Trading Manny

Joe Gullo was just seven years old when he unwittingly set himself and his father upon a two-year journey—an adventure not so much of thrills and close calls but of learning—to get a solid answer to a straightforward question: If major leaguers took steroids then isn’t that cheating? And shouldn’t they be punished?

Author (and Joe’s father) Jim Gullo had his work cut out for him. As a dyed-in-the-wool fan of baseball he sorely wanted to wish the question away, but because his son was developing his own passion for the game he sought answers . . . and they wouldn’t come easily.

Trading Manny: How a Father & Son Learned to Love Baseball Again is the story about that long trek that began with the withering truth of a child’s observation.

Jim Gullo doesn’t set us up for another book-length rant about the travesties of drugs in America’s pastime. The road he takes unavoidably leads him to deeply consider his own perspective on the game and the issue, but the torch he bears the entire way is for his son, and ultimately, an almost desperate effort to soothe the betrayal that baseball committed against all its fans, young and old.

Father and son are the poignant thread that so compellingly pulls this story together. Any dad who’s a fan of baseball can’t help, as an adult, to at least give serious thought to the steroid issue; but how does a father answer such a question when he knows the answer is more complex in the grown-up world of professional sports—especially when you know the child is fundamentally right?

It’s not as easy as saying they did something stupid; Jim Gullo knew that, and so did his son. But he wanted to be able to get behind the reasons why these otherwise gifted athletes did something so obviously unfair.

But again, how to do it without crushing a boy’s admiration for the players he pins to his wall?

Most of us grew up in environments that allowed us a measure of comfort or inspiration from those we admired. It’s a pretty good bet we had posters and pictures of favorite bands, movie stars, or athletes (remember the Farrah Fawcett poster?) hanging upon our walls or pinned to the ceiling.

That connection, especially at a young age, is powerful. As we mature we accept the toppling of our idols, even expect it. But when we’re kids it stings because we can’t get our heads around the big “Why?”

This very moment is epitomized in Trading Manny in a poignant sentence evoking the sum total of our feelings when disappointed by those we once looked up to: “the Manny poster, once removed from Joe’s bedroom wall, wasn’t packed and didn’t make the move with us.”

These “heroes” lied, and for most of us when we got busted lying retribution was swift—but not so with Major League Baseball. Jim Gullo wasn’t satisfied to try and make his son understand the concepts of lip service and scales of economy, and his dogged pursuit for answers—for both he and his son—is what really makes the humanity of this story pulse with life.

The author makes no secret of his feelings regarding the use of PED’s at any level of athletic play—no eggshells survived this walk. He is only too happy to point out those named as violators, but is equally careful to toe the line and satisfy the legal eagles by pointing out “alleged abuses” when appropriate.

A fan can read numerous articles in sports and online magazines and blogs concerning the whole PED circus as it played out. But Mr. Gullo, despite his own growing misgivings about the game and its tainted nature, takes the higher road and uses his journalistic background to begin teasing out answers where he can instead of raging against the establishment.

He deftly accomplishes this task by attacking through the back door; baseball doesn’t expect (or perhaps even care) that its fans will give much passing thought to the scandal, but the author makes certain that Trading Manny asserts itself and makes major league baseball accountable to its entire fan base, to the extent it can be held so.

Entrenched fans of the game looking for telltale stats to bolster arguments will be dismayed by the overt circumvention of sabermetrics. The seven-year-old Joe is fond of tracking players via his baseball card collection, but the stats are largely ignored in favor of the infamous results.

Was an opportunity squandered to make examples of questionable players? Not at all. We Americans love the quick fix, we thrive on immediacy and convenience, but issues like those in Trading Manny don’t lend themselves to our more consumerist natures.

The more important life lessons, those which profoundly matter, take far more time than our gnat-like attention spans desire them to—and yet if we make allowances for these spans of time, as father and son did here, the results are well beyond what we could have possibly foreseen when we first stood at home plate.

On the upper deck concourse of Chase Field once hung a large picture, captured in the lower half of which were the silhouettes of a father and son standing and cheering, with the wide, awe-inducing expanse of the ball field before them. In the lower right corner were short lines of text:

Dad: 1
Video Game: 0

Trading Manny is, of course, about the heartbreak two fans feel when their love for baseball is betrayed. But its more fiercely compelling story is about young Joe whose nascent ideas about heroes gets a distinct refining—and about his father who learns more from his son than he thought possible.

