Summer Reading Update!

I've mentioned before that this summer I'm taking a hiatus before my very last semester of graduate school, and thus have some freedom with which to read whatever books I take a fancy to. Free from the usual oppressive, mandatory, curriculum-dictated library science reading list, I've been into all sorts of crazy, ecclectic selections: it's been a literary free-for-all! I tend to obsess over what prestigious title to add to the list (which I'll post when my fall class starts, thus officially ending Summer Fun Time for me), and I've found that there is a formula to this bookish madness, however sketchy.

For example: I finished Take the Cannoli by Sarah Vowell a few days ago, and--being the especially fickle, unfocused sort that I am--it left me feeling like a bit of fiction. You see, that's become how I operate, literarily: non-fiction then fiction; entertaining then difficult; historical then Star Trek, etc. Reading too many serious biographies (or even bios injected with a healthy dose of levity, such as Cannoli) right in a row depresses me (ask me about the time I read two Mary Todd Lincoln Bios right in a row and ended up in a crying jag over the death of poor, sickly Tad Lincoln!), and too many fictions one after the other makes me feel too frivolous and idle. As long as I stick to that basic rule, my interest is held and my mood is (relatively) steady.

Right now I'm about 50 pages into what looks to be my future answer to the question "What is your favorite novel about postal workers?" It's called Mailman, and it's by J. Robert Lennon. I should explain that I am a particular enthusiast when it comes to the United States Postal Service because that particular institution and I have a (somewhat) casual, (somewhat) sordid, on-again-off-again history together: I've worked sporatically as a postal employee, sometimes enthusiastically, sometimes reluctantly--always apocalyptically--and in several different capacities, since 2004. As an actual, union card carrying, letter-delivering mailman for 2 of those years. I have to fess up to a certain amount of misguided nostalgia and curious fondness when it comes to the USPS. So there's another big clue to my choice of novels.

I was pretty much on board to read this as soon as I found it in my library's catalog, but I was beside myself when I read Amazon's most glowing customer review of it. Posted by "Cactus Ed" it is titled "Most Engaging and Exciting Novel I've Read in Years!" and was posted on December 28th, 2003. I almost cried when I read it:

"I happened to have happened upon this book because of the title. You see, I...am...a...Mailman! Seriously! Thats what I do to make money to feed and shelter my family. I read the other reviews here and decided to get the book - and oh boy! am I not disappointed! This guy Lennon (John Lennon at that!) can write. He's amazingly perceptive of both outer descriptive elements and the inner worlds we all create and inhabit. As I've been reading I keep realizing that this novel is what it feels like to be me, a human being with constant inner dialogue and reminincing going on. Plot? I don't know nor do I care whether there's a plot to this story. The main character ("Mailman"!) is my hero, a fully-alive all-American (yes!) in the year 2000. He is wonderfully real, and I wonder how Lennon, who is only 32 or 33, does it. I am deeply impressed with his wisdom and writing ability. Incredible attention to detail, yet the story never bogs down in it. It moves right along, and I hope it never ends. Reading a novel like this is like being in love - rare and wonderful."

I imagine Cactus Ed, dressed in his sweaty, salt-stained polyester uniform, hunkered down in his mailtruck and reading Mailman, tears rolling down his rugged cheeks as he realizes this Lennon guy--this 33 year old kid--has somehow peered into his soul. Cactus Ed is reading the story of his own life, and he doesn't care if there's a plot, because this Mailman character is just like him: an American in the year 2000 with a constant inner dialogue! I, as an ex-mailman, have to agree with Ed: if I were still delivering mail for a living, I would probably be crying in my salty polyester right now too. So far, the novel describes almost exactly what it's like to be a mailman (although, to get the complete, nightmarish picture you would still need to read Bukowski's novel, which describes exactly what it's like on a bad day--if you were a raging, depraved alcoholic, that is).

