Podcast: Making the MLB All-Star Game Better

In this episode of the Out of Ink podcast, Josh and Matt discuss if Major League Baseball's All-Star Game is the best feature of star athletes of all the professional leagues, ways to improve the Midsummer Classic and their best memories of the All-Star Game.

Sharpie Scribbles - Chapter X: I'm Not Who You Think I Am

-- by Matt Hurst

I have never been an autograph chaser.

Even as a kid it just seemed weird to me to get someone's name scribbled down on a piece of paper or a card or a ball. I'd rather have someone's picture taken with me.

That proves I was there. It takes a split second longer to get a picture taken with somebody than to have them scribble something down. Plus, it can't be faked.

Much better than an autograph, in my opinion.

This is no offense to anyone who seeks out autographs. I do weird stuff that I'm sure would cause many of you to look at me cockeyed.

I don't know if I would put money on it, but it's probably very close - I bet I've signed as many autographs as I've had things signed.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not famous. Sure, I've had moments of minor fame in my life (interviews on radio and television shows, broadcasting and radio work, a byline and picture everyday in the newspaper) but by no means should anyone ask me to scribble my name on something.

And yet, I have.

Walking in and out of special entrances to Major League Baseball parks every day for four years will cause kids to just ask you for your autograph. I was in my early to mid-twenties and in decent enough shape for a kid to possibly confuse me for a ballplayer.

I'd always tell them "Trust me, you don't want my autograph."

They'd think I'd be giving them a line, but I'd say "I'm just a baseball writer" and they'd feel foolish for approaching me. I'd thank them for the offer and that would be that.

Once, though, during spring training, a kid asked me for my scribble. I gave him my line and his mother said, more to me than actually out loud, "Please just do it. He wants as many as he can. Then we can leave."

I felt like I was doing the mom a favor.


So I took the kid's program and saw the name "Brandon Wood" right next to where I was about to sign. At this time Wood was a highly-touted prospect whom the Angels wouldn't include in any trade talks. He was the next Cal Ripken.

I signed my name near his.

My career arc has actually been better.

Gracias, Spanish class.

Being on the field during kid's days and things of that ilk means pens and baseballs have been shoved into my hands and I don't want to let someone down by handing it back. So, even though I'm not in uniform, I sign.

I used to practice my signature. Every day in ninth grade Spanish class, when I entertained thoughts that my baseball skills would get me to the bigs, I worked on making my signature visible so that when it was on a baseball along with many other scribbles, people would notice and say "That's Matt Hurst." I did it because I had seen too many baseball players scribble their names in illegible forms. I wanted mine to be recognized by the kids who had asked.

The final stroke on the M in my first name dangles like the state of Florida, as does the final line of the H in my last name. All those days not learning how to ask where the bathroom is has given me a distinct scribble.

When UC Santa Barbara alum Jim Rome came to campus to speak in his first appearance back at the school since he graduated, I was asked to be on stage with him and moderate his Q&A session. 

Rappin' with Rome.

Afterwards, when many people were asking to take pictures with him and his associates, one person came up to me and asked for a picture and a scribble.

"I'm not really associated with Jim," I told the person, trying to explain that as an alum and one of the school's broadcasters, I seemed a good choice to the decision-makers to be on stage with him.

He said he wanted to have memories of anyone with Jim Rome that night. So, I signed.

I always feel bad giving someone my scribble because one day they're going to look at it and go "What the hell?" and throw it out. That doesn't bother me. I just feel like I'm wasting someone else's time.

My favorite Scribble Story, though, comes from a mistaken identity.

I had shared a cab with three other Angels writers to the player's entrance at Great American Ballpark in Cincinnati and across the street were Scribble Seekers. Guys with their baseball card books in one hand, a Sharpie in another, constantly flipping through their sets of cards trying to match a pictured face with a real-life one.

The other writers emerged from the cab and, like many other stereotypical baseball writers, they weren't in terrific shape and a little bit older than the subjects they were covering.

When I popped out of the cab, the Scribble Seekers came running over, dodging traffic to get to me. Again, as a mid-twentysomething in decent enough shape and walking in and out of ballparks at the security entrances, people assumed I was worth a scribble.

When the Seekers approached, they saw that I wasn't a ballplayer. That my bag was not filled with hats or gloves or bats and balls. It had a laptop and pens.

The disappointment on their faces was sad, but completely priceless.

If I was ever worth a scribble, I'd always be happy to take the time and sign. I just don't feel I'm worth the effort, even if others think so.

However, there is one place I'm happy my name has been scribbled.

Inside the Green Monster at Fenway Park, I carved my name, making sure my scribble wasn't in chalk and therefore could easily be cleaned up when they wiped away the scribbles every year.

My scribble lives on in America's Most Beloved Ballpark. 

Sports metaphors to explain dating and sex

-- by Josh and Matt

You don’t need to like sports to enjoy sports metaphors.

When a politician finishes a speech or a debate, the staff will often claim their boss “hit a home run.” How often do you hear the phrase “game over” to explain situations that don’t involve games?

Even if you don’t like baseball, and even if definitions are slightly different, you understand the jist of “getting to first base” or “getting to second base” in the mating dance.

To “spit game” you need not be involved in an organized game. Of course, dating is a game and sometimes you have to “play the game.”

