Author: Mike Barnicle

Originally published July 25, 1991, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe

I was out there again yesterday, trying real hard, which is what I always do, but, in the end, the thing I thought I had went south so, toward dusk, I returned to my dingy little hole in the Globe newspaper building in order to sulk among people who simply would not understand my temporary depression, because missing out on a story seldom bothers more than a handful around here. Under normal circumstances at this location, coming up empty is no problem because the reporter simply waits for an editor to leave a meeting, rushes up and says: “My personal aerobics instructor was sick today and I had no exercise so therefore I cannot write for tomorrow.”

That always flies. However, due to the fact that genetics dealt me a bad hand when it comes to employee­employer relations, I felt the need to plow on. You see, despite the bluster, being Irish and on the payroll of journalism’s equivalent of the Mayflower ­­ the boat, not the hotel ­­ there is always lurking in the background a slight tendency toward insecurity.

Thus, I arrived back at my office, one eye on the clock, the other on the door, waiting for a thought to tumble to the front of the carousel that revolves within my head. All I needed was a simple idea; something that stopped long enough for me to reach out, pluck it from my brain and put it down on paper.

I sat. I waited. I wasted time. I drank enough coffee to float the Fifth Marine Division. I read seven papers. Finally, I cried. It’s a terrible feeling to cry over nothing. Especially when you consider the fact that there is so much to legitimately cry about in life.

Then, the phone rang and my grief only increased. It was a friend of mine from Washington who wanted to know if I could send him the proceeds of a bet made in April.

The bet, of course, was that the Red Sox would do the whole thing in 1991. All of it: division, league and world titles.

The reality of my situation made me think about the marvelous line in one of the great Nelson Algren’s fabulous short stories about a gambler from St. Louis who went bust­out betting the Cardinals. In the story, the guy’s wife is asked how things are going and she says: “Not so good. Our house took a bad hop over Red Schoendienst’s head last night.”

That’s how I feel. My whole baseball year bounced over Steve Lyons’ shoulder the other evening and the plight of the Olde Towne Team has truly gotten to me, more than at any other time in the four decades that I have been paying attention to the standings. What bothers me most is I think they’ve given up, surrendered to mediocrity.

You can’t do that. I can’t do that. Not many people can unless they want to risk a string of payless Thursdays. But these guys with their big salaries have thrown in the towel and it is only the end of July. They would be great at the Department of Public Works: We go home at noon. It has gotten me depressed. Seriously.

In the spring, I actually thought this was going to be the year. Really. I really did. On paper, they had hitting, pitching and defense, too. Now, they are heading toward last place in a division that is just a cut above the Cape League.

They can’t hit or run, have difficulty fielding and most of their pitchers throw like the overweight guys you see trying to knock over milk bottles while blindfolded at county fairs. Yet, the players appear as loose as sand and as untroubled as a career criminal would be by an arrest for double­ parking.

Actually, that’s what they are: felons. The charge, of course, is larceny over a thousand dollars. In addition to stealing our summer, they are playing with our money, too, because, in truth, we help finance their salaries.

And this absolute fact of baseball arithmetic has, for the first time, gotten me to the point where I am seriously considering whether to retain my season tickets next year. I’ve had them for years and they are about the best seats in the ballpark but, now, I am thinking that life just might go on without the Red Sox. That’s how low I’ve sunk.

What else can I do?

Yell? Scream? Rant? Rave? Boo? Call them bad names? Put Marshmallow Fluff in their shoes? Tell their wives they’re playing games on the road and it ain’t baseball?

We are nearly helpless, powerless in the face of huge money guaranteed to men who are without shame, pride or loyalty to any town or team. And if they do not care, why should we pay?

I mean, they don’t even play baseball. They don’t run the bases properly. They don’t know how to hit the cutoff man. They can’t hit behind a runner, bunt, take the extra base or score from second on a ball in the gap. The only thing they know how to do is steal; that’s what occurs when their checks clear. Like I told you, larceny over a thousand.

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Originally published October 29, 1991, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe

I’ve been to three heavyweight title fights and two Super Bowls. Once, I stood at the rail for the Kentucky Derby.

I’ve seen several NBA championship games and attended the NCAA finals. I’ve traveled to Williamsport and Cooperstown, too.

I’ve watched the Stanley Cup being won and Wimbledon being lost, but I have never, not ever, witnessed a better sporting event than the World Series that just ended when Minnesota finally beat back Atlanta. Unbelievable.

Until early Monday, I thought the best Series I ever saw took place in 1975 when the Reds beat the Red Sox in seven games. Both teams were stocked with stars.

A couple of games were like great prizefights. And nearly every one had something you still remember: Lynn crashing into the wall, Evans’ catch in the right­field corner, Tiant absolutely willing a 160­pitch victory, interference at home plate, Denny Doyle unable to hear the third­base coach, Carbo’s electric home run and Fisk’s memorable shot off the foul pole.

It was terrific baseball.

