Andy Young: A good oh-for-three

By Andy Young

My baseball career was modest at best. After warming the bench at ages 9 and 10, I played regularly during my last two Little League campaigns, making the all-star team in my final season. Three years of Babe Ruth League ball followed, with similar results. I was named an all-star at age 15, but only because every team needed a representative, and I was judged by the selection committee to be the least incompetent player on the league’s last-place squad. I may have had a couple of two-hit games along the way, but once pitchers began throwing curveballs on purpose, I experienced a lot of oh-for-threes.

Baseball is America’s traditional summer game, and that’s relevant because on days within a week of the solstice I can leave home on a bicycle at 7:30 p.m. for a grocery store that’s four miles away, pick up bananas and a half-gallon of milk, and pedal home with daylight to spare. And that’s important, since my bike is a Wrigley Field model. Which, as old-time baseball fans inherently understand, means it has no lights.

Virtually everyone around here knows how late darkness arrives during June’s last week, but relatively few are up when the sun first peeks over the horizon in the morning. But those of us who leave for work early in the a.m. know, the unaccustomed early morning glimmer changes a few things about our daily commute.

The biggest difference involves some of our fellow mammals, specifically the ones that live outdoors. Their existence is more directly impacted by the early daylight than the lives of those of us who live and work inside enclosed structures. Normally timid animals are more brazen about crossing the road this time of year, since they aren’t discouraged or intimidated by oncoming headlights.

Which brings me to a recent incident. It was 5 a.m. and I was no more than two miles into my ride to work when, 50 or so yards ahead of me, a large deer suddenly emerged from the bushes on the road’s right side, ambled onto the pavement, straddled the yellow lines in the middle of the street, then paused to casually observe its surroundings. Fortunately, I was driving the speed limit (which rarely bothers anyone at that hour), so I had sufficient time to slow down and allow the animal to glance my way, shrug, and then canter off to continue its day.

I would have liked to exhale at that point, but not a half-mile later a squirrel scurried out of the underbrush to my left and sprinted across the road no more than 10 yards ahead of me. There was no time to stop, but the bushy-tailed rodent timed its dash well, because there was no thump, and a split-second later I saw him disappear into the weeds to my right.

I didn’t have time to pat myself on the back, though. No more than a minute later, I was picking up speed on a straightaway when I detected more motion. It was a turkey that, like the squirrel, was attempting to cross the road from left to right. And even though the confused fowl’s gait resembled a knuckleball’s path (as opposed to the squirrel’s straight fastball), avoiding him was a breeze, as I had seen him and was able to decelerate with more than enough time to spare.

Within a five-minute, three-mile span three animals had darted onto the road without warning, and I didn’t so much as foul tip any of them.

Going hitless isn’t always a bad thing. I’m still grateful for last week’s oh-for-three! <

Insight: The Name Game

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

I happened to be watching a baseball game on television the other evening and the pitcher for the Oakland Athletics in the game was named J.P. Sears. It made me wonder what the “J.P.” initials stood for and why he doesn’t use them in his professional career.

Actor George William Bailey has appeared on television
in 'The Closer' and "M*A*S*H and in films such as
'Mannequin' and 'Police Academy.' He is known
professionally, however, by his initials, G.W. Bailey. 
COURTESY PHOTO

After looking him up online, I found that John Patrick Sears is from Sumter, South Carolina and was drafted by the Seattle Mariners in 2017. He made his major league debut with the New York Yankees in 2022 and was traded that same season to Oakland. I still have no idea why he only uses initials instead of his actual given name.

Looking that information up led me to think about other celebrities, fictional characters or other entities who only go by their initials. I wondered if I could compile a list of such individuals with initials in their names using the entire alphabet.

A.A. Milne of England authored a series of books about Winnie-the-Pooh. His real name was Alan Alexander Milne.

B.O. Plenty was a scruffy and somewhat smelly villain in the old Dick Tracy newspaper comic serials.

C.S. Lewis was a British writer, literary scholar, and theologian who wrote “The Chronicles of Narnia.” His real name was Clive Staples Lewis.

D.B. Cooper is the alias used by a man who hijacked a Boeing 727 in November 1971 and is thought to have parachuted from the aircraft with a satchel of ransom cash. He was never seen again after that, and his identity remains a mystery to this day.

E.E. Cummings was a prolific American poet, painter, essayist, and playwright from Massachusetts. His real name was Edward Estlin Cummings.

F.P. Santangelo played baseball for the Montreal Expos, San Francisco Giants, Los Angeles Dodgers, and Oakland Athletics and a broadcaster for the Washington Nationals. His real name is Frank-Paul Santangelo.

G.W. Bailey is an actor who appeared on the M*A*S*H television show and was a dim-witted captain in the Police Academy film series. His real name is George William Bailey.

H.P. Lovecraft was an American author of horror and fantasy fiction, His real name was Howard Phillips Lovecraft.

I.Z. was the stage name of the late Hawaiian singer Israel Kamakawiwoʻole, best known for his rendition of “Over the Rainbow” while strumming a ukelele.

J.C. Penney created a major chain of department stores in 1902. His real name was James Cash Penney, Jr.

K.D. Lang is a Canadian singer famous for her 1992 hit “Constant Craving.” Her real name is Kathryn Dawn Lang.

L.C. Greenwood was a defensive end on the Pittsburgh Steelers Super Bowl championship football teams of the 1970s. His real name was L.C. Henderson Greenwood with the L.C. initials being his actual first name.

M.C. Hammer is an American rapper known for his 1990 hit “U Can’t Touch This,” and launching the parachute pants craze in men’s fashion. His real name is Stanley Kirk Burrell, and he’s thought to have taken the Hammer stage name after baseball superstar Reggie Jackson told him that he resembled ‘Hammering’ Hank Aaron.

N.C. Wyeth was an American painter and illustrator. His real name was Newell Convers Wyeth.

O.J. Simpson was a star football player and actor. He was acquitted by a jury after being charged with the murder of his ex-wife and her friend. His real name was Orenthal James Simpson.

P.T. Barnum was an American showman and promoter who established a popular traveling circus. His real name was Phineas Taylor Barnum.

QB VII was a 1970 novel by Leon Uris and later developed into a television court case mini-series starring Ben Gazzara and Anthony Hopkins in 1974. The name "QB VII" is an abbreviation for Queen's Bench Courtroom Number Seven, the site of the court trial.

R.J. Mitte is an actor with cerebral palsy who played the son of a chemistry teacher turned mastermind criminal in the television show “Breaking Bad.” His real name is Roy Frank Mitte III.

S.E. Hinton is an author who wrote the novel “The Outsiders” while still attending high school in Oklahoma. Her real name is Susan Eloise Hinton.

T.S. Eliot was an English poet, essayist, publisher, playwright, literary critic, and editor. His real name was Thomas Stearns Eliot.

U.L. Washington played Major League Baseball for 10 years as an infielder for the Kansas City Royals, Montreal Expos and Pittsburgh Pirates. His real name is U.L. Washington and the initials do not stand for anything,

V.C. Andrews is an author known for writing horror-themed novels. Her real name is Cleo Virginia Andrews.