In the naming game for dating and mating, the options are endless with sports metaphors.

Many are obvious. We all know a “slam dunk” is when the girl is clearly into the guy. Maybe it’s a slam dunk she’ll allow you to “get to third base” or maybe it’s a slam dunk she will “pull the goalie.”

While we know what those mean, there are many other euphemisms for extracurricular activities that are derived from extracurricular activities.

Since we’re both men, our guide to sports metaphors for dating, sex and relationships comes from the male perspective:

Baseball

·         Ground-rule double: When you can only get to second base with a woman because "it's that time of the month." You have to stop at second base.

·         Striking out the side:getting three different numbers the same night. 

·         Triple crown: having sex with three different girls the same day.

·         Grand slam: having sex with a woman before dinner, after dinner, the next morning, then after breakfast again.

·         Taking a 3-1 fastball:not realizing a woman is really into you. 

·         Pitching around somebody:blowing off a chick who wants you because you want her friend. 

·         Double play: having sex with two women at the same time. A three-some.

·         Triple play: having sex with three women at the same time. A four-some.

·         Broken bat: when you’re trying to open a condom package, and in the process, you tear the condom.

·         Striking out looking: when a woman is making eyes at you from across the bar, or any social setting, but you never approach her.

·         Striking out swinging: when you keep trying, and trying, and trying, but do not “score” a phone number or kiss or anything else.

Basketball

·         Full-court press: putting on a very strong advance in approaching a mate, or a first date. Going to the full-court press can lead to that first date, or turning someone off. You have to choose when to employ it or else you can get burned.

·         The lay-up: A gimme, a simple feat. It could be a loose woman in public, or the ease at getting a phone number.

·         Posting up: When a girl is standing at the bar, and you’re angling your body in a way that no other guys can come close to talking with her.

·         Man-to-man: when a group of guys and girls are talking in a bar, and you’re able to break away from your respective friends to talk alone.

·         Buzzer beater: going home with a girl you meet at 1:59 am. 

·         Making a full court shot:walking up to a girl you’ve never met, telling her your favorite ridiculous line that is code for having sex immediately, and she somehow says yes.

Football

·         Hail Mary: Hitting on anything and everything after 1:30 am.

·         Pic six: when a girl is about to go home with another guy, then abruptly changes her mind and goes home with you instead. 

·         Field goal: when it’s clear you’re not going to have sex, and you settle for a blowjob. 

·         False start: putting your hand on a girl’s ass, and she moves it away.


Off Sides: trying to convert a female friend into a girlfriend and she's not down with that.

Out Kick Your Coverage: you're dating someone who is way too hot for you.

·         Giving the Heisman:when a girl is cute and interested in you, but you can’t deal with her because she’s so overwhelmingly drunk, so you keep her at arm’s length.

·         Gatorade shower: making a woman squirt. 

·         Clearing some cap room: deleting old girlfriends’ numbers from your phone.

·         Stealing signs: when playing wingman for a friend, you ask questions to help your friend, then you use that knowledge to try hooking up with her yourself. 

·         Successful two-point conversion:when she gives you a clean-up blowjob after you just had sex. 

·         Failed two-point conversion: when you attempt the post-sex blowjob, and she rolls away in disgust.

·         Red zone defense: when you’re not having sex because it’s that time of the month.

Hockey

·         Pulling the goalie: when the woman takes off her panties … or when she goes off birth control. Depends how long you’ve known her, and the purpose of this game.

·         Power play: Used when the charisma of a group makes you look better, and you’re able to score a phone number. You relied on the strength in numbers.

·         Icing: we still don’t know what it means in hockey, so we don’t know what it means in the dating game either.

MMA

·         Tap out: When you’re talking to a girl, she’s not buying your game at all, so you just abruptly leave.

Tennis

·         Double fault: When you return an hour later, and still make no progress.

·         Ace is having sex on first date. 

Soccer

·         Direct kick: when a girl approaches you in a bar and starts a conversation. It’s not a guarantee that you’re going to score, but you’re in a whole lot better position.

·        

      Converting the penalty kick:when the girl says, “let's go back to your place” and you have sex. 

·         Missing the penalty kick:when the girl says, “let’s go back to your place,” and you don't have sex.

This guy clearly missed the penalty kick.

·        Own goal: When you can’t make your female partner orgasm, so she does it to herself. 

Golf

·         Hole-in-one: Getting your wife pregnant the first day she goes off birth control and you don’t use a condom.

Bowling

·         Pick up the spare: When you strike out on the hot chick, and hook up with her not-so-hot friend.

There’s our list. Agree or disagree? Want to add your favorite sports metaphor? Leave a comment at the bottom.

  

Sharpie Scribbles – chapter IX, the King and the Ring

-- by Josh Suchon

Note to readers: The feedback on the “You Were Lucky, Hershiser” story was so positive, and triggered so many memories from a childhood where my playground was the Oakland Coliseum, I’ve decided to share more of these stories. I’m blatantly stealing this idea from “Cardboard Gods” author Josh Wilker, who used his baseball card collection to tell the story of his childhood in the 1970s. Wilker gave me his blessing, so I’m going to use my autograph collection to tell the story of my childhood in the 1980s.