But it wasn’t better than the Twins and the Braves. This was a monster.

Yesterday, driving to work, I found myself replaying the seventh game. It was an incredible thing and would’ve been a fantastic event had it been played in April or August. Put it on during a Sunday night in October when men play for all the marbles and you have the single biggest reason why other sports can never really compete: Baseball is the best game.

This wasn’t some one­time­only freak festival like a Super Bowl, the annual Chamber­of­ Commerce ritual where corporate wheeler­dealers get so whacked out by kickoff time they don’t even know which teams are playing or what town they’re in. Face it: The Super Bowl is the Republican Party of sports. It’s a media event, not a ball game.

And it wasn’t pro basketball or the National Hockey league, where any club with equipment and carfare qualifies for the playoffs. You can finish next to last in either league during the regular season and come away with a ring. Wonderful.

No, this was the seventh game between two clubs that had been playing since spring. This was a whole year reduced to one week of escalating tension and a constant churn of the stomach.

This wasn’t about money. It wasn’t about individual statistics, MVP trophies, rings, history, TV appearances, incentive clauses or anything else other than two teams playing for the right to be called winners.

And neither one represented network TV’s idea of ratings heaven. The Dodgers, Mets, Yankees, White Sox, Red Sox or Cubs ­­ teams with huge markets or national followings ­­ were on the sidelines. All that was left was baseball.

And we found out again that the game is so strong it can’t be ruined by the momentary foolishness of owners in it for celebrity or connections. It can’t even be wrecked by the idiot children in uniform ­­ the players ­­ who once in a while steal a slice of its enduring magic by shaming everyone with their selfishness, pettiness or arrogant refusal to acknowledge that baseball is bigger than any ego or W­2 form.

Now, right here, I must point out that I personally know more about baseball than any 10 sportswriters you can stack in any room, anywhere, anytime. Still, I could not get over what I witnessed on TV.

I had no answers for dozens of questions: What were these guys on the field thinking about? Why didn’t anyone faint? Were they in the bullpen hoping the call would never come? Was anyone whispering, “Please, God, don’t let them hit it to me.” Or saying to each other, “Can you believe this?”

What was going through Jack Morris’ mind? What about John Smoltz, young, appearing in his first Series? How does anyone stand up ­­ pitch after pitch, scoreless inning after scoreless inning ­­ under such intense pressure? Why did I have the feeling that Clemens could not have done what Morris did? How come “our guys” never seem to have quite the class of “those guys”.

There was only one bad aspect to the Series: It ended. It’s over, and baseball is done for another season. The papers are without box scores and no games will be on TV for awhile.

However, unlike any other sport, we can talk about it for months and years to come. Who chats about tackles or touchdowns that occurred 16 years ago? Or even Sunday? Who remembers goals, baskets or all those faceless jocks playing games that merely blend together in the mind?

This World Series, though, was different. It was played out on another level, some high and memorable plane that will be recalled for decades.

They say it’s only a game. And they are right, but what makes it different is, this game is called baseball.

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Originally published August 6, 1991, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe

In 1949, I saw my first baseball game at Fenway Park. I don’t recall a whole lot about it other than the fact that my father took me.

In the years since, I have wasted an awful lot of time watching the sport. Conservatively speaking, I have seen thousands of games.

Almost all have been here in the Back Bay. But, due to the fact that I am demented, I check the schedule whenever I find myself traveling between towns with major league clubs.

As a result, I’ve seen ball games in every National and American League park with three exceptions: Seattle, the new dome in Minneapolis and the hotel­ballpark combo that recently opened in Toronto. But I plan on being up there for the one­game Red Sox­ Blue Jays playoff game in October.

Now, during all the years spent sitting on my fanny watching baseball, I have only witnessed a single “racial incident.” It was outside Dodger Stadium when a group of unruly young Mexican­ American lads badgered and sexually taunted an outstanding looking young white woman with incredible legs and a dress that was not bought to hide them. Whew!

Thinking about it now, though, I’m not sure I’ve classified it properly. Was it racial harassment, sexual discrimination, or both? We do want to be correct.

In any event, the subject is raised because of a deeply disturbing report in yesterday’s Globe. According to researchers hired by this paper as part of a three­part effort about race and the Red Sox, only 71 black people attended Friday night’s game with Toronto out of a total of 34,032 fans.

I’m not sure what method, other than eyesight, was involved in this important social survey. For example, there is a Haitian fellow who sits in Section 16. And there is a Cuban woman I know who is at Fenway a lot and both were there Friday along with my friend Salvi, who is Italian, works for a landscaping firm and is outdoors all day and has a wicked, wicked tan and . . . well, what can I tell you? He’s pretty black.

But I’m not sure if any of them were counted by the Globe. And if they were, I’m not sure what it would mean. What’s the next step? Counting Jews, Mormons and Episcopalians out there? Keeping tabs on how many Irish Catholics have box seats? Finding out the salaries of season ticket­holders?

