Being the Ongoing Chronicle of the Anticks, Misadventures, and Odd Deeds of an Overalls-clad Wanderer.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Peanuts and Cracker Jack

So the World Series kicks off tonight. I know, that's the wrong metaphor. Sorry. I used to be a huge baseball fan, and I still find the game itself utterly beautiful to watch unfold, a game of moments where things happen one thing at a time. Baseball may be the last major sport that isn't a constant flow of motion. As for rooting interests, as the League Championship Series started in each league, I noticed that of those four teams, none were a team I dislike in any major way. Generally, my approach in such cases is this: when there are no teams left for whom I have a rooting interest (be it rooting for a team to win or for a hated team to lose), I root for the remaining teams in order of how long it's been since they won. In the AL you had the Orioles versus the Royals, whose last World Series wins were in 1983 and 1985, respectively. The Royals haven't even made the postseason since then. (The Orioles have, but have not won any pennants.) As for the NL, it was the Cardinals and Giants, two teams who have each won it at least twice in the last few years. So no matter who won the AL pennant, I would root for the AL champion in the World Series. Hence, go Royals!

The remainder of this post is a book review. My sports fandom is nowhere near what it once was, and I see little reason to expect it to rebound in any significant way in the future. That said, I do still enjoy good sports writing, and John Feinstein is one of the betters sportswriters out there. He has a new book about baseball, called Where Nobody Knows Your Name: Life in the Minor Leagues of Baseball, and it's definitely worth a look.

Minor-league baseball is sometimes seen as the more "pure" version of the baseball experience these days, where you can still go to the ballpark and take in a game for a few bucks, where goofball promotions are often used as enticements, where ads for local businesses still cover the outfield walls, where players still endure long bus rides from town to town, and where brushes with true baseball celebrity come mainly from young phenom players or Major Leaguers sent down to the minors to work their way back into the game after an injury.

Feinstein's portrait of the minors has all that, but he also captures something that a lot of fans may not come to realize: that the minors are, in addition to being a training ground for guys not yet ready for the Majors, a place of frustration. The fact is, especially at the AAA level, nobody wants to be there. This is a fact that everyone must acknowledge, and some managers come right out and say it. Nobody wants to be in AAA baseball, because AAA is the cusp of the Majors. When you're in AAA, your dream is almost there, constantly tantalizing you and torturing you with every single injury with the big club, with every time the manager's phone rings, with every invitation to spring training. Triple-A baseball is a land of players who are this close. For some, it's just a brief spot, while for others, it's a place to spend years without ever getting to "the show".

Feinstein focuses his book mostly on just nine men: six players, two managers, and one umpire. Some have made it and will make it back; others haven't made it yet; some have made it and will never make it back. The central fact of this book is that while dreams do come true, they don't always stay true. It's a hard lesson for some of these players, and it's very easy to understand why they keep signing up for one more year, why they keep trying to catch on someplace, even as they pass their 30th birthdays and start approaching their 40th.

It's interesting to me, as well, that Feinstein includes an umpire in his journey through AAA baseball. Fans don't think too much about umpires, really, and the only time their names really come up is when they screw up. If a baseball fan knows Don Denkinger's name, it's almost certainly because he blew a call in a World Series game; and even then, it's not like umpire's names stay in the memory for long. I couldn't tell you the name of the umpire who screwed up a call a couple years back that cost a pitcher a perfect game on what should have been the final out. (For the record, I still think that MLB should have reversed the call and credited that guy with the perfect game. The idea that umpire's calls are sacred and must never be changed, ever ever ever, is deeply bizarre to me.) Umpires work their way through the minors just like players do, hoping for that call to become an umpire at the Major League level. What I didn't know is that umpires' time is limited even more than players. A player can stay in the minors as long as some organization is willing to have him, but not so an umpire: you only get so many years, and if by that time the people who choose the Major League umpires don't think you have it, that's it: you're done. There are no career minor league umpires.

I was likewise surprised at the degree to which winning isn't much of a concern in the minors. They like to win, but winning is mainly seen as a function of playing well, and playing well is seen as the means to the end of reaching the Majors. Feinstein depicts the feel of a championship-winning minor league clubhouse as a pretty surreal place. It's an accomplishment that nobody much gives a shit about. This reminds me of the great movie Bull Durham, which spans an entire season and yet except for one brief segment in the middle of the movie, you get almost no sense for how the team's doing in the standings. No one cares. All that matters is who gets the call to go up, and who gets the call to go home.