Curiously, it turns out that the postal profession has inspired a fair few novels to be written about it--more than I would have guessed. I've already told you about the books inspired by the real life Florida legend: The Barefoot Mailman by Theodore Pratt and The Legend of the Barefoot Mailman by John Fleming. There's also the afore-mentioned booze-and-obscenity-laced Post Office by Charles Bukowski--an earlier summer reading entry of mine. The epic Studs Terkel tome Working includes an essay about a postal worker. I know you'll be thinking about The Postman Always Rings Twice by James Cain if I don't mention it, but that wasn't really about a mailman--he was just a metaphore for eventually getting your comeuppance for murdering your lover's husband, so I can't count that one. I'm sure that god-awful Kevin Costner movie The Postman is probably based on a novel, I just haven't tracked it down yet.

I'll be on the lookout for more postal-inspired books--maybe Cactus Ed and I can start a book club.

Surrender!

Well, I can't say I'm surprised at the outcome: Kentucky Senator Jim Bunning--once known for his killer curveball as a hall of fame pitcher in the 1960's, then developing more of a mean screwball in his later political career--has officially announced today that he will retire rather than seek reelection in 2010. For at least six months now he's invoked the moniker of "embattled Ky Senator" whenever his name was discussed in the media, and seen the bulk of his largest campaign contributors jump ship, giving their cold hard GOP cash to Trey Grayson, a guy who hasn't even filed the necessary paperwork to run yet.

This after months of defiant chest-thumping, trash talk and public disses. What finally made him bow out of a race he bullishly insisted he was in-to-win, no question about it, yessiree? Well, Jim has called shenanigans on his Republican peers, specifically minority leader Mitch McConnell, who supposedly (according to Bunning, that is) told him he was "too old to get reelected" back in January. Ever since that little rumor was floated, Jim has been rebranded by his own party as the Most Vulnerable Republican Incumbent in the Senate, with some shrewdly questioning his mental state (the word "Alzheimer's" has come up a few times, as has "dementia" and "loony-tunes"). Of course, Bunning himself hasn't exactly helped his situation, electing not to curtail his usual verbal barrage of partisan insanity. He's also cited the state of his "pathetic" (Jim's own words) fundraising as another main reason he'll not be running, but it seems like he knows that his paltry campaign bank account is just a symptom of the larger problem: his state of pariah-hood among his own party.

I have to say, I have a bit of a ghoulish motive for being sad about this (inevitable) outcome. I expected this plot to play out to a much more climactic end game scenario, involving no less than a perfect shit storm of blustery proselytizing, fire, brimstone, and slanderous, reputation-soiling bi-partisan mudslinging. I was virtually--okay, actually--smacking my lips in anticipation of the kind of wack-job things Bunning would say next about which scandal-mongering high-profile GOP insider. The way he has been throwing out jumped-to paranoid conclusions was inspiring in the same way I imagine his pitching must have been in that game in 1964 (against the New York Mets), when he threw a perfect game.

That is, he inspired me to get in the game myself and come up with a conspiracy theory of my own: that no matter how insistent he was about really running for reelection, he was simply keeping up his lazy brand of fundraising with the intention of keeping whatever he raised for himself--as a kind of consolation "F-you" prize to his political "freinemies." And maybe I was right, but he had to bailout now for some shadowy, unspoken reason--conspiracy theories are always richer when dark, unknown elements are thrown into the murky stew of political intrigue: sauce for the goose! But I was sure that he would hang in there at least until the next quarter, squeezing the basest of his base for their last "anybody-but-the-other-guy" dime. Ah, well--in his own mind, I'm sure he's going out a winner.

World Championship Dainty Contest

Hurrah, readers! It's finally that time of year again: today is the 39th annual World Championship of Dainty in my hometown of Louisville, Ky. Dainty is a street game that was introduced to Louisville in the mid-1800's by German immigrants, who settled in the area now known as "Germantown." It involves wacking a 5" long tapered stick with another, longer stick (I believe the official Dainty Wacking Stick was a mop handle in its former life) so that it launches upwards, and then hitting it in mid-air down the street as far as you can. It is said to be based on a European childrens' game known in England as "tip-cat." However, only those 45 or older are allowed to participate in our version (along with receiving the senior citizen discount at the movie theater, being eligable to play dainty is pretty much the only perk of getting older that comes to mind).