Say 2,356 blacks were at the game the other night. Would that be cause for civic celebration? A lot of self­congratulatory pats on the back from do­gooders who look for the racial angle in absolutely everything that comes down the turnpike?

Say there were none. Would it mean we lived in the American equivalent of Johannesburg? That Boston is the most segregated city in the United States? That the Red Sox don’t like blacks and their fans make blacks feel uncomfortable and unwanted?

Look, the truth is, this is not the most racially affectionate city in America. It’s not the worst, but it’s far from the best.

There’s too much agitation here over black versus white. Too much attention paid to silly numbers that are meaningless. Too much preoccupation with race at the expense of the deeper culprits: class, money and zip code.

Blacks are a distinct minority in Boston. They have pathetic political leadership, lousy access to decent schools, live in the most victimized neighborhoods, get trimmed on services and are geographically and economically segregated by an isolated white power structure that ignores things more out of insensitivity than out of ugly racial design.

And although I’ve not witnessed a single ugly incident at Fenway Park, I’m sure there are blacks who have been made uncomfortable, even threatened, by louts for no reason other than the fact they were black. I believe this to be true because I have seen people of other colors horribly mistreated by dolts who claim to be baseball fans. It’s amazing what a few beers and a little dust will do to someone with an IQ of 25.

Tossing the Red Sox into the race/affirmative action jackpot, however, is both old news and way off the mark. Sure, they didn’t sign Jackie Robinson when they should have in 1946. Sure, blacks, and plenty of whites, too, have had bad experiences at the ballpark. And, OK, maybe there were only 71 blacks there Friday night.

No doubt, that slim figure will provide ammunition to those goo­goos who want the country to be all about numbers, percentages and quotas. And I’m sure they will mistakenly use the eyeballed­ attendance Friday to continue painting both town and team as harsh, unfriendly territory for blacks.

However, this nation isn’t merely about numbers. It’s about people, and race. And the biggest knock on the Olde Towne Team is that they’ve dropped out of the race and our people ain’t playing the way they’re supposed to. That’s what counts.

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Originally published April 14, 1992, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe

Yesterday was no day to play baseball and the Red Sox went right out and proved it, losing to Baltimore 8­6 on a five­parka afternoon. It was an odd event, an opener conducted in weather colder than a Patriots finale.

Admiral Byrd would have had difficulty going five innings yesterday. By the bottom of the second, 30,000 bladders were bursting with more coffee than you’ll find in all of Colombia, the country not the college.

Still, it was baseball being played out there, the greatest sport ever dreamed up. The stands were split right down the middle between optimists and pessimists, which meant everyone in the park was handcuffed to the Olde Towne Team, prisoners of the past always looking forward to a future painted in dreams.

By the time the Birds went one up in the first at least 15,000 fans were certain that, once again, we would have to wait until next year. While, right alongside them, were 15,000 others who think every glass is half­filled.

One group points out that the Olde Towne Team is slower than Quayle. The other simply says, “No sweat. We don’t have to run because we’ll hit a ton of homers.”

Baseball is a form of constant redemption. It’s a cheer erupting for Don Zimmer when Sherm Feller calls his name.

It’s the crowd applauding Matt Young, who is on the verge of becoming a folk hero because he is a sad sack. He is the guy who never gets the girl, who always has his car stolen and misses out on the Honor Roll because of a D in Shop.

Sure, we make too much of it in this little big town but it truly is King. Always has been.

It dominates the front of our minds and the back of our newspapers. It pushes football, basketball and hockey to the rear burner 365 days a year.

Much more than all the others, it is a game of stories and endless flashbacks that allow the spectator, even the momentary pedestrian walking his or her way through an occasional afternoon in the ballyard, the opportunity to wallow in memory without feeling foolish.

It’s not nostalgia because the sport does not die or grow old. No calendar can capture, imprison or provide a mental boundary for baseball.

So yesterday, even with the discomfort of temperature, there was this kid ­­ maybe 8 years old ­­ coming down the street outside the park in the chill of mid­morning. The guy with him held his hand tightly and the two were engrossed in a conversation for the ages.

The kid talked about hitters. The man discussed pitchers, managers and disappointments.

The adult knew one of the fellows at the gate so they were let in early, hours ahead of the front running crowd, in time for the most important part of the ritual: batting practice.

They took the best seats in the house, right on the rail alongside the backstop, territory of the rich or connected. They sat there, checking out the two teams, watching as different members of the Red Sox emerged from the dugout to play catch or jog lightly in the brilliant green of the outfield.

This is when the park shines, when it is at its best: Uncrowded, nearly empty, filled only with the echo of balls off bats and the childlike banter of grown men who are paid to play a boy’s game.

They watched infield practice. They studied the swings of the hitters who prowled and pawed the dirt in the cage as a coach threw endless pitches right over the plate.

To the kid, the players seemed bigger than dreams. To the man, they looked the way they’d looked to him ever since his first trip to this same place a long, long time ago.

