Sunday, October 24, 2010
A HAPPY THOUGHT
While watching televised football and baseball games, as the commercials keep coming ad nauseam, our comment is always “Thank heaven for the mute key on our remote”. We’d feel lost without its constant utilization.
NO ECONOMY SLOWDOWN FOR THE DIAMOND BUSINESS
The reader shouldn’t be mislead into thinking this piece concerns the jewelry trade. We don’t really know how our recent pseudo-recession has affected the diamond ring peddlers, and couldn’t care less, quite frankly. As may already have been otherwise surmised, our current subject is baseball.
A review of the appropriate internet files will readily show that ballplayers aren’t exactly living off food stamps, or expecting the sheriff to knock on the door any minute with lock in hand. It’s further obvious that the major league clubs don’t seem to be hurting either, since they have plenty of funds available to pay their field stars. Even mediocre and downright inept performers have drawn fabulous sums in this past and earlier seasons.
If time permitted, we’d enjoy calculating the 2010 campaign’s average salary per time at bat for hitters, along with that per third of an inning pitched for moundsmen. One can rest assured that the arithmetic results in each case would be on the astronomic side. However, player remuneration doesn’t appear to be the only extravagance evidenced by their well-heeled employers. The club owners are proving themselves equally careless regarding the use and cost of balls. Anyone watching a game on the tube can easily see what we mean.
Since this writer dates back a number of years, recollections abound from the olden days when ball consumption on the playing field was far more conservative. The major league clubs would buy the most expensive ones at a dollar each, less whatever volume discount they were accorded. Meanwhile, those of us who cavorted as youths on makeshift vacant lot diamonds could only afford the cheaper twenty-five cent models, which suited our needs very well.
Even at prices we’d now dismiss as “peanuts” by ultramodern standards, the big leaguers applied extreme care back then, in order to avoid wastage as much as possible. A baseball would be exempted from further use only if hit into the stands to become a take-home souvenir for a skillfully-handed fan, or else ordered by the umpire to be discarded due to scuffing or a torn seam. Fouls not leaving the field were retrieved by the nearest player, to be thrown back to the pitcher for continued service. At the end of a half-inning, somebody would leave it at the mound to be picked up by the next hurler for his warming-up and subsequent action.
By way of contrast, what do we observe nowadays, in this period of supposed economic downturn? Heck, balls are being passed out to fans as if they were favors at a birthday party. The clubs employ teenage-looking boys or girls to gather up the fouls and blithely give them to frontal seat occupants. The last player to have one in his possession when a half-inning winds up obligingly tosses the spheroid into the closest stands, as eager hands raise up for the catch, resembling baby birds waiting to be fed by their mother.
We don’t know the discounted price of a baseball these days, but feel certain it exceeds a dollar by more than a bit. What we fail to comprehend is this 180-degree swing from prior age parsimony to downright lavishness when it comes to per game consumption.
At the end of the line, who is paying for these plush salaries and wastrel ball practices, undoubtedly complemented by a myriad of other extravagances? Nobody but those cheering fans who more often than not fill the stadia to maximum capacity, after shelling out highly inflated sums for tickets. We humbly advise our readers to stay home and watch the games on the moron tube instead.
A review of the appropriate internet files will readily show that ballplayers aren’t exactly living off food stamps, or expecting the sheriff to knock on the door any minute with lock in hand. It’s further obvious that the major league clubs don’t seem to be hurting either, since they have plenty of funds available to pay their field stars. Even mediocre and downright inept performers have drawn fabulous sums in this past and earlier seasons.
If time permitted, we’d enjoy calculating the 2010 campaign’s average salary per time at bat for hitters, along with that per third of an inning pitched for moundsmen. One can rest assured that the arithmetic results in each case would be on the astronomic side. However, player remuneration doesn’t appear to be the only extravagance evidenced by their well-heeled employers. The club owners are proving themselves equally careless regarding the use and cost of balls. Anyone watching a game on the tube can easily see what we mean.