According to John E. Kleber's Encyclopedia of Louisville: "...the origin of the "dainty" name may be related to the ice cream confection peddled by pushcart vendors in the neighborhoods where the game was popular. The "dainty man's" treats, wrapped in wax paper and resembling a small stick, suggest a connection."

Well, however it originated, the modern day dainty contest, celebrated on the last Monday in July, was revived in 1971 by George Hauck and Jim Vettiner. Hauck is the long-time owner of the miniscule grocery store on Goss Avenue, Germantown's main drag--the contest takes place on the sidestreet next to Hauck's Grocery, which sells fried bologna sandwiches (a local delicacy) for a nickel.

"...the second floor of the NBC Tower, tucked between the Equitable Building and the Tribune Tower, is where The Jerry Springer Show is taped. It just wouldn't be the haunted landscape around the Michigan Avenue Bridge if some symbolic television apocalypse did not happen here each day. The constant profanity makes the show into a an unintelligible barrage of bleeps. Watching it is like listening to a constant storm warning, which is exactly what it is."

--From Take the Cannoli, by Sarah Vowell

The Jim Bunning Guide to Campaign Finance

Well, the moment we've all been waiting for has finally come and gone, and here we are still wondering what the hell our boy Jim Bunning--KY GOP Senator-cum-crazyman (or is it "crazyman-cum-Senator"?) extraordinaire--was talking about last week when he bragged that his campaign finance report would "show him with more cash on hand for his 2010 race than any other Kentucky Republican candidates or potential candidates." (As reported in KY's Courier-Journal on July 8th by reporter James R. Carroll) Well, that report was due out on July 15th...so do you suppose our boy Jimbo was right about his predictions of PAC champagne wishes and caviar dreams?

As you may have supposed, it actually has gone quite the other way for our Man in the Trenches. Beleaguered by the usual crowd of political enemies on the Democratic side, he's also had a very entertaining feud with the leaders of his own party, engaging in a beef with minority leader Mitch McConnell so epic it borders on Fiddy Cent-esque (although I suppose you could also make the usual degrading Hatfield V McCoy comments so popular when describing catty Kentucky political bickering. Hint: when choosing between hillbilly and gangsta rapper analogies, the savvier Kentuckian will usually go the gangsta route). So basically this was Jim's way of trying to say "F you" to everybody, but of course everyone knew he was making an impossible bluff--there's no way he could've had more money than anyone else, especially since most of the big money types have been scared well clear of Mr. Bunning by all the petulant GOP infighting and wackier-than-usual Bunning crazy talk.

So let's take a look at the official numbers:

So far, from April through June of this year, Jimbo has on hand $302,466. Republican Trey Grayson has about twice that: $603,164. Ky's attorney general and resident pretty boy, Dem Jack Conway, has outdone both by raising $1.3 million in the same amount of time.

Nowadays it seems that elections are getting pretty expensive in KY. Mitch raised a staggering 20.9 MILLION DOLLARS for his 2008 reelection campagn (compare that with the paltry $5.7 million he raised and spent on his 2002 campaign), but get this: he SPENT $21.3 million (for that kinda dough I was expecting his tv spots to be produced by Lucasfilm, Ltd.). Mitch is still paying off that million dollar debt, from what I hear, and he only narrowly defeated opponent Bruce Lunsford, who rose and spent only half what McConnell did. If Republicans are going to have the same kind of trouble in 2010 over Bunning's Senate seat, then I'd say things don't look good, especially considering Conway's numbers. In light of that, it may be time for Jimbo to really up the crazy ante if he truly wants to keep his job.

So, in the spirit of pushing our hip hop analogy to its inevitable conclusion, I'd like to offer my own suggestion for Bunning's next shrewd political move: since he already seems to be channeling the afore-mentioned gangsta rappers and their own lyrical rivalries (in certain hip hop circles McConnell would surely be called out for the "sucker MC" he is), I think Bunning should consider non-chalantly--yet conspicuously, and in front of a pack of hungry-eyed Courier-Journal reporters--openning his briefcase and flashing a wad of Euros. Hey, it worked for Jay-Z.