W.C. Fields was an actor, comedian, and juggler, who appeared in vaudeville shows and in Hollywood films. His real name was William Claude Dukenfield.

XR is a robotic space ranger character in Disney’s Buzz Lightyear film. His initials stand for “Experimental Ranger.”

Y.A. Tittle was a National Football League quarterback who played for the San Francisco 49ers, New York Giants, and Baltimore Colts for 17 seasons. His real name was Yelberton Abraham Tittle, Jr.

Z.Z. Top was a rock band originating in Houston, Texas and known for such popular hits as “La Grange” and “Tush.” The band’s name is thought to have come from member Dusty Hill’s nickname, ZZ.

Andy Young: Trying to make sense of English’s opposites

By Andy Young

On Feb. 10, 1990, Paula Abdul’s “Opposites Attract” hit number one on Billboard magazine’s top 100, where it remained for the next three weeks. Learning that made me glad I lived with a family of English speakers during my infancy and subsequent formative years, when my brain was at its most absorbent. I cannot imagine having to learn my long-since-established native tongue as a second language.

There is very little logic to English. Dough, tough, cough, plough and through all end with the same four letters, but dough rhymes with blow, tough rhymes with stuff, cough rhymes with off, plough rhymes with now, and through rhymes with two, even though it’s pronounced the same as threw.

At least some things about English are easy. Like opposites. “Small” is the opposite of “big,” “west” is the opposite of “east,” and “light” is the opposite of “dark,” except when it’s the opposite of “heavy.”

But deducing exact opposites can be challenging. The inverse of hard is easy, except when it’s soft. Used and old are both opposites of new, and the opposite of fast can be either slow or eat. To most people the opposite of safe is dangerous, but in baseball, safe’s opposite is out.

Some opposites are a matter of personal preference. Certain people think sound and noise are synonymous but more often than not, the two terms are polar opposites.

Sounds can be pleasant. Early risers know that some of the most pleasant sounds imaginable take place before the sun comes up. The predawn ticking of a clock in a space where it is the only detectable sound is both soothing and inspiring. The same goes for tweeting bluebirds in the springtime, or walking in the woods during a snowstorm when, if the hiker pauses, the only thing they’ll hear is an utter lack of sound.

Noise, on the other hand, is very often obnoxious, and in ways that run the gamut from mildly annoying to absolutely infuriating. While a clock’s soft ticking can be mood-enhancing, the shrill noise its alarm makes when it goes off can jangle an awakener’s nerves long after he, she, or they have achieved consciousness.

The chirping of robins is a sweet sound. However, the cawing of carrion-devouring crows is grating noise. And while hiking silently through the woods (remember, silence qualifies as a sound) is pleasing, a stick unexpectedly snapping under one’s foot is a noise, as is the growling, real or imagined, a hiker hears deep in the woods where various wild animals reside.

Circumstances often determine what qualifies as sound or noise. A baby’s laugh is a sound of pure joy, but the shrieks emitted by an overtired infant is noise, and ear-splitting noise at that.

“Early” and “late” are opposites. But they can also be the same, since 3:30 a.m. is late for night owls but early for people who have to make donuts or deliver newspapers.

One thing that’s certain: “same” and “identical” are synonyms. They have to be because they’re both the opposite of opposite.

Often the difference between pleasing sound and objectionable noise depends on the ear of the beholder, particularly when it comes to music. Some people love the sound of a country ballad, but others identify it as twangy caterwauling. The same differences of opinion exist between aficionados of rock, classical, hip-hop, and every other musical genre.

Paula Abdul is a fine singer, but her hit single was based on a false premise. After all, if opposites really do attract, how come the wealthy, intelligent and attractive Ms. Abdul and I haven’t gotten together yet? <

Insight: Age before beauty

By Ed Pierce

When I first started following baseball, my interest was for my hometown team, the Rochester Red Wings, who were a minor league affiliate of the Baltimore Orioles at the time.

1963 Rochester Red Wings baseball cards
show Joe Altobelli, top, Luke Easter, bottom
left, and Steve Bilko. All three players
shared the first base position that season
for the Red Wings. COURTESY PHOTOS   

Back in 1963, Triple A affiliates had some local autonomy to acquire players and competed at the highest level of minor league play. Most of Rochester’s roster were younger players competing for a chance to make the major leagues with a sprinkling of older players trying to return to the majors.

Some of those older players were well past their prime playing days and had little to no hope of ever playing in another major league game but were signed nevertheless for their experience and ability to be role models for the younger players.

During my first year following the Red Wings, not one but three such older players were on the team and not surprisingly became some of my favorites. First baseman Luke Easter, first baseman Steve Bilko, and first baseman-outfielder Joe Altobelli had all played in the major leagues but suited up for Rochester to continue playing.

Easter, age 47 in 1963, stood 6-foot-4, weighed 240 pounds, and batted left-handed. He had served in the Army during World War II and had played for the Homestead Grays in the Negro League, leading the Grays to the 1948 Negro League World Series title. His towering home runs drew the attention of the owner of the Cleveland Indians, Bill Veeck, who signed Easter to play first base as a 34-year-old rookie in 1950.

His first three years with the Indians showed promise, with Easter among the league leaders in home runs and runs batted in, but ongoing knee and ankle injuries limited his time on the field and by 1954, he was sent to the minors, waiting for another opportunity. Determined to keep playing, Easter wore the uniforms of the Ottawa Athletics, Charleston Senators, and Buffalo Bisons, and was International League Most Valuable Player for Buffalo in 1957, before joining the Red Wings in 1959.

He was beloved by Red Wings fans and players alike for his perseverance and love for the game. But after playing in 77 games for Rochester that year, Easter chose to give up his roster spot and become the first base coach for the Red Wings for several seasons before returning to Cleveland for work as a union steward there. In 1979, Easter was shot and killed by two armed robbers in Cleveland after refusing to give them $5,000 in payroll checks he was carrying to the bank.

Steve Bilko, age 34 in 1963, grew up in a coal mining town in Pennsylvania and rose to prominence as a power hitting first baseman in the Pacific Coast League in the 1950s. His major league playing career included stints as a member of the St. Louis Cardinals, Chicago Cubs, Cincinnati Reds, Los Angeles Dodgers, Detroit Tigers, and he was the original first baseman for the Los Angeles Angels in 1961. But by 1963, he was a Rochester Red Wing, appearing in 101 games but only mustering 8 home runs that year and by the following spring he was out of baseball for good. He died at age 49 in 1978.

Joe Altobelli, age 31 in 1963, grew up in Detroit, Michigan, and had parlayed strong defensive and batting skills to slowly work his way up through the minor league system of the Cleveland Indians in the 1950s. He did eventually play for the Indians from 1955 to 1957, but by 1958, he was once again a minor leaguer. He played for Triple A teams in Indianapolis, Toronto, Montreal, Syracuse, and Omaha before signing with the Red Wings and replacing Easter as a fan favorite for his clutch hitting and ability to drive in runs.

Altobelli remained a Red Wing through 1966 and eventually became a minor league manager, leading Rochester to four league titles. He managed the San Francisco Giants for three seasons and then when Baltimore manager Earl Weaver retired, Altobelli led the Orioles to the 1983 World Series championship as manager.