Dad: 1 . . . and the bases are loaded, nobody out. The fans are on their feet!

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Know someone who’s a baseball fan? Perhaps you’re one? Have a ball player in the household? Get a copy of Trading Manny — I assure you, you’ll be glad you did. You can find it at the following online retailers:
• Get a signed copy from the author!
• Amazon.com (Kindle and soft cover)
• Barnes & Noble.com (Nook and soft cover)

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Another hearty thank you to Rhonda Sturtz of the New York Journal of Books, and to DaCapo Press for their efforts in acquiring the review copy for this review.

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A Talk In The Park

I don’t remember how old I was, but I would guess somewhere around 8-10 years old. The first ‘real’ baseball game our family went to was a night game at Hi Corbett Field in Tucson — I want to say it was in what was then known as Randolph Park (now Reid Park). The home team: the Tucson Toros, farm club for the Chicago White Sox (1969-72), Oakland A’s (1973-76), Texas Rangers (1977-79) Houston Astros (1980-96) and Milwaukee Brewers (1997). I’m not certain who they played that night, but the name Albuquerque Dukes floats to mind.

One of the games we went to was Bat Night, and they gave out miniature green Toros bats to all kids who came to the park. I kept mine for many years, always stashed in some box somewhere. I no longer have it, but I remember it clearly.

I don’t remember the crowd, or the score. But I do remember how big the field looked, all lit up by the large banks of lights around the perimeter.

All I knew for certain was that the Toros were Tucson’s team. I knew nothing of farm teams back then — to me, it was just baseball.

We didn’t get to hear legendary broadcasters call the games, no voices like Vin Scully or Ernie Harwell. The biggest name I knew was Jim McKay from ABC’s Wide World of Sports. But once major league baseball hit the state I began to soak in some of its history, and part of that is the legacy of radio broadcasting.

The voices for my Diamondbacks are Greg Schulte and Jeff Munn, aided by Tom Candiotti. Greg and Jeff both made contributions to A Talk in the Park, a point of local pride for us relatively new major league fans in Arizona.

I saw A Talk in the Park in a list of books offered for review by the New York Journal of Books, and initially took a pass, pretty much forgetting about it until about three months later, when one of the editors sent me a little note asking “How about this one?”

So I took it then, not expecting a whole lot other than to read another book about baseball from a different perspective.

It was hard for me to capture my true pleasure at what I encountered in this book. Its structure wasn’t anything like what I expected, which made for a very entertaining, much more personal read.

Take a look at my review. If you grew up back east then you may very well recognize some, if not many, of the names. If baseball runs in your family, if you follow the game at all, then you will most assuredly enjoy A Talk In the Park.

As for the Tucson Toros . . . they will play their final game ever this 2011 season. A shame for Tucson, but at least I have my memories.

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Starting on the acknowledgements page, author Curt Smith uses the proper noun “Voices,” its capital V assertive in its respect for the broadcasters it proxies for; it is a little odd at first, but quickly becomes a natural part of the narrative.

A Talk In The Park: Nine Decades of Baseball Tales from the Broadcast Booth doesn’t just draw a picture for the reader but blends color within the lines to bring us perspective, humor, and humanity from the people who have relayed our national pastime over the air, through our transistor radios, car speakers, and from our television sets.

Baseball is said to be many things: a game of stats, a game of inches, a game of failure. If you love stats, A Talk In The Park won’t necessarily cure your joneses—they’re present, certainly, but they don’t take center stage. Almost any book about the game will quote stats and player history, recall perfect games and who played what position, what manager did what, and what game means most to “the game.”

Mr. Smith has, through the filter of over 100 voices, given us the chance to sit with the guys who tell us about our teams, the same guys who are, really, still little boys taking part in a game they love.

This isn’t baseball as usual—this is the human essence of the game from the vantage point of those who eat, sleep, breathe, and bleed it. Talk’s success derives from its presentation, a hands-off approach to storytelling that allows its patrons to talk about the personal side of the sport without all the chronic show-and-tell. Mr. Smith provides eloquent introductions to each chapter, then lets his guests do the talking—it’s their take, their experience, related first-hand—not author Smith’s retelling.

What could have been a volume of indecorous, rehashed interviews with Mr. Smith at the helm, blossoms into a fan’s treat so steeped in personality and baseball richness you can practically smell the hot dogs wafting up from the page surfaces.

