooting from the sidelines. Because….because somebody 25 years ago said he was no good? Nah, not really. Just because.

Dr. Nancy Golden roots for the Yankees and the Nationals, yet we at Zisk still like her.

My Ballplayers Food All-Stars by Jake Austen

Who has time to travel the globe and scour the bodegas to experience every ballplayer-related restaurant, candy bar, encased meat product, sexual–performance supplement, etc.? Not I, but I did have enough time to put together a position-by-position All-Star team of the handful of players whose edible accomplishments I’ve sampled (Warning: White Sox-centric).

RF Sammy Sosa cereal—Though I’ve never been a Cubs fan I completely had Sammy Sosa (former White Sock) fever the year he and Big Mac were having their dinger fest. After that season a New York company called Famous Fixins (which seems to no longer exist) released Slammin Sammy’s, a generic-tasting Frosted Flakes-clone “commemorating 66 home runs.” In addition to a photo of Sammy hitting a super homer from inside a bowl of cereal, the box also features two contests (win an autographed bat or a limited edition baseball card), a description of the Sammy Sosa charitable foundation (that works in the “Baseball has been very, very good to me” joke he was rockin’ that year), and an order form for some non-MLB sanctioned Sammy Sosa caps and t-shirts. I ate a dozen boxes of this stuff.

1B Ron Kittle—A few years ago the White Sox stadium gave all their concession stands historical or clever Sox-related names. You get the Winning Ugly is Sweet dessert stand, Sherm Lollar’s Guard the Plate Grill, Shoeless Joe’s All Star Stand, and no less than two Nellie Fox concessions, Nellie’s Pivot Point Pizza and Fox’s Frozen Zone (because Nellie loved his margaritas!). Stands are named after Carlton Fisk, Luke Appling, Tony LaRussa, Jack McDowell, Al Lopez, Moose Skowron, Robin Ventura and many others. Rarely does the food relate to the player, though the only current Sox honored is Alexei Ramirez, as the Cuban Comet stand sells Cuban sandwiches (sliced ham, shredded pork, cheese, pickles, special sauce, something else, on Cuban bread). Of course, most stands just sell hot dogs or variations thereof, so you get Chico Carrasquel’s Dogs and Polish, Luzinski’s Rooftop Dog’s and Polish, and Dick Allen’s Rooftop Dogs and Polish. Oddly, Dick Allen only hit one ball on the roof of old Comiskey, though he did it prior to homeplate being moved 8-feet closer in ’83 (as did this mag’s namesake, Richie Zisk, who hit his lone roofie in ’77). The Bull hit four of ‘em. Oddly, the man who hit the most of anyone, seven, including the last one in 1990, has his stand called merely Kittle’s Brats and Sausage. But, it is actually much closer to the roof, being on the nosebleed upper deck, near the cheap seats where I always sit, giving me full access, so no complaints. Kittle was my fave player growing up and will always be. I went with my son last year to a miserable game and saw Kitty just walking around looking confused and got an awesome picture of him holding my child. For the rest of the game as my friends lamented the shitty play of our team I just kept pulling out my phone and showing them it was actually an awesome game. An awesome game to eat a Ron Kittle bratwurst!

C Josh Gibson—Can’t remember if it was called a Josh Gibson burger, but I definitely sat underneath a painting of the great catcher when I ate at the short-lived Negro League Café, a D.I.Y. theme restaurant in the Bronzeville section of Chicago’s southside. The restaurant was OK, but not great, and the main thing I remember is not the burger, but hearing the radio in the restaurant play R. Kelly’s “Trapped in the Closet,” the first time I’d heard it. So today when I think of Hall of Famer Gibson I always think of Kelly crouched in a closet clutching a Baretta waiting to shoot his lover’s cuckold.

SS Ozzie Guillen—A few years back Chicago got one of those Brazilian steakhouses, where costumed gauchos roll abundant wagons of meat to your table then cut it to order with giant swords. The poster/billboard/print ad for the place was Ozzie wielding a meat-covered sword, and nothing ever got me into a restaurant faster than that ad. I brought my mom, mother-in-law, kids, wife and my hungry self to that place on Mother’s Day and ate approximately thirteen pounds of delicious meat in honor of Ozzie’s uniform number.

2B Jackie Robinson—Though this isn’t exactly a personal connection, one of my fave things about the great Jackie Robinson is that back in the pre-millionaire ballplayer days when even stars needed offseason work and post-career jobs, Robinson’s gig after his playing days was joining the Chock Full o’ Nuts company in 1957 as Director of Personnel, eventually becoming Vice President. That’s one of the best endorsements ever in my mind, because if I bought coffee, and especially if I bought nut-filled coffee, I would always buy this coffee, because every single time I see a can of it in the store I always think, “That’s Jackie Robinson’s coffee!” Then I sing, “Chock Full o’ Nuts, it’s that heavenly coffee, better coffee a millionaire’s money can’t buy!” Best endorser and best jingle!

LF Carlos Lee—One time when Lee was on the Sox my friend was wearing his Carlos Lee jersey when he was eating at Nuevo Leon, the popular Mexican restaurant in Pilsen (next door to the Thrill Jockey Records office by the way) and Carlos Lee was eating at the next table. That’s an awesome story.

3B Wade Boggs—I suppose I don’t have much personal Boggs experience, besides living in New England for a few years during his reign. Boggs was famed for having to eat chicken before every game, and I seem to recall that when he was caught adulterizing it had something to do with variety—he needed women with varying chicken recipes when he was on the road. I once saw a cheap looking cookbook by Boggs for sale either at or around Fenway called Fowl Tips –My Favorite Chicken Recipes. Did not buy it.

CF Mickey Mantle—I wandered into Mantle’s restaurant one day when, for some forgotten reason, I had to kill time around Central Park West, probably in the early 90s (Mantle was still alive, and I overheard someone say he came in occasionally). I seem to recall it was a pretty bland sports bar/family restaurant hybrid, and I either had a very unmemorable burger or decided to just bail.

P Babe Ruth—I was never a big fan of the Baby Ruth candy bar, even though I probably ate tons of them as a kid. It has all the good stuff but it just seems kinda dry and off-kilter. Like they’re always stale. Another thing off-kilter about it is the claim that the candy was not named after Babe Ruth, but rather after the long-dead child of ex-President Grover Cleveland. The Curtiss Candy Company (of Chicago) named the candy in 1921, when Ruth had become a Yankees superstar, and they probably made up the bogus dead baby story to avoid paying the Sultan of Swat royalties. Or maybe in the 20s dead baby candy was a hot trend, who knows? Though Gummi Lindbergh Babies weren’t popular ‘til the 30s. I have Ruth listed as a pitcher here because of his amazing pitching career in Boston prior to his Yankee-dom. I’ve always felt that even if he wasn’t the all-around ball player that Willie Mays was or the prolific dinger man Aaron proved to be, the fact that he coulda been a Hall of Famer pitcher or batter is a good argument for him as the all-time greatest baseball dude. Another great untrue but awesome candy bar name rumor: The Oh Henry bar was a handshake across the ocean, naming a sweet treat after Japan’s and the U.S.’s home run kings! Of course, Chicago’s Williamson Candy Company created their confection in 1920, twenty years before Sadaharu Oh was born and fourteen years before Henry Aaron was born. But what an unexpected surprise it would be if somehow that crazy story did turn out to be time-defyingly true. If only I could think of an American short story writer who was good at twist endings to write it?