Since this writer dates back a number of years, recollections abound from the olden days when ball consumption on the playing field was far more conservative. The major league clubs would buy the most expensive ones at a dollar each, less whatever volume discount they were accorded. Meanwhile, those of us who cavorted as youths on makeshift vacant lot diamonds could only afford the cheaper twenty-five cent models, which suited our needs very well.
Even at prices we’d now dismiss as “peanuts” by ultramodern standards, the big leaguers applied extreme care back then, in order to avoid wastage as much as possible. A baseball would be exempted from further use only if hit into the stands to become a take-home souvenir for a skillfully-handed fan, or else ordered by the umpire to be discarded due to scuffing or a torn seam. Fouls not leaving the field were retrieved by the nearest player, to be thrown back to the pitcher for continued service. At the end of a half-inning, somebody would leave it at the mound to be picked up by the next hurler for his warming-up and subsequent action.
By way of contrast, what do we observe nowadays, in this period of supposed economic downturn? Heck, balls are being passed out to fans as if they were favors at a birthday party. The clubs employ teenage-looking boys or girls to gather up the fouls and blithely give them to frontal seat occupants. The last player to have one in his possession when a half-inning winds up obligingly tosses the spheroid into the closest stands, as eager hands raise up for the catch, resembling baby birds waiting to be fed by their mother.
We don’t know the discounted price of a baseball these days, but feel certain it exceeds a dollar by more than a bit. What we fail to comprehend is this 180-degree swing from prior age parsimony to downright lavishness when it comes to per game consumption.
At the end of the line, who is paying for these plush salaries and wastrel ball practices, undoubtedly complemented by a myriad of other extravagances? Nobody but those cheering fans who more often than not fill the stadia to maximum capacity, after shelling out highly inflated sums for tickets. We humbly advise our readers to stay home and watch the games on the moron tube instead.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
FOOTBALL FOR MORONS
Within recent years, our casual perusal of the internet has continually turned up references to Fantasy Football. Not wondering especially what the term was all about, we’ve merely passed over them, while searching for matters of more immediate interest.
Recently however, we became apprised as to the essence of such fantasizing activity, thanks to a confessed regular weekly participant. By way of personal reaction, never, throughout many decades of open and uninhibited affection for football, have we sensed sheer imbecility to a comparable degree, insofar as downright blasphemous contempt for a major sport is concerned.
Although this nonsense hardly merits further mention, we do feel compelled to summarize the fallacy in as contemptuous a selection of words as are digupable.
To join in the supposed fun, some clown appoints himself a vicarious NFL club owner with the right to select individual players or teams which remain unclaimed on a master list. Each Monday or Tuesday when the latest statistics are all out, he (or probably she as well) checks the passing, running, goal-kicking, defensive, or other appropriate results for the preceding weekend’s games. If a chosen performer or club puts on a good show numberwise, the member earns points, which probably may bring some monetary return over a full season for the lucky “employer”.
Over many past decades, this writer has deplored the age-old practice of betting on sports events, in that such action prostitutes any appreciation for athletic values. Despite such longstanding disgust, we are now viewing an all-time low.
Why do we deem this particular exercise as being corollary to the lowest of back alley hookers? Simply because it connotes complete disdain for the sheer thrill of watching a player or team perform before a cheering crowd. The participant cares not a whit about the careful game planning by the coaching staff, the on-the-spot field strategy, the clutch effort displayed in tight situations, or any other spine-chilling aspect of a combative effort. The stupid jerk need have little or no knowledge of the sport, but only the capacity to read meaningless weekly stats. Whoever invented this scheme has to be on the demented side.
We must close this piece right away, so as to avoid having to resort to words of less than five letters from here onward.
Recently however, we became apprised as to the essence of such fantasizing activity, thanks to a confessed regular weekly participant. By way of personal reaction, never, throughout many decades of open and uninhibited affection for football, have we sensed sheer imbecility to a comparable degree, insofar as downright blasphemous contempt for a major sport is concerned.
