“Home Run” Baker had a huge dong.

The following was re-printed from Robert W. Creamer’s book, Babe: A Legend Come to Life.

hr baker cardBecause of the Babe’s prowess, there were the inevitable stories that Ruth was exceptionally well equipped sexually, and a male nurse who took care of him in his terminal illness was impressed by the size of Ruth’s genitals. One teammate, asked if he had an exceptionally big penis, frowned a little and searched his memory and shook his head. “No,” he said, “It was normal size, judging from locker room observation. Nothing extraordinary. Del Pratt’s was. And Home Run Baker’s. My god, you wouldn’t believe Home Run Baker’s. It looked like it belonged to a horse. But Babe’s wasn’t noticeably big. What was extraordinary was how he kept doing it all the time. He was continually with women morning and night. I don’t know how he kept going.”He was very noisy in bed, visceral grunts and gasps and whoops accompanying his erotic exertions.  “He was the noisiest fucker in North America,” a whimsical friend recalled.

A fictional account of the adventures of Bob Hale, scout for the Kansas City Athletics.

scout Bob Hale was tired and just wanted to eat, have a beer and perhaps grumble to a stranger. He spotted a flashing motel sign in the distance and pulled his station wagon into its gravel strewn parking lot. There was a small light above a window/door that said, ring bell for service. The bell hadn’t stopped ringing before a short, twerpy guy popped up from behind the window, leaping from a portable cot that was hidden from sight.

“Yeah, I’ll take a room for the night.”

“That’ll be ten dollars for the night and it comes with a hot shower,” the twerp said, adjusting his thick horn rimmed glasses.

Hale pushed the ten spot across the wooden counter, all the while thinking about a card game he had lost a few weeks earlier.

“There a place to get a drink around here?”

“Yeah, The Double Deuce, right down the street. You’ll be in room 5 and check out is at 10.”

“Thank you kindly.”

The Double Deuce was a small place with sawdust on the floor and a jukebox in the corner. There were a few local toughs milling around mingling with their girlfriends. This was a cesspool, a dump, a junkpile and a shithole all wrapped in one, yet it was fine for a few quick drinks before stumbling back to the room with a melancholy residue. Hale was used to the more classy joints in his hometown of Chicago, but he was here on business so the intricacies of this hick town meant nothing to him.

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Kansas City Athletics owner Arnold Johnson (L) yukking it up with president Harry S. Truman. (R)

Hale had driven to Kansas City from Chicago a mere 12 hours ago. Arnold Johnson, the Athletics owner had set up a mandatory scout meeting earlier in the day at Municipal Stadium. The meeting was not pleasant in the mind of Hale as Johnson was more of an industrialist-capitalist than a baseball man. He despised men like Johnson who had  Yankee Stadium in his possession and were using the game for profit. He also had no respect for a man that had weaseled the team from the Mack family with the help of his rich cronies. Baseball was a little different, a little sadder, for the era of one of the game’s greatest figures in Connie Mack was over.

“What’s it gonna be, buddy?”

“Tom Collins,” Hale said as he lit his Cuban cigar.

“Sorry, pal, we don’t have the mixins’ for that. I can get you a gin and tonic if you’d like.”

“Sounds fine..”

One of the locals, the one with the Elvis Presley haircut, stood up suddenly and started barking at his girlfriend. Hale had the prescience to know that this would happen and didn’t move a muscle. There was a minor dust-up until order was quickly restored.

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local toughs.

“The kids today and their rock and roll,” Hale snorted.

“Yeah, they’re a goddamn pain in the ass, but I’m not one to turn away customers…say, are you from around here?”

Hale was wearing a Panama hat with cuffed khaki trousers, a sign that he definitely was not from around “here.”

“Naw, but I’m a baseball man…the Athletics.”

“Wow! They sure are big around here, buddy, you can be sure of that! Are you some sort of big-wig or somethin’?”

“Naw. I’m a nobody, an ass-kisser, a smudge, a nothin'”

“Fair enough. Well, we love the team around here…I just took my kid last month.”

