The Smartest Book in the World

by Greg Proops

  The game is getting better. The players are fit and they play hard. Where once everyone was named Tommy and Willie, now there are Brandons and Justins. And Asians and South Americans. Finally we are the world. This is good and right and true. Baseball is a fun game. If there were no big leagues, it would still be fun.

  While baseball is never going to succeed at speeding up, we probably haven’t seen the last of the long ball. Someday soon there will be a new round of miraculously huge titans crashing the ball over the fences. And we will all pretend they aren’t all juiced until we don’t again. But some of the problems with baseball are not hard to fix. For starters, make every city own the team like the Green Bay Packers in football. Why is baseball sacred to capitalism? If the fans owned the game, it would be possible to afford to take your kids. Please stop with “God Bless America” and the anthem. A corporate entertainment event is not a weepy patriotic rally. Why do we sing the anthem at ball games? Tradition. The last redoubt of the staunchly narrow-minded. Slavery was a tradition, too. “God Bless America” started after 9/11. Now if you don’t stand up, some son of liberty yells at you. Belief systems are not your business to enforce, Paul Revere. Save patriotism for never. Never is the best time for it. Bombs bursting in air are not a family sentiment. Flag waving is the lowest and scariest form of mass insanity. We could do without jet flyovers as well. Everyone doesn’t welcome the sound of our jets buzzing them. To some, it sounds like fear and imminent destruction. If you need the screaming of jets to make you feel triumphant, you are either a suitable case for treatment or a member of the Georgia legislature.

  POETRY IV

  Ernest Lawrence Thayer

  (1863–1940)

  Ernest Thayer was a smart, funny, rich kid at Harvard. He was the editor of The Lampoon, studied with the writer William James, and was pals with philosopher and intellectual George Santayana. He also palled around with William Randolph Hearst, the future newspaper tycoon. Thayer took a year off after graduation to tour Europe, and when he got home, Hearst was running the Examiner. Hearst invited him to join the staff, and he wrote humorous pieces under the name “Phin,” as Phineas was his college nickname. He dashed off “Casey at the Bat” in a few minutes.

  “Casey” remains the most famous poem about baseball and gave us another legendary American hero like Paul Bunyan or Pecos Bill. The key to this piece is Casey does not triumph. Baseball, like life, is often disappointing. Someone loses every game, after all. Casey is the hero as washout. For a gung-ho country like America in the 1880s, this poem was a reflection of how popular the game was, the Irishness of the players, and the humor of the swaggering slugger having to deal with failure.

  Archibald Clavering Gunter, a New York writer visiting San Francisco, saw the poem in the Examiner and cut it out, thinking to use it in the future. When he got back to New York he saw that his friend the comedian and mad baseball krank DeWolf Hopper (they had names then) was doing a comic opera in New York at Wallack’s Theater (where Macy’s is now). Amazingly, they were having a special crowd-pleasing baseball night. The two top teams in the country as well as the cream of New York and all the sports journalists were there in the gaslit theater while the kranks went mad—the Chicago White Stockings, starring nineteenth-century superstar and impressive racist Cap Anson, and that year’s champions, the New York Giants, who had prize catcher Buck Ewing, brilliant legal mind and future organizer of the Players League John Montgomery Ward, and ace pitcher “Smiling” Mickey Welsh, who claimed it was beer that made him so good and wrote his own short poem to prove it: “Pure elixir of malt and hops/Beats all the drugs and all the drops.” Had a big party to celebrate themselves, and that is where the poem debuted.

  Hopper memorized the poem in less than an hour and stopped the second act to crack it out. The crowd went bananas, and Hopper recited it for the rest of his life—around ten thousand versions, according to him. His description of the night is tremendous. “When I dropped my voice to B flat, below low C, at ‘but one scornful look from Casey, and the audience was awed,’ I remember seeing Buck Ewing’s gallant mustachios give a single nervous twitch.” Let’s see how your gallant follicles fair.

  Casey at the Bat

  The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;

  The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,

  And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,

  A sickly silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

  A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest

  Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;

  They thought, If only Casey could but get a whack at that—

  We’d put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.

  But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,

  And the former was a lulu and the latter was a cake;

  So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat,

  For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

  But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,

  And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;

  And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,

  There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

  Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;

  It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;

  It knocked up on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,

  For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

  There was ease in Casey’s manner as he stepped into his place;

  There was pride in Casey’s bearing and a smile on Casey’s face.

  And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

  No stranger in the crowd could doubt ’twas Casey at the bat.

  Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt;

  Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.

  Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

  Defiance gleamed in Casey’s eye, a sneer curled Casey’s lip.