Minor leaguers, it turns out, put up with a lot of crap. They'll fly with their team in the morning to a new city for a day game, only to be told as soon as they plane lands that the big club needs an arm for that night's game, so they're to turn around and get on another plane entirely. Mets pitcher Chris Schwinden, for example, got a call up to join the Mets in Toronto. After sitting in the bullpen, he flies with the team to Pittsburgh, where he's told that he's been sent back down already, so he has to turn around and get to Buffalo. At this point in the night, a direct flight from Pittsburgh to Buffalo isn't available, so they fly him to JFK, where he's supposed to catch a flight to Buffalo. That plane is delayed for two hours, so the team sends a car to drive him from NYC to Buffalo. After a series of mechanical mishaps with the car, Schwinden finally gets back to Buffalo eighteen hours after leaving Pittsburgh. This whole passage had me laughing, because you can drive from Pittsburgh to Buffalo in less than four hours.

Feinstein is an honest sportwriter, which means that he can't just depict baseball's poetic and pastoral beauty. Baseball keeps going, and as big as some players get, there is no player so big that the game can't keep being played once they hang up their cleats. Throughout the book, Feinstein makes clear that each and every person is aware that they are just minor cogs in the game's history and that the game will go on without them when they're done, almost as if they were never a part of it at all. At times this aspect of baseball can be bluntly heartless: near the end, when the umpire is finally told that he simply isn't good enough and that his career is over, one reason given is the time he has missed from umpiring. How much time did he miss? Two weeks once, for the birth of his own child, and two days one other time, so he could attend an uncle's funeral. That's pretty brutal.

The emotions go the other way, though, and Feinstein shows this as well in many passages. Why do these players work so hard to chase a dream that few will ever get, for whom the odds get smaller with each year? This passage, from the introduction, explains it perfectly.

Every player knows how much the first call-up means. Which is why there is almost always a celebration of some kind in a Triple-A clubhouse when someone gets the call for the first time. Everyone understands what an extraordinary moment it is in a player's life. Those who have been called up remember what it meant to them; those who have not know how much they want it to happen.

J.C. Boscan's story isn't quite the same as Jimmy Morris's, because he never stopped playing. He signed with the Atlanta Braves in the summer of 1996 at the age of sixteen and spent the next fourteen seasons bouncing around the minor leagues. He first reached Triple-A in 2002 but couldn't take the next step, because, even though he was a solid catcher, he just couldn't hit well enough to be regarded as a serious big-league prospect.

He left the Braves for a couple of years to play Double-A and Triple-A for the Milwaukee Brewers and the Cincinnati Reds. He signed back with the Braves in 2008, because the people running the organization had so much respect for him as a clubhouse leader and someone who would set a good example for younger players that they were willing to bring him back – knowing he was unlikely to ever play in Atlanta.

Two years later, playing in Gwinnett, he had his best offensive season. Nothing spectacular, but a career-high five home runs and a batting average of .250 – higher than his lifetime average of .222. Late in August, Boscan began to hear that he might be on the September call-up list.

Every year on September 1, major-league teams can expand their rosters to as many as forty players (the regular roster size is twenty-five). Rarely do they bring up more than five or six players. Those who are brought up usually provide depth in the bullpen or on the bench of are young players being given a taste of the major leagues. Every once in a while, a team will give a player a "good guy promotion" – bring him up so he can make major-league pay for a month as a reward for being a good guy and not complaining about being stuck in the minor leagues.

Boscan had been in the minors for fourteen years and had never seen the inside of a big-league clubhouse except during spring training. At thirty, he was a long way from being the bright-eyed teenage prospect the Braves had brought to the United States from Venezuela in 1997.

On August 31, the word in the Gwinnett clubhouse was that the Braves were going to make their call-ups after the game. Boscan remembers being more nervous that night than at any other time in his career.

"I walked on the field that night, and all I could think was, 'If I don't get the call tonight, it's never going to come,'" he remembered. "I honestly thought this was my last shot and my best shot to ever get to the majors. I could barely keep my mind on the game. All I could think about was what was going to happen after it was over. I was praying to God to let this be my time."