In 1991, Altobelli agreed to serve as general manager of the Rochester team and in 1997 began work as a color analyst on the Red Wings radio broadcasts, a job he held through 2009, when he retired for good. Through the years he became known as “Mr. Baseball” in Rochester and in 2010, a statue of him was placed on the ballpark concourse there. He passed away in 2021 at the age of 88.

By all accounts, 1963 wasn’t an exceptional season for Rochester as the team finished in third place with a record of 75-76 overall. But when you combine the stats of the three men who played first base for the Red Wings that year – Luke Easter, Steve Bilko, and Joe Altobelli – it’s not too shabby with a combined total of 29 home runs, 116 runs batted in and a batting average of .258.

These days minor league baseball is strictly a pipeline for developing talent for major league teams and the days when older players could continue their careers as journeymen are long gone. I’m truly fortunate to have watched some of these all-time greats. <

Andy Young: Taking a crack at acting my age

By Andy Young

Some years ago, when I was both much younger and certain I’d never grow old, frail and crotchety, I vowed I’d never become one of those long-winded old geezers who spends his time perpetually muttering about how much better things were in the good old days, rambling on about his myriad medical issues to anyone who’ll listen, and perpetually yelling at random passers-by to “Get off my lawn!”

But that was then. This is now, and I need to vent.

Baseball’s postseason includes too many teams; getting to the World Series has become a virtual crapshoot. This year none of the three 100-win squads even got as far as their league’s championship series. Besides that, I’m sick of watching jewelry laden, tattooed egotists gesturing to the heavens and mugging for the cameras while they showboat their way around the diamond after slugging a Superball wrapped in horsehide over the fence.

Whatever happened to modestly circling the bases after a home run, getting patted on the rump by the third base coach, shaking hands with the next hitter, and then returning to the dugout without fanfare so the game could continue? Major League Baseball’s regular season has become just as meaningless as the National Basketball Association’s or the National Hockey League’s.

Why should anyone pay the stratospheric prices required to see a bunch of callow, over-privileged millionaires play a silly regular season or playoff game, anyway?

Speaking of sports, can anyone in the National Football League score a touchdown, recover a fumble, or intercept a pass without immediately going into a childish, poorly choreographed celebratory routine with their fellow steroid monsters? My favorite player is whoever just gives the ball to the referee after he makes a big play, or more accurately, does what he’s being paid to do.

And when it comes to the “Hey, look at me!” set, athletes in other sports aren’t any better. I’ll respect any NBA player who can slam the ball through the hoop and then hustle back to the defensive end of the court without thumping his chest, unleashing a primal scream, or simultaneously trash-talking and pointing at the guy on the other team he just posterized. And don’t even get me started on those prima donna soccer players!

Another thing: kids today are lazy, spoiled, and entitled. They spend the day mesmerized by their phones, listening to ear-splitting, off-key cursing they call music, and chugging oddly hued beverages with more caffeine in them than 10 cups of coffee.

No wonder the average high schooler has the attention span of a gnat! These teenage twerps leave campus at mid-day, then return at their leisure for club meetings, acting in the school play, or competing in interscholastic sports. And it’s all thanks to spineless, enabling school teachers, and administrators.

Kids come and go as they please because they’re driving Mom’s SUV, or the car their spineless, enabling parents provided for them. And they’re hypocrites, too! Anyone want to guess how many members of the Environmental Protection Club get to and from school via public transportation?

My vision is blurred. My hip keeps acting up. My neck is stiff. My back hurts all the time, and I get winded climbing the stairs. It hurts to sit. It hurts to stand. Lying down feels okay, but how am I supposed to make a living? Are there any companies offering competitive salaries and a decent benefits package for full-time mattress testers?

What a relief it is getting all that off my chest! I feel spiritually cleansed. However, there is just one additional thing I’d like to say.

Get off my lawn! <

Andy Young: Opening Day

By Andy Young

I’ve looked forward to Opening Day ever since I was old enough to realize it existed. The only days I anticipated more were Christmas and Thanksgiving, and by the time I began my three-decade adolescence, my devotion to baseball was total.

That’s why I couldn’t wait for the day the season began each year in early April. I even attended a season-opening game at New York’s beautiful Shea Stadium one year. Certain so-called “experts” were forecasting a grim season for my favorite team, so imagine my joy when they vanquished the visiting Montreal Expos, 3-1. Ace pitcher Jerry Koosman hurled a complete game, and I knew right then Joe Torre’s Mets were going to shock the world. I was even more convinced of it after they won their next two games.

Historical note: the New Yorkers lost 96 of their final 159 contests that year, finishing last and confirming those “experts” did indeed know more than I did. Adding insult to injury, that opening day win represented one-third of Koosman’s victories that year; he lost 15.

In my youth baseball’s season-opening contest reliably took place in Cincinnati sometime during April’s second week. But these days the big-league season opens in late March, often under a dome and occasionally in a foreign country.

Today I’m no longer youthful, nor an avid baseball fan. I’m a veteran high school English teacher who has learned that things change with the passage of time. (Exhibit A: New York’s beautiful Shea Stadium was demolished 14 years ago.)

Currently I’m occupied with trying to help high schoolers unlock their full potential. The more diligently they work on their literacy skills, the more clearly that they’ll see that they’re capable of doing far more for society than striking out the side on nine pitches or clouting a tape measure home run. Few of my students will ever earn the money a major league professional athlete in their prime does, but if my colleagues, my students’ parents, and I do our jobs right, the young folks in my class will realize that in the long run, being a multi-millionaire before turning 30 years old is far more likely to become a curse than a blessing.

However, despite my waning interest in professional baseball my enthusiasm for Opening Day remains. The difference: I’ve realized the one that truly matters occurs in late August.

Teachers understand that no day of the school year is more important than the initial one. It’s our one and only chance to make a positive first impression on our new students. Equally importantly it’s their only chance to get an initial read on the person(s) who’ll be guiding their academic growth for the next 10 months or so.

Like the baseball season, a school year is a marathon, not a sprint. Any decent algebra student can deduce that 180 six-and-a-half-hour school days add up to a lot more time than 162 Major League Baseball contests do, and that was true even before several rule changes designed to speed up games were enacted this year.

Major League Baseball players earning the sport’s lowest allowable annual salary will bring home at least 10 times the money the average educator will get paid this year.

But what a teacher gives (and receives in exchange for their efforts) is arguably worth better than 10 times what even the most skilled professional athlete will produce in his or her most productive season.

It’s just as true now as it was in my childhood: for me, nothing is as exciting as Opening Day.

Not even a Jerry Koosman complete-game victory. <

Andy Young: A sobering epiphany

By Andy Young

It’s hard to imagine where I’d be today without having had America’s nominal national pastime in my life.

I learned to read thanks to the baseball cards on the backs of Post cereal boxes. I played the game well enough to make the local Little League and Babe Ruth League all-star teams, before hard throwing, curve-balling pitchers led to my playing days ending at age 16 or so. But my involvement with the game went on at the high school, college, and professional levels as a coach, writer, radio announcer and publicist for another three decades or so and continues today as a Little League umpire.

