The Blog

He’s got the voice, but does he have the arm?  That was the question as I prepared for one of the more unusual experiences of my writing life–playing catch with famed tenor Placido Domingo on the field at Dodger Stadium.

I’ve been remiss in not blogging about the event until now.  Several people have urged me to, but other demands, including work on a new novel, have interfered.  It’s a good time to catch up, though, because the encounter happened almost exactly a year ago.

I know, I know, there would seem to be no reason on God’s green earth that Placido Domingo would want to grab a baseball glove (much less MY glove) and play catch with me, of all people, never mind at Dodger Stadium, but this is the kind of odd thing that occurs when magazine editors get a goofy idea.

Los Angeles Magazine, which enlists me occasionally to write a feature piece (the last a profile of the town of Avalon on Santa Catalina Island), had decided to run a short interview with the opera star.   Rather than pose the questions in, say, some bistro or sterile office, the editors asked Placido to suggest a very favorite place, preferrably one where he could enjoy an activity that would enliven the story.  It turns out that he is a baseball fan who, over many years, has rooted for the Dodgers, a team whose history involves such players as Sandy Koufax, Don Drysdale, Maury Wills–and, going way back, Duke Snider, Carl Furillo, Roy Campanella and Jackie Robinson, the legendary “Boys of Summer” who thrilled the fans of Brooklyn.  If I remember right, Placido said he was in the stands the fall day in 1988 when Kirk Gibson hit his famous gimpy-legged home run off superstar reliever Dennis Eckersley, propelling the Dodgers toward a World Series victory over the Oakland A’s.  The place that Placido picked for the interview was Dodger Stadium.

Karen Wada, the writer and editor who was conducting the interview, thought it might be wise to have help when she was on the field with Placido.  Karen has the baseball skills to play catch with anyone, but if she were taking notes, for example, and at the same time wanted to ask him questions and describe him throwing the ball around, having me there would be handy.  There was also a thought that I could pitch to Placido while she interviewed him near home plate.

Karen also brought along a few members of her family, including a talented young nephew who was a budding Little League star.  After meeting briefly with members of the Dodgers PR staff, who had helped to arrange the event, we headed down to the field to warm up while awaiting Placido’s arrival.  He was flying in that afternoon from New York.

Throwing pitches from the Dodger Stadium mound and tossing the ball around the infield was an incredible thrill for a guy (me) who had grown up listening to Vin Scully call games during the Koufax-Wills era.  We threw until our arms were tired–and still no Placido.  The sun set and it began to grow dark while we nervously waited and watched the time.  (Since it was off-season and no Major League game was scheduled for later, we would not have the benefit of the towering stadium lights.) 

Finally, Placido emerged in the lower tier of the empty stands, wearing a Dodgers jersey and accompanied by his people and the Dodgers’ staff.  He tried on a new, stiff glove that the PR people kept on hand for such events, and he couldn’t get it to feel comfortable.  I offered him mine and apparently he liked it, so I took the stiffer glove as we moved onto the field along the third-base line to begin playing catch.

By now it was so dark that I feared beaning him with the ball–or being beaned myself.  I made it a point to loft the ball high so it would be visible against the sky beyond the left-field grandstand.  The stands themselves were an almost impossible backdrop.  Placido’s throws to me came out of the far taller main grandstand behind home plate and often I saw the ball only eight or ten feet before it reached the glove.  I was thrilled nonetheless.  I kept thinking, “Wow, I’m actually playing catch with Placido Domingo at Dodger Stadium! How weird is that?”

Having him bat was out of the question in the poor lighting conditions.  Instead, Karen decided to vary the circumstances of the interview by taking a slow stroll with Placido around the bases.   While this was done, my assistance wasn’t needed, and I simply stood near the dugout, watching them.  Amazingly, when they finished the slow tour of the bases–and it was now darker than ever–Placido immediately looked for me and wanted to resume the game of catch, which we did.  We’d have probably stood out there for hours, tossing the ball back and forth, if we had started earlier in the day.

