SPORTS-(PIRATES)
Archive
This one's for my dad.
The following article is from an essay I wrote in my freshman college composition class
in February, 1993. I found this in the Bowels of ES-Land and wanted to
add it here for prosperity. For me, it's important... but you may enjoy it as well.
"Buc Night"
I had always believed it was just a game for little kids and drunk guys. To be interested in baseball, one had to be either a rugrat with sweaty cap constantly adhered to the head, or downing a few quarts of Bud at the local pub. I was a big football fanatic, always getting my head cracked open, or trying to remember who, or what had collided with me. I had no time for a patsy, slow moving spectacle that featured forty year old geezers chucking balls around. It was there, but I ignored it entirely.
I was born in the scenic, slag dump infested world known as Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. With absolutely nothing of interest in the town, it was no uncommon to find thousands of "mill hunks" (steel workers) and their familis crowded around a television watching either the Pirates or Steelers. He teams had a special, almost religious connection to the people. Pittsburgh did not have local celebrities, it had sports icons.
Fortunately, I left this dismal world in the winter of 1978, when I was four, for Colorado. The only memories I had of Pittsburgh, outside of my relatives, were of sports and steel mills. Not a real festive place to grow up in. If you lived in Pittsburgh all your life, worked in the steel mill , and supported the Pirates, then you would, supposedly, die a happy man.
It was November 1989. The last of my grandparents had died, and we flew back to Pittsburgh for his funeral. This involved a lot of paperwork, as the remaining relatives had to tidy up my grandfather's estate. As the cleaning began, we uncovered two things worth mentioning, an old shoebox and a spiral notebook. The notebook contained several random thoughts, amateur poems and other ramblings from my late grandfather. One entry contained a report of the day's activities, sometime in the 1960's. He mentioned how it had rained after he painted the house, but he felt better that afternoon as he "listened to the Pirates
win their opener." He then went on to document the score and some gibberish about the pitchers. It seemed a tad peculiar to me to have a former University of Pittsburgh chemistry professor write about a baseball team in a journal. The other "artifact", the shoebox, contained several old baseball cards from my father and my older brother. I did not think much of either, but both ended up coming back to Denver with me.
December rolled around, and I was stuck at home for two and a half weeks over my high school's winter break. My dad worked at a publishing company, and one day brought home a box of "homeless" baseball cards. Uninterested, I put them in numerical order to pass the time. A few days later, while talking to a friend, I discovered that these things are actually worth money. Being a sophomore, not old enough to work yet, I was ecstatic about the chance to make some easy money. This led me to uncover the old shoebox. It is an old cliché that is told too often today, but I did find quite an impressive dollar amount in the old shoebox cache. I told my brother and father about the excitement I received when I discovered an old Mickey Mantle worth approximately $400. My dad was slightly excited, but he burst when he saw I also had an old dog-eared Roberto Clemente in the box. Clemente was an old Pirate, and I quickly realized that all the Pirate cards were equally mauled - a sign of tremendous handling and use. Sure, the Mantle card was expensive, but to my dad, those old Pirate cards were worth more than Fort Knox.
The ensuing months saw me scooping up every new baseball issue that his the stands. I was getting everything, free of charge, with my dad's assistance, and being able to make a small profit. I understood the football cards, but the baseball cards baffled my mind. What the heck was an "Era" or, what is so amazing about this .320 average? The stats made no sense, I could only figure out what team the guy played for, and which position he played.
The month of April hit with nothing to do, so I turned on ESPN, and accidentally watched a baseball game. I had wanted to watch afternoon pro wrestling- old reruns of Kerry Von Erich and Iceman King Parsons. Instead, I got the Royals and the Orioles. I was bored, so I sat around to see if Bo Jackson was really worth all the hype. Immediately following the game, an update enlightened me to the fact that the Pittsburgh Pirates destroyed the New York Mets by an approximate score of 13-2. The update mentioned how ridiculous the Mets performed, having to use seven pitchers. I thought "what's wrong with that? All pitchers play in a game, don't they?" I was mystified by all the intricate details of baseball, thus I began reading the sports page and watching ESPN's "Baseball Tonight". I learned about batting averages, saves, what a "K" os, and how the Pirates were off to their best season since the 1979 World Champion "We Are Family" team. I vaguely remembered hearing about such a team from my relatives. Nevertheless, I was overjoyed to find out that my hometown boys started winning as soon as I had begun to follow baseball. I followed them all season long, until they lost the National League Championship to the eventual World Series champs, the Cincinnati Reds. I had not invested too much in baseball yet, so I was not troubled by the fact.
As the 1991 season rolled around, I was still, mildly, a Pirates supporter. On my seventeenth birthday, my mother took me out to shop for some new clothes. At a store in Southglenn Mall, a black hat with the familiar "P" caught my eye. I try it on, only to unveil the fact that my head is larger than the avergae person. My quest for a larger size led my mother and I all over town, until we obtained one at Bill's Sports Collectibles.
Whenever I wore my new hat, I would be careful to immediately remove it if I started to perspire. Nothing stinks like a used and abused sweaty ball cap! I felt bold wearing it. Only gang members wore black sports hats! What was I doing?! I felt bold just to show my support with the hat. Nobody picked my Bucs to win that year, but I insisted on staying in the corner of my underdogs.