DH Reggie Jackson—So the story goes Reggie Jackson boasted that if he played for the Yankees they’d name a candy bar after him. Apparently in addition to coming to the Bronx, to earn the candy bar he also had to spend a year fist fighting with Billy Martin, get a nickname (Mr. October), and win the World Series with the best single game batting performance ever on October 18, 1977: Reggie swung the bat three times and got 13 total bases (a 4-ball walk, and three first pitch homers! The last off Hawaiian knuckleballer Charlie Hough). Plus he had to survive fans throwing firecrackers at him to honor his greatness. On opening day 1978 (Yanks/White Sox, by the way) they had these bars at Yankee Stadium, and as if these were firecrackers, fans also chocolate rained these down on him. In an orange wrapper with a photo of Reggie swinging on it, these were made by Curtiss (who made Baby Ruth) and were basically round Baby Ruths, minus the nougat. But despite being kinda dry, they were a little more satisfying than BR’s, because something about the shape just worked. I don’t know if these were nationally distributed, maybe it was supposed to just be in New York and we got them in Chicago because they made them here, but I sure dug ‘em. When Reggie left the Yanks they stopped making them rather than produce a confection with a California Angels uniform on them.

B-Ball Bonus All-Stars
F Scottie Pippen—I think the Scottie Bar was something that schools sold as a fundraiser, not an actual buy-it-in-the-store candy. Can’t remember if it was good, but I assume so (it featured caramel and pecans, also known as “A Winning Combination.” Not sure if Scottie was the caramel and Jordan was the nuts, or vise versa…but it woulda make more sense if Jordan was almonds rather than pecans). The back of the candy has a quote from Scottie: “Life is a commitment of hard work and discipline. Set your goals and reach them.” Sales goals no doubt. Made by Morley’s Candy Makers, Villa Park, Illinois.

F Dennis Rodman—Rodman briefly had a bar/restaurant and I got invited for some preview night or opening or something. I remember they had his wedding dress in a glass case and I think they had appetizer-type food, maybe sushi, but I really can’t remember exactly what the food was. The place was not around long.

G Michael Jordan—Michael Jordan’s, a massive restaurant, was around for a few years. It was located near all the novelty restaurants north and west of downtown. The food, American comfort food or some such theme, kinda sucked, but I remember the big selling point was “Juanita’s Macaroni & Cheese.” I guess playing on the idea that Mike’s wife-at-the-time by virtue of her black womanhood must have an amazing, down home, Southern, magical, secret macaroni and cheese recipe they pumped this concept up. It was just regular mac and cheese.

G LeBron James—I definitely chewed a few pieces of LeBron’s Lightning Lemonade Bubblicious gum. Nobody likes LeBron amymore, and I don’t know if anyone ever liked this lemonde flavored gum, but I liked way the cartoon captured his weird face. But despite not being a Cubs guy, I have to say, I’m more of a Wrigley’s man than a Bubblicious boy.

C Shaquille O’Neal—You would think that someone who did the Kazaam movie would have a hard time finding anything in his resume more embarrassing than that genie costume, but sadly the Shaq Bar was not even a legit candy bar – it was a foul tasting “energy bar” sold by the evil Amway pyramid scheme organization to its sucker salesmen. I bought one on a convenience store (where it shouldn’t have been, a clerk must have been in the cult) and it was bad, but I can’t believe I didn’t save the wrapper. Did I think I’d ever buy another one? Shaq also appeared on the wrappers of the Canadian Mr. Big chocolate bars. The internet reveals he also put his name to Nestle’s “Shaq sized” 9.25 pound candy bars.

COACH
Mike Ditka
—Where to start! Ditka has his own steakhouses, a line of fine wines, vitamins, a salsa featuring Da Coach in a sombrero on the bottle, a product called “Mike Ditka’s Bear Cheese” and a pill called “Iron Mike Ultimate Virility Enhancer.” Plus he threw his gum at a heckling fan once, which I think qualifies as his own line of one-of-a-kind, custom, designer candy.

ANNOUNCER
Harry Caray
—I’ve never eaten at Harry Caray’s restaurant, though I’ve walked in a few times, but I have eaten his two foot-high plate of fried, grease-soaked potato “chips” at the Taste of Chicago outdoor food festival…and that is some seriously Chicago food! That stuff borders on Wisconsonian!

BENCH
Walter Payton
(football) Though “Sweetness” would have been a natural for a confection, he went the savory route with his endorsement, appearing in ads for Kentucky Fried Chicken where he sang a soulful jingle about how both KFC and the greatest running back in NFL history (I’d wager that even Emmitt Smith’s mom doesn’t think her son is better than Payton) are “Doin’ it Right.” This was significant because you could get a flexi disc of him singing the song at this chicken joint, which was the late Payton’s only solo record. He, of course, had a million-seller with the “Super Bowl Shuffle,” recorded a single with a Blackhawks/Bears blues band called the Chicago Six, and did a hip hop 12” with the Fridge.

Mr. T (competitive bouncing – as in bouncer at a club, not pogo sticking) Quaker’s Mr. T cereal tasted like Captain Crunch, made a guest appearance on an episode of Pee Wee’s Playhouse, was shaped like the letter “T” and I ate a Ton of it!. I probably ate 2000% more than my daughter ate Kellogg’s Hannah Montana cereal. I almost dated Mr. T’s daughter, ask me about it sometime.

Stan Mikita (hockey) – Despite what Wayne’s World implies, the Blackhawk great does not own a donut shop in Aurora. To my knowledge.

Jake Austen is editor of Roctober magazine and produces the all-ages children's dance show Chic-A-Go-Go. His latest book Flying Saucers Rock N Roll: Coversations With Unjustly Obscure Rock N Roll Eccentrics was just published by Duke University Press.

America's Team by Johnny Tsaur

Not to digress from baseball for too long, but I recently came across an article that labeled the NFL’s Dallas Cowboys as “America’s Team”—and I agreed for all the wrong reasons. The Dallas Cowboys do represent a side of America, but not precisely one that we should be proud of. No disrespect to the great people of Texas, but the Cowboys are precisely a representation of what America looks like from the outside looking in. Delusional, over-the-top, can’t win a big game to save their life showboats. They’re the home of the world’s largest TV and a 6-10 record.

It’s hard to see what makes the Cowboys so deserving of the title. In fact, not living in Cowboy-land, I find it hard to recollect a conversation about them that even relates to football. The conversation is never about what they do on the field, but is so focused on the grandeur of the sidelines. The Cowboys are the clichés that people see when they look at America. The focus is built on the flashy, talented, but misguided wide receiver in Terrell Owens of 2007, or the strained relationship with his All-American quarterback, Tony Romo. Tony Romo’s girlfriend (whoever it is, when you read this), Jerry Jones, the Texas oil man, satisfying his need for bigger and better things by building the Cowboys Stadium, the largest domed arena in the world, home of the largest HD screen, a screen so large, it directly interferes with the game. They are a team of caricatures and represent a cartoon America.