“Actually, I’m just in town for a few days to meet up with my shit-kickin’ boss and to scout a local kid for the ball-club.”

“A local kid! Sheeeeeeeit. What’s the kid’s name?” said the bartender as he looked over Hale’s shoulder at the toughs.

Hale took a long drag off his cigar and exhaled just as “Rock around the Clock” poured out of the jukebox. The hoodlums started to dance in unison.

(To be continued……)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hot Dog Eating a Hot dog.

john kilduff

John Kilduff–Rickey Henderson 1980 Topps rookie

As longtime readers know, I like to incorporate different facets of life into this blog, mostly from the realm of modern art and literature. It tends to get a bit tedious talking about baseball players and stats and free agency and Bud Selig’s ego and PED’s and Hall of Fame voters and the widening strike zone until I’m blue in the face. We’re getting closer to the Christmas holidays, I drank too much Crown Royal and I’m feeling a bit silly.

John Kilduff was a loco personality. He hosted a “painting show” that I would watch late at night here in Los Angeles while sucking on the hash pipe. I was supposed to be writing a thesis on “Modern Art and Capitalism,” but this show seemed more interesting and vital at the time. I couldn’t tell if the guy was gifted or if he was a charlatan looking to make a buck, (he turned out to be both) and I loved it. Some of his work had titles like, “Hot dog eating a hot dog,” and “African-American titty burger.” All this talk is meaningless, you simply must see for yourself…

Gene Tenace, the 1972 World Series and the crazy guy.

gene

Don’t shoot!

By Gene Tenace

“Well, if you gotta go, Gene, at least it will be on national television.”–Reggie Jackson

In the 1972 World Series (against the Cincinnati Reds) we end up winning Game 2 and I’m still in this extremely relaxed state. The guys are lightly celebrating the victory. I get in the clubhouse and Dick Williams pulls me away from all these writers who are interviewing me. We go into his office and there’s these two guys in dark blue suits.
“What’s going on,” I ask.
“Geno, somebody wants to shoot you,” Dick said, matter-of-factly as he closed the door.
“Shoot me,” I said, with half a laugh, “What did you mean shoot me?”
The men turn out to be FBI agents. One of them goes into this story that a woman on a concession line early in Game 2 at Riverfront Stadium stood behind this man who was saying to no one in particular, “If that guy on Oakland hits another homer, I’m gonna put a bullet in his head as he rounds third base.” A couple of people around him laughed it off, but this one woman went to an usher who grabbed security and a police officer. They found the guy, got him out of the line and sure enough he had a .22 in one pocket (loaded, too) and bottle of bourbon in the other. They kept all this commotion away from me until the game was over. From that point on, I was battery mates with the FBI for the rest of the series. I had to travel with the FBI – I didn’t even get to go with the team anymore. Riding in unmarked, bullet-proof cars, I’m not gonna lie, it was kind of cool. They just followed me all over. Leaving ballparks from exits unknown to the general public. 24-hour surveillance. FBI agents guarding my hotel room door. Treating me like a rock star, but it was too much, I’m just trying to win a world series and some lunatic was out there wanting to pop a cap in me. Yeah sure, they caught the guy, but they still went through precautionary measures. Who knows if he was working with someone else. Sounds crazy, but you never know. Funny ending to this story. 10 years later, I’m with the Cardinals, going back to the series in ’82 against the Milwaukee Brewers, guess who I get a letter from? “Mr. Tenace, I’m so sorry what I put you through. It was a bad time in my life. In and out of jail, broke. Please forgive me.” How about that? He was apologizing. Fine, I guess, but I couldn’t believe, 10 years later, this guy’s still got me on his mind? Are you kidding me?