Summer Reading List

Not taking any summer classes this year has resulted in a happy phenomenon over here at MM: leisure time to read books! Usually I get a few weeks off between semesters to cram in one or two novels, but we're talking 3 and a half solid months of bookish enjoyment--oh, boy! Reading for fun means no dry library science tomes, no stodgy essays on the "librarian stereotype/archetype backlash" (yes, there's a backlash--an extremely self-conscious, overly done, "look at me: I'm a librarian and I have a tattoo and blue hair!" kind of backlash), and no ponderous journal articles extolling the scandalous hypocrisy of centralized collection development. Nope, just me and my friends Mary Todd Lincoln, Raymond Chandler, William Shatner and whomever else grabs my fickle literary attentions.

I have about another month of summer reading frivolity in which to indulge...what will I read next? Try and guess from the following list of my most recent book selections (May, 2009-current):

• Who Censored Roger Rabbit? by Gary Wolf
  
• Post Office by Charles Bukowski
  
• The Madness of Mary Lincoln by Jason Emerson
  
• Star Trek Academy: Collision Course by William Shatner
• Mrs. Lincoln: A Life by Catherine Clinton
• A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson
• Pride and Prejudice and Zombies by Seth Graham-Smith
• The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler
• Trouble is My Business by Raymond Chandler
• Mr. Thundermug by Cornelius Medvei

I can confidently recomend any of the above selections for anyone who is wondering (although anyone who has read my post about P&P&Zs will know that one comes with an asterisk). I'm thinking something non-fiction for my next book, but I could probably go read some fluffy novel just the same. Just don't suggest anything by Stephenie Meyer--seriously, I got my silly teeny-bopper toes wet in the shallow end of the goth swimming pool with Anne Rice back in the 90's, and I don't need to revisit that unfortunate little experiment again. All my coworkers have been trying to get me to read the Twilight series, and I am resisting that one rather obstinately (I dropped a young adult lit class last semester because I saw on the syllubus that we would have to read Eclipse. No thank you). Zombie parodies are way more sophisticated than vampire romances, readers.

For any of you who thought my recent Jim Bunning post had nothing whatsoever to do with baseball...

Jimbo was a hall of fame pitcher, most significantly with the Detroit Tigers from 1955 to '63 and later in his career with the Phillies; he spent two seasons with the Pirates, and the Summer of Love with the Dodgers. He retired from baseball in 1971 with a lifetime ERA of 3.27, 224 wins and only 184 losses. Amazingly, in 18 years as a major league pitcher, he balked only 8 times (compare that with his political career so far...)

A Word About Professional Rasslin'

"WWE [professional wrestling] is theater for people who don't know they like theater."

-Me, at a party in which I found myself having to make conversation about professional wrestling. I'm a renaissance woman.

The Jim Bunning Guide to Politics

Reading the local newspaper here in Louisville, Kentucky has never taken a whole lot of time, even before last winter when the Courier-Journal dramatically scaled back its already anemic little rag (for "cost reduction reasons"). It's a thin offering of local goings-on, and most of the features are syndicated from the larger papers from larger, more important cities. With so many aggregate news sites on the internet offering free, constantly updated content you have to really scratch to come up with some sort of extra reason to plunk down your 75 cents--it's what we in the library and information science business call "added value." Well, nothing ratchets up the added value of our local AP cannibalizer for me more than our own illustrious GOP nutball senator: Jim Bunning. Old Jim (and I do mean OLD: at 77, he's one of the oldest in the Senate) is quite entertaining, if not acutely embarrassing for the state of Kentucky. If there happens to be a story about him in the paper on any given day, you can count on it being worth your time & your dime.