When the game ended, Boscan sat in front of his locker and picked at the postgame meal. Hitting coach Jamie Dismuke had been designated by manager Dave Brundage to bring players into his office so they could be told they were going to make the thirty-seven-mile trip down I-85 to Turner Field. As Dismuke worked his way around the clubhouse, that thirty-seven miles felt more like a million to Boscan.

The first player called in was Freddie Freeman, the twenty-year-old phenom, who was hitting .319 and was considered a lock call-up. He came out of Brundage's office with a huge smile on his face and was engulfed in congratulations.

Dismuke continued his rounds. One player after another walked around the corner to Brundage's office and came out wearing the giveaway grin. The congratulations continued. No one had made a move to leave because this was a happy night – for those going up.

Six players had gone in to see Brundage – entering as Gwinnett Braves and coming out as Atlanta Braves – and there was no sign of Dismuke for a couple of minutes. Boscan's heart sank. That was it – six guys. His dream had died.

Dismuke appeared again, this time walking directly toward Boscan.

"Skip wants to see you, J.C.," he said. He wasn't smiling. Boscan panicked. Maybe Brundage had gotten the good news out of the way first, and now he was going to let Boscan know that the team needed him in Double-A to work with a young catcher. Or, maybe he was being released.

Brundage was, in fact, preparing that kind of speech for Boscan. "I was going to look very sad and tell him that sometimes things don't turn out the way you want them to in baseball," he said. "But when he walked in here, he was shaking. I couldn't go through with it."

The entire Gwinnett staff was in the room when Boscan walked in.

"Have a seat, JC," Brundage said, trying to look grim.

Boscan sat on the couch across from Brundage's desk.

"You ever been to the big leagues?" he asked – knowing the answer.

"No," Boscan said, shaking his head.

Brundage couldn't keep up the charade.

"I was going to mess with you, JC, but I can't do it," he said, feeling himself start to choke up. "This is your day. You're going up."

Boscan burst into tears. Everyone else in the room was fighting to hold tears back.

"I've been a minor-league manager a long time," Brundage said. "I can honestly say that was the best moment I've ever had."

After Boscan had thanked everyone and shaken everyone's hand and been hugged all around, he walked out of the office. Brundage's office is in a hallway that leads to the clubhouse area where the players' lockers are located. When Boscan turned the corner to reenter the locker area, the entire team was waiting for him.

Feinstein doesn't reveal what became of JC Boscan after he finally reached the Major Leagues after fourteen years of minor-league toil, because that's really not the point of his book at all. But I couldn't help wondering, so I looked it up. That's the thing about baseball: you can always look it up. He only had one plate appearance with the Braves that fall, in which he drew a walk to load the bases; he would then score a run when a subsequent hitter doubled. Over the next two seasons with the Braves and then one season with the Cubs, he appeared in a total of 17 Major-League games, collecting 7 hits in 28 at-bats, for a .250 average. He has 2 career RBIs, and zero home runs. After the 2013 season he signed with the Dodgers organization, and he's still there, playing Double-A ball with the Chattanooga Lookouts.

Baseball abides, man.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Clobberin' Time, no more?

I was never a really big fan of the Fantastic Four during my comics-reading days*, but they are one of the iconic comics team, featuring characters nearly as foundational as Superman himself.

And now, Marvel is apparently canceling The Fantastic Four, for reasons that are...give me a minute, I'm struggling to come up with an apt descriptor for them...umm...F***ING STUPID.

Sorry, but that's really all I can think of to describe this nonsense.

(Original link via Roger.)

* When I say "my comics-reading days", I refer to that period when I was buying individual issues of comics on a monthly basis. I didn't stop reading comics.

Sentential Links

Linkage time!

:: Always be ready for inspiration to strike. For this reason I have more than a hoarder’s share of notebooks I travel with, not to mention my phone with several apps dedicated to jotting down ideas. For this reason there is no excuse for me not to write. If I want to finish all these ideas I have I’ve got to write write write. Morning, noon, and night. (I know the feeling!)

:: Uranus is the only planet to have been named after a Greek God, Ouranos. (Those outer gas giants are so fascinating. It's amazing to me that we're still only a century out from them even being known to exist in the first place. I read a story by one of the early 20th century science fiction writers that had spaceships landing on the surface of Neptune. Wow!)

:: I'm going to be published.