For a little background, I’m a 24-year-old college student in Southern California, and have been a fan of the hometown Dodgers for the last 15 years. Going into the 2011 season, there are moderate expectations to respond to the Giants’ World Series win last October. If you were to ask me who My America’s team is, it’s without a doubt, the Los Angeles Dodgers.

The history of the Dodgers shows a connection to the multicultural roots of our national melting pot. They broke the color barrier with Jackie Robinson, but it’s more than just that. Dodger blue is a place where Sandy Koufax can find a balance of his religion and his duty. Dodger blue is where a Mexican teenager can become Fernandomania! Dodger blue is where Hideo Nomo’s rookie season bridged the gap between East and West. Dodger blue is where Orel Hershiser’s bulldog, blue-collar work ethic can make an everyman into a World Series MVP. Dodger blue is where, just when you think they can’t, a man with two bad legs from Michigan pulls through in the bottom of the ninth. That is what America is all about; many people coming together underneath one banner, the best of the world putting their effort to build a unified place in history.

This, unfortunately, is not where the metaphor ends. Being a college student, it’s hard to turn in any direction and not receive some bad news. The economy is so bad you won’t be able to get a job, there are wars going on across the globe and we’re spread too thin, there is “terror” around every corner. Being born in 1987, I was one year old when the Dodgers had won their last World Series, and have lived with the mediocrity of the Dodger Blues ever since. The problem has always been too large, and much like America, the small fixes are just band-aids on an open jugular—with the most recent being a retreat to familiarity, like putting a Bush back in the White House, Joe Torre was hired to mixed results. They’ve been just “good enough” for too long, and like America, we need a new identity.

With the McCourt’s ugly divorce being headline news in the sports section, there is an obvious lack of direction of the team. There is political strife in America, much like there is in the Dodger front office. However, with a new spring training and a new season ahead, there is hope. The hope rests on the shoulders of a new generation: Andre Ethier, Matt Kemp, James Loney, Chad Billingsley, Jonathan Broxton, and Clayton Kershaw. The youthful core is there to build around to win a championship. Talented, hungry, and done waiting their turn, there is hope that they are to be the heroes for those born in 2011.

Enter Andre Ethier. An NL All-Star this last season, the bi-racial heartthrob was leading the National League in home runs, RBI and batting average in 2010 before his pinky injury. Then comes Matt Kemp, the powerful 26-year-old CF. He ended the 2010 season with five home runs in five games, showing off the youthful swagger by topping off the season with the streak. First baseman James Loney returns to the lineup after a down season, however he has given the Dodger fan base plenty of chances to remember why Baseball America labeled him the best pure hitter of his draft year. Then there is the pitching core: Chad Billingsley, an Ohio born RHP, All-Star in 2009, he appears to be the incumbent ace in the rotation. Clayton Jershaw, a Texas born LHP, a former USA Today high school player of the year, and a YouTube sensation for throwing one of the nastiest curveballs I’ve ever seen. These pitchers represent Middle America, what they lack in flamboyant personality, they make up with a combined 1,248 strikeouts in their young careers. Last but not least comes Jonathan Broxton, a 26-year-old closer for the Dodgers. A paragon of “throw the ball as hard as possible” style pitching, he broke a 103 MPH fireball against the Padres in 2009. Although coming off a bad season in 2010, Broxton is reminiscent of Eric “Game Over” Gagne, a dominating figure who was unfortunately linked to the steroids scandal of baseball. They have personality but more importantly, they have upside.

It is time to leave the Andruw Jones’ and the Manny Ramirez-es behind and to build the new identity. It is time for the youth to turn promise into production, to step up and become the new legends of Chavez Ravine. When one comes to see a game at Dodger Stadium, the first thing they notice are the vintage giant posters that cover the outsides of Dodger Stadium, immortalizing the past heroes that donned the Dodger Blue. They are sun-faded and vintage photographs, at first reminding the fans of their original personalities, but also reminders of their talent. They are images of a unique era in Dodger baseball; however, one must remember that they are only reminders. Koufax will not step out of the poster and pitch tomorrow. Much like America, it is time for the new generation of leaders to rise and make the Dodgers no longer a place where great things used to happen, but a place in which they still do.

Pale Blue Eyes by Mike Faloon

I’ve screwed up. I’m driving through eastern New York, halfway to Cooperstown. I’m on my way to the Baseball Hall of Fame to spend the weekend with my dad and my brothers. We’re celebrating our dad’s birthday.

I’m not lost. That’s usually how I mess up on roadtrips, especially when I’m on a route I’ve never traveled before like this one. The drive is really nice. Two lane roads that gently twist and wind with very little traffic in either direction. I haven’t seen a chain store and fast food restaurant all day. There’s just one mom and pop place after another. Sometimes I forget we can still travel considerable distances free of Targets and TGI Fridays.

There aren’t many gas stations along the way either, which is a bit unsettling but nothing compared to the yard sale I pass where some dude is selling shotguns. I know this reeks of creative license but here’s what I saw: At the end of his driveway this guy had three guns laid out on a folding table. A second guy stood on the other side of the table—the one closest to the road—and looked through the scope of a shotgun, not aiming it, inspecting it. It seemed very much like a pending transaction. This is not how friends check out each other’s weapons. That takes place in the garage or the backyard or the basement. Those are also the locations in which I assume home-based guns sales take place. Were there sun flares today? What did I miss?

So the relief that comes from thinking small town America is still alive is offset by illegal small arms sales. (What’s a dose of Norman Rockwell without some Deliverance mixed in?) But that’s not my mistake. I was right to choose backroads over the interstate.

My mistake is the playlist on my mp3 player. In the words of Neil from The Young One the music is making me “all heavy and uncool.” I thought quiet, sparse songs would put me at ease, wash away the workweek, and put me in a place where I could fully appreciate the weekend. That plan has backfired.

The playlist starts with Townes Van Zandt’s “If I Needed You” and Sam Phillips’ “Reflecting Light.” Then there’s a bunch of Kelly Hogan songs, Willie Nelson’s “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain,” and the song the closes the mix, the song that put me over the edge: Kelly Hogan and Alejandro Escovedo’s cover of “Pale Blue Eyes.” Their version is even more delicate than the original. It’s an equal mix of their voices and his guitar. It feels like they’ve already crumbled apart and they’re just waiting for the wind to carry them away.

There is one line in particular that really gets to me. I’ve heard it dozens of times over the years—first R.E.M.’s cover, then the Velvet Underground original, later Mo Tucker’s version. It’s passed by unnoticed for over 20 years but now it’s burrowed straight to my heart. “I’ve thought of you as my mountain top/I’ve thought of you as my peek/I’ve thought of you as everything I’ve had but couldn’t keep/I’ve had but couldn’t keep.”

Normally it’s a song about lost love but today, after listening to the rest of the playlist it’s become a song about mortality. Not mine, my kids’. How could someone, someone like my kids so pure and full of beauty not live forever?

This is not what anyone wants to think about, especially when they’re driving to Cooperstown to spend a weekend at the Baseball Hall of Fame with their dad and brothers. Apparently the Norman Rockwell/Deliverance hybrid isn’t enough. I’ve let some Beaches seep in, too.