Although this nonsense hardly merits further mention, we do feel compelled to summarize the fallacy in as contemptuous a selection of words as are digupable.
To join in the supposed fun, some clown appoints himself a vicarious NFL club owner with the right to select individual players or teams which remain unclaimed on a master list. Each Monday or Tuesday when the latest statistics are all out, he (or probably she as well) checks the passing, running, goal-kicking, defensive, or other appropriate results for the preceding weekend’s games. If a chosen performer or club puts on a good show numberwise, the member earns points, which probably may bring some monetary return over a full season for the lucky “employer”.
Over many past decades, this writer has deplored the age-old practice of betting on sports events, in that such action prostitutes any appreciation for athletic values. Despite such longstanding disgust, we are now viewing an all-time low.
Why do we deem this particular exercise as being corollary to the lowest of back alley hookers? Simply because it connotes complete disdain for the sheer thrill of watching a player or team perform before a cheering crowd. The participant cares not a whit about the careful game planning by the coaching staff, the on-the-spot field strategy, the clutch effort displayed in tight situations, or any other spine-chilling aspect of a combative effort. The stupid jerk need have little or no knowledge of the sport, but only the capacity to read meaningless weekly stats. Whoever invented this scheme has to be on the demented side.
We must close this piece right away, so as to avoid having to resort to words of less than five letters from here onward.
Friday, October 1, 2010
THEY'VE DONE IT AGAIN
The most prominent performer in the 1912 Stockholm Olympics was a young American Indian lad named Jim Thorpe, who swept aside all competition while winning both the Pentathlon and Decathlon championships. The King of Sweden himself presented him with the appropriate gold medals, proclaiming him the greatest athlete in the world. That he was indeed, and his legend shines vividly to this day in the annals of track and field, not to mention football.
Nevertheless, it was discovered shortly thereafter that this lad had committed the mortal sin of having played minor league baseball for a spell in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, and receiving a few bucks through such effort. “Horrors!” shouted the International Olympic Committee bluenoses, “Off with his head!”
Well, they didn’t go quite to that extreme, but did retroactively strip the fellow of his illustriously-earned awards. Probably no more painful an injustice has ever been foisted on a man, for what amounted to a relatively small sports world misdemeanor.
We’ve long entertained the hope that no such ill treatment would ever be repeated. Unfortunately, though, it has, after a 98-year hiatus.
A recent news announcement has burst open, to the effect that Reggie Bush, the former Southern California running back, now cavorting with the NFL’s New Orleans Saints, has been coerced into returning his 2005 Heisman Memorial Trophy. To pour a little more sand into the wound, the esteemed powers who run that institution have decided to levy sanctions on his school’s athletic program, and remove any mention of the boy’s field prowess forevermore, recording that year’s award to have been presented to absolutely no one.
This is the lad some pundits were declaring to be the best running back in gridiron history a few short years ago. Although we consider such comments to have stemmed from emotion-driven exaggeration, he does rate among the finest kick returners ever spawned.
What grievous fault, then, did young Mr. Bush perpetrate to deserve such gross indignity? Why, tsk tsk, he accepted cash and other gifts while performing at USC, which renders him ineligible after the fact for part of the 2005 season.
Is Reggie the only football player who ever received under-the-table financial support during his undergraduate days? To believe so would amount to naivety in the ultimate degree.
Anyone with minimal knowledge of collegiate sport goings-on over nearly the whole past century is aware how the hypocrisy level has been mushrooming year-by-year to an almost explosive point today. However, just one supposedly guilty chap has been singled out for vicarious capital punishment.
It’s a fact that athletic history has long been rife with cases where offenders have either been punished, chastised, or sometimes ridiculed for various indiscretions. A backward glance at incidents which readily come to mind are those cited below.