Finally.
(Great news and congratulations!)

:: So where have I been? I suppose I've been off being terribly, terribly angry. (Yes, this has been a banner couple of months for the "Everything is terrible" crowd.)

:: Just because I have a new baby doesn’t mean I don’t love my first baby.

:: Because of course that’s the thing: Even when these idiots declare me “not a real man,” it doesn’t change that I am always seen to be a “real man,” and that I get all the benefits that accrue to me for being biologically male, identifying as a man, and conforming to social standards for what both of those mean. The worst these dudes can do is be mean to me on the Internet. It doesn’t change anything about what I get from the world.

:: For some obscure reason, I’ve read old journals/diaries of mine from the 1970s and 1980s, and much of it is cringeworthy. The only reasons I keep them are these: 1) I could use some of it to cull out family and FantaCo history; 2) all the terrible stuff I could throw together as a roman a clef.

:: I believe in being kind to old cars.

Somebody sure had been kind to this one.


More next week, I hope!

Sunday, October 19, 2014

Burst of strange and odd stuff

Oddities and Awesome abound!

:: Remember the first scene in which Jeff Goldblum appears in Jurassic Park? He does this really weird and kinda creepy laugh that is one of the quintessential Jeff Goldblum moments in anything. Well, someone set that laugh to music...or rather, they translated that laugh into music. If you can believe such a thing. There's a video over there where you can hear that very laugh. Wow.

:: The tale of Shane, the Wal-Mart deli guy. This can't be real, can it? I wish it was, but....

:: Amazing photos of lighthouses. This may be useful when I return to writing Lighthouse Boy.

More next week, maybe.

Friday, October 17, 2014

Don't go away!

It's an unusually busy weekend here at Casa Jaquandor, so stick with me! Meantime, here's a bit of Glenn Miller.

Wednesday, October 15, 2014

A Random Wednesday Conversation Starter

If we ditch Columbus Day, what should be celebrated in its stead? (Assuming that we keep some kind of Federal holiday in October. )

Chapter the First! And so it begins!



OK, folks, want to actually meet those lovely Princesses? Now you can! It's Chapter One at ForgottenStars.net! They're not in SPACE!!! yet, but they soon will be....

Monday, October 13, 2014

Secret Weddings

SamuraiFrog writes about two cues from the Braveheart score:

It's sort of a touchstone for me now. Becca and I had been dating for about six months when this movie came out, and it was really this movie that made me aware of how much Becca actually liked film music. That was a passion I didn't share with many people, mostly because people my age seemed to think it was weird to not be into pop music or rap or whatever was right there on the radio. Becca listened to this soundtrack over and over, and we grew closer over a shared love of film scores. That was sort of important to me; sometimes she's just not into something that I am, and I'm glad this is one thing that she shares with me.

This rang a bell in my memory: I wrote a post in appreciation of the Braveheart score myself, some time ago; turns out that it was more than ten years ago. Wow.

And yet...I still return to this CD, again and again, because of the first ten tracks (which comprise the music up to and including Wallace's victory at Stirling). In the film, Mel Gibson strove for a very dreamy atmosphere, in which gestures are slowed down, dialogue is spoken at a measured pace, and characters hold one another's eyes. The emotional core of the film comes early, in those scenes of quiet courtship between Wallace and Murron (Catherine McCormack), when love is expressed by a quick and private smile or a shared glance as they pass each other within a crowd. This is where Horner's score shines.

The two tracks to listen to here are "Wallace Courts Murron" and "The Secret Wedding", both of which are long and quiet, and yet, surprisingly complex. The only rhythm in these two tracks is provided by a harp that is so distantly placed one is at first not even certain if it is even there. The melody Horner creates for these two lovers is a very long one indeed, and he varies it slightly each time it is heard -- first in the violins, then in the wavering tones of the kena flute (played with thick vibrato) and finally, most memorably, in a long line for solo oboe that is as heartbreaking a passage of music as I have ever heard.

The first half of Horner's Braveheart score constitutes some of the finest film music I know, haunting and atmospheric and lyrical. The score's back half does let up somewhat, as does the film, but that first half is so strong that it carries what comes after.

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Writer Guy Speaks! Listen to Writer Guy!

So, what's going on in my writer-verse of late? Let's talk!