We ended winning (game 7) 3-2. I was named the MVP of the series. NBC broadcast the games and their owner, RCA sent me elvis-presley-ca-1950s-everettthis enormous home unit entertainment center as part of my award. When the delivery men carrying this thing got to my house, man, this sucker was so big it took like four guys to carry the thing off the truck. Had to get the neighbors to come over and help me get it in the house. We open it in my den and sure enough it had a nice, big television screen and eight-track tape player in it, too. Got to hear my Elvis and Frank Sinatra music in stereo. Lots of Country & Western also played on that hifi for many years.
That night in the offseason, my wife went to sleep early and I tucked in the kids in bed. Everyone was excited about the new piece of cool furniture. I was excited about finally having some peace and quiet at last.

I cracked open a beer, sat back on my recliner and enjoyed my new hifi, just the three of us. Elvis, The King. Frank, The Chairman. Most importantly, the memory of my 1972 Oakland A’s teammates.

The Champions.

Random thoughts and Rollie Fingers riding a dolphin.

rollie Just a few random thoughts……The A’s bullpen has stunk this season. The Jim Johnson fiasco and Luke Gregerson’s 7 blown saves has given a crap team like the Angels a chance to compete. (and let’s face it, Bob Melvin has enough on his plate– worrying about 3 platoon catchers, Brandon Moss’ slump, where to play him and all that jazz.) There are the people who think the ‘pen is fine based on BABIP and SIERA , (no, not Ruben!) but I tend to go with my eyes rather than a bunch of stats conjured from thin air by numbers-crunchers and the jobless. It gets so ridiculous at times that you wonder how they could ever cross the street until they figured out the Pythagorean projection of success. (A note to the ladies…they are most likely bad in bed.)….

…Is former Athletic and current Astro Chris Carter the new Dave Kingman? His stats suggest so. He has amazing power, low batting average, strikes out a lot, yet throw a hanger and that fucker will have its own stewardess. The only difference being that Chris is a soft-spoken “good guy” and Kingman was known for being one of the game’s biggest assholes…so much so that after hitting 35 round-trippers no one signed him….and he NEVER PLAYED AGAIN…

…The vape pen is the best thing to ever happen for all you low-key weed smokers/baseball fans. It’s compact, and you can get your smoke on without any of those corny ass, nosey, do-gooders getting in your face for no good goddamn reason. It’s the perfect ballpark accessory. (this works extra well late in the post-season and early summer when the “on the cusp” bring their kids and ignorantly see the ballpark as Disneyland.)…

The season is slowly/quickly and sadly coming to an end.

 

 

 

SLUMP!!!!

i guess  Here I am again, sitting by the poolside with a screwdriver, one of my favorite adult beverages. You may think that I’m trying to be a braggart, but L.A. summers are hot, man. I’m not having the time of my life or anything. Mind you, I live in a post WW 2 bungalow (L.A. is known for these….look for them in just about EVERY movie) so I don’t have air conditioning. Yep….tough times.

  OK…OK….on to baseball. As you may or may not know my answers are unfiltered and to-the-point, often poignant but always unsentimental, not rude but refusing to infest the garden of honest human communication with the Victorian-seeded, American-sprouted weed of pointless politeness. What was the question you asked?

Well, the A’s sucking major ball-sack lately.

The A’s hitting has been anemic since “the trade”. They are 7-10 since trading the “Cuban Missile” and have currently lost 7 out of their last 8.  They got a great ace in Lester but traded their 4 hitter to get him. Losing Cespedes has an effect on your 3 an 5 hitters and, ultimately, your entire lineup…..and that’s fine. There is a philosophy at work here. And that philosophy is based on “gamers”, L/R matchups (the baseball du jour) and amazing starting pitching.

 I’ll take the above mentioned any day of the week over a guy who had an OBP of barely .300 and would make a great play every now and then. This is baseball…it takes patience, articulation and grittiness to win. If I know anything about this team….we’ll be alright. This is a desperate plea to all the nerds out there in internet land….CALM DOWN! I DON’T KNOW EVERYTHING! ENJOY BASEBALL! SOMETIMES YOU LOSE! LIFE GOES ON! QUIT BLOWING UP MY INBOX! …..and now…..back to my screwdriver.

Sean Doolittle and the hesher.

doo2Q: “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.

quit

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!?