Mike Piazza sounds off on all the young whipper snappers

Prefers the heavy metal over the hippity hop.

The following was taken from Mike Piazza’s autobiography, “Long Shot.”

…I wouldn’t have felt (my age) at all if the music in the clubhouse weren’t hurting my ears the way it did. When it comes to music I feel like I’m as open-minded as anybody out there, but (the A’s) had a young roster and, well, man. I like rap just fine–hell, I was wearing gold chains back when Olivia Newton-John was getting physical–if it’s classic rap, or even the new stuff when there’s a strong rhythm to it. As a thrash-metal guy from way back, I feel like I can handle some rough language and graphic lyrics; but some of the more contemporary rap is so blatantly hard-core that even an old Slayer and Anthrax man like me has a tough time dealing with it. I guess it’s a matter of age and tradition both. You have to understand, I came up with the Dodgers when the stadium music consisted exclusively of Nancy Bea Hefley at the organ. When that was cutback to modernize the atmosphere–to make the ballpark sound like every other ballpark–they turned to entrance music, with each player picking a theme song. With the Mets, I recall Tony Tarasco coming to the plate to an X–rated, in your face rap number that had the whole stadium sounding like a bad-ass clubhouse.

Can’t say I cared for that.

Mark McGwire and Heshers From the Past

Now that we know the baseball card craze of the 80’s/90’s was a facade with no chance of anyone (besides the industry itself) making a profit, we can laugh at the 100’s of dollars wasted and sleepless nights to tell our stories of woe in an era that spawned the term “junk wax” and offered no common sense or integrity.

There are many people out there who still think their collections are worth something, yet these bumbling dolts don’t understand supply and demand, and no doubt don’t understand much of anything else of either. These are the same people living multi-generational in Flyover States and are embracing the cultural hegemony of Beanie Babies, watching re-runs of All In the Family, and drinking a 2-liter of Dr. Pepper daily while embracing the brain contusion as a metaphor for life.

I recently made an impromptu trip to my local card shop and bought a Mark McGwire 1987 Donruss “Rated Rookie” for 3 dollars which I thought to be insanely cheap for a guy who once held the single-season home run record and is 10th all-time. I retrieved it later from a notebook, felt no sentimentality, and with a “meh” I threw it in a box. Remember folks, this simple piece of cardboard, tossed waywardly, once had a peak value of 80 dollars over 30 years ago.

……and then the nostalgia reminiscing came out of nowhere.

I was once a 12-year-old snot-nosed punk. (still a few years away from my first “kegger,” which was with a guy named Kevin B. who wore a Metallica shirt everyday. He only broke up the monotony on occasion with an Anthrax t-shirt, who I personally thought sucked the bag.) The McGwire card was one of the hottest properties for a young boy in Northern California, and your average dipshit kid wouldn’t trade it for ANYTHING. Eventually, through hours of tedious wheeling and dealing, I had acquired a few of these by the time Jr. High came rolling around. One day in woodshop, a very large, jean jacketed, Mexican buttrocker named Billy (who turned out to be a great hitter, but I wouldn’t know that until high school freshman try-outs) offered to trade me a cassette for one single, thin cardboard McGwire. I jumped at the chance! I had a large stack of them and welcomed the opportunity to talk to someone “cool” who would take the time and effort out of their exciting heavy metal life to make a tape for a nerd like me. ( I was a freckle-faced, Opie-looking kid who wouldn’t grow into my 6’2 frame until my sophomore year in high school.) Billy brought me the tape the next day and with a nod says,

“You needed to listen to Slayer.”

I waited with anticipation for school to let out and then popped that fucker into my fluorescent-blue Kmart cassette player. The famous riff intro to South of Heaven proceeded to slam its way into my brain and become forever locked in.

An unforeseen future nestled somewhere in time.
Unsuspecting victims no warnings, no signs.
Judgment day the second coming arrives.
Before you see the light you must die.

That was the best trade I ever made and opened a whole new, blossoming musical world for me–essentially changing my life forever. Thanks, dude…wherever you are.

Sean Doolittle and the hesher.

Q: “Hey, what’s up?”
A: “Oh, ya know, ripping apart, severing flesh, gouging eyes, tearing limb from limb.”

Q: “Hey, why won’t the red light change?
A: “Hmm, gods of the throne must be watching from hell.”

Hessian = West coast name for a heavy metal fan

by John Quittner

Halloween 1991 was my first Halloween in Olympia, Wa. and I didn’t have any plans, so I was spending the evening cold kickin’ it with my roomies Brent and Maia watching Star Trek.  As I went to the kitchen to fetch the wine, my confident strut was interrupted by a knock at the door. I opened up and found myself staring at two young hessians no older than 13 , who wore no costume except that of their normal hessain selves– sleeveless denim jacket with Guns and Roses headband and curled lip etc.

“Fuckin’ trick or treat.” they said.

your esteemed writer.

‘We don’t have any candy or anything.”

“Got a cigarette?” one asked hopefully with a snarl.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Got any alcohol?” They were quite bold.

“Well,” I pointed to the liquor store “they’ll probably sell you some over there.”

“Aww dude, do I look 21 to you?”

“Sure.” I didn’t know what else to say.

“Yeah fuckin’ right.” They didn’t look like they were going anywhere.

I got an idea. “You guys want a Judas Priest record?”

Their eyes got all big…” Fuck yeah!” they said in unison.

“Well hang on a second, ” I started digging through my old hesh records.

“Fuck, man. Do you have PAINKILLER?”

‘Uh huh,” the last Judas Priest record I had bought was DEFENDERS OF FAITH, but then it occurred to me that budding heshers were more into speed metal, not standard early 80’s viking striking stuff.

“Who wants Anthrax FIST FULL OF METAL?”

“Me! Me!”

I handed them both over and let them fight it out.

“KILLER! Thanks man!”

They ran off into the night, and I slept easy knowing that I had pleased two young heshers on their most special night of the year. How stoked would King Diamond be!?