  And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,

  And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

  Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped—

  “That ain’t my style,” said Casey. “Strike one!” the umpire said.

  From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

  Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore.

  “Kill him! Kill the umpire!” shouted someone on the stand;

  And it’s likely they’d a-killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

  With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;

  He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

  He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;

  But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

  “Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered “fraud!”

  But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

  They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

  And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

  The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;

  He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.

  And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go.

  And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

  Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

  The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

  And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;

  But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

  SMARTEST BOOK BASEBALL TEAM II

  The All-Baseballr />
  Baseball Team

  Manager: CASEY STENGEL, the Old Perfessor (1890–1975)

  Casey played in the 1923 World Series for the Giants, flipping the Yankees bench the bird when he hit a homer. He managed some awful teams, but when he got the Yankees in the late ’40s he revolutionized the game with platooning and relief pitching. He pissed off DiMaggio by not being reverent enough and thought Mickey Mantle was a wastrel. When he was fired at seventy after a rare World Series loss, he said, “I’ll never make the mistake of being seventy again.” He fills out the lineup card any way he wants to.

  Catcher: JOHNNY BENCH (1947–)

  Best hitter on a team of big hitters, the Big Red Machine of the 1970s. Bench also ruined catching for decades by being so goddamn good. He could catch with one hand and throw guys out from his knees. Now everyone does it, but not with his gun.

  First Base: LOU GEHRIG (1903–1941)

  He gave the best dying speech in baseball history, and he could larrup, as the old-time sportswriters said. His old-school German mother brought bags of eels into the Yankee clubhouse as a treat. He was so dominant no one objected.

  Second Base: LITTLE JOE MORGAN (1943–)

  An annoying announcer, he was a superb all-around player. He could run, hit, steal, and win pennants all while being munchkin-sized. Every team he played for was better because he was on it. Arm flapping at the dish and stealing with ease despite his lack of speed. He was the hustlingest and bright as the Dickens.

  Third Base: MIKE SCHMIDT (1949–)

  Bill James said that if Schmidt had hit .320, he would be the greatest player of all time. There have been better fielders, but none could slug and field the way Schmitty did. Sorry, George Brett and Brooks Robinson. You are both still divine.

  Shortstop: HONUS WAGNER (1874–1955)

  Sorry, Jeter, you have more rings, but the Flying Dutchman was simply the best player in baseball. He played virtually every position before settling at shortstop and was beloved all over the country. When he quit playing, he was a coach and talked baseball with the fans throughout the game and after over beers. One of the kindest men who ever played.

  Right Field: BABE RUTH (1895–1948)

  You need reasons? Ninety-seven wins as a pitcher, 714 home runs as a player. Everyone in the league made more money because of him. He ate every pancake, shagged every doll, drank every beer, and made time for every kid. He called the president “Prez.” Drove an open-air car and wore driving gloves while smoking a cigar. Awesome.

  Center Field: WILLIE MAYS (1931–)

  Center is crowded. Mantle and DiMaggio won more championships. But Mays was the most infectious player to strap on cleats. Hat flying, arms windmilling, smile blazing; he did everything with daring and great skill. A genius of the game and the biggest drawing card in his era. Willie Mays is baseball.

  Left Field: HENRY AARON (1934–)

  A giant of a human. Soft-spoken, sensitive, and smart as a whip, Aaron was the first to break Ruth’s home-run mark, for which he endured vile death threats and came through with dignity. Superb outfielder, awesome slugger, enlightened executive, great human being.

  STARTERS

  Left Hander: SANDY KOUFAX (1935–)

  Unbeatable after he learned control. Sensitive and intelligent. Quit before he was hurt for a lifetime. Four no-hitters in consecutive years. He also threw a perfect game. Huge hands that can hold five balls at once. All you can say is “Wow.”

  Right Hander: WALTER JOHNSON (1887–1946)

  Johnson had 417 wins for a mediocre team, the Washington Senators—“First in war, first in peace, and last in the American League.” Republican. Nice guy. Deadly fastball. Threw sidearm buggy-whip style.

  Relief: MARIANO RIVERA (1969–)

  He was just the living end to a game. Played till he was a hundred, almost.

  BULLPEN

  BOB GIBSON (1935–)

  He also makes All-Time Controversial Team, but you want him on yours.

  TOM SEAVER (1944–)

  Tom Terrific to you, mortal. Miracle Mets and just plain great.

  CY YOUNG (1867–1955)

  When they name the award after you, then he sits. Until then, stand in breathless wonder.

  ROLLIE FINGERS (1946–)/DENNIS ECKERSLEY (1954–)

  Two A’s, two unforgettable mustaches. Lots of saves.