1. Muhammad Ali, the world heavyweight champion, was deprived of his title because he challenged the so-called necessity to make war against North Vietnam, forcing him to regain his formar status after he had been cleared of supposed non-patriotism.
2. Billy Cannon, a hard-running halfback at Louisiana State University, and another Heisman Trophy winner for 1959, was initially denied admission to the collegiate football Hall of Fame until 2008, due to having been involved in a counterfeiting scheme following his graduation.
3. Paul Robeson, an excellent concert and movie singer, had also been an outstanding gridiron player at Rutgers University, but held socialistic sympathies. As a result, those same Hall of Fame moguls refused to consider him for membership until several years after his death.
4. Barry Bonds hit more home runs in a full career and a single season than any other slugger. Still, his fibbing about use of steroids (and certainly not the only person to do so), has turned his name to mud in official baseball circles, to the extent that we’re expected to pretend those feats were never really accomplished.
On the other hand, we can condone certain past penalties meted out by sports universe rulers. The Chicago White Sox boys who threw the 1919 World Series to Cincinnati were duly punishable, and deserved lifetime banishment from their playing roles. Hal Chase, although highly praiseworthy as a major league first sacker, will forever be excluded from Hall of Fame eligibility, because he openly bet on games throughout his career, sometimes even against his own team.
We also excuse NFL Commissioner Pete Rozelle’s one-year suspension of Packer running back Paul Hornung and Lion defensive tackle Alex Karras for betting, albeit innocent when compared to the Chase antics.
This writer has personally maintained all along that on-the-field performance is what counts above everything else, regardless of what guilt lies with a person, either during his playing days or afterward. If an ex-hero holds up a liquor store, beats up an opponent in a barroom brawl, or joins a protest movement against the sacred establishment, that, from this viewpoint, detracts nary a whisker from the glory he achieved as an athlete.
Now that the Jim Thorpe incident has been virtually repeated in the Reggie Bush matter, where should we go from here onward, to continue the flow of condemnation or scorn accordable for private life offenses? How about taking back the many golf trophies earned by Tiger Woods, due to his off-the-fairway extra-marital behavior? If immoral activity becomes a criterion for “disbarment”, might we not refuse to recognize that Grover Cleveland, Warren G. Harding, FDR, Dwight D. Eisenhower, JFK, and Bill Clinton ever really occupied the White House, because of spousal infidelity?
If Paul Robeson’s leftist feelings were enough to override recognition of his athletic prowess,
shouldn’t we also say that Charlie Chaplin was never very funny after all, for the same reasons?
The sports realm has chosen to forgive Babe Ruth’s incessant roundering and womanizing, as well as Ty Cobb for his post-career viciousness. Nobody seems to care that pitcher Pete Alexander and outfielder Paul Waner were known lushes, even while engaged in playing field action. NFL quarterback Michael Vick’s misdeeds seem to have been forgiven as well, except perhaps by devoted dog lovers. It has become more a case of individual selectivity, keeping our eyes closed where and when deemed prudent.
We see a sole solution to this overall hypocrisy, and that would be to drop this foolishness about the sanctity of amateur athletics, declaring every performer a professional from gitgo, since that’s what the truth amounts to these days. Otherwise, where is the sense in picking on the Thorpes, the Bushes, and other isolated unfortunates for their various rule infractions?
Nevertheless, it was discovered shortly thereafter that this lad had committed the mortal sin of having played minor league baseball for a spell in Rocky Mount, North Carolina, and receiving a few bucks through such effort. “Horrors!” shouted the International Olympic Committee bluenoses, “Off with his head!”
Well, they didn’t go quite to that extreme, but did retroactively strip the fellow of his illustriously-earned awards. Probably no more painful an injustice has ever been foisted on a man, for what amounted to a relatively small sports world misdemeanor.
We’ve long entertained the hope that no such ill treatment would ever be repeated. Unfortunately, though, it has, after a 98-year hiatus.