There was no school yesterday. There never has been on a day like that ­­ and work was only a place to be called with a good excuse.

As the sun pushed toward noon, the differences in their age seemed to recede. The conversation was one of equals, not kid and adult, not father talking to son. Just another baseball morning.

The boy almost jumped over the rail each time he spotted someone he’d only heard about: Dropo, Doerr, Pesky or Junior Stephens. And he had to catch his breath as soon as God made his entrance on to the sparkling stage wearing No. 9 on his back and a crooked grin on his famous face.

All he could do was sit there, mute, pointing his finger toward The Kid. The father merely nodded and smiled.

Maybe it was warmer then. Maybe life was simpler. Maybe we magnify this thing called baseball out of all proportion, seeking to turn a game into a metaphor.

Who cares? All I know is that my father has been dead for more than three decades and the only place he truly lives still is a place called Fenway Park. He was there yesterday and so was I and ­­ guess what? ­­ the loss only mattered to one of us.

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Originally published October 14, 1993, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe

This is important. Before we get to the silly business of the day we must send a young boy to the ballgame, the first game of the World Series Saturday night in Toronto.

His name is Peter Gabarro. He is 12. He lives in Dover, New Hampshire. He is the oldest of three children and he spent the summer pitching his team to the Dover South Side playoffs.

However, in August, he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Doctors at Children’s Hospital say it is inoperable.

You wake up this morning and think you’re having a bad day because you nick yourself shaving, have a fight with your spouse, bounce a check to the phone company, get a flat tire, get stopped for speeding on I­93, get into an argument with the boss or get the flu. Think again.

An outfit called Make­A­Wish is helping Peter with the biggest dream of his short life. The boy wants to see a World Series game in the dome.

The foundation will provide air fare. They will cover the cost of a hotel room, too, but so far they have been unable to get tickets to the game.

Peter isn’t thinking much about next year’s series. As a matter of fact, he isn’t spending a lot of time assembling his Christmas list, either.

He is 12. He loves baseball and he wants to be there Saturday when the first pitch is thrown. That’s not exactly an unreasonable request.

If someone comes up with the tickets, Peter will see two different teams in Toronto, each playing its own brand of baseball. He will witness American League ball against National League baseball.

One is far superior to the other. The National League plays a better, quicker, more fan­friendly game.

Obviously, there must be a reason why one league excels. And, of course, there is.

It has little to do with talent. You can find as many gifted athletes in Seattle, Chicago, Toronto and Texas as you will in Atlanta, San Francisco, Philadelphia and Montreal.

Speed isn’t a factor, either. For every National League guy who takes the extra base, scores from second on a ball in the gap or goes from first to third on a shot to right, there is a guy in the American League capable of similar effort.

Even the strike zone isn’t an excuse. It’s the same in both leagues, but National League pitchers use it rather than nibble at it, knowing a batter can only do five things (swing and miss, swing and foul it off, watch it go by for a strike, or a ball, connect for a base hit) and the odds are with the pitcher. So they work quickly and games conclude in less time.

No, my friends, the No. 1 reason for the difference is quite simple. It is the size of the manager’s arse.

That’s correct. After a lifetime of extensive research and a summer of exhaustive analysis, I tell you today the rump of your average National League manager is smaller than the blimp­sized behinds of their counterparts in the American League.

This is because National League managers stand during a game. They walk in the dugout. They pace, think, react and perform.

On the other hand, American League managers sit as if they were waiting for the crosstown bus. By the sixth inning, most of them look like Big Macs on the rack at a McDonald’s.

You want proof? Check out the playoffs. In Atlanta and Philadelphia, Bobby Cox and Jim Fregosi were always at the dugout steps.

In Chicago and Toronto, you had human bookends. Gene Lamont, the White Sox manager, sat, arms folded, mulling over his options: extra cheese and anchovies or today’s special?

Meanwhile, Cito Gaston looked as if he were in the front room at Waterman’s. Calling hours 2 to 4 and 7 to 9.

Cox of the Braves is older than Lamont, yet his ample arse is not nearly as wide as the huge bum belonging to the White Sox manager. Fregosi of the Phillies and Gaston of the Blue Jays are of a similar age, yet Fregosi ­­ a chain­smoking, pasta­eating, beer­drinking lunatic ­­ looks better from the hip through the thigh than Gaston, who requires a push from a John Deere tractor to get through the locker room door and onto the field.

Go through each league’s teams and you will see I am right. It is indeed rare to have an American League manager standing and participating throughout the game.

In Boston, Butch Hobson is the oddity. While he doesn’t sit, he is still under the mistaken assumption that he is coaching a Southeast Conference football team instead of managing a pack of slow, aging, ailing, boring baseball players.

Therefore, to pick the Series winner, toss logic out the window. Go with the size of the manager’s arse and you’ll know why the flag goes back to the National League.