Bunning has a deep history of defiant foot-in-mouth syndrome, and he is bullishly unrepentant about the most outrageously inflammatory verbal diahrea. During his 2004 reelection campaign he was quoted saying his opponent (a child of Italian immigrants) looked like one of Saddam Hussein's sons(!), and he also made a comment that an opponent's campaign worker beat his wife (based on no actual evidence, mind you). Just this year, back in February, he predicted (quite gleefully) in front of a roomfull of Republican supporters, that Ruth Bader Ginsburg would be dead inside 9 months from pancreatic cancer. Yep, Jim's quite a guy, alright. And he even managed to insult her further when he was coerced into appologizing, saying he was sorry "if I offended her." Um, not sorry that he ghoulishly indulged in wishing for the death of a political enemy for the idle enjoyment of other ghoulishly-minded sorts, only sorry if it made her feel bad...or whatever. Sheesh! Women! Who can figure 'em--am I right, fellas?

Jim Bunning has taken blustery partisan trash talk to new heights, but he isn't the type of guy to limit his art to only his political opponents--he's busy dishing it out to his own party people as well. Worried that he'll lose another reelection bid in 2010, GOPers have been none-too-subtle about their insinuations that Bunning can't win and that he should bow out of the race--a stance that has only pissed our boy off, giving him a reason (as if he needed one) to shoot off his spectacularly crazy mouth at everybody from GOP minority leader Mitch McConnell to Kentucky Senate President David Williams. He even publicly called Texas senator John Cornyn (the NRSC chairman) a liar. He's threatened to sue the GOP--and maybe even more incredibly, threatened to resign and let the Democratic governor name his replacement--if the Republican leaders refuse to help him get reelected. It just gets better and better with each new verbal bitch-slap he hands out.

Probably my favorite little Bunning gem this year was when he decided to hire a private agency to do a poll in order to project his odds of reelection (probably so he could use the information to insult McConnell's grandmother), but then, suspiciously, failed to release the results. And when I say "failed to release the results," I mean that he told a reporter that it was none of his "goddamned business" (*actual quote*), and that the reporter could get the information when HE payed someone $20,000 to do a study. Hmm, do you think Jim got good news in those poll projections, or not?

This week Bunning has come out publicly to say he thinks he'll raise more money than anyone else in the race. But of course, he refused to disclose how much money he actually does have on hand right now. I guess us jerks will just have to wait until next week, when by law he'll have to disclose his second-quarter fundraising report. When asked what he thought of the amount reported by potential rival Trey Grayson ($602,699 since May, more than twice Bunning's first-quarter raised funds of $262,980), Bunning used the opportunity to give one of his signature backhanded compliments:

"I congratulate (him). It's nice to be able to work everyday on just raising money...I don't have the luxury of going around the state and knocking on doors and making phone calls to everybody that is available to raise money from. This job keeps me a little busy." Yeah, afterall, he's only Secretary of State--basically he just hangs around the pool all day and eats bon-bons, I'm sure. Not like you, Jimbo: you get things done, right? busy, busy.

Weeell...actually: in 2006 Time magazine chose Bunning as one of the top five worst senators, calling him The Underperformer. According to the article: "When asked [other Senators] struggle to recall any legislation Bunning has worked on," and that "he has the smarts to be an effective Senator but doesn't put in the effort." Ouch. No wonder Jimmy's taking indiscriminate swings at anybody who comes near. With friends like these, who needs friends?

The meltdown of Jim Bunning seems like it's been fermenting and unfolding for ages, but we still have a long time to go before the 2010 election. I'm rubbing my expectant little hands together in anticipation of reading all about the approaching political trainwreck. I'll be keeping a close eye on the Jim Bunning implosion story, readers, so be ready for more updates on inept backwoods politicking from my home state...

Breaking the Wrong Kind of Record...

On Monday my beloved Cincinnati Reds experienced an historic occassion, but not in a good way. For those of you who don't keep up with the box scores, The Reds were handed their worst defeat in franchise history--and that goes all the way back to 1869, readers. Needless to say things have been a bit on the soberly despondent side over here at the MM.

Sadly, with the advent of free agency and the best players going to the richest franchises, it no longer seems possible for a team to keep the same great players year after year. Of course, the exception to that rule this year seems to be the Philadelphia Phillies, the same team that won last year's Series, and the very team that handed my Reds their epic loss Monday night (22-1, a score you never expect to see outside the confines of a little league). The Phillies will likely make a good run at another World Series this year, but I doubt their lineup will stay intact after that--modern baseball, for better or worse, just doesn't work that way anymore.