Baseball helped me develop self-confidence, determination, social skills, and a strong work ethic. It also aided me in finding ways to deal with life’s periodic setbacks, and hastened my understanding of what makes a good teammate, both inside and outside of athletics.

That established, watching the game’s declining status at the youth level both locally and nationally has led me to an unhappy realization, which is that if I were a teenager today I’d have long since put baseball in my rearview mirror, assuming I had even bothered to get involved with it in the first place.

I started playing baseball for the same reasons I subsequently took up football and basketball: because virtually every other boy my age was doing it. Playing outside was an integral part of growing up in pre-cable TV, pre-Internet, pre-Smartphone days, a sort of informal socialization for pre-teenagers.

Today’s kids want to fit in with their peers just as much as my childhood friends and I did. But given the easy accessibility of instant-gratification-providing electronic devices, it’s no surprise that many of today’s athletic-minded youth consider baseball far too devoid of action. Lacrosse and ultimate frisbee are two sports on the rise that involve more movement and exertion, and for the disturbingly growing number of one-sport athletes, there’s spring soccer and basketball to contend with as well.

Another often-overlooked cause of youth baseball’s decline is the troubling upsurge (and continuing expansion) of the youth sports industry. While those wealthy enough to afford travel baseball generally get better schooling in the game than what’s provided by the community volunteers who staff Little League teams, ultimately “travel ball” quickly widens the gap between skilled and unskilled players. And while it may eventually produce a few more elite level high school players, it also drives many potential late bloomers away from the game.

Another disservice youth sports entrepreneurs provide is urging promising youthful athletes to play their chosen sport year-round. This does no one any favors, least of all the children themselves. There’s no way to estimate how many young people swear off other sports because some handsomely compensated youth coach recommends (or insists) their young charges focus solely on soccer, basketball, hockey, tennis, or whatever athletic activity their benefactors have chosen to sink their money into.

Rational people understand there are few future professional athletes in Maine, and the number who’ll ultimately be offered a Division I athletic scholarship is tiny as well. But while the majority of those involved in for-profit youth sports have enough integrity to not promise professional careers or college athletic scholarships to prospective clients, there’s no shortage of those who won’t bother to actively discourage any well-heeled parents with the preconceived notion that their particular youngster is potentially one of the chosen few.

So is baseball declining because of societal changes, misplaced priorities, greed, electronic diversions, unrealistic parental expectations, or the availability of other more attractive athletic options?

Sadly, the simple, accurate answer to that question is “Yes.” <

Insight: A Major League Miscue

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

As a child growing up in the 1960s, it was difficult to imagine a life without baseball being a part of my future. I spent about every waking moment either watching games on television or in person, collecting baseball cards or playing in Little League games in my hometown.

Henry Aaron

But as I grew up and entered college, the prospect of becoming a major leaguer or working for a professional ballclub dimmed as I got married, settled down and had bills to pay. As I waited for a job writing about sports in the spring of 1975 to come to fruition, I walked in off the street and applied for work with the Albuquerque Dukes Baseball Club, the top minor league affiliate at the time of the Los Angeles Dodgers. The job was as an administrative assistant to the team’s general manager and what I lacked in experience, I more than made up in enthusiasm during my interview.

Somehow, and I truly don’t know why to this day, Dukes General Manager Willie Sanchez liked my bravado and hired me on the spot. The season was about to start and even before Opening Day, two major league teams were coming to Albuquerque and playing their final spring game of the season in our ballpark. The opportunity of being around major league stars set my young mind into a tailspin of anticipation.

The major league teams playing in the game were the Chicago Cubs and the Milwaukee Brewers, and they were breaking spring camp in Arizona and headed north for the 1975 season. The administrative assistant’s position during games meant I did whatever I was asked to do by the general manager and oversaw all team promotions on the field.

As the big day neared, I coordinated and made sure every request for food for each major league team was delivered and set out in the team locker rooms. It was quite the feast including a carved ham and a carved turkey in each locker room and plenty of fruits, vegetables and desserts too. I also was tasked to meet each team bus as it arrived from the airport and escort the players into the stadium facilities.

When I completed the job of getting each team settled into their respective locker rooms, I was summoned to the ticket office where the Business Manager of the Albuquerque Dukes, Bob Gilmore, handed me the name of the young girl who was the winner of a drawing to throw out the first pitch before the game. I took the name to the press box, and gave it to the public address announcer, with instructions for her to meet me by the third base dugout 15 minutes before the start of the game.

Then I was handed a clipboard and a yellow legal pad by Willie Sanchez and told to accompany him to the locker rooms and take notes for him of anything he asked me to write down. We entered the Cubs locker room and there I met Darold Knowles, a relief pitcher who I watched pitch in the minor leagues for the Rochester Red Wings. He was nice to me and showed me one of his World Series championship rings that he had earned while pitching for the Oakland A’s from 1971 through 1974.

No Chicago players or coaches had special requests, so we then moved over to the Brewers locker room. Right away I became transfixed on the sheer size of Milwaukee’s first baseman, George Scott. He appeared to be the size of a massive oak tree. He told the general manager he wanted more black olives for after the game and I scribbled it down on the legal pad. We then worked our way down a string of lockers, stopping and talking with each Brewers player.

At one particular locker, Willie Sanchez paused and had a photographer waiting in the manager’s office to come and take his photo with the player. Once that was finished, we were moving on to the next locker. But the player that Sanchez was speaking with then motioned for me to come back over because he had something to tell me.

I walked over to him, and he said to me, “Hey kid, is that something you want me to sign?” I explained to him that I was working for Willie Sanchez and was taking notes for him in the locker rooms. I still didn’t recognize the player and I told him again that I needed to catch up with the general manager. The player smiled, shook my hand, and turned away to tie his cleats.

As we were exiting the Milwaukee locker room, a member of the Albuquerque Dukes grounds crew asked me if I got the player’s autograph who I was talking with. I said no and he told me that it was Henry Aaron, who was playing his final season that year for the Brewers but had broken Babe Ruth’s long standing home run record the previous season. I was so embarrassed not knowing who he was and missed out on an opportunity to get the autograph of one of the most famous baseball players of all-time. <

Andy Young: Three of a Kind

By Andy Young

John Jaso began life on America’s west coast during Ronald Reagan’s presidency.

From left are Joe Rafferty, John Jaso, and Leonard Pitts, Jr.
COURTESY PHOTO 

Leonard Pitts Jr. was also born in California, but during Dwight Eisenhower’s stint as America’s commander-in-chief.

Joe Rafferty has lived his entire life in the northeast, though like Pitts he was born when America’s flag had just 48 stars on it.

So, what does a trio consisting of an ex-professional baseball player, a former syndicated columnist, and a recently retired high school football coach have in common? Just this: each excelled in his field, but took the initiative to leave it by choice, rather than wait to have someone else decide for him when it was time to move on.

At the conclusion of the 2017 major league baseball season, Jaso’s two-year, $8 million dollar contract with the Pittsburgh Pirates was expiring. And while he wasn’t headed for the Hall of Fame, Jaso more than likely could have signed another seven-figure deal with a team looking for a veteran left-handed batter with some power.