Brimming with anecdotes that span the gap from bizarre to elegiac Talk provides an almost cosmic link to childhood, a sly wink to the excited youngster reveling in meeting their hero or feeling the afterburn of a “did you see that?!” moment. A story about the size of Bruce Bochy’s [now manager of the San Francisco Giants] catcher’s helmet, so big his teammates were able to fit a 6-pack of beer and ice in it; another in which Gorman Thomas refers to a bloop single—on air—as a “flaming duck fart”, resulting in an immediate phone call from the powers-that-be. Lamented Matt Vasgersian, “Not surprisingly, the rest of the telecast went from potentially brilliant to a colossal bore.”

I was born and raised in a state that didn’t have major league baseball until 1998. We had the Pacific Coast League, farm teams for the other MLB clubs. As such, we didn’t get to grow up with voices like Vin Scully, Ernie Harwell, or Jack Buck. Ernie Harwell was much beloved in the baseball world, something I came to understand as I began to follow the game via my Diamondbacks—but I never had an inkling of how profoundly respected and admired he was by everyone he came in contact with.

One of Talk’s greatest successes is its ability to transcend the notion of rote allegory and let the reader absorb, let him feel what the broadcaster felt. No pretension or personal aggrandizement, just an open seat, an invitation to sit with these guys and get your ear bent for hours. The undercurrent of this human element is constant, and in its denouement I admit to feeling a genuine sense of loss over Ernie Harwell, a voice I never heard.

If you remember your first game, the bright lights on a warm summer night and the scent of the grass, read this book; if you grew up in the Midwest or around the East Coast—read this book; if listening to the Voices on the radio do play-by-play takes you back or conjures warm memories . . . read this book. A Talk In The Park Is baseball as you’ve never read it, and how you always remembered hearing it.

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I am most grateful to Rhonda Sturtz of the New York Journal of Books and Laura Briggs of Potomac Books for getting me a copy of this book to review.

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Pitch In For A Good Cause

Every Ball Helps!

The 2011 Major League Baseball season is now officially underway, so I would like to get this off my chest now before going further . . .

My Diamondbacks won their season opener, beating the Colorado Rockies 7-6 in 11 innings!

On the whole they’re not expected to fare much better this season than last, but Opening Day is sorta special, so I was excited to see them get off to a good start.

Back to the true reason for this post . . .

Zack Hample is ballhawking for a charitable organization (no, not the Democratic Party) called Pitch In For Baseball, and yes, they’re completely legit.

Depending on where you grew up you may have participated in Read-a-thons as a child, or pledge walks. In such cases you would get people to pledge a certain amount of money for each book you read or mile you walked. Zack is doing something similar but with baseballs.

PIFB provides baseball equipment to underprivileged children the world over. Take a minute or two and read about what he’s doing.

I am pledging .10 for each baseball he gets this season. Based upon his productivity the last two years that’s going to result in a pledge—for the whole season—of probably less than $60.

You can pledge a penny per ball if you like.

It’s super easy to participate. Do please give it a look and consider participating. Zack would thank you as would all those kids who will receive gear so they can enjoy our national pastime, too.

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Yes Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus

Things you don’t typically expect in life:
• To win the lottery
• To get struck my lightning
• To hear your doctor say “woops . . . my bad!”
• To pick the curtain that has the new car behind it (instead you find you have a knack for locating goats)
• To have an author write you back

Now I can cross that last one off my list.

Zack Hample and his pyramid of baseballs

If you ready my review of The Baseball : Stunts, Scandals, and Secrets Beneath the Seams then you may recognize the name Zack Hample — if you didn’t read it, shame on you. Most of my book reviews are done for the New York Journal of Books; the way I see it I get to read books for free, books that I think look intriguing or which suit my interests, and all I have to do is write a review.

I never expect to hear from the author of the book.

Mr. Hample wrote to NYJB initially, looking for a copy of the review to place on his site zackhample.com:

I recently wrote a book called The Baseball, and you guys wrote THE best review about it that I’ve ever seen in my entire life.

So, first of all, thanks for that.

Secondly, I’m wondering if there’s an actual print version of your publication or if all your content is strictly online. Forgive my ignorance, but if this book review did appear as a hard copy, I would love to get a hold of it, so please tell me what I need to do.

Here’s a link to the review.

Thanks again.