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Originally published March 30, 1993, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe

BRADENTON, Fla. ­­ A few hours before yesterday’s game between the Pirates and the Red Sox, everything that is wrong with baseball had assembled at the players’ parking lot. There, a pack of parents were using their kids as props, pinch­runners in a game of autograph hunting.

One woman had two kids and a gym bag filled with balls and three bats. Standing next to her was a guy with a little boy about 10 years old.

The boy wore a Pirates hat and carried a glove under his arm. The father had a Steelers cap and held an autograph book that was just a little bit smaller than both the Old and New Testaments.

“Let’s see if we can get Andy Van Slyke today,” the father said. “Dad, I want to go inside,” the boy replied.

“Later,” the father told him. “Let’s stay here for a while and see if Andy Van Slyke shows up. We don’t have him.”

“We got him in Sarasota last week,” the woman told the father and his son. “Didn’t we, honey?” “What?” her little girl asked.

“Andy Van Slyke, honey,” said the woman. “Didn’t we get his autograph last week?” “I guess so,” the little girl mumbled.

Saturday, outside the Minnesota Twins complex, the scene was even uglier. The field is set in the middle of nowhere, convenient only to an interstate highway. It has an outfield fence that separates cows from ballplayers in a spring training state where half the population resembles those seen in a hospital emergency room.

However, it is a pleasant place to watch a game. Everyone is extraordinarily polite while the stadium itself is spotless. The players’ parking lot runs behind the first base line and after the game a crowd began gathering by the chain­link fence.

There were perhaps 30 fans. Half of them were adults. And every time a player appeared, some parent would alert a kid who would get ready to sprint alongside the athlete’s car, screaming at him to stop and sign the bats, balls, gloves, books, T­shirts and cards the kids were holding up.

Watching them, I tried to remember the first autograph I ever got. I’m pretty sure it belonged to either Ferris Fain, a first basemen who used to play with the old Philadelphia Athletics, or maybe it was Billy Goodman.

I know I didn’t get it at Fenway Park, because that’s where amateurs went looking for signatures. Kids who knew what they were doing stalked the coffee shop of the old Hotel Kenmore.

That’s where most major league teams stayed. For some reason that has never been quite clear to me, the Yankees were different. They stayed at the long­ gone Statler Hilton in Park Square.

Autographs weren’t worth money 40 years ago. And players didn’t get paid thousands to attend card­signing shows.

There were no autograph books, and nobody I knew had the foresight to have a player sign a TOPPS baseball card. More often than not, you used whatever was available: a piece of paper, a napkin, a matchbook.

You never had a guy sign a baseball because balls were meant to be played with, not autographed. Players seemed to be nicer guys then, too. They made fewer demands and had fewer demands made upon them. There weren’t 300 TV guys and 450 sportswriters clamoring for interviews, trying to dissect a botched double play as if it were Operation Desert Storm.

Sure, the players made great money, more than anyone’s parents did, but nothing compared to the millions they get today. There was more loyalty in those days, too. And it was a two­way street because it was long before free agency liberated the athlete, allowing him to play a couple of years here and a couple of years there before moving along to a new town and a new team with new contract terms.

Guys seemed to stay around forever. A lot of them even held parttime jobs that kept them in town throughout the winter. They showed up at communion breakfasts and Little League banquets. I bet everyone in New England had at least one Jimmy Piersall autograph.

And if you didn’t have him, Warren Spahn owned a diner on Commonwealth Avenue across from Braves Field where you could get a donut, a glass of milk and, if you got lucky, his signature.

The best, of course, was Ted Williams. But you had to know how to approach him. For a while, he lived in the Somerset Hotel, and if you were willing to wait near the parking lot, No. 9 would give you an autograph if you promised not to tell any other kids where he could be found.

All of them are gone from the game now. And so is a lot of the fun, replaced by a constant commercial whirl that has even managed to invade the sacred approachable spirit of spring training.

The fans know it; the players do, too. And many of them are just as reluctant to sign autographs in March as they are during the heat of a pennant race. And, truth is, who can blame them?

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Originally published June 1, 1993, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe

There were only seven of them but they sure were trying to play a game of baseball, certainly our best game, yesterday afternoon out on a field where each strong breeze sent swirls of dust billowing around the young shortstop. One of them had a portable radio and it was tuned to the Bulls and Knicks in Chicago where Michael Jordan was having himself a normally incredible first period, but on the sandlot­bare skin of the Faneuil Street playground in Brighton they were hardly paying attention and the announcer’s voice was only background music for kids looking to hit.

“One more,” the batter yelled.

“You already had three,” the pitcher told him.

“You was wild,” the batter insisted. “Come on, one more.” “Give him another one,” a kid at second base agreed. “OK,” the pitcher said. “One more.”

He posed for a moment on the flat mound before throwing the ball. The pitch arrived on an arc, slow and fluttery, and the bat whipped through the air, causing a “ping” as it met the horsehide, the ball rushing off the aluminum like a rocket in between short and second base.