I slowly drive down Main Street and the sadness evaporates. It’s gone by the time I meet up with dad and Casey at the entrance to the Hall of Fame. They’ve already been inside and have come out to meet me. My dad is wearing a “Happy Birthday” button. He’s tickled. The setting, the company, the fact that he got into the Hall of Fame for free because it’s his birthday (or maybe because he’s a veteran—that’s not clear). Dad gives me the details of their drive from Syracuse. Casey makes fun of me. I’m in the right place.

It’s been 30 years since my last trip to the Hall of Fame. My mom tells me we made a day trip when I was a kid. No one else in the family remembers that trip. I do recall coming to Cooperstown for a Boy Scout trip in sixth grade. My painfully lame troopmates could barely wait to leave the HOF. They were far more interested in the Farmer’s Museum down the road.1
As I pay to enter the hall my dad strikes up a conversation with the attendant.

“I got in for free because it’s my birthday,” he says, “either that or it’s because of this.” He points to his Vietnam Veteran hat. Dad served a tour of duty in ’66-’67 leading a transportation unit.

Attendant: “Do you have your 20-year service id?”

Dad: “No.”

Attendant: “Tiffany must have been feeling nice.”

So not only does the Hall of Fame allow you to reenter the place as many times as you’d like once you’ve paid, sometimes they let people in for free because they’re in a good mood.

And that’s just the start. A few strides in we see a display of John Fogerty’s bat guitar, which apparently spent five days under flood waters before being donated. Then we enter the art room. One of the first rooms is devoted to paintings. Along with the Norman Rockwell, there’s also fascinating outsider art (Ray Materson, Charles Fazzino) and a portrait of Turkey Stearns by Kadir Nelson.2

Next we’re off to see the plaques. I’m ready to cruise past the 19th century inductees but Casey lingers. “Harry Chadwick. He wrote the first rulebook and invented the box score. He’s the all mighty father!”

A few minutes into the tour my brother Pat surprises us. We weren’t expecting him for a couple of hours. With the quartet now complete it’s not long before we get into our first argument of the weekend. We love to argue, but we have a different way of arguing. In our family there is a general aversion to conflict, but with that there is also an intense need to voice and cling to opinions. So if you overheard us arguing you’d hear two, or more, different claims being asserted. You wouldn’t hear meaningful exchanges or follow ups or critiques. You’d just hear the same opinions repeated and/or rephrased—ideas cruising along side each other on parallel tracks, shaking their fists at each other. It usually irritates me but not today. Most of the time we hold onto these silly notions until the bitter end. Our claims are seldom mutually exclusive but as siblings it’s our duty to pretend that they are and that something significant is at stake. This weekend the disagreements dissipate rather quickly. This only makes them funnier.

We open this weekend’s round of squabbling with the following: why are baseball gloves bigger now? I make the technological argument: we’ve learned to make better gloves. Pat makes the evolutionary argument: we’ve grown larger. We bow out after two or three exchanges, each convinced that he’s right.

Typically museums are quiet, but the four of us never stop talking. When we get separated for a bit in the broadcasters’ exhibit my dad calls out to Pat, “We’re over here!” To which Pat responds, “I know. I could hear you guys in the next room.”

The general pattern of the weekend is that we argue now and again but mostly we geek out on baseball. After seeing a photo of former Phillie, and 1950 NL MVP, Jim Konstanty we start keeping track of players who wore glasses. We find nine by the end of the day:

Jim Konstanty
Darrell Porter
Andre Thorton
Ken Phelps
Ron Kittle
Greg Luzinski
Reggie Jackson
Julian Javier
Dom DiMaggio

We also see Pete Rose photos and references all over the place. Not having a plaque seems to have little impact. Charlie Hustle is all over the Hall of Fame.

Our second argument: the role of Robert Moses in the development of New York City, specifically his impact on the Brooklyn Dodgers decision to relocate to Los Angeles. Or maybe we’re arguing about the demolition of the Polo Grounds. I can’t say that we listen all that well and I quickly lose track of who’s arguing what. I don’t think we listen to each other. I listen when I’m at home. I listen when I’m at work. But when dudes gather, talk prevails.

My next note simply says “1976, Hal McRae.” He finished second in the batting race that year but I don’t think that’s why I wrote the note. I think it’s because he had cool facial hair on his ’76 card. The sentimental has its place at the Hall of Fame, but so does the silly.

The best exhibit is called “One for the Books.” It features artifacts from historic games. A game ball from Jack Chesbro’s last start of the 1904 season, when he was going for his 42nd win. The bat from Rennie Stennett’s 7-hit game. The spikes Sachio Kinugasa wore when he tied Lou Gehrig’s consecutive games played streak in 1987.3 The more esoteric and removed from my firsthand knowledge of the game, the better. There is one exception, though. Eric Bruntlett’s jersey from a 2009 Mets/Phillies game. I was in attendance that day. I remember being relieved when I saw that Bruntlett—then hitting .128—was starting at second base in place of notorious Met killer Chase Utley. Of course, Bruntlett went 3-for-5. He also recorded the first game-ending unassisted triple play in National League history. Ironically, the two runners were on base as a result of Bruntlett’s miscues at second. Two ground balls were hit to him and both times he failed to get an out. He came so close to handing the game to the Mets. They were down 9-7 with two on and no outs. Then Jeff Francouer smashed a line drive up the middle. I was stunned by how little time it took for my hopes to rocket and then for Eric Bruntlett to record three outs.

The rest of our time in the hall is a blur. I’m too swept up in things to break out my notebook. But not our arguments. I’ll always make time for those. Topic number three: Leaf blowers.

“I’m sorry leaf blowers are not in my lexicon!”

“If you knew how many leafs we have in our yard.”

Like its predecessor this disagreement passes and we’re soon relaxing in a pub. I’m surprised by the extent to which the locals size us up as we walk in. I figured they’d be tired of checking out the tourists given how many of us pass through their town each year. But those seated at the bar make it clear that we enter only with their consent. And that’s fine, it bonds us. The place has a good selection on tap—including a variety from the local Ommegang Brewery—but they also have soccer on both of the televisions.

Casey sees a flyer for the pub’s weekly trivia competition. “We could do really well.” He points to Pat, a research scientist by profession, “Science.” He points to himself, “Movies.” This makes sense. Casey can recall dialogue from a movie he’s seen only once. He points to me and shrugs. He points to our dad. “Old shit.”

Nearing the end of our pints we approach a decision. What should we do next? This could take forever. It usually does. My family does not make decisions quickly or easily. We can take twenty minutes to part ways. We’ll say goodbye half a dozen times then renew the conversation. Our low threshold for conflict renders us less effective than The Three Stooges when it comes to collective decision making.

Take last summer, for example. Dad, Pat, my family and my Uncle Steve’s family had gathered in Gloucester, Massachusetts for the weekend. After considerably maneuvering we made it to a beach but the group was split as to whether or not we should stay. The question before us: stay or return to the beach from the day before.

“With our half price parking voucher it’s only $10.”

No reaction from the group.

“We only have to pay $5 for parking because of the parking vouchers.”

“I need to be in the shade or get some sunscreen.”

“If we’re going to just do a beach for the day, why make this our beach?”

“The seaweed’s not that bad and because we’re protected by the cove we won’t feel the wind. When we went to the other beach it was kind of breezy.”

“There are stones but they’re small and you won’t even feel them when you get a little ways out.”