-Zack

I got this e-mail forwarded to me by one of the folks at NYJB. As you might expect it was almost an out-of-body experience. How cool is that! The least I could do is write him back directly, which I did a few minutes later. He posted that on his site under Fan Mail. You can see it here, it’s the one dated March 24, 2011 and starts with “Friggin’ sweet!”.

Here is this author, taking his time to write about his appreciation for the review. That was pretty awesome if you’re standing in my shoes. But then he replies to the e-mail I sent him (you’ll have to read my e-mail first though from the link above):

Friggin’ SWEET back at you. Thanks for getting in touch, and screw the formalities.

I showed your review to my mom and to a few writer-friends, and they all basically said the same thing — that they couldn’t have said nicer things about my book if they tried. (Nor could any of them have written the review better or with such clarity and appreciation and passion. I mean…damn. You nailed it. It was such a positive review that I’m almost embarrassed. Almost.)

I’m wondering if I could post your email on my site, or at least part of it. Ideally, I’d love to include the whole thing from the “Friggin'” at the top to your name at the bottom. Not only was your review the best review of all time, but your follow-up email might just be the best email as well.

So…let me know, and thanks again. Oh, and if you still have your review copy (or if you get another), I’d be happy to sign it for you if you mail it to me.

-Zack

I don’t know if he butters up his other correspondents or reviewers like this, but I don’t care. The guy loves baseball, he wrote a book about it, and he took the time to write to me. Christmas came early for J.W. this year ;^)

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The Baseball

What’s red, round, and dirty when it’s brand new? Would you believe . . . a major league baseball? You might think it’s white, right? That’s just one of the things you’ll learn in this completely engaging book about the object our national pastime is named after: The Baseball – Stunts, Scandals, and Secrets Beneath the Stitches.

Hample declares his book to be “a celebration of the ball” and fans of the game, and honestly, you would be hard-pressed to disagree with that assessment.

From the outset The Baseball just feels fun. It’s intriguing, informative, and most of all flat out enjoyable. Much has been written about most every other aspect of the game, but rarely have I seen the hardball so deftly front and center as Hample places it here. The introduction dances like a fly lure that’s jerked and teased upon the water, with lots of did-you-know items tossed in—yet it has a decidedly human feel to it, almost the same unmistakable feeling one gets as you walk into your favorite stadium and see the ball field below you, yawning, grand, and welcoming.

Ever wonder what the first baseballs were made of? What about (like me) how they’re made? As presented, the history of the ball is fascinating, from its humble beginnings to its decades long flux in composition (juice, anyone?); not only do we get to learn how to (gasp!) dismantle a ball, but we are also given an insiders tour of the Rawlings baseball factory in Costa Rica.

One of my favorite bits of ball-related trivia: It takes approximately 20,000 cows to provide the hides for the estimated 1.26 million baseballs used each season in the majors—go ahead, re-read that; I was amazed too. The first thought that popped in my head when I read that was “somebody is sure to raise a stink about that.” But Hample, in his own tongue-in-cheek manner, calls this ball as it crosses right over the plate:

“Let’s get something straight: cows are not killed to make baseballs. They’re killed because people like to eat them . . .”

No painted corners there—he serves it right down Broadway.

Watch or go to any baseball game these days—minor or major league—and you’d think the teams have always given away balls, but the truth is a foul ball wasn’t always a souvenir for a lucky fan; club owners saw things differently. Catching a foul ball during a game is an act most of us quietly hope for each time we pass through the turnstiles. One of the bonuses in this book is the ample section revealing the author’s best tips for tipping the odds of catching a ball in your favor. Even the casual fan will likely find this part interesting, and certainly useful if inclined to take up “ballhawking.”

For my money the first half of the book is the best. I eagerly turned page after page of stories about the evolution of foul balls, anecdotes regarding publicity stunts, and two unforgettable stories recounting grimace-inducing injury and the only death in major league history. Hample delivers all of this as if he’s sitting in the seat next to you, sharing it during the passage of a few innings. I wanted more, but I suppose that plays into his marketing plan for his other book about watching the game; guess I’ll be reading that one too.

Hample captures the essence of the game, and of the book’s namesake, with the purity and enthusiasm of every little boy who ever played Little League ball. His spirit is playful and sometimes funny, but always respectful of the game he clearly holds dear.

From worn shoe leather, to horsehide, to the staggering number of Holstein hides needed to cover this venerable sphere—even the stitch patterns and their differing colors—Hample walks us, good naturedly, from yesteryear to current day, from games played with a single ball to storing them in a humidor—just about everything you can imagine in-between awaits the curious and fanatical between the covers.