Anyway, chin up, sports fans: the season is only half over and the reds only trail their division by 4 games--still time to try for that other love-it-or-hate-it modern baseball invention, the wild card! Sing along with the official Cincinnati Reds Fight Song (you know all the words to that one, don't you?): "We did it before, we'll do it again! We'll give 'em a chance, we'll fight to the end! we are the Cin-ci-nna-ti Reeeeeds! HEY!"

Domesticated at Last

Well, I guess it had to happen eventually...I now have a garden: the ultimate sign of settled-down, salad days, nothing-to-see-here domestication. I never thought it would happen to me, readers, but there you have it. Rather than indulge in a devil-may-care, I'll-go-buy-some-if-I-want-'em attitude towards tomoatoes, I am now engaging in the decidedly less instant gratification-minded approach. I now sit back and patiently anticipate the pay-off for an afternoon of hard work, and if that isn't the most ardent sign of being a grown up I don't know what is.

Incidentally, as you can see I am trying out a suggestion given to me by my father-in-law (another sign of adulthood: taking advice from one's in-laws...or even having in-laws...), I planted my tomatoes in a bale of hay. Supposedly this is a good way to get extra tasty tomatoes if you don't have very good ground soil (our ground soil sucks-- it's weirdly sandy for Kentucky dirt). Well, I hope so, because it was a bitch-and-a-half digging a hole in a bale of hay, I can tell you.

Ladies' Vintage Base Ball

New York Bloomer Girls, circa 1920

More vintage "base ball" info! I have been striving to learn more about the ladies who played the game, and came across this image of the New York Bloomer Girls, a team which was founded shortly after men started forming professional teams in the 1860's. Curiously, it was a small group of men who originally formed the NYBGs in 1910: Dan Whalen, Joe Manning and Eddie Manning, all of whom were ballplayers themselves. In 1920 managment was given over to a woman, Margaret Nabel, a candy store owner who had made the team previously as a pitcher (that's Nabel pictured above on the right). Like many other base ball clubs during the Great Depression, the Bloomers folded under the economic strain of the times. The team dissolved at the end of the 1933 season.

Marge Schott

Marge Schott is a special case in my rogues gallery of eccentric millionaire baseball team owners. Her tenure as the majority owner of the Cincinnati Reds was concurrent with my formative years as a young Redlegs booster--the last time the Reds won the world series (1990) was during her reign--and so it may then be understandable that I am partial to her. Not that Schott is an easy person to like--in fact, it's probably not socailly acceptable for anyone to like her considering the plethora of inflammatory, derogatory, and downrigt Nixonian statements she made during her public lifetime about various minority groups (or, um, pretty much ALL minority groups). Affection for Marge Schott in reality was probably a little like trying to cuddle a cactus, but the lady had gumption--any woman trying to hold a position of power in a traditionally male dominated arena has to be spunky, and at least twice as much of an asshole as the biggest asshole man in the same field. And so, I give you: Marge Schott.

A Cincinnati native born August 28, 1928, Margaret Unnewehr was one of five daughters born to a strict Catholic father whose desire for a son was perpetually disappointed. Edward Unnewehr raised Marge to be tough and paranoid, to not show weakness, and to eventually take over the family business (a hardwood and veneer manufacturing company which ensured that the family was fairly well-off). Ed nicknamed Marge "Butch," and she played the part of surrogate son pretty well, cracking wise and smoking cigars at slumber parties. It was a disappointment for Ed when, in 1952, Marge married Charles Schott, the son of a wealthy Cincinnati society family, and left the business to (attempt) to be a good Catholic housewife.