This chapter doesn’t fit the usual formula of baseball players who I bugged for Sharpie Scribbles as a kid, then bugged for interviews as an adult journalist. These are just two more good stories from my summer internship with the Watertown Indians minor league baseball that I wanted to share.

As mentioned in the previous chapter of this series, we had three memorable promotions during that summer. Sparky Lyle Day went fine overall, but I constantly felt like an idiot because it was so disorganized.

This post is about the other two big events: when legendary fast-pitch softball star Eddie Feigner's barnstorming team came to town, and when unknown pro wrestling wanne-be imposters came to town.

Let's start with The King.

The first time I saw Eddie Feigner was an episode of ABC’s Wide World of Sports. He was incredible. The Washington Post once described him as “the greatest softball pitcher who ever lived.” Feigner was the pitcher on a four-player softball team, dubbed “The King and his Court,” that took on all comers around the world. They didn’t have outfielders. They didn’t need outfielders he was so dominant.

The King could pitch behind his back, through his legs, from second base, blind-folded, and you still couldn't hit him.

By 1996, Feigner was 71 years old and still unhittable, but a younger guy did most of the pitching to save his arm. The King pitched an inning or two against the best team of ringers we could assemble from the area. The game wasn't close. Nobody could touch the King. Everybody on "The Court" mashed at the plate. 

The King and his Court were a relic from an era long before I was born, the ultimate barnstormers. Combine that with a ballpark that was located at the Alex T. Duffy Fairgrounds, it felt like we were in the 1950s.

I was on the on-field PA announcer. I introduced the players and described the action. Most importantly, I handed the wireless microphone to “The King” and let him entertain the crowd by giving the history of himself, the team, and tell stories.

The most important part of this running commentary was asking the standard question of a four-person team playing a 10-person team. It always got laughs:

Me: “Why do you only have four players on the team?”

The King: “We can’t play with three. If the bases are loaded, nobody is available to bat.”

This event was a huge hit. It was a great thrill to meet the King, watch him pitch, watch his teammates bash home runs well over the fences, and watch a team play with a pitcher, catcher, first baseman, shortstop and no outfielders. Best of all, it was great listening to “The King” tell stories.

Afterward, I caved and asked for his autograph. The King was about to sign it for me, then paused to size me up, and wrote the following: "You should take up radio." 

The King died in 2007. This obituary will give his life and talents much better treatment than I'm doing. I'm just honored that I got to meet him, watch in pitch in person, introduce him, and get such a nice unexpected compliment from him, when I was getting his autograph. 

RIP, Eddie Feigner.

*** 

Now let's get to the frauds.

It was an independent wrestling group that I’d never heard of – and keep in mind, in addition to being an autograph nerd and baseball nerd, I was a pro wrestling nerd too.

I read those wrestling magazines that spouted out all the propaganda from every regional wrestling organization in the country. I'd never heard of the company, or any of the wrestlers. All the wrestlers would clearly pass steroid tests. What fun was that?

The ring was assembled on the infield. The middle of the ring was directly above the pitcher’s mound. All the equipment literally came in a van. The wrestlers setup the ring themselves. Us interns setup folding metal chairs around the ring, and added a few other finishing touches.

The promoter loved to say the phrase, “Madison Square Garden, baby.” What he meant was this show would be just like a WWF show at Madison Square Garden. I thought he was joking, until I heard him say it a dozen times.

A couple hours before showtime, the promoter told our general manager the normal in-ring announcer couldn’t make it. Was there somebody who could do it, instead?

The GM looked at me and said, “you’re up.”

Seriously?

I was 22 years old, a few months out of college. My broadcasting career consisted of about 30 games on San Diego State’s college radio station, about a half-dozen live minor league games so far that summer on radio, and one year as the public address announcer for my high school’s basketball team.

Now I was the in-ring announcer for a fly-by-night pro wrestling event.

Madison Square Garden, baby. 

The referee took me into the dressing room (it was the visitors clubhouse) for the important instructions. Very important: I needed some type of watch or clock to keep time. Every five minutes, I would give the referees a hand signal. Why? The conversation went something like this:

Referee: “Each of the matches is timed.” 

Me: "What do you mean they are timed?" 

Referee: "Some are five minutes. Some are 10 minutes. Some are 15 minutes. Some are 20 minutes."

Me: “I thought the matches lasted until somebody pinned an opponent’s shoulder onto the mat for a count of three.”

Referee (not amused by my humor): “Just give me the hand signals, kid.”

Behind me, the wrestlers psyched themselves up for their performance, and practiced their moves … with their opponent.

Madison Square Garden, baby.

During the first match, I saw how the hand signals worked. The referee looked at me more than he watched the action. I gave him a “1” after five minutes. Next time the wrestlers were tied up, the referee told them the time. I gave him a “2” after 10 minutes.

The next time the wrestlers were tied up in the corner, the referee broke them up ... and gave the time.

Magically, the match ended about 30 second later.

The storylines and characters were the most basic Wrestling 101 you can imagine.

There was a good-looking, tan, blonde hair guy with muscles and pretty teeth who wore red, white and blue tights. He came out to Bruce Springsteen’s, “Born in the USA.” He was a “good guy.” He was victorious in his match, even though the bad guy tried to cheat.