As noted the other day, I finished this stage of proofreading on Stardancer, so hopefully I don't find a bunch more errors when I get the next proof copy, thus necessitating another round. That's where we stand there, though: nothing to do until that copy comes in the mail.

::  I dug out the manuscript of GhostCop (not the actual title). Remember that one? Me either!

Kidding aside, I let that manuscript sit unexamined a lot longer than I usually do, not because of that book but because the focus this year has been on Stardancer and Princesses II. This is the first time I've had a real opportunity to look at that book in more detail, so I'm now in the process of marking up the manuscript. The goal is to be done with that process by Halloween. (This is hopefully possible since, among other things, GhostCop is a significantly shorter novel than any of the other books in the hopper, at only around 100,000 words. By the way, GhostCop is an example of a time when I'm not being coy by using the working title. At this point I genuinely don't know what this book's actual title is!

When will GhostCop become a reality? At this point I'm not sure. I'd like to have it out sometime in 2015, though.

::  As for The Adventures of Lighthouse Boy (not the actual title, and again, because I have no idea yet what the actual title is): we're back on the back burner with that one. It'll get done, eventually, but right now I'm kicking around not releasing it as one large book but rather serializing it, a few chapters at a time, maybe for $,99 a pop. Who knows...it seems to me a good way to honor the book's Dumas/Dickens inspirations, but to be successful, this may have to wait until I've established my "brand" a bit more. And besides, that book wouldn't be ready for at least two years anyway, since I'm not even done writing it!

::  Let's see, what else...oh yes, I created a page for myself on Facebook.



A "page" is different from a Facebook "profile" in that there's no "friending" involved. All you have to do is "like" the page, and you're able to interact there. I don't know how much mileage I'll get out of it, especially since Facebook tends to hold page-based content hostage for money, but there it is. The page will be another way to interact with me. I'm not sure how I'll divvy up the content yet, but I figured I should at least hang out my shingle there, so consider it hung!

::  Finally, I've decided that Princesses In SPACE!!! III: The Search for the Last Crusade (not the actual title) will be my NaNoWriMo book this year. I'm already signed up and everything!



Obviously I won't be cranking out the entire book in November, as my target length for those books is 180000 words, and the focus of NaNoWriMo is 50000 in thirty days. I really have to get that manuscript going, so the book can be ready for its target release in November 2016. I'll have more to say about that as the process moves forward, and I'll talk more specifically about The Song of Forgotten Stars as a series on the main site after the book comes out.

Wow. I'm, like, busy and stuff!




Sunday Burst

Oddities and Awesome abound!

:: Nifty video footage of the Atlantic Ocean Road in Norway. I'm not sure the video lives up the "OMG this road is an insane trek of DEATH!!!" that the surrounding article portrays, but it's still a very cool-looking drive. Yes, I'd drive it!

:: Twenty lesser-known travel destinations you should see. I had to look up the first one, a lake in Iceland that the article claims straddles the boundary between Europe and North America. It turns out that this lake is a rift-valley lake, and that valley lies where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates come together. Now you know. (The other nineteen places on the list are also interesting.)

:: I'm sorry, but I read this article and all I can think is, "That poor bastard." This young man suffered one of the most bizarre and humiliating deaths I've ever heard about, and to make matters worse, when he was buried, they put a marker over his grave with the manner of his embarrassing death engraved right on the stone. Wow.

:: If you always felt the prose in cookbooks was a little too nice, and you've been looking for something a little more, say, Jersey Turnpike-ish, here's how to cook a f***ing steak. (Lots of salty language there.)

:: Finally, in this week's Great Moments In Pie In The Face History, an outfielder from the Houston Astros shows up at the Sports Illustrated headquarters to dispense some kudos-in-pie-form.

More next week!

Saturday, October 11, 2014

Don't take MY word for it! (Again)

Another of my beta-readers weighs in. Getting SamuraiFrog's approval was really huge to me. His tastes and mine intersect frequently, but we have enough areas of disagreement that I knew he wasn't a sure thing, and he's whip-smart, so if he doesn't like something, he can tell you exactly why, with often brutal force and surgical precision. That he responded to the book as warmly as he did (while still making some useful observations along the way) is a definite boost in the confidence I feel for my own story.

And if you haven't seen them yet, check out the book trailer and the cover art at ForgottenStars.net! This coming Wednesday I will post the complete Chapter One.