But after 15 years as a pro, Jaso decided enough was enough. He bought a boat because, as he told a reporter, “I just want to sail away.” And that is exactly what he’s done since then. Some wondered how he could spurn the opportunity to collect more huge paychecks, but a New York Times story published last week reported Jaso’s response to that question as, “But I’d already made millions of dollars. Why do we always have to have more, more, more?”

Two months ago, Pitts stepped away from writing opinion pieces for the Miami Herald, where he had been employed for the past three-plus decades. Author of four novels and a memoir, the prolific Pitts was arguably America’s most thoughtful and articulate syndicated opinion columnist. Full disclosure: I generally agreed with Mr. Pitts’ written sentiments, but on those occasions when he expressed an opinion that differed from mine, my first instinct was to reexamine my own views on the issue(s) in question, given the logic, eloquence and genuine passion with which he presented his ideas.

Closer to home is a legendary football coach who resigned his position at Kennebunk High School earlier this month. Like Jaso and Pitts, Joe Rafferty’s unquestionable skills were still in demand, but after 44 seasons, 217 victories, and one Maine state title, the universally beloved and respected mentor stepped down, and did so characteristically, which is to say quietly and without fanfare.

Rafferty and Pitts are both in their 60s, yet it seems unlikely that a small town high school football coach who’s spent his life in New England would share any similarities with a syndicated columnist who’s always lived in urban settings.

And what would either of them have in common with a dreadlocked millennial who retired at age 34, having likely made more money in less than a decade of playing major league baseball than the two accomplished, just-retired baby boomers did in their combined lifetimes?

Just this: John Jaso didn’t retire from baseball; he retired to explore the world on his sailboat. Leonard Pitts didn’t retire from writing weekly columns; he retired to his children, his grandchildren, and writing more novels. And Joe Rafferty’s retirement wasn’t from coaching football, but to his family, his State Senate seat, and his dedication to making life better for those around him.

They may appear different on the outside, but Pitts, Jaso, and Rafferty each took the initiative to retire to something rewarding rather than from something they’d grown tired of, and that common trait is one everyone contemplating ending their working days would do well to emulate. <

Andy Young: The value of utility words

By Andy Young

During a major league baseball career that ran from 1965 to 1976, Cesar Tovar played 469 games in center field, 394 in left field, 227 at third base, 215 at second base, and 207 as a right fielder. On Sept. 22, 1968, he played one inning at every position on the diamond for the Minnesota Twins in a 2-1 victory over the Oakland A’s, in the process playing errorless ball defensively, scoring one of his team’s two runs, stealing a base, and, in his one inning as a pitcher, striking out future Hall of Famer Reggie Jackson. Tovar was truly the embodiment of a terrific utility player.

Venezuelan player Cesar Tovar built his
career on his versatility on the baseball
diamond and once played at every position 
for an inning in a Major League game.
COURTESY PHOTO 

It’s been years since I’ve paid much attention to professional baseball. But I haven’t forgotten the value of people – and things - capable of filling more than one role. These days it’s words (rather than athletes) with multiple uses that I find captivating. And according to a website that documents such things, there are 54 words in the English language that can serve properly as a noun, a verb, an adjective, or an adverb.

Take “well,” for example. It can be a noun (“Oh, no! The well has run dry”), a verb (“I watched tears well up in her eyes”), an adjective (Charlie says he is well), or an adverb (I’m not the greatest swimmer, but I run well).

Or imagine a midwinter conversation where one person responds to another’s request with, “I hear you loud and clear (ADV); you want me to clear (V) the windshield and then look through the clear (ADJ) glass to see if we’re in the clear (N).”

Some other examples: an individual with a strong back (N) can back (V) out of a parking space, go out the back (ADJ) door, or drift back (ADV) on a fly ball.

Those traveling light (ADV) and finding themselves in a dark laundromat would need to light (V) a candle so they could turn on a light (N) and prepare to do a light (ADJ) load of laundry.

Some tennis players perform best (ADV) when it’s hot out but are still unable to best (V) their country club’s best (ADJ) player, even when they play their best (N).

Follow this sound (ADJ) advice if you wish to stay safe and sound (ADV): sound (V) the alarm if you hear the sound (N) of glass breaking at 3 AM.

I shouldn’t have decided to cross (V) that cross (ADJ) street, because the police officer who stopped me for jaywalking was so cross (ADV) with me that I thought he’d nail me to a cross (N).

Knowing the Patriots would likely down (V) the Steelers, he felt so down (ADV) he went up the down (ADJ) staircase to his bedroom, wrapped himself in a quilt stuffed with goose down (N), and sulked.

That big stiff (N) made a speech that bored me stiff (ADV), so I ordered a stiff (ADJ) drink and left a big tip, since I would never stiff (V) a bartender.

Trying to tough (V) it out, the young tough (N) tried looking tough (ADV) as he chewed on an exceptionally tough (ADJ) piece of beef jerky.

Other utility words include square, round, still, fast, home, flush, right, wrong, long, and short.

But the long and short of it is that nothing can last (V) forever, not even Cesar Tovar’s distinguished baseball career. No American League team he played for ever came in last (ADV), but he played his last (ADJ) game in 1976. And of all the Venezuelans to ever play all nine positions in a game, he was the last (N). <

Andy Young: Andres Rodriguez and the silly souvenir

By Andy Young

My favorite professional baseball player of all time was an infielder in the New York Yankees farm system who never played regularly for any team he was assigned to. In four years as a pro, he never hit a home run. Not even one.

Andres Rodriguez gave an unexpected
autograph to Andy Young before a 
Florida State League baseball game in
1992. SUBMITTED PHOTO 

But 30 years ago this week Andres Rodriguez helped me preserve a memento of what was, at least briefly, the most memorable moment of my life.

I was doing radio play-by-play for the Vero Beach Dodgers of the Florida State League that season, and during batting practice prior to most of our 17 games with the Fort Lauderdale Yankees, I’d exchange pleasantries with Rodriguez, a friendly, outgoing Dominican who seemed even more eager to learn English than I was to improve my pidgin Spanish.

I’m not sure how we first met; it might have had something to do with the fact that, from my perspective, Rodriguez’s body was more similar to mine than any other professional athlete I’d ever encountered. He was generously listed at 6-foot-1 and 160 pounds, although my guess was that he’d probably been wearing a pair of 10-pound ankle weights when he stepped on the scale.

For me the second game of a July 17 doubleheader was just another of the 135 Dodger contests I’d broadcast that summer, until the bottom of the second inning. That’s when, with one out, Yankee center fielder Jovino Carvajal lifted a high foul ball behind home plate that was headed … straight for me!

Anyone familiar with baseball knows foul balls hit back toward the press box are potentially lethal; one look at the wall behind my head in the Fort Lauderdale Stadium visiting radio booth, which featured several baseball-sized holes in it, would confirm that. But this particular foul ball was, as it approached, actually coming down from the top of an exceptionally gentle parabola. I was wearing a headset at the time, so I reached out and caught the ball, two-handed, on the fly. It was just like picking an apple off a tree; there wasn’t even a hint of a sting in either hand.