There was big fat masked man from parts unknown. He was a different “bad guy.” He was actually a super nice guy in the dressing room. In fact, he did most of the work assembling the ring earlier that day, and would take it apart when we were done. After I'd introduced him in the ring to the crowd, he calmly walked over to me, and said quietly, “tell the crowd to shut up, and I'm going home if they call me fat.”

In my best Howard Finkle, I informed the crowd, in the most dramatic way possible, that the masked man said the crowd needs to do the following two things:

1. Shut up!

2. Stop calling him fat! He doesn't like being called fat! If you call him fat, he's going to leave! 

Shockingly enough, the Watertown crowd took the bait. They called him fat. The fat masked man who worked so hard to assemble the ring threatened to leave. The fat masked man’s opponent took advantage by working him over. The fat masked man made a comeback, and got the upper edge.

Then the fat masked man was distracted by the crowd calling him fat. The fat masked man’s opponent took advantage of the fat masked man being distracted to work him over again. This continued, back and forth, for five minutes.

When I gave the “1 finger” to the referee, the fat masked man was about to win. Then he got distracted by a redneck in the front row who called him fat again. The fat masked man stopped in the middle of what he was doing, challenged the redneck to jump into the ring, and the fat masked man’s opponent pinned him with an “inside cradle” move.

The masked fat man was not happy.

Madison Square Garden, baby.

After four matches, it was time for intermission. I told the crowd, “we’ll take a break for a short intermission. The snack bar is open. Cold beer is available. And some of the wrestlers will be available for autographs.”

What this really meant: “we’ll have a very long break, so you can buy lots of food and beer. All of the wrestlers will be available, and for $10, you can get a Polaroid photo with you and the wrestler, which the wrestler will be happy to autograph.”

During the intermission, we looked at the radar and saw that rain was headed toward the ballpark. (When you work in minor league baseball, you look at the radar more than you do anything else, because you always have to be ready to put the tarp on the infield.)

Remember, we were outdoors. No roof for the ring, the wrestlers, or the fans. We let the promoter knew that we were expecting rain.

“We’ll shorten all the matches,” he said. I went into the locker room and told the referee that all the matches will be cut in half because of expected rain. The referee told the wrestlers. They didn’t seem to care.

The intermission lasted at least 30 minutes. The second half consisted of three matches. The first two were done in five minutes each. The headlining match, consisting of two wrestlers that nobody knew, lasted 10 minutes.

After the final match, I thanked the audience and climbed out of the ring. Most of the wrestlers were out of the locker room signing more autographs. Then, the strangest thing happened.

Somebody asked for my autograph.

The conversation went something like this:

Me: “You’ve got to be kidding.”

Drunk fan: “Hell no. You gotta sign this for me.”

Me: “Why on earth would you want my autograph?”

Drunk fan: “You were part of this. You’re the announcer.”

After a childhood chasing professional baseball players for their autograph, I couldn’t fathom somebody wanting my autograph. I also couldn’t say no. During a lot of the dead time waiting for autographs, my friends and I practiced our signatures hundreds, if not thousands of times. Now it was going to pay off.

We’d placed these old-time promotional billboards around town to advertise the wrestling show. I really now wished that I’d have saved one. With the leftovers, we handed them out at the show. That was the primary item used for autographs.

So that’s what I signed. After delivering my own Sharpie Scribble, I wrote (The PA guy) afterward, so that the drunk fan would know that I wasn’t a wrestler. Don’t ask me why I thought that was important to distinguish. It’s not like anybody knew who these guys were.

I handed the promotional billboard back to the drunk fan, and then something even crazier happened.

A kid asked me for my autograph. And so did his friend. And another friend. Next thing I knew, I had a line of people asking for my autograph. It was ridiculous, hilarious, and made me wonder if professional baseball players thought the same thing the first time they were asked for their autograph by kids like me.

Madison Square Garden, baby.

Sharpie Scribbles – chapter VIII, Sparky Lyle

-- by Josh Suchon

Note to readers: The feedback on the “You Were Lucky, Hershiser” story was so positive, and triggered so many memories from a childhood where my playground was the Oakland Coliseum, I’ve decided to share more of these stories. I’m blatantly stealing this idea from “Cardboard Gods” author Josh Wilker, who used his baseball card collection to tell the story of his childhood in the 1970s. Wilker gave me his blessing, so I’m going to use my autograph collection to tell the story of my childhood in the 1980s.

My autograph collection is well over a thousand. It’s not worth counting the exact number. But let’s call it an even 1,200 as a nice round number. Out of those autographs, 1,197 were obtained between 1987-91, during my teen-age years when it was clear I had no girlfriend.

Only four of these autographs are displayed in the office of my apartment. They are Willie Mays, Roger Maris, Stephen Strasburg and Sparky Lyle.

Mays and Maris are there for obvious reasons. They’re on the sweet spot of a baseball, and they’re pretty sweet. The Strasburg signature came from a donation to the Aztec Athletic Foundation, and fits with my collection of San Diego State schwag.

Lyle’s signature makes me smile more than any other. It was obtained in the summer of 1996, when I was an intern for a minor league baseball team. My days of collecting Sharpie Scribbles were long over, but I made a special exception for Lyle because I’d spent the previous 24 hours shuttling him around a random city in upstate New York.

The signature states: “To Josh, thanks for putting up with all the shit!”