A recent news announcement has burst open, to the effect that Reggie Bush, the former Southern California running back, now cavorting with the NFL’s New Orleans Saints, has been coerced into returning his 2005 Heisman Memorial Trophy. To pour a little more sand into the wound, the esteemed powers who run that institution have decided to levy sanctions on his school’s athletic program, and remove any mention of the boy’s field prowess forevermore, recording that year’s award to have been presented to absolutely no one.
This is the lad some pundits were declaring to be the best running back in gridiron history a few short years ago. Although we consider such comments to have stemmed from emotion-driven exaggeration, he does rate among the finest kick returners ever spawned.
What grievous fault, then, did young Mr. Bush perpetrate to deserve such gross indignity? Why, tsk tsk, he accepted cash and other gifts while performing at USC, which renders him ineligible after the fact for part of the 2005 season.
Is Reggie the only football player who ever received under-the-table financial support during his undergraduate days? To believe so would amount to naivety in the ultimate degree.
Anyone with minimal knowledge of collegiate sport goings-on over nearly the whole past century is aware how the hypocrisy level has been mushrooming year-by-year to an almost explosive point today. However, just one supposedly guilty chap has been singled out for vicarious capital punishment.
It’s a fact that athletic history has long been rife with cases where offenders have either been punished, chastised, or sometimes ridiculed for various indiscretions. A backward glance at incidents which readily come to mind are those cited below.
1. Muhammad Ali, the world heavyweight champion, was deprived of his title because he challenged the so-called necessity to make war against North Vietnam, forcing him to regain his formar status after he had been cleared of supposed non-patriotism.
2. Billy Cannon, a hard-running halfback at Louisiana State University, and another Heisman Trophy winner for 1959, was initially denied admission to the collegiate football Hall of Fame until 2008, due to having been involved in a counterfeiting scheme following his graduation.
3. Paul Robeson, an excellent concert and movie singer, had also been an outstanding gridiron player at Rutgers University, but held socialistic sympathies. As a result, those same Hall of Fame moguls refused to consider him for membership until several years after his death.
4. Barry Bonds hit more home runs in a full career and a single season than any other slugger. Still, his fibbing about use of steroids (and certainly not the only person to do so), has turned his name to mud in official baseball circles, to the extent that we’re expected to pretend those feats were never really accomplished.
On the other hand, we can condone certain past penalties meted out by sports universe rulers. The Chicago White Sox boys who threw the 1919 World Series to Cincinnati were duly punishable, and deserved lifetime banishment from their playing roles. Hal Chase, although highly praiseworthy as a major league first sacker, will forever be excluded from Hall of Fame eligibility, because he openly bet on games throughout his career, sometimes even against his own team.
We also excuse NFL Commissioner Pete Rozelle’s one-year suspension of Packer running back Paul Hornung and Lion defensive tackle Alex Karras for betting, albeit innocent when compared to the Chase antics.
This writer has personally maintained all along that on-the-field performance is what counts above everything else, regardless of what guilt lies with a person, either during his playing days or afterward. If an ex-hero holds up a liquor store, beats up an opponent in a barroom brawl, or joins a protest movement against the sacred establishment, that, from this viewpoint, detracts nary a whisker from the glory he achieved as an athlete.
Now that the Jim Thorpe incident has been virtually repeated in the Reggie Bush matter, where should we go from here onward, to continue the flow of condemnation or scorn accordable for private life offenses? How about taking back the many golf trophies earned by Tiger Woods, due to his off-the-fairway extra-marital behavior? If immoral activity becomes a criterion for “disbarment”, might we not refuse to recognize that Grover Cleveland, Warren G. Harding, FDR, Dwight D. Eisenhower, JFK, and Bill Clinton ever really occupied the White House, because of spousal infidelity?
If Paul Robeson’s leftist feelings were enough to override recognition of his athletic prowess,
shouldn’t we also say that Charlie Chaplin was never very funny after all, for the same reasons?