But how to preserve that magic moment in time? Then it hit me: I’d get the actual ball autographed by the pitcher who’d thrown it and the batter who’d hit it. The first part was easy: Dodger pitcher Jason Brosnan happily signed it for me on the team bus after the game. But getting to Carvajal was going to be a challenge. Not only did I not know him, but his grasp of English was even more limited than mine was of Spanish.

That’s where my slender hero came in. Before the next night’s game, I sought Rodriguez out and explained, in my best halting Spanish, what I wanted: Jovino Carvajal’s signature on the ball he had hit, Brosnan had thrown and I had caught.

Andres smiled, indicating that he’d caught most of my meaning, and led me to Carvajal who, after exchanging some rapid Spanish sentences with his teammate, agreeably put his signature on the ball. I had my treasured, one-of-a-kind trophy.

But then came something I hadn’t anticipated. “You want me to sign too, yes?” Rodriguez shyly asked.

There was only one appropriate response, which was: “As I matter of fact, yes Andres, I do!”

Even when I worked in baseball, I recognized autographed baseballs for what they are: spherical dust collectors that require a glass or plastic case in order for them to retain their perceived value. I never understood why anyone would want such a silly item.

Until the very moment that I asked for one myself. <

Andy Young: Whatever the level, it's baseball season

By Andy Young

One of the most irritating trends ever to infect adolescents was the infuriating habit of, while walking away, haughtily dismissing someone older with a backhanded wave and a single word: “Whatever.” (Historical note: on occasion this phrase consisted of two words, as in, “What ever!”) I recall it being pervasive during the 1990’s, and maybe the first few years of the 21st century, but whenever it was, the sheer impudence of this brazenly contemptuous act made my blood boil.

That particular habit didn’t exist during my childhood, since addressing any adult in such a disrespectful manner back then would have had quick and dire consequences. As a parent myself I was fortunate that this scornful, one-word phrase went out of fashion before my own children reached their teens. But I observed it all too often during my early years of teaching at a local high school, and on those occasions when some young person directed it at me or one of my colleagues my blood pressure would jump to…well, whatever blood pressure reading is off the high end of the charts.

Fortunately there’s no reason for stratospheric blood pressure readings at this time of year, since a new season has begun. I refer, of course, to baseball season. Which is, for those of us who grew up with the game, a reliable blood pressure lowerer. Like many people of my generation, I’ve been fascinated with the national pastime since the first time some adult I looked up to brought it to my attention, even though I was probably shorter than one of Willie Mays’s Louisville Sluggers at the time.

College baseball’s season has been underway for over a month now for teams representing Maine institutions of higher learning including UMaine-Orono, UMaine-Farmington, USM, Husson University, and St. Joseph’s, Colby, Bates, Bowdoin, and Thomas Colleges.

Local high school baseball teams are eager to start their seasons as well, and after some indoor practices (and outdoor scrimmages, when weather permits), the games that count will begin this week. This spring’s contests will be particularly intense and meaningful for high school seniors, since for most of them these are the last organized baseball games in which they’ll ever play.

But while some players’ careers are nearing their conclusion, others are just beginning. Youth baseball is gearing up as well, with play slated to start late this month. I’m particularly looking forward to Little League baseball; it’s where my own involvement with the game began more than five decades ago. I still umpire at that level from time to time and enjoy being a small part of something that will, for some lucky young people, be the beginning of their own lifetime love affair with the game.

And for those who enjoy seeing the pros, the Portland Sea Dogs open their home season on Friday, April 8. Youth, high school and collegiate games can all be enjoyable, but the fact is the level of play on display from the aspiring major leaguers at Hadlock Field is light years ahead of even the most skilled collegians.

Unfortunately, there won’t be any Major League Baseball this year. The billionaires who own the 32 MLB baseball teams have, in an effort to maximize their already-excessive profits, locked out their youthful, handsomely paid athletic chattel. And since neither the powerful Major League Baseball Players Association nor the owners appear willing to compromise, there isn’t going to be a 2022 season.

Oops.

Wait a minute.

I’ve just been informed that the labor impasse has been resolved, and that there’s going to be Major League Baseball this summer after all.

Oh.

Whatever. <

Insight: Weighing my options

By Ed Pierce
Managing Editor

I admit it, there are times where I struggle with indecision. Faced with a dizzying array of options and choices for nearly every subject or issue, making the right selection has never been easy for me. 

It seems that I’m not alone in sizing up this dilemma. Results are in from the American Psychological Association’s annual survey of things that stress Americans out and about one-third of survey respondents listed “making a basic decision” as an issue they struggle with every day.

For those of us in this category, we can spend hours just perusing lists of television shows to stream on Netflix, Hulu, Amazon Prime, HBO Max, Disney, or Apple+ channels. With that much content and programs to focus in on, indecision reigns supreme.

At times my wife has taken to reading a book while I scroll through the menu for Netflix. If I go over five minutes to choose something, she’ll stop and remind me that we’ve already watched a selection I’m pondering over.

Typically, I’ll fall into a routine of watching a television series to simplify my choice, but when we’ve watched all the episodes available, then once again I’m back to the indecisiveness of having to select another one.

The same struggle ensues when I hit the ice cream aisle at the supermarket. There are so many flavors, so many brands and so many options that come into play when I open that freezer door to make a choice of what to purchase and take home.

For my parents, the choice of what half gallon of ice cream to pick was always easy. My mother preferred vanilla and my father enjoyed strawberry while my brother and I liked chocolate. Therefore, when it came time for my parents to choose a selection for ice cream at the grocery store, they always picked “Neapolitan” with all three flavors included.

Through the years, I’ve found that opening the closet door to pick out items to wear for each day to also be a difficult task. I know enough to try and coordinate colors but have little fashion sense otherwise.

Between choosing a pullover sweater, a V-neck sweater, a button-down collared shirt, or a Henley collar shirt gives me the “Willies.” Do I wear jeans or pants, plaid or corduroy, long sleeve, or short sleeve?

No matter what clothing options are available to me, it is never an easy choice for me to make.

That’s why I preferred my clothing options when I served in the U.S. Air Force. There I had just two simple choices. If it was a formal occasion or I had to work indoors, I wore our blue uniform. For working outside, I wore our green fatigue uniform.

Imagine my indecision while driving and wanting to listen to music on the radio. My Hyundai Sonata came equipped with a Sirius XM radio system with thousands of channels available to me.

Early on, I chose to preset my car radio to avoid listening to thousands of snippets of songs or conversations and constantly fiddling with the radio dial to find something to settle on.

Even doing that, I’m torn between listening to commercial-free 1960s music, 1970s music, 1980s music, 1990s music, The Highway (country music), and an all-news channel or the Major League Baseball channel. There are only six preset buttons on my radio dial and during the summer, I’ve also been known to listen to live baseball games being broadcasted if I make a long drive somewhere.

As a newspaper editor, I have frequently questioned selections I have been forced to make regarding photographs that appear in the paper. Many times, it’s clear what choice to make for publication, but when it’s not, second-guessing can create genuine turmoil for me in wondering if I have chosen the right one or not.