***

Coming out of college, I knew that I wanted to work in minor league baseball as a play-by-play announcer. What I didn’t know was how to actually do it.

My strategy was to call the play-by-play announcer for the Padres affiliate at Rancho Cucamonga and ask how he got his job. His name was Mike Curto. Great guy. Very helpful.

His advice: buy the Baseball America directory, and call every team to ask if they have an opening for an announcer.

Sounded pretty simple to me. That day, I ordered the directory. It arrived in the mail a few days later. I woke up one morning early – well, early by college student standards -- and started calling every short-season minor league team in baseball whose season started after school ended.

Including independent league teams, it was over 100 calls. When the phone bill arrived, my roommates laughed. I almost had a heart attack.

Five teams had an opening. I sent a tape – yes, a cassette tape – to all five. I got a phone call from one team. It came from a guy named Josh Getzler, the new owner of a team in Watertown, N.Y. Anybody with the name Josh is good people to me.

Josh offered me an internship with the Waterown Indians that would include a whole lot of job titles, not much money ($25 a day), but free rent, free ballpark food, and the chance to broadcast about 20 games live on the radio.

I said yes.

Then I found a map to see where the hell Watertown was located.

The day after walking across the graduation stage at San Diego State, I drove across the country in my car. I left on a Monday. I arrived on a Friday afternoon.

In between, I stopped in Vegas for an all-you-can-eat buffet and somehow managed to avoid the blackjack tables, got a speeding ticket in Utah, drove through snow in the Rocky Mountains, visited my family’s old house in Littleton, Colo. and talked to an old neighbor, met a friend in Kansas City and went to a Royals game, stopped in St. Louis and went to the top of the arch, stopped at an ESPN Zone in Indianapolis to watch the NBA playoffs, and stopped caring about landmarks somewhere around Cleveland.

It was one of those jobs that I would never do again, but I’m so glad that I did it.

The only player left from that team still playing baseball is John McDonald. Just so happens, he was my favorite dude on the team.

A few others who made the majors were Paul Rigdon (who had some good years), Willie Martinez (who made one appearance in the majors), and Sean DePaula (who was in Watertown about two minutes). The best future major leaguer in the New York-Penn League that year was Aramis Ramirez.

Like all minor league teams, we did a lot of promotions. Most of them were goofy and pointless. We had three great ones: Sparky Lyle day, the King and his Court, and an independent wrestling show in the middle of the infield.

***

All the fun started when I was chosen to pickup Sparky Lyle from the airport. It was an hour drive from Watertown to Syracuse (the nearest airport). This meant that for two hours, I didn’t have to distribute free tickets around town, re-paint the outfield fence signs, sweep the concourse, organize the merchandise table, answer phones, or any of the other jobs that I hated.

Plus, it meant that I could talk with a former major leaguer for an hour. He was stuck in the same car with me and couldn’t go anywhere. We must have hit it off right away because Lyle told awesome stories of Billy Martin and George Steinbrenner. He told even more awesome stories about groupies.

This is how these former ballplayer appearances work in the minors: you pay them whatever their fee is, pay their flight and hotel and food; in exchange, they do whatever ridiculous ideas you concoct.

We didn’t have anything ridiculous. We barely had anything planned. They told me to take Sparky Lyle to a mall to sign autographs and get people to come out to the game that night. There was no advance promotion or preparation. We just showed up. I grabbed a table, made a hand-made sign, and we sat there.

Most people probably thought it was a joke, or an imposter. Sparky Lyle is just hanging out at a mall in Watertown? I think 10 people stopped at the table over the hour we were there.

I know we made another stop somewhere, but can’t for the life of me remember what or where it was. I’m sure it was the same thing. No promotion. Hardly anybody there. Me feeling like an idiot for taking Sparky Lyle someplace where nobody was expecting him. Sparky Lyle feeling like an idiot for being stuck with some idiot kid just out of college who had no clue.

The Alex T. Duffy Fairgrounds, our humble ballpark.

Once we were at the ballpark, it was a little better. At least people were expecting him there. Lots of people were wearing Yankees shirts and hats and taking photos. Never mind that we were an Indians affiliate.

The new owners were a family from Manhattan. It was no secret they would move the team as soon as their lease expired. Indeed, they moved the team to Staten Island three years later and became a Yankees affiliate. Baseball has never returned to the Alex T. Duffy Fairgrounds in Watertown.

The big event, somewhat planned, was that Sparky Lyle would throw batting practice against the local celebrities in town.

We had one local celebrity.

He was the sports anchor for the one local TV station in town. The weekend sports anchor just shot video of the whole thing. I guess he wasn’t a celebrity yet.

Sparky Lyle needed to be warmed up, so I played catch with him. I grabbed the first glove I saw in the dugout. Didn’t realize it was bad luck to put your meat claws into somebody else’s glove.

The glove belonged to an outfielder named Mel Motley. He told me that I better not drop anything with his glove. I dropped a couple throws. Motley never made the majors. Sorry dude. Guess it was my fault.

We must have grabbed a couple other people from the stands, or maybe the weekend sports anchor took a few cuts, just so Sparky Lyle could strike out more than just the same guy over and over. We were all set for batting practice. I was somewhat proud of myself.