As always I thank Rhonda Sturtz and the New York Journal of Books for procuring a copy of this book for review. Thanks also to Anchor Books for the review copy.

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When God Gave Me $30

The strip between two apartment buildings was perfect for tossing and hitting Wiffle balls. My son had a two-tone, wooden t-ball bat and a small glove. A old tree stump, cut almost level with the ground, made a pretty good natural home plate. He loved to go just outside the front door, where there was a long stretch of sidewalk, and have me pitch to him. I can’t begin to recount the number of those plastic balls he hit up on the rooftops. Didn’t take long before I bought sleeves of the ultra-cheap plastic balls at the dollar store; those didn’t last long either.

One day, as we sat in my apartment, he was looking at his glove. He turned to me and said “You should get a glove so we can play catch.” Anyone who has watched Field of Dreams knows precisely which scene materialized in my head and heart—and if you haven’t seen it you should. I have read, many times, that grown men wept in the theater during its original release. More than one claimed to have something in their eye, though.

I remembered playing catch with my dad, the smell of the lawn in the backyard, which always made the transition to the grass out in left field where I played; I could do less damage out there.

And the pop-up pitch toy, complete with yellow plastic bat, plastic balls, and a mini-catapult that tossed the ball up when you stepped on the pedal. It didn’t help my swing much—I sucked at hitting. I had a serious golf swing. Would have been far more advantageous to my future had I taken up the sport my last name implies, but I’ve never golfed either, save for my Little League at-bats.

I may have been a lamentable little leaguer, but I wanted to build, at the very least, an appreciation for the game of baseball in my son.

So off to the store we went.

I selected a functional (read: cheap) Rawlings outfielders glove and took home the best $30 I ever spent.

The summer sun would cast a nice, deep shadow on the golf course green immediately adjacent to the complex where I lived, so in the late afternoon we would go out and play catch for a while. On the private golf course. Ironic now that I think about it.

Wasn’t long before we realized the one ball we had wasn’t going to cut it, so we got three practice balls. They were softer than the real thing, ideal for a young boy just learning the mechanics of throwing and catching, and not as jarring if he hit them with his t-ball bat.

Slowly our inventory of baseball equipment grew: more baseballs, wooden bats, an aluminum bat, batting gloves, helmets, etc. This was all so we could tote the stuff around to different parks and hit and throw. For the first couple of years it was just he and I, spending some great quality time together just doing our own thing.

As he grew he could hit farther and run faster. We would move onto softball fields and practice grounders and fly balls, white dots soaring into the blistering heat of Arizona summer afternoons, then landing with a soft pop into his glove. We would sweat and laugh, guzzle Gatorade and jump fences to retrieve one ball, the whole time neither of us truly cognizant of the magic taking place inside us.

Eventually he came to a point where he was ready to play organized ball—at age 13. I found a Babe Ruth league and signed him up. He’d never pitched or played first base, but that’s what he told the coach he wanted to do. First base would have to wait, but he got a taste of pitching—as a leftie—and playing outfield. The pitching coach loved working with him because he was a clean slate, no bad mechanics or habits to break. His teams came to depend on him to throw a good game because they could rarely field anything hit. In May of 2010 he earned his first complete game shut out, a 6-0 victory for a fairly hapless team; that day, I must say, however, that day his team played some decent defense. He has that game ball in a case on his shelf today.

My son hasn’t stopped playing since. His first year of high school he tried out for the freshman squad but got cut; having a case of pneumonia two weeks prior to try-outs didn’t help his cause. Baseball, though, was now in his blood, so he kept playing on the league teams—they were indescribably bad but the experience they afforded was beyond measure. I got to participate as an occasional umpire for scrimmage games and tossed batting practice for him and his teammates. But there always remained he and I, often getting to practice or games well in advance of other players to field pop flys or grounders, or take a good number of swings before his mates showed up. For him it was practice; for me, a not-to-be-missed opportunity to let my inner little boy practice with my son.

Those days are fading now, quickly but surely, like an old Polaroid photo. But his father takes quiet, reserved satisfaction in watching him participate in our national pasttime.

Last year, his sophomore year, he again tried out for the JV squad . . . and barely made it. He saw little playing time but once again gained valuable experience in doing something his old man never did. When the season ended he continued playing in the league, pitching and playing a very good first base.