No matter what the subject or the issue, having to make a decision on deadline for the newspaper is never easy when I have an assortment of great photographs to select from.

Every day the responsibility to make an immediate decision can be mind boggling when you are indecisive.

I had to get stamps at the post office and the clerk asked me which stamps I preferred, flags, sunflowers, squirrels, Women’s History Month, blueberries, or the Lunar New Year were available and a line half a mile long was standing and waiting behind me.

Imaging looking over the immense greeting card selection at Walmart or Walgreens for Valentine’s Day and trying to decide which card is right for this year? Or looking at a Chinese restaurant menu online and trying to select the right type of soup to go with my choice of meal.

As I’ve gotten older, a lot of my decision making is based upon experience or comes down to flipping a coin. I’ve also been known to take some time to think things over and weigh all the possibilities and potential outcomes when I have a difficult decision to make regarding a work situation. My inner voice always tries to convince myself that I’m confident in the choices that I must make no matter what.    

Now to determine what to fix for dinner tonight. Or not. <  

Andy Young: Time to Complain

By Andy Young

Once a year everyone should get the opportunity to angrily sound off about things they’re displeased or dissatisfied with. And what better time to do so than right now? This Sunday morning at 2 a.m. the clocks get set forward by an hour in order to switch over to Daylight Saving Time. That reduces the coming weekend to a mere 47 hours. 

For openers, why change the clocks on a Sunday morning? People enjoy weekends. Why not spring forward at 12 noon on a Monday instead? 

Which reminds me: winter is too long, everyone except me is lazy, and the cost of living is out of control.

Food is crazy expensive. Gassing the car up weekly requires at least an arm and a leg. My resource-squandering kids take showers that last longer than 30 seconds, which blows up my water bill. And Internet/cell phone providers have involuntarily technology-addicted citizens (all of us) permanently over the proverbial fiscal barrel. 

Everyone who drives behind me on two-lane roads goes too fast, and everyone in front of me crawls along too slowly. The speed limit on the Maine Turnpike is too low, but it’s too high on streets in and around my neighborhood. In addition, the air is getting polluted because of all the dopes idling for ten minutes in the drive-up line at Aroma Joe’s waiting for an overpriced hit of caffeine that they’re too lazy to make at home.

My house is too cold in the winter, and the price of heating oil is skyrocketing. The house is also too hot in the summer, and the cost of electricity is exorbitant. 

My eyes hurt. My hip smarts. I can’t always hear what people are saying. My feet ache. My ribs hurt. My nose runs.

Which brings me, literally, to doctors. I’m seeing a cardiologist for my heart, a dermatologist for my skin, an optometrist for my eyes, and a taxidermist for my taxes. Then there’s the dentist, who’s upgrading the plumbing on his yacht thanks to my crumbling bridgework and my kids’ cavities. 

Major league baseball team owners are entitled, avaricious plutocrats, and major league baseball players are spoiled, greedy, aspiring plutocrats. National Football League team owners make their baseball brethren look like George Peabody. Even more galling, few Americans have even heard of George Peabody, and most lack the intellectual curiosity necessary to even find out who he was.

And don’t get me started on our government, which can’t do anything right. First, they made us get vaccinated against a potentially deadly virus. Then they made us wear masks everywhere, and all the time, too. Now they’re relaxing the mask mandates too early, putting us at risk of infection from all the unvaccinated potential Typhoid Marys (or Typhoid Aaron Rodgerses) out there.

The government spends too much on defense. And another thing: it’s shameful how underpaid the brave soldiers and sailors who defend our once-great nation are. Our federally maintained highways are rutted, pothole-plagued disgraces, but the government better not raise tolls!

And speaking of taxes, they are out of control! How are law enforcement officers, firefighters, EMTs, teachers, and other public servants supposed to make ends meet with the exorbitant fees the government forces them to pay? I say we eliminate taxes (and the government) entirely! 

Unfortunately, I don’t have enough time to list all of my complaints this weekend, and all because some long-ago government bureaucrat stole an hour of it! I’d love to know the name of the creep responsible for Daylight Saving Time. I probably should look it up.

Nah. That’d be too much work.<

Andy Young: A Toast to J.C. Martin

By Andy Young

Some time ago someone I trust told me that beginning every day with an eight-ounce glass of water was a good idea.  

Later another credible source informed me that adding a teaspoon of vinegar to that water before drinking it was even healthier. I’m guessing she knew what she was talking about, because water with vinegar in it tastes so nasty that it has to be exceptionally beneficial! Anyway, starting my morning with that particular potion has become a daily ritual for me.

Not every habit is healthy, though. During the 14 years I spent riding buses with professional baseball teams I couldn’t help noticing the number of players with a circular protrusion of about two inches in diameter in one of the rear pockets of their uniform pants.

The size and shape of the lump was familiar, but I couldn’t figure out why any ballplayer would carry a hockey puck with him, particularly since many of those sporting the round bulge were from places like Florida, Texas, and Venezuela, none of which are hockey hotbeds. It turned out, though, that those disc-shaped indentations were made not by vulcanized rubber discs, but by cans of snuff.

Reputable dental hygienists everywhere swear there is no nastier habit than chewing tobacco and/or dipping snuff. Many people consider sitting around a poker table surrounded by six men continuously spitting brown liquid into bottles that formerly contained soft drinks utterly repulsive.

However, it’s better than sitting in a room with even one cigarette smoker, whose vice fills the lungs of those around them with carcinogens. Some might find the continuous expectorations of dippers and chewers off-putting, but the fact is bystanders (or bysitters) don’t have to ingest their second-hand saliva.

One of the most popular brands of smokeless chewing tobacco is Skoal, which is a Danish word of Norse origin that today is most often used as a toast, often (ironically) to one’s health.

Toasting prior to quaffing reminds me of, well, drinking. And that makes me think of J.C. Martin, a major league baseball catcher who spent parts of 14 seasons with the Chicago White Sox, New York Mets, and Chicago Cubs. The five-game 1969 World Series took an aggregate total of 11 hours and 43 minutes to play, and while Martin appeared on the field for only one of those minutes, he played a huge role in the Mets defeating the favored Baltimore Orioles for the championship that year. And while I’d love to relate the details of J. C.’s incredible heroics here, the only people (both of them) still reading this who are interested in such things undoubtedly already know the story.

Anyway, when I was young and impressionable, I learned something fascinating about Mr. Martin while reading a baseball magazine. The article stated that he neither smoked nor drank, which I found both impressive and puzzling. I knew that not smoking was both wise and admirable, but not drinking? Surely that was a misprint.

Even at a single-digit age I assumed all humans needed to drink periodically if they wished to continue existing. After all, even the camel (AKA “The Ship of the Desert”) had to hydrate every couple of weeks or so. It was only much later on that I learned the difference between drinking and “drinking.” 

I wonder if J. C. Martin, who is now 85 years old, starts his days with a glass of water that contains a teaspoon of vinegar. I’d love to have a drink with the guy, and if I ever get the chance, I know exactly what I’ll say to him.