Then Sparky Lyle looked at me and said, “Josh, we’re going to take BP with one ball?”

Oh crap! I ran into the dugout and fished out as many balls as I could find. I think I grabbed six. We probably could have done it with one ball. Nobody made contact until Sparky Lyle started lobbing them in there.

I was impressed with Sparky Lyle’s fastball and slider. I asked him if he ever considered a comeback. Keep in mind, he retired in 1982 at age 37. Now it was 1996 and he’s 51 years old. But after seeing him strike out our local TV anchor, I thought Sparky Lyle was ready for a comeback.

“I won’t be able to lift my arm tomorrow,” Lyle told me.

So much for the comeback.

That's me, right by Sparky Lyle's side.

We moved over to an autograph table early in the game. That was about the only thing that went smoothly. We had a table. I made sure we had blue Sharpies for the baseball cards, and blue ball-point pen for baseballs. If there was something I learned after my amateur start to autograph collecting, it was the right pens to use.

Fans waited in line. Yes, there was actually a line. It was the only time that day I didn’t feel like a complete idiot.

I helped the fans get the item ready to be autographed, so they could have some 1-on-1 time with the Sparky Lyle. He was great. Sparky Lyle signed the items, answered questions, chatted them up, posed for photos, and made a bunch of people’s day.

As a kid, I rarely got autographs at baseball card shows. It was pointless paying for something I thought I could get for free at the ballpark.

I made a few exceptions. I got Willie Mays because he’s Willie Mays. I got Jose Canseco because he only scribbled his full name at card shows. I got Robin Ventura because I was obsessed with getting BCF’s for members of the 1988 Olympic team.

At these cards show, I used to mock the guy sitting next to the athlete. What kind of loser has a job where you get an item ready to be autographed by some athlete? Well, now I knew. That was me. I was that loser for the day.

We fed Sparky Lyle the finest ballpark food we had to offer: pizza. The best part of the pizza was the gorgeous girl – the only one in town – who worked that stand.

Once all the autographs were done, I took Sparky Lyle back to his hotel. We put him up at the best hotel in Watertown. 

It was a Ramada Inn.

***

The next morning, I picked up Sparky Lyle at the Ramada Inn, made sure he didn’t have to pay the bill, and drove him back to the Syracuse airport. Another hour drive where he was stuck in the car with me.

I don’t remember what we discussed on this drive. I’d like to think it was more stories about Martin and Steinbrenner and groupies. It was probably about the weather.

I do remember thinking to myself if Sparky Lyle loved or hated these appearances. It was probably both.

It’s easy money. You show up, smile, shake hands, take photos, strike out local TV sports anchors, scribble your name a lot, and just have to put up with some intern like me.

It also probably gets old and annoying. Random cities with random people telling you random stories about your career that probably aren’t even true.

Constantly looking into the past for those totally overrated good-ol' days, when there’s better-new days that are possible, is something that I loathe -- even though I admit that’s totally hypocritical considering the point of this “Sharpie Scribble” feature.

 

I guess it goes back to the table at the mall. It must be pretty humbling for a guy who pitched in World Series games at Yankee Stadium to sit at a mall, with me, and hardly anybody coming over to say hello.

I’m terrified at what Sparky Lyle was really thinking at that moment. Maybe he liked it that way, not having to tell Yankees stories because that’s what everybody expects and wants.

Toward the end of the drive to the airport, I handed Sparky Lyle a baseball and asked if he’d sign one more – for me. I told him to write something funny and true about our day together, something I would always remember.

That’s when he wrote, “thanks for putting up with all the shit.”

I didn't see it until I was on my way back to Watertown.

Gawd, I love Sparky Lyle.

Podcast: expanding Interleague -- good for ball? Or bad for ball?

We're in the middle of baseball interleague play right now. Next year, as the Astros move to the AL West, interleague will take place every day. On our latest Podcast, we debate what this means. Matt Hurst hates it. Josh Suchon likes it. They discuss if this is the next step in making the designated hitter in both leagues, and the ultimate day-night doubleheader for two-market teams.

Sharpie Scribbles – chapter VII, Dad

-- by Josh Suchon

On this Father’s Day, I wanted to tell the story of the ultimate father-son baseball vacation, and the impact it had on my future occupation.

By the end of summer in 1990, my obsession with getting Sharpie Scribbles was fading. I was busy working 4-5 days a week as a busboy at Chili’s. It was the summer before my last year of high school. It was harder to get autographs because new restrictions and barricades were in place.

College was getting closer. I knew that I’d major in journalism or broadcasting. My focus was shifting toward my own writing, rather than getting the scribbles of my future subjects.

Whether my obsession was playing sports, taking photos at sporting events, getting autographs and batting practice home runs, using every penny to buy baseball cards and other memorabilia, or reading every piece of sports journalism out there, my dad was there to support me.  

I’m sure my Dad thought it was a little ridiculous, or a lot ridiculous, that I spent so much time and money and energy collecting baseball cards and other items to get autographed. He showed remarkable patience. He provided so many rides to card shops and card shows, and on wild goose chases to find convenience stores that sold the specific type of baseball card packages that I was seeking.

My dad was a huge sports fan. It’s where I developed my love for sports. He didn’t care about autographs or memorabilia. He just wanted to watch a game, be entertained, and cheer on his teams.