The boy at shortstop reacted immediately. In one graceful move, he stepped toward the middle of the infield and, bending, came up with the ball in a single fluid motion.

“Where are you from?” the shortstop was asked later. “Over there,” he replied, pointing to the projects. “No,” he was told. “What country?”

“Oh,” he laughed. “Cambodia. My whole family is from Cambodia.”

He is 14. He said he was born in Battambang Province in a country ruptured and destroyed by a whole community of nations. He said he was only a year old when his mother, father, three sisters and two brothers headed west toward Thailand. He said he has no memory of their misery. He said his mother, one sister and a brother died en route to freedom. He said all this quite matter­of­factly, too.

The boy who hit the grounder was black. The pitcher was Hispanic. The second baseman was the shortstop’s older brother. The three other players were white. A league of nations in the middle of Brighton.

All of them played on a day committed to recalling the sturdy sacrifice of people who never sought death in defense of democracy. The names on all the markers everywhere are those of ordinary citizens who paid an extraordinary price simply because their country requested service.

Yesterday, with past wars remembered around the sound of a present trumpet, the empty city had a lazy, small­town feel. Many of its playgrounds were alive with the sight of innocent youngsters in uniform, practicing and playing a sport, baseball, that makes a spectator smile.

And there was basketball, too. From the edge of Chinatown to the heart of Roslindale, it seemed, for at least a moment, that the guns had been stored, that the violence that has stolen so many lives and deprived so many people of the basic civil right of feeling secure and safe on their own streets and porches had abated in honor of Memorial Day.

It is always a bittersweet Monday, this last one in May, when old parents, surviving brothers, sisters, sons, daughters and widows gather to spread flowers on earth pulled over young men, frozen forever in time; their lives chiseled in granite on tombs that sit aside quiet lanes of cemeteries. The last murder, the latest casualty in our ongoing urban wars, had occurred early yesterday morning in Dorchester.

Sylvester Brantley died before the parades began. He was 19. He was shot once, right in the head, which did the trick. He was declared dead at 1:30 a.m. He was the newest reminder of how much and how quickly things have changed in a nation now nearly anesthetized to violence. One minute we pause to pray for those lost in battle. The very next we bury someone else killed in a country exploding from within; the carnage senseless, sinful and nearly without respite.

The hope ­­ and of course there is always that ­­ seems to lie with those too young yet to be caught and swallowed whole by the streets around them. Kids who symbolize better than any politician’s speech the unbounded optimism this land has always represented: The Cambodian shortstop, the Hispanic pitcher, the bleeding colors of children too gleeful in games to ever consider hate or bullets as a way of settling argument.

Unfortunately, the holiday passes. The small­town air gives way to business as usual, to the petty neglect of politics and the institutional indifference that allows so many of our young to disappear from playgrounds, then from school, from the honor roll of employment and, sometimes, from life itself.

It used to be that, in America, the good could always grow and prosper. Now, sadly, we settle for the lucky merely surviving.

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Originally published August 7, 1994, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe

In the dream, it is one more muggy day right in the middle of a summer where it seemed as if the season of youth would never, ever end. There is a radio perched on a windowsill and the voice of Curt Gowdy can be heard above the occasional “thwack” of a rubber ball being hit by a cut­off broomstick as four kids play an asphalt version of baseball on a street uncluttered by the demon of traffic because not that many people own cars.

The roar of the crowd comes through the Philco, so constant, loud and unrelenting that it resembles the sound of an angry current, a huge river of energy. It is July 1953 and No. 9 has returned from Korea.

He is back in uniform for the first time in more than a year, back at Fenway Park. Finally, Ted Williams is where he belongs, where he lives forever: in the left­hand batter’s box at the Basilica in Back Bay.

The people will not stop cheering. Williams has been gone since April 30, 1952. On that day, on his last at bat with the score tied at 3, he hit a home run into the bullpen to beat the Detroit Tigers. He circled the bases, disappeared like mist into the dugout without tipping his cap and left for the Marine Corps and a war that nearly cost him his life.

In the dream, the applause never ends. The Olde Towne Team is playing the Cleveland Indians. They had a great club too, with Al Rosen, Bobby Avila, Larry Doby, Luke Easter and Lynn’s own Jim Hegan behind the plate.

Hegan caught one of the best pitching staffs in the American League. He called signals for Bob Lemon, Early Wynn, Bob Feller, Art Houtteman and, on this particular afternoon, Mike Garcia, a huge bear of a right­hander, was on the mound as Ted stepped in the box for his first Fenway appearance of 1953. Naturally, the great man hit a home run.

As Gowdy’s call described the arc of the ball landing in a cluster of fans gathered in the bleachers, the boys in the street began yelling, screaming and imitating a swing that was the baseball equivalent of a Picasso or a Monet. We would always be young, always be up, so long as Teddy Ballgame was around, a solo symbol of our marvelous summer game.