That’s us. That’s my family, slowly reaching a decision. It’s kind of like a game of football where everyone decides not to use their hands or their feet. Notions are nudged forward but no one will pick up the damn ball and run with it. But this weekend is different. We’re in Cooperstown and we have a clear directive: make dad happy. It’s his birthday. Let him decide what to do. He wants to check out Doubleday Field.

From beyond the stadium we can’t tell whether or not there’s a game. We walk up the runway and see a batter hit a pop up behind the plate. It takes a bounce and winds up in the hands of a thrilled 6-year-old. I stand behind the fence along the first base line. It’s quiet and low key. There are only two people in the third base section of the grandstand. The on-deck hitter picks up a foul tip as the sun ducks behind the trees.

We don’t know who’s playing. The girls in front of us are rooting for players by name. We figure they’ll know and they kind of do. “The Colts are from Massachusetts and the other team is the Sea Dogs, I think.” It’s a ballgame. Why sweat details?

When it comes to dinner there are two frontrunners. One is an Italian restaurant. The other is a pub. At first, no one steps up to advocate for one over the other. No one is surprised by this. We defer to dad who senses that the votes are split. Pat makes his move. As we look at the pub’s menu he points to the photo and reminds us that we would not be eating in the upstairs dining room that is visible through the plate glass window, classy but closed. We would be eating downstairs, in the pub show in the photo. Whoever took the photo used far too much flash. The most brightly lit object is the back of a faux leather high back chair. I have to admit that the picture does suggest Wonder bread and those cheap plastic menus that stick to your arms. Italian it is.

And it’s the right call. There’s no wait for a table and when our drinks come Dad raises his glass for a toast. “I’m going to make this quick.” He almost tears up. “You’re the best sons a dad could ask for.” After what happened this morning I think I understand the look in his eyes a little better.

Back at the motel I put on the playlist. The rest of the songs are pretty and soothing but I skip the Kelly Hogan and Alejandro Escovedo duet just in case.

Mike Faloon is the co-editor of Zisk. His first book, The Hanging Gardens of Split Rock, is available through Gorsky Press. He’s currently working on a one-shot music zine called Learning to Surf.

1 A bunch of 11 and 12-year-old kids from the suburbs choosing agriculture over sports—like the roadside gun sale this too sounds like I’m making it up. But it’s been my steady recollection ever since sixth grade.

2 Next time you’re in a bookstore—you still go to bookstores, right?—check out Kadir Nelson’s We Are the Ship: The Story of Negro League Baseball. It’s in the kids’ section and the artwork is beautiful.

3 Which I never knew about before seeing this exhibit. Kinugasa eventually ran up a streak of 2215 games from 1970-1987. How did I miss this during the Ripken mania of 1995?

Disco Demolition Night by Todd Taylor

CIVIL RIGHTS… AND EXPLOSIONS
Bill Veeck, Jr.
was owner of the Chicago White Sox in 1979. Veeck had been a journeyman baseball club owner and a staunch supporter of civil rights.

In 1947, Veeck hired the American League’s first black player, Larry Doby. A year later, he signed forty-two-year-old Negro League pitching legend Satchel Paige to a contract, making Paige the oldest rookie ever to play professional baseball. Although Veeck had an artificial leg, he participated in a day-long civil rights march in Selma, Alabama in March 1965, without the use of crutches. Fellow baseball club owners often derisively likened Veeck to circus huckster PT Barnum: a sucker for a good promotion.

Veeck’s accomplishments forever changed the face and tenor of baseball. He was the first owner to introduce fireworks displays after games. At Comiskey Park, he developed and deployed the “Monster,” which was an enormous, garish, Willy-Wonka-inspired scoreboard. It came with sirens, sound effects, flashing lights, and multicolored pinwheels. It also shot fireworks whenever the White Sox hit a home run. As a fan of the fans, another Veeck innovation was the picnic area in the ballpark. He created this by replacing portions of the left field walls with wire screens and setting up picnic tables under the seating areas. (1)

On May 2, the Detroit Tigers vs. Chicago White Sox game at Comiskey was rained out. American League rules called for the game to be made up at the teams’ next meeting in Chicago.
The 1979 Chicago White Sox were “second-rate,” to put it nicely. More bluntly, they sucked pretty hard. At 40-46, they were twenty-two games out before the All-Star break. Average attendance was slightly more than 10,000 fans.

On July 12, the White Sox were scheduled for a twilight doubleheader against the equally struggling Detroit Tigers to make up for the previously rained-out game. The preceding night’s game had drawn only 15,520 fans.

Veeck put his son Mike—and White Sox marketing director—in charge of getting asses in seats. Bill didn’t balk or blush when his son brought up the idea of a promotion, an event hyperbolically billed to “bring an end to the disco era.” Bill lived in hyperbole when it came to promotion. It didn’t sound like that big of deal.

Mike Veeck had been listening to a twenty-four-year-old DJ, Steve Dahl, on the radio. Dahl was planning to blow up disco records in a shopping mall.

“I called him at 10:05 AM, as soon as he got off the air,” Mike said, “and offered him the chance to do that at Comiskey Park. He was going to do it in front of three thousand kids. It didn’t take long to convince him he could do it in front of forty thousand kids.” The planned promotion was a joint effort between the White Sox and Chicago radio station WLUP-FM, The Loop, and also involved station Promotion Director Dave Logan and Sales Manager Jeff Schwartz.

The promotion promised the presence of Steve Dahl and the official “Rock Girl” of the station, Lorelei (2), who was featured in all of the radio station’s advertisements. Disco had become a personal battle for Dahl, not just an abstract potshot or a woefully easy musical target. Previously, Dahl gained popularity in Chicago at FM rock station WDAI. In 1978, WDAI abandoned its AOR rock format. It embraced disco and changed its name to “Disco DAI.” This prompted an abrupt and unexpected end to Dahl’s show and employment at the station. He and the station parted ways on Christmas Eve in 1978. Happy holidays, Steve.

Disco’s ubiquity couldn’t be denied. Saturday Night Fever, the Bee Gees, and Donna Summer swarmed the airwaves. Kermit the Frog sang “Disco Frog” on Sesame Street in 1979. That same year, a band called Chic (3) entered 1979 riding the very top of disco’s rollercoaster. Their debut single, “Le Freak,” sold a million copies within a month. It hit number one in America, where it remained for six weeks. According to Billboard, it was the third most popular song of 1979. (One of Chic’s founders, Nile Rogers denies that Chic was disco. Rogers stated that, “People couldn’t tell the difference between us and Lipps Inc.” Fair enough. I still can’t tell the difference. I’m no discomusicologist.)

After parting ways with WDAI, Dahl landed on his feet at WLUP. The Loop’s format had recently changed from light to hard rock. Dahl’s fans followed him and echoed his pro-rock, anti-disco sentiments. Dahl smashed disco records over his head. Dahl mugged for the cameras taking bites out of disco records.

Dahl also cited philosophical, dermatological, and classic Marxist reasons for his disdain for this particular genre of music: “Disco is a disease. It’s a thing you have to be near-perfect to get into. You have to have perfect hair and a three-piece suit, and musically it’s just the same song with different words… I’m allergic to gold jewelry, hate the taste of piña coladas, and I’m a cheapskate.”