Just last week came the try-outs for his junior year. All the league play, passion, and desire would need to be brought to bear to make it this year. Four days it went, Monday through Thursday. As I waited in the high school parking lot for him to finish I could not escape the notion that he would open the truck door and in mere seconds another watershed moment in our lives would come and go.

He made the team.

I have a newer glove now, one made of actual leather; the old one began to tear and slowly fall apart. We have some catchers gear we got a fantastic deal on through Craigslist. Both he and I have a bucket of baseballs, our last name written large in fat, black Sharpie ink on their hides. I will always keep that $30 glove though. It is a weathered, priceless reminder of a father and son playing catch for the first time.

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Are We Winning?: Fathers and Sons in the New Golden Age of Baseball

I only recently learned that my father played second base when he was in little league; I was, justifiably, cordoned off in left field. My son is a lefty who has played left, right, and center fields, first base, and pitcher. To the casual observer this would seem nothing more than a laundry list of adolescent, familial recollection, good for genealogy or holiday story telling.

Will Leitch tells the underlying story much better than I can. He gets it, as do countless fathers and sons in America. We are a nation of sports fans, of hopefuls and also-rans, of nostalgia and wanna-bes. Are We Winning?: Fathers and Sons in the New Golden Age of Baseball is a fun, insightful glimpse through the looking glass of our national pastime, a tug on the thread of the seam that binds men and boys in a way few other things can.

This reviewer is nowhere near the die-hard, hardcore baseball fan Leitch is, but if you grew up playing baseball—no matter how long ago—you’ll completely understand the vein from which he bleeds; if you’re a father you’ll have a profound appreciation for the narrative. Stats can be telling, but sterile—Are We Winning? is nothing of the sort.

I’m not certain if Leitch meant the book as a covert homage to his father, but its pages leave us wanting—as apparently many people do—to buy him a beer. For that matter, to buy Will and his father a beer. Interspersed between half-inning play-by-play commentaries are yarns about family and friends, about how the game has become ingrained in the fiber of his being—a micro-view of every father/son duo who enjoy or love the game. Even his good friend Mike is doing his utmost to raise his son to be a Cubs fan, something the Leitch family abhors as staunch Cards men. But they wholeheartedly support nurturing a love for baseball.

Team loyalties aside, the game has a quality which reaches beyond the fans’ presumption of perceived ownership that flows through the life-blood of one generation to the next. Will Leitch does a wonderful job of exploring this notion by painting vignettes with the characters from his life using the palette of his own childhood and early adult experience to stroke the canvas. The result is often funny, sometime laugh-out-loud hilarious, and often filled with the kind of silent affection fathers and sons have for one another but can’t or won’t express.

At Chase Field (home to my Arizona Diamondbacks) there once hung a large picture of a father and son in silhouette at a ball game. They were standing, apparently cheering the play unfolding beneath them on the field. In the lower right corner was the inscription “Dad-1, Video game-0.” For scores of fans, fathers and sons, commoners to stat freaks, that inscription distills the essence of this book: Even if your team loses, a day at the ballpark with your son/father is a win.

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Opening Day 2010 – Oh Yes I Did!

I don’t get the chance to do this much–at least I didn’t last year. The 2009 MLB season is mercifully over, and as of last night we’re now off and running in a brand new season; America’s Pastime is back. It was good to hear the roar of the crowd and the crack of the bat.

Being a fan isn’t near as much fun unless you can balance out support for your team with passionate opposition to another team . . . or two.

I’ll make this a brief post:

My Arizona Diamondbacks had their Opening Day this afternoon, and beat the San Diego Padres 6-3 at home. My ‘guy’, Stephen Drew, hit an in the park home run. We’re off to a better start already!

Our division rivals, and perhaps a team second only to the reviled New York Yankees in my book of utter distaste, the Los Angeles Dodgers lost to the team with the longest losing record in baseball history – the Pittsburgh Pirates; they took it in the shorts, 11-5. Go Pirates!

I loved watching my Dbacks win, especially on Opening Day, but almost as sweet was watching the Boston Red Sox hand the Yankees their season opening loss, 9-7. As my friend Kenzie would say, that is made of AWESOME!

Any day the Dodgers and the Yankees lose is a grand day indeed. You can’t argue with a higher authority (see below):

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Tour II; Day 6 – Chocolate and Baseball

Today I bring you another guest post! Yeah, I know, you’re beside yourself with excitement. But first, a little aside about my small purchase this weekend.