But dreams fade and people die. The years have a way of becoming bitter reminders of our frailty and, sometimes, our failures. Nobody stays a kid forever. Innocence is lost in the dust of history and idealism becomes a casualty of reality.

Now, 41 Julys after No. 9 strode back on stage with incredible style, our summer is about to be stolen by something called a work stoppage, a labor conflict. The theft is described as the work of greed­crazed players or bottom­line management morons seeking to roll back the clock.

In truth, it is merely the stupidity of both, ballplayers and owners, who have handed our game over to lawyers who bobble the toss daily like some A­ball shortstop with stone hands. Both sides are an accurate reflection of the times, the 1990s, when everyone and everything is a special interest and litigation is the accepted response.

Baseball, our greatest game, has always been a mirror of society’s progress or inaction. It was first to reflect the tide of immigration to this country at the turn of the century. And it was too slow to assimilate the superlative skills and strong character of athletes who happened to be black or brown and had skin color used against them ­­ their pigmentation becoming a permanent passport to obscurity.

It is no stretch to claim that baseball is more than an American sport; it is a huge piece of our history played out on grass. Read David Halberstam’s wonderful new book, “October 1964,” as well as his earlier work, “Summer of ’49,” and it becomes clear that box scores can be viewed as social accounting.

Now, in August 1994, baseball is a mirror image of our present culture’s selfishness, indifference, petulance, amnesia and an outlook that defines the future as next week or the following month: The strike that ends the year is everybody’s fault, yet it is nobody’s fault. It is the result of a lawyer’s threats combined with an accountant’s bleak imagination. The players are no longer athletes; they are actually a collection of individual corporations with huge assets and minimal loyalty. They are not much different from companies that pick up and move to more profitable climates, leaving layoffs and fractured lives in their wake. The owners are not in it to win so much as they are in it for ego and tax write­offs.

Yet, no matter what they do, they can never really kill the game or diminish the dream. Because No. 9 did hit a home run his first game back after Korea. And this morning, there are kids playing a game that will never die despite the best efforts of all the assembled short­sighted parties to ruin it. Major league owners and players come and go but baseball survives, always a part of us.

 

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Originally published July 5, 1994, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe

CHATHAM ­­ Last night, they played a game in this pretty old town where a bandstand adorns main street and a ballfield sits at the edge of a road not far from a cove filled with small boats rocking back and forth in the twilight breeze. Orleans took on the locals in a Cape League contest that attracted hundreds on a beautiful evening when the sound of fireworks mixed with spectators cheers.

The scene stood to remind you that baseball is still our best game, by far, and that no matter how hard they try to screw it up at the major league level, the sport will survive. It will be there after all the greed, ignorance and selfishness of millionaires representing both management and labor end up in the dust of history.

Baseball was meant to be played on the Fourth of July. And it was meant for postcard perfect parks filled with people who look the way families used to look in America: grandparents sitting on lawnchairs alongside their children and their children’s kids who run freely after foul balls or popsicles sold off an ice cream truck.

It is a lazy kind of game for an increasingly lazy country. It is a wonderful sport we take for granted, the same way we take liberty, prosperity and peace for granted. It’s all just there for us.

In Colombia, they killed a soccer player when he helped lose a game in the World Cup. Imagine if we took things that seriously in the United States. Why, Jeff Russell, the relief pitcher with the room temperature IQ, would have been dead for years now.

In Boston, we are outraged because the Olde Towne Team doesn’t have a lock on the American League title at the halfway point. We are so spoiled, so silly and so provincial that we figure we’re the only fans and only city to miss out on a World Series victory. We watch the Red Sox with an unearned crankiness, always more eager to scratch a sore than simply appreciate a sport.

For some bizarre reason, too many fans seem to feel .500 baseball is an indication of a club’s lack of character; that the real reason some players make errors is they are bad guys.

We cannot accept the fact that Roger Clemens is no longer young and pushing the ball past batters at will. We don’t understand why he does not win 20 every year and strike out 10 during each outing. In our minds, he must be hurt, not telling us something when the reality is he is like the rest of us: a great pitcher getting old on an old team.

I don’t really know what it’s like to invest so much of yourself in what athletes do in towns like Chicago, Philadelphia or New York. But I have to figure that Boston leads the league in negativism.

We carry this false pride and love to read or hear that we are the best baseball city in the country when we are simply the noisiest. We shout and scream on talk shows. We arrive at the Basilica in the Back Bay with an angry edge, almost wanting the boys to blow one in order to provide proof of our cancerous cynicism.

And this is what Red Sox fans truly hand down across generations: the somewhat despicable legacy of a perennial­losers culture.

The young general manager is entrusted with the job of dragging the organization into the 20th century. The team is slow and lacks the kind of athleticism that results in a string of successes. The ballpark is going to have to be replaced but from Vermont to Cape Cod we sit and wallow in false tears, figuring no flag will ever fly here because we are doomed, subject to a stupid curse.

What nonsense.