Dahl had formed an on-air anti-disco, card-carrying army called the “Insane Coho Lips.” The strange name was an amalgamation of The Insane Unknowns (4), a well-known South Side street gang, and the Coho salmon fishing fleet in Burnham Harbor that Dahl passed every morning on his way to work. The Cohos lofted Dahl’s “disco sucks” banner and zealously attacked a form of music they considered exclusive, expensive, and empty. They got their class war on by attacking the soundtrack to the hedonism of the elite. They also just liked having fun and laughing along with Dahl.

Disco-makers viewed Dahl and his listener-army differently. “It was the rockers versus the discoers,” said Harry Wayne Casey, frontman of Florida band KC And The Sunshine Band (5). “We were like Elvis in the fifties and the Beatles in the sixties. Of course there was a backlash. We changed music… I had two hits on the charts, ‘Please Don’t Go’ and ‘Yes I’m Ready.’… I just figured the guy [Dahl] was an idiot.”

The meeting between the White Sox and The Loops’ management went well. A name for the promotion was agreed upon: Disco Demolition Night. It was a simple promotion distilled to a short sentence: Let’s blow up some disco records.

AN OUNCE OF PRECAUTION?

The plan called for admission at the double header to be 98 cents for any fan who brought a disco record. The ticket price matched The Loop’s frequency. FM 98. The hope was that 20,000 disco records would be collected by the ticket takers, placed in a big box in the outfield, and the box would be detonated between the two games by Dahl, signifying the hopeful and abrupt end to the disco era.

Disco Demolition Night overlapped the ballpark’s Teen Night. The consensus was they needed more than Cub Scout and Boy Scout troops to fill the stands. It was predicted and hoped of the promotion would draw 25,000—10,000 of which would be new patrons to the old ballpark. Sox Park had a seating capacity of 52,000.

“I was really just trying to get through the evening without being humiliated,” Dahl said. “I mean, how many people could you draw? A few thousand? The park would still look empty.”

“Rock Girl” Lorelei threw out the first ball.

Once the gates opened at the beginning of the first game, it quickly became apparent that Disco Demolition Night would exceed all attendance expectations.

“I remember forking over a Bee Gees disc for 98 cents and, as I recall, they actually gave back two cents in change when turning in the voucher with your dollar at the ticket box,” said fan Glenn McCullom.

“We brought the Saturday Night Fever Soundtrack, a double record, which was good for two of us to get in,” said K.M. Lisowski, another fan.

Attendees also brought along and strung up homemade banners, primarily made from bed sheets. On TV, the “Disco Sucks” battle cry could be clearly read from throughout the ball park. Not televised were the “What do Linda Lovelace and disco have in common?” banner and the more political, fuck-you-Australia “Welcome Home Skylab” banner (6).

Fans made giant paper airplanes with the Lorelei posters and threw them onto the field. Other fans came ready for a battle against disco with bottle rockets and long cardboard tubes. The empty center of wrapping paper rolls served nicely as suburban bazookas. For reasons still unexplained, the second base umpire was particularly targeted for bottle rocket attacks.

Beer vendor sales were brisk. Brian Pegg reported that, “On Disco Demolition night, I sold forty-nine cases of beer. Ordinarily, twenty cases were considered an outstanding total for a single night game. Thirty to thirty-five would be pretty good for a double header.” Math showed that’s just shy of two-and-a-half times the usual volume of beer sales at a typical game. Raging against disco proved a thirsty business.

After 20,000 disco records were collected for demolition, ticket takers let fans keep their records—proof of how unprepared they were by the boosted attendance. “So that was a bad start,” Dahl admitted. “And then things just kind of got worse from there.”

In short order, fans glided records like Frisbees all through the park. The game was stopped constantly as disco records were thrown out on the field. Vinyl’s sharp. It shatters, leaves ragged edges.

“They would slice around you and stick in the ground,” Rusty Staub, player representative for the Detroit Tigers said. “It wasn’t just one, it was many. Oh, god almighty, I’ve never seen anything so dangerous in my life. I begged the guys to put on their batting helmets.” Defensive players. Guys in the outfield. Not just guys batting. Ron LeFlore, a former convict and center fielder for Detroit, was visibly afraid. In the later innings of the first game, fans remember the Tigers running back to the dugout, then removing their helmets.

The Tigers were not the sole targets of the record fling-a-thon. Chicago pitcher Ed Farmer picked up a record that had sailed by closely to his face. He was confused. It was a Beach Boys record. It wasn’t even disco.

Other fans suffered from the flight of records.

“Later that night,” Sox fan K.M. Lisowski said, “my friend’s husband got hit in the head with a ‘Frisbeed’ record, and I remember getting cut with the edge of a broken 45 that had been flung our way.”

David Schaffer, director of operations for the Sox, said that security had been beefed up from thirty to forty-five men in anticipation of a large crowd.

Another miscalculation: This wasn’t the typical baseball crowd. It was a rock concert-type crowd.

The White Sox lost to the Tigers 4-1 in the first game.

A SUCCESSFUL DISASTER

The umpires ordered the grounds crew to clear debris from the warning track between innings of the first game.

By the end of the first game, the ballpark was filled well beyond its maximum capacity. On the books, paid fan attendance for the evening was 47,795. Over 12,000 extra fans crammed in. The majority snuck in though the Sox’s porous security. The official tally didn’t include the fans who brought ladders, formed human ladders, or shimmied up drain pipes into the park.

It was at this time that Mike Veeck, along with The Loop and the Sox organization, realized they had woefully underestimated the draw of disco’s suckage. “It turned out there were 60,000 inside the park and another 30,000 to 40,000 on the streets around the park,” Veeck said “Traffic was backed up all the way out to O’Hare Airport. Who had any idea that many kids would come out? WLUP was a 5,000-watt station, it wasn’t a giant.”

The Chicago police department closed exits on the Dan Ryan Expressway at 31st and 35th streets to discourage late-arriving fans. Traffic gridlock stretched for miles around Chicago’s South Side.

Dahl was dressed like a character in M*A*S*H. He wore an Army jacket bedazzled with fishing lures over a Hawaiian shirt. An Army helmet was strapped loosely to his head. He was ushered to the outfield in a Jeep with his second-in-command Garry Meier, Lorelei, and body guards. Dahl admits he hadn’t prepared a speech.

“Steve started to get the crowd excited as only Steve could do, chanting “disco sucks” over and over,” Lorelei said. “I think that mantra was probably the kicker—the swarming sound was getting louder and louder. It was deafening.” The crowd was going bananas in their seats.

The big box filled with the fans’ 20,000 disco records had been brought out to center field. A short burst of fireworks were touched off in a row in front of the box. That lead up to an impressive percussive charge, which detonated a fireworks “bomb.” Vinyl disco records were blown to bits. Some continued to burn after they landed in fragments on the field.

“That blowed up real good!” Dahl exclaimed.

NOW WOULD BE A GREAT TIME FOR A PLAN... RUN!

Dahl didn’t really have a plan after the explosion, except to get off the field, maybe go home, maybe watch the second game. There was no advisement from anyone with a microphone to the fans to stay in their seats, to remain calm. Folks were riled up.

Here’s a recap: big explosion; adrenaline-high levels of “disco sucks!” excitement in the air; a large, mostly empty, beautifully-lit, largely-untouchable field beckoning fans; crazy-low security; and a silence so pregnant that its water was about to break.