He was an unbelievably nice man.  My one indelible impression of this great, great singer is that he is an equally great human being.  He was fully engaged in what we were doing, as silly as it was.  He was good-humored, humble, considerate, down to earth, and at the end of what must have been a hugely long day for him, the old ball player summoned the energy and enthusiasm to enjoy his moment on the Dodger Stadium infield as much as I did.

Afterward, we toured the interior of the stadium, lingering a moment for photos–he was still wearing my glove–in front of a framed uniform of Tommy Lasorda.  (Unfortunately, the story ended up running without the pictures.)  Then we reached a conference room where Karen intended to finish the interview in private.  Placido returned my glove and, as we said good-bye to each other, graciously allowed me to give him a signed copy of “Screwball.”  I hope he loved it, but I’ll settle for the fact that he held my novel in his hands and took it with him.   I drove home marveling at how incredibly lucky I had been to have the experience.

How do I rate Placido the pitcher?  Well, I doubt even Satchel Paige maintained all his velocity into his sixties, and I couldn’t have handled a good heater in the waning light, so it is difficult to honestly say.  My guess is that Placido is not so much Nolan Ryan (or Ron Kane) as he is a Greg Maddux–a crafty veteran fully in control, still wowwing the fans. 

MEMO TO FABRICE SANTORO:  Buck up, man!  Cool it with the whining, cry-baby shtick.  Show some backbone.

Santoro is the lily-livered professional tennis player who got blown out by Andy Roddick in the first round of the U.S. Open in New York.  Did I say professional? Santoro looked anything but as he quit on match point in a cowardly and juvenile fit of pique.  He should be ashamed of himself.

As Roddick prepared for his final serve, Santoro refused to ready himself and made no attempt whatsoever to return the ball as it went whizzing past him.  Why?  Santoro was upset about the previous point, when Roddick blasted a 140 m.p.h. serve right at him, causing Santoro to have to duck out of the way.  The serve was legal and was Roddick’s 14th ace in a match he thoroughly dominated.

I don’t criticize Santoro for ducking out of the way.  What I blame him for is the ridiculous refusal to play out the match, based on his feeling, as he expressed it afterward, that Roddick deliberately fired the serve at him. 

Excuse me, but . . . SO WHAT!?   Is this guy such a wimp that he can’t cope with the psychological trauma of a hard serve to the body? 

If I remember right, every part of the service box is legal.  Serving to the opponent’s body has always been an effective tactic in tennis.  Apparently, Santoro believes that Roddick violated some moral code by serving at him when the match was all but decided.  This would be the equivalent, I guess, of running up the score in football.

I can’t imagine that this sort of attitude is good for the game.  If you’re out there to compete, then compete, damn it!  Anything less creates a chilling effect on great play.  Are we to expect Roddick–or anyone else–to ease off a serve for fear of offending an opponent?  Should a superior player go so far as to serve under-handed to give a lesser opponent a more equal chance?  Where do we draw these lines?  Is tennis or any sport well-served by having these asinine unwritten rules.

If Roddick’s serve is too hard for Santoro, I suggest he back up several feet and give himself more time to see and react to the ball.   Either that, or go back to his home country, France, and play in the local rec league. 

TODAY’S MUSING:   National Public Radio just aired yet another update on American casualties in Iraq.  Now there’s a fascinating word:  casualties.   According to Webster’s, the military usage refers to the loss of personnel from active service due to “death, injury, etc.”

Not to pick on NPR, which generally does a great job, but it astounds me that we Americans continue to embrace the use of this horribly non-specific euphemism.  I mean, what other reference to human beings takes people from those two polar-opposite camps — the dead and the living — and lumps them together in the same group?

Is it too much effort to tell us how many were actually killed and how many were merely wounded or injured? It’s a fairly important distinction, given that the dead are . . . well, DEAD.   That’s the end of the line.  The Big Adios. 

Somebody who is knifed in the arm or shot in the ankle still has, maybe, seventy or eighty good years left.

