Blogging About Baseball

I got pink-slipped from my softball league last Wednesday.

Read the rest of this entry »

I saw Darryl Strawberry on ESPN yesterday promoting his book Straw: Finding My Way. As usual, the conversation quickly moved onto Strawberry’s non-playing, less-awesome days. You know, the drugs, the domestic violence, the prostitutes, the prostate cancer. Fun stuff really. Here’s a good recap if you’ve been living in a bomb shelter since Y2K.

Haven’t I seen this interview before? I thought.

It turns out I hadn’t, but I’d seen something awfully close.

During the MLB Network’s first month or two, they interview Dwight Gooden at Studio 42. It was the same interview, I swear to God.

Then I got to thinking about the similarities of their two careers from a less obvious standpoint than the unlimited-potential-gone-wrong standpoint.

• Both came into the National League with the New York Mets; Strawberry in 1983 and Gooden in 1984.

• Both won Rookie of the Year awards; Strawberry in 1983 and Gooden in 1984.

• Both dominated the late 1980′s. In 1987, Strawberry became one of ten players to join the 30-30 Club after hitting 39 homeruns and stealing 36 bases. In 1985, Gooden won the Triple Crown and became the youngest-ever recipient of the Cy Young Award.

• Both were on the 1986 World Champion Mets.

• Early in their careers, both showed signs of the later legal and professional trouble they would incur. In 1986, Strawberry broke his then-wife Lisa’s nose in an altercation. In the same year, Gooden missed the World Championship parade because he was on a cocaine binge.

• Both appeared on the cover of Sports Illustrated more than once; Strawberry seven times and Gooden at least four times. They appeared on the cover together once.

• Both were Silver Sluggers; Strawberry twice and Gooden once.

• Both signed with the New York Yankees in 1996.

• As part of that World Championship team, Strawberry and Gooden became the only two players to win a championship with both New York teams.

• Both finished their careers with the Yankees.

• Both wrote books after their careers ended with nothing more than a whimper; Straw: Finding My Way by Strawberry and Heat: My Life On and Off the Diamond by Gooden.

I have decided to keep out the drunk driving arrests, the punching-the-girlfriends-in-the-face crap, and all of the coke stuff. What else can you think of?

I’m obsessed with baseball. I mean, really obsessed.

If I didn’t have a girlfriend, I would still be living in my mother’s house collecting baseball cards, playing fantasy baseball, and Tivo’ing every game I could. It’s really good that Katlyn’s here to keep that in check.

Trust me, I know I’m a weirdo. And I’m okay with it.

So for the past couple months it’s been eating me up inside that the President of the Charleston Riverdogs, Mike Veeck, lives in the same town as me. I mean, it’s been really, really bothering me.

I’ve met Veeck at the Old Village Post House, where we shared some small talk about cutting bread. In an effort to not ruin his night and to leave him alone, I didn’t mention that I was one of the few people in this town who knows what he and his family means to baseball.

His grandfather was one of the owners of the Chicago Cubs when they were first losing. And his father, well it might be better to not get me started on his father. I mean, we’re talking about the slightly-off, one-legged, once owner of the Browns, Indians, White Sox, and Brewers, who sent a midget up to bat in a major league game, invented the exploding scoreboard, and signed the first black player in the American League, Larry Doby, to the Cleveland Indians in 1947. I could go on and on…

The fact that a Veeck offspring is living in the same town as me and isn’t mobbed by hordes of fans wherever he goes is mindblowing to me. I want to scream at people on the streets, “DON’T YOU KNOW THAT THIS GUY IS RESPONSIBLE FOR DISCO DEMOLITION NIGHT?! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?!” It would be a breakdown similar to Smykowski’s in Office Space.

Mike Veeck owns parts of six major league clubs, ranging from Massachusetts to Florida. His promotions (Tonya Harding Bat Night, Silent Night, No One Night) are some of the most popular and hilarious ever perpetrated on the baseball community. He no longer lives in the shadow of his grandfather or father, but is a bonafide force in the baseball world, earning recognition for his “Fun Is Good” way of business and for his soaring successes.

So the other day, I broke down. I sent an email to him basically confessing that I had no reason to email him other than to email him and let him know I existed. Looking back, it was extremely creepy and almost cryptic. It read:

My name is Dylan Sharek. I live and die with baseball. It’s my own form of Seasonal Affective Disorder.

If I didn’t take the time to contact you, I would never have been able to forgive myself.

So I bit the bullet and sent this strange email.

We’ve met before but I didn’t want to interrupt your evening so I didn’t attempt the formalities. However, over the past couple months, knowing your family legacy, knowing we live in the same town, and taking into consideration my love for the game, it’s been eating me up.

I’d love the chance to sit down and have lunch with you, or just talk baseball, or maybe take in a Riverdog’s game together.

It’s uncomfortable for me to reach out like this, but it would really be an honor for me.

Thanks for your time.”

The next day, I received a phone call, not an email, from a living member of one of baseball’s most beloved, recognizable, and illustrious families.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t there to receive it.

The message said, in short: My name is Mike, not Mr. Veeck. Call back on June 1, I’m out of town. We’ll plan something then.

I can’t wait.