The sports realm has chosen to forgive Babe Ruth’s incessant roundering and womanizing, as well as Ty Cobb for his post-career viciousness. Nobody seems to care that pitcher Pete Alexander and outfielder Paul Waner were known lushes, even while engaged in playing field action. NFL quarterback Michael Vick’s misdeeds seem to have been forgiven as well, except perhaps by devoted dog lovers. It has become more a case of individual selectivity, keeping our eyes closed where and when deemed prudent.
We see a sole solution to this overall hypocrisy, and that would be to drop this foolishness about the sanctity of amateur athletics, declaring every performer a professional from gitgo, since that’s what the truth amounts to these days. Otherwise, where is the sense in picking on the Thorpes, the Bushes, and other isolated unfortunates for their various rule infractions?
Thursday, July 29, 2010
THE SCRIPT OHIO
Unquestionably, no educational institution on earth has a marching band capable of matching or coming remotely close in performance to the one representing Ohio State University. We confidently stand ready to reject any reader claims to the contrary. At home football games, the OSU crew consistently outclasses the halftime competition from every visiting school, Saturday after Saturday. Most significantly, the piece de resistance, the show of shows, the cat’s pajamas, is its traditional Script Ohio formation, which still lingers among this writer’s more nostalgic experiences from undergraduate years there.
For the benefit of those unfortunate folk who’ve never witnessed a Columbus stadium football encounter, we invite everyone to call up Script Ohio on the internet and view a live field presentation of what has been featured over countless decades in magnificent fashion. Although drum majors and musicians keep coming and graduating, the drill never fails to live up to its long-established standards. Flawless and downright inspiring execution remain the unalterable result.
By way of explanation, the entire marching band begins in a square formation near the opponents’ side of the field, spanning the fifty-yard line. Then, to the tune of the Somme March, the drum major leads a single file center-stage maneuver, whereby the group gradually “writes” – in longhand, mind you – the word Ohio. Finally, with a unison high kick strut, he escorts the tuba player to the point where the lad dots the i. Without fail, this closing step times precisely with the last note of the song.
Throughout four gridiron seasons, we were privileged to watch the state’s name methodically spelled out in such manner, and never tired of doing so. Even if the home team suffered a drubbing on the battlefield, the band’s halftime show would nevertheless make the afternoon worth remembering.
We were often tempted to urge the school’s athletic authorities to invite UCLA for a game in Columbus, so our marvelous band might go a bit further and perform a script University of California at Los Angeles. We honestly believe they could even have managed that.
For the benefit of those unfortunate folk who’ve never witnessed a Columbus stadium football encounter, we invite everyone to call up Script Ohio on the internet and view a live field presentation of what has been featured over countless decades in magnificent fashion. Although drum majors and musicians keep coming and graduating, the drill never fails to live up to its long-established standards. Flawless and downright inspiring execution remain the unalterable result.
By way of explanation, the entire marching band begins in a square formation near the opponents’ side of the field, spanning the fifty-yard line. Then, to the tune of the Somme March, the drum major leads a single file center-stage maneuver, whereby the group gradually “writes” – in longhand, mind you – the word Ohio. Finally, with a unison high kick strut, he escorts the tuba player to the point where the lad dots the i. Without fail, this closing step times precisely with the last note of the song.
Throughout four gridiron seasons, we were privileged to watch the state’s name methodically spelled out in such manner, and never tired of doing so. Even if the home team suffered a drubbing on the battlefield, the band’s halftime show would nevertheless make the afternoon worth remembering.
We were often tempted to urge the school’s athletic authorities to invite UCLA for a game in Columbus, so our marvelous band might go a bit further and perform a script University of California at Los Angeles. We honestly believe they could even have managed that.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
THE BALLADE OF NOVEMBER 2, 1935
(To Be Sung to the Tune of Abdul El Bulbul Amir and Ivan Skivinsky Skivar)
Ohio State’s Buckeyes were gridiron’s best
At midseason one nine three five;
On victory’s wave, they were riding the crest,
‘Til November second arrived.