This is when the trouble began.

What started at 8:40 PM was a confluence of several key factors.

Outside the park, some of the temporary ticket booths—staffed with older people—were being rocked by disgruntled fans who couldn’t get inside the park. Some of the yellow-jacketed security guards were moved off the field to take care of that issue.

“What happened next was the worst thing that could possibly happen,” said Mike Veeck. “The crowd began thinking as one and they realized there were only thirty-five to forty police [security] on the field. When a crowd begins thinking as one, there is no such thing as ‘crowd control.’”

Conservatively, on the field, it was one security guard per 1,333 fans. Not good odds for reestablishing order.

“It was like popcorn. Boom! Everyone jumped on the field.” One fan stated. The fans’ feeling of rushing the field was, “sort of like the pennant celebration we would never get.”

The players who had returned to the field for pre-game warm-ups for the second game quickly retreated.

“Before I knew it, I had a bodyguard on either side of me,” Lorelei remembered, “Each grabbed one of my upper arms and literally lifted me off the ground, running with me towards the Jeep, throwing me in the back. Steve jumped in the Jeep and we started rolling. I looked behind me and understood why I was whisked off—crowds of people were streaming onto the field.”

The Jeep drove out of the stadium and onto the street. It looped around and its occupants snuck back inside as 10,000 people ran onto the field.

Among the revelers was actor Michael Clarke Duncan (the big dude in The Green Mile), a Chicago South Side native. He was among the first fans to run onto the field and slide into third base. Other fans took the roles of umpires, calling both “safe!” and “out!” Fans took bases. (An usher salvaged first base.) Fans dug out home plate. The pitching rubber was stolen from the infield. Duncan admitted to stealing a bat from the dugout.

Bill Veeck’s “Monster” flashed, “Please Return to Your Seats.”

Harry Caray stared down in disbelief at the field from his broadcast booth as the batting cage was wheeled out to the outfield then trounced, disassembled, and set on fire along with the remains of the disco records and the big box. A shirtless fan climbed to the top of one of the foul poles. Another fire burned in centerfield. The head groundskeeper shook his head in disbelief as the benches from the special picnic area were dragged out into the middle of the field and set ablaze. Revelers jumped through that fire.

Harry Caray tried to restore order by yelling “Holy cow!” over the public address system. He then asked the crowd, “What say we all regain our seats so we can play baseball again?” When none of the excitable fans took their seats, a tremor of horror resonated in Harry Caray’s voice. “People, people, please get off the field!” Jimmy Piersall, Caray’s broadcasting partner, was openly disgusted and repeated over and over that, “These are not baseball fans here. These kids are obviously on something more than beer.”

Unruly? Absolutely.

Chicago Sun-Times columnist Bill Gleason called the event “an unmitigated horror… They were vulgarians who came to Comiskey Park to be ruffians.” But people weren’t physically violent to one another. This was no replay of the 1968 Democratic National Convention bloodbath eleven years prior in the same city. Fans were really worked up; they got all hyper. Much of the crowd, once on the field, simply milled around aimlessly. Some sat in the infield.

Fans from the upper decks couldn’t get down to the field. More than half of the fans on the lower deck didn’t go on the field and began chanting, “Na na na na, na na na na, hey assholes, sit down.”

Bill Veeck looked at a quickly dissipating silver lining. “The great thing was all the kids were stoned,” he said. “Had we had drunks to deal with, then we would have had some trouble. The kids were really docile.”

At 9:08 PM the Chicago police department’s tactical force entered Sox Park and efficiently took care of business clearing the field. Within five minutes, they had the situation under control. The cops had no trouble dispersing the crowd. The police and players showed an incredible amount of restraint in their dealings with the unruly revelers. This was not a true riot. True riots offer resistance to law enforcement and provide cops ample opportunity to work on their batting averages. This event was a gang load of partiers not given enough supervision. It was a bunch of nutty kids.

After the police sweep, Bill Veeck returned to the playing field and grabbed a microphone. “Please keep your rain checks,” he told the crowd. “We’ll tell you what to do with them once we figure it out ourselves.” Behind the scenes, Veeck was busy rescheduling the game as part of a Sunday doubleheader against the Tigers.

Surveying a field strewn with bottles, exploded cherry bombs, smoldering patches in the midfield, and broken disco records, The Tigers countered that the Sox forfeit on the grounds that the delay was not a result of “an act of God.” Tigers manager Sparky Anderson was vehement that his players would not take the field in any case due to safety concerns.

Umpire crew chief Dave Phillips agreed with Sparky and stated, “The field is not in playable condition.” Home plate had been uprooted from the ground and hadn’t been measured. The grounds crew was showing no effort to put it properly back in.

The White Sox were ordered by American League president Lee MacPhail to forfeit the second game of the twi-night doubleheader. It was only the fourth forfeit in American League history (7).

At the end of the evening, six people reported mild injuries. One vendor broke a hip. Thirty-nine people were arrested for disorderly conduct.

The Sox lost both games.

GET YOUR BIG FOAM POINTY FINGER OUT

The local Chicago press wasn’t kind to Dahl, the Veecks, or Disco Demolition Night. Predictably, the media asked, “What went wrong? How did this disturbance by youthful crowds happen?”

Channel 7’s Rosemarie Gulley’s insight was as good as any for this cocktail of hyperactivity: “The explosion, the heat, and a lot of drugs.”

Other talking head snippets called the promotion “a gimmick that’s gone too far,” and “They created a climate… (word not omitted, just a pause) “an error in planning.” (End of statement, back to footage.)

Deputy Chief Charles Pepp invented one word and one new meaning in his short explanation of the promotion. “It was a good methology to get a crowd, but it overworked.” (Italics mine.) Bill Veeck echoed the chief’s sentiment. “Sometimes a promotion can work too well.”

Later, a report caught up with Dahl and his thoughts on the Demolition.

Reporter: “You don’t feel culpable?”

Dahl: “I’m not a security guard.”

Reporter: “Would you do it again?”

Dahl: “Yes… with more security guards.”

Later, Dahl—in a less pragmatic mood—expressed some regret. “I’ve always felt bad. I’m a baseball fan. I’ve always felt bad that the second game was canceled.”

Two days later, Sox Park hosted a large concert called The Loop’s “Day in the Park,” featuring Eddie Money, Molly Hatchet, Thin Lizzy, Santana, and Journey, further ripping up the outfield for the rest of the season.

IT’LL BE SO FAMOUS, IT’LL BE INFAMOUS

Predictably, Disco Demolition Night (8) was criticized throughout the disco community.

Unpredictably, Sox promoter Mike Veeck was blacklisted from Major League Baseball. “After that, I didn’t work for ten years,” Veeck said. “The second that first guy shimmied down the outfield wall, I knew my life was over... It backfired, and I took the heat. And it cost me personally. I went down the sewer. I didn’t work in baseball until 1989.”

Twenty-two years after Disco Demolition Night—in Miami, Florida on Thursday, July 13, 2001—Mike Veeck, then a marketing consultant for the Florida Marlins, asked Harry Wayne Casey of KC And The Sunshine Band, to accept his apology on behalf of the entire disco world. Casey accepted. “I feel redeemed,” Casey said. “It gives closure to the whole thing… It wasn’t a very nice thing to do. There was no reason or call for it. It was a direct hit on myself and other artists who did that for a living. I didn’t bash his baseball team.”