  BENCH

  Outfielder MICKEY MANTLE (1931–1995)

  He is a titan, best hurt player ever. If not hurt, best player ever.

  Outfielder ROBERTO CLEMENTE (1934–1972)

  The first, greatest Latin player. Fierce, dedicated, and proud.

  Outfielder TED WILLIAMS (1918–2002)

  Fuck you if he don’t.

  Outfielder BARRY BONDS (1964–)

  Super fuck you.

  Infielder WILLIE McCOVEY (1938–)

  It is my book.

  Infielder DEREK JETER (1974–)

  He has the rings and all the shiny things. Dated the world. Saved the franchise.

  Infielder JACKIE ROBINSON (1919–1972)

  Put the Brave in Home of the Brave.

  Catcher ROY CAMPANELLA (1921–1993)

  Campy won three MVPs catching.

  MOVIES II

  Buddy Movies

  SOME LIKE IT HOT

  Billy Wilder, director, 1959

  Billy Wilder wrote and directed this monument to farce. Can two guys in drag be hilarious for a whole movie? This is the test case and ultimate winner. Joe and Jerry (Tony Curtis and Jack Lemmon) are two down-and-out musicians who accidentally witness the St. Valentine’s Day massacre in gangland Chicago and are forced to hide in an all-girl jazz band with Marilyn Monroe. Jack Lemmon turns out to be a bold, brassy girl, while Tony Curtis is a prissy boots. Marilyn is hilarious and vulnerable and wears some shocking gowns that defy gravity and the censors. One day when trying on their gowns, the costumer, Orry-Kelly (who also did Casablanca and An American in Paris), said to Marilyn, “Tony has a better-looking ass than you.” She opened her top and said, “But he doesn’t have tits like these.” Wilder saw Joe E. Brown at a Dodger game and cast him as the lecherous millionaire Osgood, who hits on Jack Lemmon, and Lemmon seems to love it.

  The lines come rapid-fire. “Why would a fella marry another fella?” “Security.” Marilyn sings and Tony does a spot-on Cary Grant, and George Raft, the tough guy of tough guys, makes an elegant gangster. Watch closely when he kicks a toothpick out of a dead rival’s mouth. That, my friends, is a dancer kick. He also taught Jack Lemmon and Joe E. Brown how to do the tango. Classic American comedy.

  BUTCH CASSIDY AND THE SUNDANCE KID

  George Roy Hill, director, 1969

  The funnest buddy movie, period. A sentimental favorite of The Smartest Book, as we saw it as a child a gajillion times. Redford and Newman, hot in their ’60s hairdos and corduroy cowboy coats, are the most offhand outlaws at the end of the Wild West. The picture starts with a silent film of our antiheroes to set up that time has passed them by. They belong to the Old West, where robbing banks and jacking trains was what bad guys did. Butch and Sundance were real bad guys from the end of the Wild West. They looted and shooted and robbed trains and hid in the hills of Wyoming and Montana. They consorted with sharps and wore derby hats to take their gang pictures. Then they split for Bolivia, robbed them of their silver, and then disappeared for good. Some people say they were killed by federales; others say they escaped to South America, made their way back to the States, and hid under assumed names. This movie provides an answer and, because it is the ’60s, it’s a freeze-frame. Thelma and Louise on horseback. Butch and Sundance love each other while keeping up a constant flow of sarcasm. Redford tells Newman, the erstwhile brains of the duo, “You just keep thinking, Butch, that’s what you’re good at.” If only he could have thought them back in time to where they might have fit. A bicycle serves as a cinematic metaphor to let you know the times are changing. Their man love is tested by almost dying at the hands of a mysterious pos
se that won’t stop chasing them. It becomes an existential race between their egos and guile and the posse’s determined doggedness in running them down. “Who are those guys?” they wonder again and again. The facelessness of the lawmen adds to the dread and helplessness of our sexy leads as they try to live their lives while committing crime, which they admit is just so they don’t have to work. William Goldman wrote a cracking screenplay full of jokes and moments and random violence to keep it real. Every small part in this movie is manned by Movie Helpers: the hilarious comedian Kenneth Mars (Young Frankenstein, What’s Up, Doc?) as the blowhard sheriff, Henry Jones as the oily bike salesman, Jeff Corey as the grumpy lawman who foretells their untimely fate, Cloris Leachman as the giddy soiled dove Butch tries to make out with before his time is up. The stunning backdrops and our groovy leads carry the day. Can they make it home? What is home when you are on the run? Stand by for a Burt Bacharach hit song video and several musical sequences.