Their sportswriters’ label became “Scarlet Scourge”,
Descriptionwise, very profound;
While eagerly, fans deemed their legions “Real George”,
‘Til November second rolled ‘round.
But meanwhile, the Irish at Notre Dame, Ind.
Weren’t being excitingly cheered;
Things looked pretty gloomy in yonder South Bend,
‘Til November second appeared.
Despite a tradition of champion play,
This one was a woebegone band;
But then, the day’s calendar page was torn ‘way,
With November second at hand.
They met in Columbus, the Buckeyes’ home field,
As host forces quickly took hold;
The downtrodden Irish two touchdowns did yield,
And November second seemed cold.
The third quarter showed no additional score,
As fifteen more minutes ticked on;
A thirteen point lead in those past days of yore
Meant November’s Buckeyes had won.
The fourth quarter opened with old Notre Dame
Across the Bucks’ goal line at last;
But extra point kicking was found to be lame,
And November two would close fast.
In due course, the stadium clock advised then
That just ninety seconds remained,
When Ireland’s brave stalwarts hit pay dirt again,
But only twelve points had been gained.
However, it wasn’t all over quite yet --
Ohio soon fumbled the ball;
An Irish recovery allowed them to get
One more skimpy chance to stand tall.
The clock said that only a play it would yield,
As halfback Bill Shakespeare’s last gasp
Was skillfully hurling the pigskin downfield
To receiver Millner’s firm grasp.
A climactic touchdown within a mere wink,
With eighteen to thirteen the spread;
The great Scarlet Scourge had turned into pale pink,
And Notre Dame full speed ahead.
The aftermath brought about many sour grapes;
Excuses abounded galore.
Religious intolerance took on new shapes,
As prejudice uttered a roar.
It seems that the Buckeye who’d fumbled the ball
Was true Roman Catholic by choice.
So, with no delay, out came a loud call
In boisterous, obnoxious voice.
The rumor was spread in terms both clear and frank
That Catholics on OSU’s squad
Had orders from priests it was either the tank,
Or else condemnation from God.
An ironic twist to this religion bilk
May come as a surprise to you,
That passer Bill Shakespeare of Protestant ilk,
Connected with Millner, a Jew.
Ohio State’s Buckeyes were gridiron’s best
At midseason one nine three five;
On victory’s wave, they were riding the crest,
‘Til November second arrived.
Their sportswriters’ label became “Scarlet Scourge”,
Descriptionwise, very profound;
While eagerly, fans deemed their legions “Real George”,
‘Til November second rolled ‘round.
But meanwhile, the Irish at Notre Dame, Ind.
Weren’t being excitingly cheered;
Things looked pretty gloomy in yonder South Bend,
‘Til November second appeared.
Despite a tradition of champion play,
This one was a woebegone band;
But then, the day’s calendar page was torn ‘way,
With November second at hand.
They met in Columbus, the Buckeyes’ home field,
As host forces quickly took hold;
The downtrodden Irish two touchdowns did yield,
And November second seemed cold.
The third quarter showed no additional score,
As fifteen more minutes ticked on;
A thirteen point lead in those past days of yore
Meant November’s Buckeyes had won.
The fourth quarter opened with old Notre Dame
Across the Bucks’ goal line at last;
But extra point kicking was found to be lame,
And November two would close fast.
In due course, the stadium clock advised then
That just ninety seconds remained,
When Ireland’s brave stalwarts hit pay dirt again,
But only twelve points had been gained.
However, it wasn’t all over quite yet --
Ohio soon fumbled the ball;
An Irish recovery allowed them to get
One more skimpy chance to stand tall.
The clock said that only a play it would yield,
As halfback Bill Shakespeare’s last gasp
Was skillfully hurling the pigskin downfield
To receiver Millner’s firm grasp.