So, did Dahl kill disco? Maybe yes. Maybe no. Maybe both. Most likely not. Well, no.

“You know, I think that it was a fad,” Dahl said. “And it was probably on its way out. But I think it hastened its demise. I don’t want to take credit for killing it.” Later, however, the Bee Gees personally told Dahl that he did, in fact, destroy disco.

It feels good to blame someone else and to know the exact moment things started heading downhill for good. It’s much easier than looking inside.

The disco juggernaut was still able to prance around in sparkly platforms and satin bodysuits behind bubble machines and into the national consciousness post-Disco Demolition Night. On Wednesday, October 17, 1979, The Pittsburgh Pirates won the World Series in the best of seven games against the Baltimore Orioles. The Pirates proudly blasted Sister Sledge’s hit disco anthem “We Are Family” as their adopted theme song throughout the final game of the 1979 season.

Todd Taylor is co-editor and co-publisher of Razorcake fanzine. When he was eight years old, sitting on a Pic’n’Save floor, looking up at the blasting speaker overhead, he wanted to become a millionaire and then spend every last cent of it making it illegal to play whatever was playing over the loudspeaker. (It just happened to be disco.) Separately, he also vowed to never again wear bell bottoms, starting the day when he could buy his own big boy pants. He also thanks Mary Clare Stevens and Kari Hamanaka for their assistance with this piece.


FOOTNOTES:

1 Bill Veeck, in 1960, added player’s surnames on the back of their uniforms. Veeck also installed a shower behind the speaker horns in the center field bleachers for fans to cool off on hot summer days.

2 Lorelei Shark: “I even did a spot with Pete Rose and another with a baby orangutan.”
“Yes, I am those famous biting lips in The Rocky Horror Picture Show poster.”

3 Chic’s Nile Rogers had been an active Black Panther at the age of sixteen. Duran Duran’s bassist John Taylor had envisioned the band he was in as a combination of Chic and the Sex Pistols.

4 The Insane Unknowns itself was an amalgamation. Two gangs, the Division Skulls and the Unknown Souls, merged in 1967 and called themselves the Insane Unknowns.

5 K.C and the Sunshine Band took their name from lead vocalist Harry Wayne Casey’s last name (“KC”) and the “Sunshine Band” from KC’s home state of Florida, “The Sunshine State.” KC originally called the band KC & The Sunshine Junkanoo Band.

6 Skylab was engineered to fail within five years. The day before, on July 11th, 1979, NASA’s version of duct taping a pair of Chucks to get every last step out of them—called Skylab—broke up in the atmosphere and scattered its remains across the Australian outback.

7 Other forfeits in baseball history: June 4, 1974’s ten-cent beer night fiasco and forfeiture in Cleveland preceded this event. On August 10, 1995 30,000 Dodger fans throwing baseballs onto the field followed this event.

8 Steve Dahl has copyrighted the term “Disco Demolition.”

Mark Hughson Reviews Where Have You Gone, Vince Dimaggio? by Edward Kiersch

I went to an estate sale last summer. My wife and I own a house now so I feel like going to one of these is some kind of “circle of life” thing. Amongst the usual furniture, tools, and clutter was a huge bin of sports books, many of which I’ve already read (and reviewed for Zisk). I had to get one. There’s just something about a paperback baseball book from the 80s that brings a warm feeling to my innards. Where Have You Gone, Vince Dimaggio? by Edward Kiersh was my selection, and it proved to be much more of an adventure than I anticipated. Over 300 pages, and in some sense only about half of it is about baseball. The book’s tagline summarizes the content well enough: “From baseball’s biggest sluggers to it’s all-time bobblers—Where did they go when the cheering stopped?” Seemed like a good premise, and as I poured through all 55 (short) chapters, stories ranging from exciting to mundane, joyful to terrifying, and funny to sad hit me like a ton of bean balls.

The “past and present” element was the main focus of each story (kudos to the author, wherever he may be, for the research and dedication to this project), but throughout the book two other themes struck me. Ball players circa 1950s-1970s, especially the benchwarmers, weren’t paid the ridiculous salaries of today. Nowadays a guy can bat .230 in the majors for a few seasons and practically be set for life. Back then you’d bust your ass just as much and earn about 15 to 30 grand a year. This of course leads to an interesting little game of “Where Are They Now?” (see next page). The other running theme is that baseball, especially for the super stars, does a number on your noggin.

Ernie Banks, Mr. Cub himself, was a star player and then an organization man over the span of 25 years. “I had to see a psychologist. I didn’t know how to deal with my environment, the real world. It’s fabulous being a baseball star. But too many people direct your life. You’re always doing what you’re told. This hurts you. Functioning later on is so difficult. I got tired of people recognizing my face, my voice, my walk. I just wanted to be alone to find some answers.”

Gene Conley, one of the early two-sport athletes (91-96 lifetime with Boston Braves, Milwaukee, and the Phillies, as well as a player on the Boston Celtics in the late 50s, averaging 10 PPG), adds another sad element to the mental strufgles after hanging up your cleats: The longing for your hey-day. “I only know that I’m still adjusting to being out of sports. When my playing days were over I couldn’t go to a ball game. I still can’t. Maybe inside there’s a feeling that I can do it better than the guys out there. I don’t know what the pain is. I just miss those games. Now I’m on the other side of the fence, they’ve locked me out, and it’s cold.” Cold, indeed.

Some athletes took it better than others. Mickey Lolich (217 Wins, 2,832 Ks, three spectacular wins in the ’68 World Series) went on to run a bakery. “You just have to accept that you’re living another life, that you’re an average workingman. I still have my home, I can maintain it, sure. I just can’t blow $100 a night on dinner, or buy a new car every year. If you’re a ballplayer, you never think about these things. You just go out and buy what you want. Now that’s impossible for me.”

The list of accounts goes on and on—I’ve got every other page marked with interesting quotes of regrets, dreams, and humbled nostalgia. The stories themselves are entertaining, as some of the players had some exciting (albeit brief) careers despite not putting up great stats. Remember this was over five decades ago, when a B-list ballplayer could disappear for two days on a bender and it wasn’t the biggest scandal of the weekend. There’s also some odd photography included. Some typical posed “baseball card” shots, some action shots, and then there’s a picture of Gene Woodling (hit .318 and scored 21 runs in five World Series with the Yankees in the early 50s) vacuuming his living room. Huh? Overall the book succeeds at the double-duty. It reviews the careers of some superstars (Roger Maris, Harmon Killebrew, and Boog Powell all have chapters) as well as some forgotten oddballs, and it also gives the reader a glimpse into the psychology of post-baseball life. If you comes across this one in a garage sale by all means snag it. If I had a stamp that said “charming and weird” I’d be pressing it on the cover as we speak.

Mark Hughson lives in Syracuse, NY and roots for the Oakland A's. His prediction/curse (the Yankees will never win a WS while Jason Giambi wears pinstripes) from Zisk # 16 was validated in 2009, as the Yanks won the title after cutting Giambi the previous season. Not that he holds a grudge or anything. If you want to read about very current music instead of very old baseball paperbacks, visit www.beattheindiedrum.com.