As a result, I’m sure the trip we took in 1990 was just as thrilling for him as it was for me. We'd talked about it, then decided to go for it. He told me to look at all the schedules in baseball to find the ideal week. That was the easy part. Dad made it happen financially.

The trip: two games at Wrigley Field, two games at the old Comiskey Park (in the final season), one game at Tiger Stadium, a day at the baseball Hall of Fame, two nights at Yankee Stadium, and a day game at Fenway Park, before a red-eye flight home.

A lot of the photos and memorabilia from that trip were either ruined due to a leak in the closet of my bedroom a few years ago, or because I stupidly threw them away. 

What follows are my memories:

Wrigley Field, Sept. 1 and 2, 1990

We left extremely early on a Saturday morning, probably a 6 a.m. flight out San Francisco, and after landing at O’Hare and getting a rental car, we arrived at Wrigley Field very close to game time. We might have even missed first pitch.

We had standing-room only tickets for the first game, and just assumed we’d easily find two empty seats. Nope. We truly stood the entire game. I didn’t remember any of the details from the game, and even viewing the boxscore, an 8-1 Reds win, doesn’t bring back any memories.   The same goes for the second game.  What I remember most was thinking if the Reds reach the World Series, my A’s would have their hands full.

The atmosphere around Wrigley was more memorable than the games. I bought one of those “Top 10 Lies Told at Wrigley Field ” t-shirts. 

One of the lies: “Harry’s not drunk.” 

Another: “Dunston just needs a few years to develop.” 

I held onto that shirt for years and years, before finally throwing it away.

I’d always liked Shawon Dunston. A few years earlier in spring training, Dunston came onto the field singing, “I’m going back to Cali, Cali, Cali, I’m going back to Cali … ” and I yelled out “I don’t think so” from the stands. Dunston giggled that giggle that I’d grow to love.

Dunston remains my all-time favorite athlete I ever covered as a newspaper reporter. Whenever I see him now at the ballpark, I call him “my favorite celebrity coach” because I always see him in uniform, but I’m still not sure what his job is, other than being himself.

One of my favorite stories that I wrote at The Trib was an off-day feature about Dunston and his son. It was a look back on the day in 1998 when Dunston hit a home run at Candlestick, and his son leaped into his arms at home plate. The photo was on the front page of every Bay Area newspaper.

That father-son photo seemed to resonate with everybody. It was four years later, but many of my friends still had that photo on their refrigerators. I thought it would make a good story, and Dunston lit-up when discussing it. 

Old Comiskey, with new Comiskey in back.

Old Comiskey Park, Sept. 3 and 4, 1990

The White Sox were the surprising top challenger for the A’s that year. They were 6 ½ games back when I wore my A’s clothing to the old Comiskey Park, which was in its final season.

What I remember most about those two games is that Bobby Thigpen broke the single-season record for saves when we were there. A check of the boxscores showed it happened the first night, and then Thigpen got another save the second night.

Since they were night games, we had more time to explore Chicago. Dad and I ate lunch at some random places on the South Side. We noticed how quickly the neighborhoods seemed to change, street to street, in their ethnicity and style.

Getting autographs was a challenge. I didn’t know the tricks or the ideal location in other cities. My heart wasn’t totally into it. This trip was more about viewing ballparks, taking photos, enjoying the games, and bonding with my dad.

One of the autographs I did get was Steve Lyons. Two decades later, he’s the ex-athlete I’ve worked with professionally more than any other. We’ve done pre-game shows before playoff series, post-game call-in shows, and called a few Dodgers spring training games together on radio and TV.

In my four years co-hosting Dodger Talk and traveling with the team, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Lyons say no to an autograph request. Lyons signs at the ballparks, at the hotel, before getting on the team bus, and he often uses the flights to catch up on his autograph requests in the mail.

The White Sox won both games my Dad and I saw. That wasn’t good for the A’s, but they still held on and won the division easily. I was excited that Ivan Calderon hit a home run because we got to see the famed exploding scoreboard. 

It was the last year of the old Comiskey, and it was very cool that Dad and I got to see it.

Tiger Stadium, Sept. 5, 1990

After four days in Chicago, Dad and I flew to Detroit and caught a game at Tiger Stadium. I vividly recall Cecil Fielder hit a ball over the roof. The boxscore shows it was his 44^th that season, en route to 51, back when 50 was a huge deal.

We got there when the gates opened and walked around everywhere. We stood in the front row of the right-field upper deck (which actually hung over the playing field), and marveled at the flag pole that was in the playing field.

Another memory from Detroit is that was the first time we saw hustling ushers. They’d ask for your ticket, walk you to the seat, spray and wipe it down, then just stand there. I had no idea why they stood there. Dad realized they were waiting for a tip and forked over a few dollars. That’s common back east. It was a foreign concept to us Californians.

Another thing I remember from that week was buying newspapers in every city, reading the different styles, and imagining what it would be like to fly from city to city for a living and write about baseball. 

The National, an all-sports daily newspaper that was the greatest thing ever, was in its peak. We bought it wherever we saw it, and exchanged reading all the newspapers we could find, on the flights from city to city.

I was about to start my senior year in high school, and was the editor-in-chief of my high school newspaper. 