A climactic touchdown within a mere wink,
With eighteen to thirteen the spread;
The great Scarlet Scourge had turned into pale pink,
And Notre Dame full speed ahead.
The aftermath brought about many sour grapes;
Excuses abounded galore.
Religious intolerance took on new shapes,
As prejudice uttered a roar.
It seems that the Buckeye who’d fumbled the ball
Was true Roman Catholic by choice.
So, with no delay, out came a loud call
In boisterous, obnoxious voice.
The rumor was spread in terms both clear and frank
That Catholics on OSU’s squad
Had orders from priests it was either the tank,
Or else condemnation from God.
An ironic twist to this religion bilk
May come as a surprise to you,
That passer Bill Shakespeare of Protestant ilk,
Connected with Millner, a Jew.
THE 1954 CLEVELAND INDIANS
Our most recent contribution to this blog dealt with one Whitey Prokop, who failed to come through on promises made by the Cleveland, Ohio newspaper sportwriters that he’d soon be setting the world on fire as a Notre Dame gridiron ace. That particular journalistic shemozzle occurred in the early 1940s. Then, roughly a decade later, the local press gentry pulled off a similarly overzealous blunder.
There’s no question but that the 1954 Cleveland Indians were a fine ball club. Although the hitting power wasn’t overly sensational, the team had been blessed with one of the most potent pitching staffs in history. The hurling corps of Bob Lemon, Early Wynn, Mike Garcia, and Herb Score as starters, along with two bullpen stalwarts in Don Mossi and Ray Narleske, proved way too much for all the American League rivals, including the mighty New York Yankees.
It was those very Bronx Bombers who’d held the regular season record of 110 victories ever since 1927. While the Indians were in the process of clinching the 1954 pennant, and getting progressively closer to that figure, the Cleveland sports pundits began tossing “greatest baseball team of all time” accolades their way. When the dust finally cleared, the ending total of 111 wins confirmed such point in their vacant home city minds. They proudly shouted by way of printed copy that the Indians had surpassed every other club in diamond annals, basing their case strictly on a less-than-truly-meaningful statistic.
For any readers who may not readily recall the 1954 World Series, the underdog New York Giants gave the Tribe a dowsing, then a thumping, followed by a clobbering, and lastly a whupping, to wind up the October classic four-zip in the National League’s favor.
Due to some unexplainable reason, the local papers suddenly forgot to affix that all-time greatest label any longer, while seeming most reluctant even to admit having used it in the first place. Once again, they’d gone overboard, as do so many journalists worldwide virtually every day of the week.
There’s no question but that the 1954 Cleveland Indians were a fine ball club. Although the hitting power wasn’t overly sensational, the team had been blessed with one of the most potent pitching staffs in history. The hurling corps of Bob Lemon, Early Wynn, Mike Garcia, and Herb Score as starters, along with two bullpen stalwarts in Don Mossi and Ray Narleske, proved way too much for all the American League rivals, including the mighty New York Yankees.
It was those very Bronx Bombers who’d held the regular season record of 110 victories ever since 1927. While the Indians were in the process of clinching the 1954 pennant, and getting progressively closer to that figure, the Cleveland sports pundits began tossing “greatest baseball team of all time” accolades their way. When the dust finally cleared, the ending total of 111 wins confirmed such point in their vacant home city minds. They proudly shouted by way of printed copy that the Indians had surpassed every other club in diamond annals, basing their case strictly on a less-than-truly-meaningful statistic.
For any readers who may not readily recall the 1954 World Series, the underdog New York Giants gave the Tribe a dowsing, then a thumping, followed by a clobbering, and lastly a whupping, to wind up the October classic four-zip in the National League’s favor.
Due to some unexplainable reason, the local papers suddenly forgot to affix that all-time greatest label any longer, while seeming most reluctant even to admit having used it in the first place. Once again, they’d gone overboard, as do so many journalists worldwide virtually every day of the week.
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