Skoal! <

Andy Young: On to Bristol

By Andy Young

Special to The Windham Eagle

The Saco/Dayton Little League All-Star baseball team won the Maine state championship last Sunday in Old Orchard Beach with a walk-off 7-6 victory over Cumberland/North Yarmouth.  

The come-from-behind triumph completed a most impressive feat; Saco/Dayton had to win or go home in four straight games on four consecutive days, and that’s exactly what they did. The final two victories came against the team that had sent them into the losers bracket earlier in the tournament.  

Being Maine state champions entitles the Saco-Dayton youngsters to travel to Bristol, Connecticut this weekend for the New England regional tournament. The winner there gets a berth in the Little League World Series in Williamsport, Pennsylvania, which will take place Aug. 19 to Aug. 29. 

The LLWS expanded to 16 teams in 2001, doubling the previous number of participants. That guaranteed a spot for the champion of the newly created New England regional.

Previously whoever emerged from the northeast had to survive an “East Regional” against teams from as far south as Maryland to get to Williamsport, which is why the LLWS was played without a New England representative 19 times between 1955 and 1999. 

But now the newly crowned Maine champs face a daunting task. In the 20 years since the new format began, a Maine team has advanced to Williamsport only once. That was in 2005, when a plucky Westbrook squad lost its first three qualifying games but won their last one, which improbably propelled them into the semi-finals against a Farmington, Connecticut team that had won all four of their qualifying games, outscoring their opponents 39-2 in the process.

But Westbrook beat them 6-4, and then topped Cranston, Rhode Island the next day to advance to Williamsport. They played well there, but lost to teams from Vista, California (approximate population 101,000) and Lafayette, Louisiana (126,000) before winning a consolation round game against Owensboro, Kentucky (57,000). Westbrook’s population at the time was approximately 16,000.

New England’s 21^st century representatives have excelled in Williamsport on several occasions. In 2003 a Saugus, Massachusetts team won four straight LLWS games before bowing to Boynton Beach, Florida in a semi-final contest. (As punishment for eliminating the New Englanders, Boynton Beach was routed by a Japanese team in the championship game, 10-1.) Other New England teams that managed three victories in Williamsport were Worcester, Massachusetts (2002), Westport, Connecticut (2013), and Fairfield, Connecticut (2017).

Given a variety of factors, it’s understandable Maine has produced just one regional Little League championship team in 19 years. That’s equal to New Hampshire (Portsmouth, 2006) during the same time period, and one more than Vermont. Oddly, Rhode Island, with a population barely 79 percent of Maine’s, has won five of the last six regional Little League championships. Connecticut, which has nearly as many residents as Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine, and Rhode Island combined, understandably has produced five 21st-century New England winners. However, Rhode Island’s having eight in that same time span is nearly as hard to explain as Massachusetts, with a population nearly equal to that of the other five New England states combined, having accumulated merely four titles, and none since 2009.

The weather in northern New England makes playing baseball against teams from warmer regions an uphill battle. It’s too bad there’s no Little League World Series in certain other sports. Let’s see how Alabama, Texas, and Oklahoma would fare in the Little League Hockey World Series. Or better yet, in the Little League Ice-fishing Derby.

The bottom line: the Saco/Dayton boys are already winners. The fun they’ll have in Bristol, not to mention any additional victories, is all gravy. <

Insight: Humorous assorted monikers from the national pastime

By Ed Pierce

Managing Editor

I can remember the moment I first laid my eyes on a baseball card in 1964 and ever since, I’ve been captivated by their designs, colors, statistics, photography and yes, a plethora of unusual names and nicknames.

Through the years, collecting baseball cards has been one of my passions and I’ve been able to spend many hours examining my cards and building sets. But the start of this year’s baseball season a few weeks ago reminded me that the never-ending parade of interesting baseball names is constant and a direct link to many moments I’ve spent chuckling over names contained on the 2 ½- by 3 ½-inch pieces of cardboard and 2021 is no exception. 

One of the first cards in my collection was a 1962 Cal McLish, who at the time was pitching for the Philadelphia Phillies. McLish was born in Anadarko, Oklahoma in 1925 and his father was three-quarters Cherokee Indian. His full name at birth was Calvin Coolidge Julius Caesar Tuskahoma McLish, which would have been enough to make me laugh, but his nickname among his teammates was “Bus,” short for “Buster.”

Sometime during the 1969 season when I was a junior in high school, I purchased a box of old baseball cards from the 1950s from a neighbor. One of the cards in the shoebox was a 1959 Whammy Douglas when he was featured on a 1959 Cincinnati Reds card although shoulder problems prevented him from ever playing a game for that team.

Charles William Douglas had lost an eye at the age of 11 and overcame his vision problem to make it all the way to the major leagues pitching for the Pittsburgh Pirates. Unfortunately, he wore a glass eye that gave him an ominous look on the pitcher’s mound. Batters he faced thought it was an “evil eye” and he was “putting the whammy” on them, hence his humorous nickname.

Also in that same shoebox was a 1959 Granny Hamner card when he played second base for the Philadelphia Phillies. I thought Hamner’s nickname was a riot when I first saw that card and perhaps it was prompted by a lack of speed or penchant for wearing bonnets, but the joke was on me. Hamner’s actual first name was Granville, shortened to “Granny.”

In the late 1970s, I derived a few laughs from cards in my collection containing players with unusual nicknames such as a 1970 card of Oakland A’s pitcher John “Blue Moon” Odom, a 1968 card of Chicago White Sox outfielder Walt “No Neck” Williams and 1967 card of Minnesota Twins pitcher Jim “Mudcat” Grant.

Blue Moon Odom was given that nickname by an elementary school classmate in Georgia who thought his round face resembled the moon. No Neck Williams got his nickname because of his 5-foot-6 stature combined with his muscular torso and relatively short neck. Grant was first called “Mudcat” when he was a rookie pitching for the Cleveland Indians. His teammate Larry Doby said that Grant was “as ugly as a Mississippi mudcat” and the nickname somehow followed him around through his entire 14-year career in the major leagues.

If you think modern-day names and nicknames on modern-day baseball cards are any less strange, you are wrong. There have been cards for Coco Crisp; Razor Shines; Dennis “Oil Can” Boyd; “Boof” Bonser; Tim Spooneybarger; Mark Lemongello; and Jarrod Saltalamacchia. And the nickname of former outfielder, first baseman and designated hitter Matt Stairs was the “Wonder Hamster” for reasons unknown.

While watching a Detroit spring training game last month, a rookie’s unusual name caught my attention right away and I was happy to learn that he made the opening day roster and is doing well on the field early this season for the Tigers. Outfielder Akil Baddoo sounds like he should be in a Flintstones cartoon, but he’s a 22-year-old Rule 5 draft selection taken this winter by Detroit from Minnesota’s farm system who hit a home run on the first pitch he saw in the major leagues while playing in his very first game.

As a lifetime baseball card collector, discovering unusual player names are simply a fact of life for me and have given me many smiles and laughs and I expect it will continue in the future. And by the way, today marks the 100^th birthday of the late Hall of Fame pitcher Warren “Hooks” Spahn, so labeled by teammates not because of his pitching but rather for the shape of his nose. <