As of this writing Arizona is in the midst of what has been termed a “winter storm.” It’s not your picturesque, Saturday Evening Post kind of storm, I assure you. Temperatures aren’t expected to get much above 60, if that. Around these parts (three feet from Hell) if the temperature dips below 60 then folks are breaking out their heavy coats and whining because “it’s so cold outside.” Yeah, I can see all you east coast and midwest types sneering. You folks think nothing of walking around naked in 60 degree weather.

So what does that have to do with a purchase I made? Well, my writing friend, Unabridged Girl made mention of something called the Cocomotion on her blog. When it’s cold (yes, even wimpy Arizona cold) a tasty mug of hot chocolate sometimes hits the spot. So I picked one up and gave it a go. If you even like hot chocolate, try it. I made some with soymilk and it came out great!

Okay, now once you have that mug of hot chocolate, or coffee, or tea—or whatever—I’d ask you to sit down for a few minutes and have a look at my guest post for today:

• Over at Blogging Authors I relate a story about how a baseball fan and his daughter exhibit a little Christmas spirit of their own during the regular baseball season.

And as always, if you drop by, leave a comment!

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Lucky Sevens

I have made mention before that I consider myself a “Realist,” which could be convoluted, upon occasion, to infer that I am negative at times. Negativity is toxic and punishing—as if life weren’t challenging enough. Life is chocked full of challenges and obstacles, and the Dark swings a big stick.

Sometimes life is just plain ugly.

But sometimes there is basis in fact for “negativity,” although the mere mention of a dark thing based in fact surely falls under the category of Reality. I submit to a candid world two such facts:

One: I am—until such time as I publish again—a first-time author. With such a pedigree comes the responsibility of proving oneself on a number of levels, not the least of which is the hearts and minds of readers. Readers tend to be a little more forgiving of freshman mistakes, but the more critical among the literate turn up their noses at the offensive stench of unproven writers.

Two: My Arizona Diamondbacks are in the midst of one of their worst seasons ever. Individual team members are having a statistically sound year (like my guy, Stephen Drew!). They’ve lost—no lie here—almost a full three-quarters of the home games my son and I have gone to watch at Chase Field.

So going into Saturday, July 25th, 2009, I began the day with the factual deck stacked against me. But as I’d alluded to in a previous post, regardless of the outcome I would spend a day with my son living amongst the comfort of books and steeped in the great American pasttime of baseball.

In all honesty I was quite alright with coming out of the day with an ‘L’ in both columns.

First up, my book signing at Changing Hands in Tempe. They had set up for a full blown ‘talk’ instead of just a book signing. I was under the impression I was doing a simple signing, so I was haplessly unprepared. Fortunately there was a podium I was to stand at while I winged it—fortunate because I think better standing up, not because I’m in any way speech-friendly.

I’ll spare you, kind reader, with all the minutiae, but it went far better than I thought it would. I had no acquaintances or family show up for the speech-on-the-fly, but I did have seven complete strangers sit patiently and listen, then ask questions I could easily answer (phew!).

I signed seven copies of my book, and no, not one to each person. To put that in perspective, a lot of book signing authors I’ve read about have typically sold (on a good day) two, maybe three, copies, after sitting at their table for three to four hours. I was there an hour-and-a-half.

I must also thank the staff, who were unspeakably supportive and accomodating, and a genuine pleasure to work with (thanks Jamie!).

A quick note: Lest you think this was some small-time neighborhood used book store I’ll have you know that Changing Hands was Publishers Weekly number one independent bookseller in 2007.

“So what?” you say, incredulous.

At the end of this month alone they will host J.A. Jance, and next month are hosting Garrison Keillor. In the past they’ve hosted Stephanie Meyers (Twilight series), Christian Lander (Stuff White People Like), and a Who’s Who of other notable and hugely popular authors. Joey Kramer of Aerosmith will even be there next week to sign copies of his book!

What’s not to like about being included with company like that . . . win or lose!

I finished up there, thanked mom and dad for showing up too (yes, they showed up as well, but got hung up in traffic on the way), and then my son and I went to take in the Dbacks vs. Pittsburg Pirates. Now, they’d won the night before, but given their ability to crash-and-burn at will this season I wasn’t holding out a lot of hope for a ‘W’.

Guess what — they WON! And the score . . .

7-0

It’s way too cheesy and coincidental for me to have made up. A day of sevens, and I got two W’s for the day!

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