"Moose" Skowron's infield ball

I had not thought about "Moose" Skowron for a long time, until I saw his photograph in the Field of Dreams store in the Woodfield Mall yesterday.

When he played first base for the Kansas City Blues - it must have been in the 1950 or 1951 season - we had an understanding: when he'd came off the field at the end of the inning, I'd toss him the infield ball as he approached the dugout. He'd tuck in in his long glove, and put it in a very specific place on the bench near the batrack.

Then when he finished the infield warmup at the top of the next inning, he'd throw the infield ball to me, standing near the rain tarp behind first base.

Each time we did this, he'd say, "Thanks, kid." So all the ballplayers, most of whom hardly noticed this third-string batboy, called me "the kid" all the time. I can still remember how big and fast Skowron looked...he had huge hands and forearms...but now I see on the statistics website(URL below) that we was only 5'11"...an inch shorter than I am now! And he played 1st base at that puny height!

The KC Blues was a Yankee farm club, and it seemed everytime a player got really good in those years, the Yankees would call them up. Of course, that was the dream of all the players (and the batboys), but it really irritated the local KC fans, who did not care what a farm team existed for in the first place.

At the start of the 1954 season the Yankees called Skowron up to play his 5'11" first base in New York. His promotion to the big leagues probably had nothing to do with how well I took care of his infield ball, because in New York he played in seven World Series without much help from me.

But one time, when my Dad and I were in New York for a couple of games, I got to shag flies during batting practice. On the way down the tunnel before BP, Skowron came up behind me, messed up my hair, and said, "Hi kid - hang out in right and I'll hit a few to you..." So I did, and that day Skowron dropped all of his BP hits into right field. Being as fleet as a beer truck, I did not get to any of them, but Skowron did his best. I could see them leave his bat about half a second before I heard the crack, and the baseballs would shrink to just a white pinpoint before they began their downward arc. I can remember thinking how neat it would be to actually get under one and catch it. I still think about that, never having actually caught one.

Yankee Stadium was a majestic sight, as seen by kid standing in the deep outfield. It was hard to imagine how even those strong men could throw a baseball all the way to the plate from way out there! I have never since been in a structure that equalled for me that sense of grandness. Maybe if I had spend less time in awe of the stadium (and just a little bit faster) I'd have caught at least one of Skoron's long fly balls.

Skowron's career BA was a respectable .282, but he hit .293 with 8 HRs in World Series play.

He was from Chicago, and the websight I just checked says he's still living (born in 1930, so if the site is correct he's 75. He finished his MLB career with the White Sox.) I think I'll look him up, just to see if he still needs me to take care of that infield ball for him.


Here is a place to check out his statistics:
http://www.baseballlibrary.com/baseballlibrary/ballplayers/S/Skowron_Bill.stm

Mark's Advice

"Think of your many years of procrastination; how the gods have repeatedly granted you further periods of grace, of which you have taken no advantage."
- Marcus Aurelius, Roman Emperor, 161-180 (b.121 d.180)

36 degrees on I-290 today

It is 51 degrees here in Chicago, and the sky is so blue that it dazzles the eyes just to look at it. Yesterday was the same. As soon we as I finish this post, I am going to take Smedley out for a high-speed run down Interstate 290.

Yesterday I rode the bike north on Highway 53, practically an interstate for all intents and purposes, and let the machine stretch its legs, after weeks of just going to and from work. There was one long straight stretch on 53 where there was practically no traffic, and before I knew it I was up to about 91. It is amazing how little things matter a lot at those speeds. For example, I forget to close the ventilation panels in the front of my leather jacket and the wind at that speed suddenly ballooned my jacket like a parachute. I had to pull over and zip them closed before getting really comfortable at that speed again for another few miles.

At 51 degrees and 90 MPH, too much ventilation makes it too cold for comfort (according to the NOAA website, that is a windchill equivalent of 36 degrees). That is too much weakness leaving the body. It is about time for me to shift to the heavier cold weather jacket.

This was not quite as much fun as walking up 5th Avenue with the Italian-American Community Service Band from 43rd to 86th in the 2005 Columbus Day Parade, but it is close enough for this weekend.

If by whiskey...

While teaching Business Communications at Rollins College's Crummer Graduate School of Business, I assigned the class of MBA candidates the task of giving an "If by whiskey" speech...one that epitomized the calculated ambivalence that is sometimes needed to distinguish principle from nuance. Or to simply straddle the fence that sometimes separates two fields of hot potatoes.

Often attributed to Fuller Warren, Florida's governor in the '50s, it was first spoken by Noah Sweat, who was then running for state representative in Alcorn County, Mississippi in 1948 where the legality of serving alcoholic beverages was still a hot political topic. Sweat copyrighted the speech in 1954.

The MBA class came up with some great speeches..."If by profit..." and "If by making love..." and "If by patriotism..." to name a few that come to mind.

But here is the original, reproduced here because I could not find in on Google.


My friends, I had not intended to discuss this controversial subject and this particular time. However, I want you to know that I do not shun controversy. On the contrary, I will take a stand on any issue at any time, regardless of how fraught with controversy it might be. You have asked me how I feel about whiskey. All right, here is how I feel about whiskey.

If when you say "whiskey" you mean the devil's brew, the poison scourge, the bloody monster that defiles innocence, dethrones reason, destroys the home, creates misery and poverty, yea, literally takes the bread from the months of little children; if you mean the evil drink that topples the Christian man and woman from the pinnacle of righteousness, gracious living in the bottomless pit of degradation and despair, and shame, and helplessness, and hopelessness...then certainly I am against it.

But, if when you say "whiskey" you mean the oil of conversation, the philosophic wine, the ale that is consumed when good fellows get together, that puts a song in their hearts and laughter on their lips, and the warm glow of contentment in their eyes; if you mean Christmas chstimulating mean the stimilating drink that puts the spring in the old gentleman's step on a frosty, cripsy morning; if you mean the drink that enables a man to magnify his joy , and his happiness, and to forget, if only for a little while, life's great tragedies, and heartaches, and sorrows; if you mean that drink the sale of which pours into our treasuries untold millions of dollars, which are used to provide tender care for our little crippled children, our blind, our deaf, our dumb, our pitiful aged and infirmed; to build highways and hospitals and schools...then certainly I am for it.

This is my stand. I will not retreat from it. I will not compromise.

Copyright Noah S. Sweat.
As appears in Safire, "Lend Me Your Ears," p.796