There are a lot of things wrong with baseball in Boston, and every other major league city too, but the game is not one of them. The umpires are mediocre and operate without accountability. The players are spoiled, have the loyalty of vagabonds and assemble daily as 24 corporations instead of as a team. The owners are merely dumb.

The game, however, remains great. Eyesight alone tells you that when you sit on the side of a hill a hundred miles from Fenway Park and watch college kids and minor league hopefuls play harder and more happily than the vast majority of millionaires who take their skills, their riches and the rewards of their talent for granted.

It’s a little like life: players in the Cape League want to get someplace, they want to succeed, move up, get noticed, go to the big leagues. They work at baseball the way most Americans used to work at their jobs: harboring the belief that effort would result in excellence and security.

Even here though, on a soft July night when youngsters gather to play catch behind the backstop, emulating the moves of bigger boys with greater dreams, the prospect of a strike lurks in the distance like the threat of angry thunderclap. And if it happens that a handful of people steal our summer, they will only be picking their own pocket and helping to kill one of our last great treasures: a marvelous game called baseball.

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Originally published September 20, 1994, by Mike Barnicle for The Boston Globe

So, I am lying on the couch last night watching Ken Burns’ marvelous documentary, “Baseball,” when I am seized by nervousness over the fact it’s been 12 hours since Bill Clinton announced it’s OK for the baby­killers to hang around Port­au­Prince until the middle of October. PBS would never interrupt a great show for a bulletin and, for all I knew, Clinton might have changed his mind and decided to simply kill Cedras, who looks like a night doorman at some second­rate midtown hotel, to get a quick bump in the polls.

Reluctantly, I surfed over to CNN, where they had clips from yesterday’s White House press conference, and there was the Commander­In­Chief, Colin Powell. Standing next to him was the president of the United States, and it appeared to me he was shrinking before my eyes with each sentence Powell uttered.

Man, this was something to see: Jimmy Carter, who doesn’t like Clinton to begin with, and Colin Powell, who is A MAN, trying to make sure they put the proper spin on their mission, which was, in effect, to save Bill Clinton from himself. The idea of sending 15,000 American troops to fight in a place where there are more witch doctors than pediatricians was ludicrous. How would you like to have been the parent of the only Marine killed in a battle over credibility?

Now, the casualties of Haiti include health care and welfare reform because the only focus of Congress and the country will be that tiny island and our people on the ground there. It is a poor, sad place ­­ always has been, always will be ­­ whose principal export is something I didn’t miss that much until Ken Burns’ wonderful epic on TV: Baseball.

Actually, his film isn’t about a sport so much as it is about our history. It is a wonderful, sprawling video essay on the best game ever created, one that disappeared six weeks ago, kidnapped by greed.

When you see “Baseball” the documentary, you realize it’s not the Red Sox or White Sox, the Orioles or Yankees that have left your life. Today’s teams have become homes for 25 individual corporations: the players who no longer have much loyalty to a town or its fans.

What you miss the most is stuff like box scores in the morning paper and the magic of sitting in a ballpark where you can talk about the game ­­ the whole history of the game ­­ as one unfurls in front of you. It is a sport that lends itself to stories, anecdotes and observation better than any others.

You miss knowing whether Ken Griffey Jr., Matt Williams or Frank Thomas could have approached 61 home runs. You miss seeing Jeff Bagwell, Barry Bonds, the Atlanta Braves but you miss the actual game more than any of the guys who think they are latter­day descendants of Walter Reuther.

The parties on both sides of this conspiracy called a strike are morons. Many of the players, were it not for the fact they were born blessed with an amazing ability to throw or hit a baseball, would this morning be standing at the end of your driveway with leaf­blowers in their hands.

And the owners aren’t much better. For years, they have acted like arrogant fools because their product was protected by Congress and their profits were guaranteed by people like me who would buy season tickets, hot dogs and caps for the kids even though the level of skill diminished season after season to the point where the major leagues are, in some instances, the same as Triple­A.

The whole mess is pathetic. You have .230 hitters making $3 million a year. You have owners willing to pay it, too. And you have a game with nobody in charge; no commissioner, no strong hand capable of doing what is best for the sport.

If Jimmy Carter and Colin Powell were able in 24 hours to get this country, Haiti too, out of harm’s way, then the idea that Donald Fehr and the lords of baseball couldn’t have found a way to play a World Series is absurd. We’re not talking diplomacy or rocket science here, boys and girls.

Know what would be great for our national pastime? Provide the players with the same economic security enjoyed by the vast majority of citizens: one­year contracts. If they have a great year, they get their $7 million salaries. If not, they get paid chump change. Same with the owners: They can hike prices for tickets and hot dogs annually if the club is competitive; if not, see you later.

One thing is certain: Management and labor combined to kill this game. And while life will go on without it and a lot of people won’t think twice about the hole left in fall without a World Series, sitting and watching “Baseball” on PBS makes you realize how much of America is invested in this simple sport now being so badly abused by a handful of short­sighted fools.

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