It turned out that Marge learned more about business after getting married and hanging around her father-in-law--a man who at one point in his career was the largest automobile dealer in Ohio--than she did about being a homemaker. This education was most likely the best part of her marriage; the couple were unable to have the children Marge so desperately wanted, and Charlie was a notorious alcoholic, gambler and womanizer. Her new husband left her alone in their hotel room on their wedding night to go to a card game, not exactly a good sign of times to come. He died of a heart attack in 1968, found in his mistress' bath tub. This infidelity may be what later triggered Marge to wage a full-scale Big Brother-esque surveillance war on her unfortanate players: opening their mail, video taping their movements in and out of hotels and buses, and even keeping detailed phone logs of every call in and out of the clubhouse. She was always worried about the groupies professional sports attracted, and made it her personal business to keep them away from her players (married or not).

It was in December of 1984 that she purchased a controlling interest in the team for a reported $11 million. The next year she was named President and CEO, and thus began her career as one of the most notorious, infamous and outspoken owners in baseball.

Marge was never strapped for cash, but her personal experience running and helping to run the family businesses made her a notorious cheapskate. She never bought clothes for herself, she kept the heat in her businesses turned down to 55, and any expense over $50 was to be approved by her personally. She would only agree to an expense (say, an order of paperclips for the front office) after getting at least 3 bids from 3 different suppliers.

According to Marge: "You're spending millions and millions out on the field for these players, honey, and you find yourself arguing about envelopes and paperclips in the office. You try to cut on the silly stuff. It's like Disneyland on the field and the real world in here." To which one employee reportedly said: "No, it's like Disneyland on the field and Bosnia in here." Harsh!

But players often felt the pinch too: broken bats were sent to a downtown Cincy hotel, which sold them as souveniers. Extra bats were not bought for players, so they would have to pay for their own replacements. No extras as far as clothing goes either: hats, sweatshirts and jackets were all bought on the players' dime.

At least some of the players took these things in stride. Barry Larkin, the 1995 National League MVP, didn't complain much: "The only thing I don't like is when the dog [Schottzie] takes a crap at shortstop, because I might have to dive into that shit." Indeed. Schottzie, Marge's massive Saint Bernard, would trot out onto the field before each game to much fanfare--especially when she had some "business" to take care of.

And then there's the case of her MANY publicly documented racial slurs. There can be no excuse for those, exept maybe that she was from a conservative and notoriously racially segregated city, grew up in a time and family where bigotry was just an accepted fact of life, and was widowed and leading a very isolated life at only 39 years old. Reading interviews with her today suggest that she was probably like your typical, oldschool white grandma after one too many, which is fine, except that this old lady had reporters and cameras recording what she said about Jews, black people, Hitler, Asian-Americans, etc. etc. etc.

In the end, Marge got herself forced out of baseball in 1999 when she agreed to sell her majority share rather than be ousted by her partners, but every reporter in the area was eagerly holding the microphone and giving her every opportunity to dig her hole deeper and deeper. I won't say baseball was better off with Marge Schott than without, but I do miss the fact that the most expensive ticket at Riverfront stadium during Marge's tenure was $11.50, by far the lowest in the sport at the time (contrast that with $300 today). I miss her ban on players wearing jewellry and ugly goatees and grandstanding like clowns. I also miss the fact that baseball once had a woman, however derided and disliked and prickly, in a position of power and influence. And yeah, I also miss Schottzie.

Source: Reilly, Rick. "Heaven Help Marge Schott" Sports Illustrated 84 No. 20 (May 20, 1996)

Harry Caray

For anyone who doesn't know, Harry Caray (1914-1998) was the often celebrated (often soused) long-time announcer for the Chicago Cubs. He popularized the modern tradition of singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame during the 7th inning stretch, and I was fortunate enough to experience him performing it back in the early 90's, when I visited Wrigley Field for a game on a family vacation.

Harry was amazing: by then he was a gnarled old character, blusteringly excitable in that way that some old men have, and wacky to the point of being suspected of dementia. When stretch time came around he hopped up and grabbed a mic, teetering and tottering dangerously near the open window of the upper deck broadcasting booth, and leaned his entire torso out over the crowd. In his trademark slur he cajoled us all into singing along, then warbled with manic glee, gesturing with his outstretched arms and swaying alarmingly back and forth. Normally, as an adult, singing Take Me Out to the Ballgame is as embarassing as singing Happy Birthday to You, but somehow Harry made it seem hip.