Walt's Wisdom

Walt Whitman once said, "I see great things in baseball. It's our game, the American game. It will repair our losses and be a blessing to us."

Walt believed baseball was America's spiritual salve. As a child of the '70s, growing up in Los Angeles, so did I. In the 1970s, the Los Angeles Dodgers were a force to be reckoned with. True, they got spanked by the Yankees more often than not, but even the heartbreak of loss fed us as fans. In the aftermath of an unpopular war and bizarro, violent Patty Hearst/Helter Skelter local news, baseball worked its magic.

My grampa took me to local games and taught me all of the players' names. To this day, I can recall exactly what former third baseman Ron Cey looked like (part "Cliff Claven"/part blond penguin), and sing the Davy Lopes song that my grampa made up to the tune of "Davy Crockett." It went like this: "Da-vy! Davy Lopes! King of the second base." Steve Yeager was an incredible catcher, and because I was so young, I thought he was also a fighter pilot. What a guy!

First baseman Steve Garvey was Clark Kent-esque in his good looks, but I'll admit it now, he always creeped me out. His wife, Cindy Garvey, was Barbie-like and plastic. But, he was a hell of a first baseman and she hosted a local morning television show, so I felt like they were LA's own royalty. When they divorced, and it was nasty, I felt vindicated.

In my memory, Garvey was the only bad apple in that baseball bunch. Though Tommy Lasorda was a sloppy, fat gumbah, he was also smart and appealing. Actually, he hasn't changed in 30 years (except that he has a restaurant now). There are more ... Bill Russell. Steve Sax. Fernando. All loom large. Dodger bluebloods.

The Chavez Ravine, which houses Dodger Stadium, was a magical place accessible through (guess what?) a narrow ravine that separated the ballpark from any normally trafficked part of the city--like a secret spot that only baseball fans could find. Nasally, knowledgeable Vin Scully was the omnipresent Dodgers announcer and Farmer John sponsored the radio and in-stadium broadcast. Still does, I think.

The radio broadcast played a critical role in my relationship with baseball. My grandma was pretty much housebound, having given up the outside world when she lost her eyesight. We'd sit in the dark on the back porch, listening to night games, while I watched the glowing tip of her cigarette move from the ashtray to her mouth. Between smokes, she ate those pinwheel peppermints, drummed her fingers on the TV tray next to her, and talked to me. When it was time to go to bed, she'd bring the black transistor radio into the bedroom and listen to the game, the post game, and the talk radio show afterwords. I slept in her room. To this day, I sleep easier when I can hear the radio mumbling in the room.

It was, as Walt said, a blessing to us. I learned about Elvis's death on the way to a Dodger game and marveled that baseball could still go on, even when "the King" had died. I learned to catch a bag of peanuts thrown from 15 rows away. I would catch the red and white striped paper sack, and the guys sitting in the stands around us cheered at my success. That's a big moment for a last-to-be-picked-at-softball g-i-r-l. I spent enviable hours at the ballpark with my grampa--and by age 10, I was calling him "Harry m'Boy," which just felt right, thanks to our guys-at-the-game friendship.

Grampa and gramma are both gone. We're in the middle of another unpopular war, and we're a far less innocent nation divided by ugliness from both sides. If ever there was a need for loss repair and blessings for us all, it would be now.

Our innocence has been lost in Walt's game too. Greed and cheating and our cult of personality have stripped baseball of its healing powers.

What will become of us now that "America's game" is so sullied. Is this our canary in the mines, signaling the poisoning of our spirits? Or is it just a shift to a more "sophisticated" culture? To quote the fictional baseball-immortal, Crash Davis, we have to believe.

"I believe in the soul, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap. I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone. I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astroturf and the designated hitter. I believe in the sweet spot, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days."

Can I get an amen? (even if it is wisdom bestowed by Kevin "one-note" Costner) May our innocence be repaired and bless us all.

Comments

[Lisa Sloane]

You were not alone. I too was always creeped out by Steve and Cindy Garvey. Remember the commercial with the two of them running hand in hand, "Hey Cindy, Hey Steve". Ick! Many of us were secretly pleased when they divorced.

Vin Scully's voice will always be in my head. One of the many sounds of my childhood!

[Herb]

I grew up a Phillies fan during that era, so my hatred for the Dodgers knew no boundaries. Maybe it was because we always lost in the playoffs to LA.

Did Steve Garvey ever go into politics? We always struck me as a slick, right righteous, Republican whose career would end in a sex scandal.

My heroes on the Phils were hardly better. Pete Rose is a sad, damaged man. "Lefty" Steve Carlton, who seldom spoke during his playing days, turned out to be a John Bircher. Even Michael Jack Schmidt has disappointed me. He expected to be handed a job as a manager or GM without earning his way. But I digress.

Your post is spot on. Who are the heroes of today? What players can fans still believe in? I believe in Greg Maddux. That is about it.

For the past five years, I mostly attend minor league baseball games. I can still appreciate the joy of the game, away from the egos, salaries, Fox Sports and high ticket prices.

Speaking of Bull Durham, Tim Robbins was the star of that film for me.

[Pirate Dog PDX]

I don't think that Garvey went into politics, but his oh-too-slimy bretheren were clearly influenced by him.

I remember hating the Phillies, too, for pure rival reasons, but I was more disappointed about Peter Rose's failings than I was about Garvey. I'd always thought Rose was a special talent. Even at age 6, I sensed the slick slime that covered Steve and Cindy Garvey.

I don't watch enough baseball anymore to know whether I can love and believe in Greg Maddux. It would be nice if he was the real deal.

I held off on my reply because I have so little hope for our heroes--and I hate to be a downer. Tonight, I'm watching the animated "Santa Claus is Coming to Town," with Fred Astaire and Mickey Rooney ... which is rekindling my hope.

Bull Durham does the same thing for me (and more). I just love my Susan Sarandon.