Mea Culpa

During the past few days I have been gently chided by my Faithful Reader and both of my sporadic ones, which is the most action I’ve had in years so I thank them for that. Their chiding centered on the recent paucity of posts to these pages, if these pages are, in fact, pages at all.

The readers are, of course, right; there hasn’t been much happening here for a while. But I can offer excuse for my apparent slothfulness and laziness in two words: baseball.

On September 17, 1954 my grandfather, a rabid baseball fan, took me to my first major league game at Cleveland’s Municipal Stadium. The game featured his beloved, hometown Indians against the hated New York Yankees, whom he considered to be the spawns of Satan. I remember very little about the game, except that Mickey Mantle thrilled my seven-year-old self by cranking a majestic homerun into the right field stands.

But I was hooked, and ever since that hazy, muggy, fall afternoon on the shore of Lake Erie, I have been somewhat obsessive about baseball in general and the Cleveland Indians in particular. (For the relentlessly Politically Correct amongst us, I should point out that the team was allegedly named, in a turn-of-the-previous-century poll sponsored by a Cleveland newspaper, in honor of the fans’ favorite player, Louis Sockalexis, a full-blooded Penobscot from Maine who was known as “The Deerfoot of the Diamond.”)

In any event, I am a full-blooded baseball junkie, especially in October when the playoffs and World Series roll around. Doesn’t matter if the Indians are involved or not; I can always muster enough emotional involvement to feel elated or distressed no matter who is playing.

Since 1959, I have missed exactly three innings of the World Series. It happened in 1978 – Dodgers vs Yankees – when I had to take my nine-year-old son to his youth soccer game. And I have, to my ongoing shame, never let him forget it.

Well, the playoffs end tonight and the 2008 World Series begins at 5:00 p.m. on Wednesday.

So my annual October hibernation shall continue for a while longer.

But, despite the distractions of baseball, political debates and wondering if Sarah Palin would ever appear on “Saturday Night Live” with Tina Fey (she did, last night), I am nearing the completion of “Road Trip, Part II,” the epic story of my journey to Chet Helms’ birthplace to meet his cousin. So please hang in there, or here.

Thank you for your understanding and your patience, both of which I assume you possess in abundant quantities.

Published in: on October 19, 2008 at 9:37 pm  Comments (6)  

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6 CommentsLeave a comment

  1. Oh joy! He speaks, he types. He has returned! What, he just grabbed a sandwich and a cold Anchor Steam and he’s headed back to the TV.

    No wait! That’s not fair. Is there half-time in baseball?

  2. No half-time. Seventh inning stretch.

    I don’t believe we are patient, Greg. No, certainly not me. I don’t have the attention span to facilitate patient. But baseball is a good excuse. That’s why I haven’t been commenting on your inexcusable absence from blogging.

  3. Well, since I bang by here to read with similar infrequency, can’t say I really have room to bitch.

    Truth be told, I occasionally worry the blog may be one of those “seductive distractions” to pull you away from the Main Project (or doesn’t your brain meander like that?).

    Just assure me you feel like Significant Progress is being made and your sins are forgiven.

    Besides, the Series has wrapped now. We’ve got, what, about a hundred days until pitchers and catchers report?


  4. Hey, Beachdog,

    Thanks so much for your understanding of my baseball jones and your legitimate concern re the blog being a potential distraction. But, rest assured, I have not wavered from The Big Job.

    Significant Progress is, indeed, being made. My main problem, which is a pleasant one, is that I regularly stumble upon new Chet sources and new Chet material.

    I haven’t counted the day yet, but my guess is, like 108.

  5. Ok. Baseball’s way past over. Back to business, Greg.

    Tell us a story, Uncle Greg. Tell us about when Chet hung out with Cowboy Neal or sumtin’ we ain’t heard before.

  6. Greg–I can picture the day back when your mother pulled up to my yard as we were polevaulting and told me to get my butt home. Turns out she thought I was you and she was serious. I am convinced it took her a month or two before she realized I was me and not you.
    How are you doing?
    Clark Swan

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