As the summer dragged on, I continually found myself shooting the breeze with my dad over the Pirates. I tell hi something nifty that happened to them last night, and he reminisces about watching the Pirates in Forbes Field during the fifties. We each had our favorite players, or we call them, "our boys" on the modern team. I liked center fielder Andy Van Slyke for his ability and sense of humor. My dad liked Van Slyke because he considered him a throwback to someone like Ted Kluseweki or Bill Virdon, from his adolescent days of watching the Bucs in the fifties and sixties. Together, we built a collection of "Pirate Stuff". My dad dug up an old program from a game he attended in the sixties. The scorecard was in his distinctive handwriting, and detailed Roberto Clemente and his Pirates against Hank Aaron and the Milwaukee Braves. We would go on "weekly adventures" to local collectible shops, finding more "Pirate Stuff". My dad was always thrilled to see an old Clemente card, but one of his favorites was of an obscure outfielder named Bill Robinson. "Hey, this is Weezer… I used to play ball with him as a kid." Indeed, it was the same Bill Robinson that my dad had grown up with in Pennsylvania.
The only thing missing from my baseball experience was baseball itself. My father and I both longed for a National League expansion team to set up shop in Denver. Not for the chance to have a home team, but to see the Pirates come into town and cream them. In April of 1992, I got the chance to check out the Pirates in person. My aunt owe dmy father half of my late grandfather's estate, so we had official business to resolve in Pittsburgh.. The two of use decided, for no good reason, to go during the first weekend in May. I checked the season schedules in the Rocky Mountain News, and noticed that the Pirates began a homestand Monday, May 5, against the Reds. We then decided to extend our visit through the fifth.
We arrive in Pittsburgh, and immediately are exposed to those two old memories, slag dumps and sports. Slag dumps the size of small mountains are scattered amidst the vast rivers and woodlands. Then, as we arrive at our hotel, we flick on the TV and see commercials for the Pirates. Manager Jim Leyland is in a kitchen, plugging Giant Eagle Super Markets. Catcher Mike Lavalliere and infielder Gary Redus are advertising the numerous Pirate apparel, "available at your nearest department store." My favorite was one that featured several players plugging "Buc Night." The ad mentions how every second Tuesday with a full moon, the humidity above 15% and in hunting season is dollar, or "Buc" night at Pirates games. Second baseman Jose Lind, a product of Latin America, comes on and says "un dollar". It made me smile for three days.
We arrived at three-o'clock for the game being held at 7:05. We drive our compact rental car in the parking lot, comparing the differences of Three Rivers and Mile High Stadiums. As much as my dad loves the Pirates, he had never seen an entire game at Three Rivers. We were both voyaging into new territory. With the only crowd being a fat guy in a Pabst's Blue Ribbon hat, eating a polish hot dog, soon we become as bored as a two-by-four. We walk around the stadium six times, each time entering a contest at the KDKA radio booth. The only "scenic" sights are statues of old guys. One of former Steeler's owner, Art Rooney, and of Honus Wagner, who played so long ago that my grandfather could not recollect any memories of him. We also see the "excitement" of the Giant Eagle picnic area, the service entrance, and the parking gates. Needless to say, we are the first two through the gates as the stadium opens.
The game started and I was expecting the type of setting of my beloved Bronco games. No capacity crowd, no booing, and "Rock and Roll Part II" (the "Hey" song) is not blasting over the public address system. I buy a program with shortstop Jay Bell on the cover, and begin filling out the scorecard, just as my dad did in the sixties. Things start out rough for my Bucs, as the Reds' Chris Sabo sends a three run homer of Pirates starting pitcher Zane Smith into left field. A succession of Reds come to the plate and the score is soon 5-0. I think, "Ugh, I came 2,000 miles for this!" Then, as a light rain starts to fall, Andy Van Slyke comes to bat in the bottom of the fifth. It keys a rally that rocks the Bucs to a team record eleven runs in one inning. The Bucs bat around their lineup and my scorecard soon becomes a jumbled mess. Suddenly, a subdued version of "Rock and Roll Part II" is heard. "Oh no, I can't stand this song!" I look up to the scoreboard and see an animated pirate slashing the screen with his scimitar, to the beat of the infectiously stupid tune. I smile and watch the rest of the game. As I expect, the Bucs win, 12-5, as fireworks explode and resound throughout the stadium. To other people, it might be a lame vacation, but I'll take it over Disneyland anyday.
Summer comes and goes as, again, my Pirates do not make the World Series. I had a temper tantrum and nightmares for two weeks when the Atlanta Braves' Francisco Cabrera drove in the winning run during the bottom of the ninth in game seven. I am convinced Cabrera is the devil, as he knocks my beloved Bucs out of their righful place in the Series. A week later, at a campaign rally, George Bush, inspired by the game, states, "it ain't over 'til Cabrera swings!!" George is really in my doghouse now, so I vote for his opponent, Bill Clinton.
Now it is February. My Bucs have lost the nucleus of their championship teams via budget cutting trades and free agency. The only players still left from when I began supporting in 1990 are Andy Van Slyke, Jay Bell, Mile Lavalliere, third baseman Jeff King, pitcher Stan Belinda and manager jim Leyland. Two days ago, I read about how versatile Leyland is, and how dismal the season looks for Pittsburgh. After all this, I do not care, I have a pleasant connection between the Pirates any my father. All the wins and losses in the world can never change that.
…..and I thought it was just for kids and drunks.
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