That week on the road was like a sports journalism education, watching games each day, keeping score, discussing strategy with dad, reading the stories filed for the next day’s papers, getting on a plane to another city, and doing it all over again the next day.

Baseball Hall of Fame, Sept. 6, 1990

The trip to Detroit was our shortest. We were there less than 24 hours. We flew out the next morning for Albany, N.Y., got another rental car and drove to Cooperstown to see the baseball Hall of Fame.

It was mid-week, so it wasn’t too packed. It was a little over a month since the induction ceremonies, so there was still quite a bit of pageantry around town. We spent hours and hours walking around, reading the exhibits, and studying those Hall of Fame plaques.

The first autograph that I ever obtained was from Johnny Bench. I don't remember it. I don't know what I got signed, or what I did with it. My memory is based on what other people told me, that my Dad was practically holding me over the railing trying to get Bench's attention. It worked. Bench signed. We don't have the autograph, but we have the photo of the autograph.

Bench became one of my first heroes, a combination of that story and because he was the host of The Baseball Bunch. One of my first gloves was a Johnny Bench catcher’s glove. It was too big for me and I never played catcher. But my dad used that sucker all the time, as he crouched into a squat and caught my pitching sessions. 

On our trip to Cooperstown, I studied the Bench plaque longer than any other, and took a photo of it.

We ate dinner in Cooperstown, walked into the numerous stores that sell autographs and memorabilia. Even the restaurants were filled with photos and signatures.

Afterward, we drove to our hotel in Tarrytown. This is a bizarre memory, but I recall we watched the U.S. Open tennis tournament from the hotel, and did much-needed rounds of laundry.

Yankee Stadium, Sept. 7 and 8, 1990

This was a year the Yankees finished in last place, the A’s won the division, and the A’s went 12-0 against them head-to-head.  The major reason we picked the week we did was to watch the A’s at Yankee Stadium.

The A’s didn’t disappoint.  Jose Canseco (who I thought was always showing off for me) and Mark McGwire went deep in the Friday night game. Rickey Henderson hit two home runs, and newly acquired Harold Baines went 4-for-4 in the Saturday night game. In a week full of unbelievable memories, this had to be the best part of the trip.

One of the afternoons, we did that tour where you take a bus around Manhattan, and can get off as many times as you like. We went to the Statue of Liberty, the top of the Empire State Building, and plenty of other famed tourist stops.

We rode a taxi. It was my first time ever in a taxi. I’d heard the reputation of crazy New York taxi drivers. Ours didn’t drive on sidewalks, but lived up to the hype. Dad said afterward the most important part of a taxi cab is the horn because they honked at everything. The ride was terrifying and exhilarating.

Before one of the games, I remember we went from store to store, looking for souvenirs and soaking up the energy of the crowd. That was the year Jimmy Connors made a surprising run to the semifinals of the U.S. Open in nearby Queens. It seemed every store had tennis on a small TV, and everybody was talking about Connors.

I wore my A’s “Just Do It” t-shirt to Yankee Stadium. It was part of Nike’s campaign around Bo Jackson. Not sure the wisdom of wearing A’s colors to the Bronx, but teen-age kids usually get a break from the rowdies. I received a few comments here and there. Overall, no problems at all.

The stadium was only half full, but I remember the energy and the craziness. When the Beach Boys song, “Surfin’ Safari” came on, some guy stood up on a couple seats and pretended he was surfing. I remember we listened to “Post Game Yankee Talk,” or whatever they called it, and all these crazy guys in accents talked about how, “we gotta get Higuera next year.”

Teddy Higuera wasn’t a bad pitcher and a free agent in the winter. But he was injury-prone, and I remember thinking that’s not the answer to the Yankees problems. I also remember thinking, “who in their right mind would ever want to host a call-in show immediately after a baseball game and deal with callers like this?”

Fenway Park, Sept. 9, 1990

We woke up early on a Sunday for our last day. We made the four-hour drive from New York to Boston, and drove straight to Fenway Park. I remember that driving and parking in that city was ridiculous. I was so glad my dad was driving.

My memory said Ken Griffey, Jr and his dad started that game, and they both got back-to-back hits in the game. My memory failed me, after viewing the box score. Senior had a pinch-hit single, and Junior went 0-for-4 in the game.

The view from our seats at Fenway.

Honestly, we weren’t that impressed with Fenway.

Maybe it was because we were tired after a long trip. Maybe it was because the fan energy on the rooftop seats wasn’t that intense. Maybe it was because there was some annoying obnoxious kid near us. Maybe it was because the game was fairly dull. Maybe it was because we didn’t have much pre-game time to soak it up, and hustled to the airport immediately after the game.

This was before Fenway Park became such a cultural event. I returned a few years later, during a weekend when I was interning at ESPN, sat just above the dugout and fell in love with the place. But my first trip was dull.

When we got to the airport, Dad got a message on his beeper (yep, his beeper) from the office. He needed to fly directly to some other place for work. I flew home from Boston solo. For a couple moments, I looked around the Boston airport nervously about this proposition. Then I realized it was no big deal. We’d been doing this all week.

My friend James Elliott and his father picked me up at the San Francisco airport around midnight. The next day was my first day as a senior in high school. I knew what the future held. I knew this would be my line of work. This trip sealed it.

For that, I have my Dad to thank.