I can only think that the spin doctors at the Pentagon love putting everyone under one category, casualties, because it sounds a hell of a lot less awful than flat-out saying X number of people died.  In fact, casualty sounds a lot like injury.   It’s just amazing that the media continue to allow the Pentagon flaks to get away with it.  Somebody should really hold them accountable for accurate, specific totals.

No one’s a bigger SportsCenter junkie than I am, but the geniuses at ESPN apparently missed–or chose to ignore, maybe for legal reasons–the significance of troubled Cowboys cornerback Adam Jones dropping his nickname, “Pacman.”

The network guys dutifully reported that Jones has asked the media to stop using the name as part of an effort to clean up his image, but, at least in the editions I saw, SportsCenter failed to explain why some people might consider Pacman offensive.  The moniker was blithely dismissed as a “video game” reference–which, admittedly, was how I used to naively view the nickname when I first heard it.  That interpretation seems to make some sense if you imagine Jones’s elusive running abilities as evoking the chase and escape theme of the classic video game.

Only recently, when I read a feature story profiling another “Packman” (this guy used a “k” in it), did I realize the darker implications of the nickname.  Apparently, on the streets such a name refers to someone who packs a gun.  Given the circumstances, I can only infer that Adam Jones did not pick up the appellation by spending hours on end in an arcade. 

Too bad so few in the media are savvy enough to give us the real story.  Now we’ll have to see if the name change signals any meaningful change in Adam Jones’s behavior, or whether he will remain the thug he’s been up until now.

Let’s hope, for the good of society, the guy can turn it around.

What a time of year for any sports fan. So far, the NBA and NHL playoffs have produced an abundant number of thrills, with more to follow. One of more fascinating angles has been the emergence, on a national stage, of the New Orleans Hornets’ sensational Chris Paul.

Paul’s mastery of the game is a delight to watch. There is an amazing elegance to his play. He completely controls the action with his hesitation moves and quick bursts, and he’s a deadly shooter and pinpoint passer. It’s like he’s on a different level than everyone else on the floor. Watching him and some of the other incredible athletes in these playoffs, I can’t help wondering what James Naismith would think of the way his sport has evolved. He would be absolutely stunned.

Paul also shows remarkable poise and leadership for someone in his early 20s. Facially, and in a certain stage presence he has, Paul reminds me a bit of another superb athlete from an earlier era–someone who was not quite as modest–Deion Sanders. Like Sanders, Paul seems to have a natural charisma, maybe the determined intensity of someone who knows he’s more gifted than all his teammates and rivals.

In watching the Hornets take on the defending champion San Antonio Spurs, I found myself rooting heavily for the young challengers. Everyone says the Spurs are models of class, both on and off the court–a team that does it the right way.

Maybe so.

However, a few years ago, when I was on temporary assignment for the Los Angeles Times, writing an in-depth page-one series about the feuding Lakers as Kobe and Shaq made their last joint push toward a title (which they wouldn’t win, despite reaching the finals), I tried to interview the Spurs’ Robert Horry, who had once played in Los Angeles.

I waited patiently outside the lockerroom while he signed a few jerseys, then tried to introduce myself and explain the story I was doing. I never got more than a word out.  He gave me one of the rudest rebuffs I’ve experienced in more than 25 years as a journalist, barking “No!” and rushing the other direction through a door where I couldn’t get to him.

What had I done to him? I had no idea. Nothing, obviously. It was one of those moments that reinforced the impression that some athletes are really just spoiled jerks. How hard would it have been to at least listen for 10 or 15 seconds and decline like a civilized human being?

We all have different reasons for choosing to root for the teams we root for.  In this case, it’s really been no contest for me.    

It’s been three months since the New York Giants’ stunning upset of the New England Patriots in the Super Bowl, and I can’t believe the sportswriting nation still hasn’t come up with a suitable nickname for the desperate, game-changing pass from Eli Manning to David Tyree — heralded by many, including me, as probably the greatest single play in Super Bowl history.

Where is Grantland Rice?

Dead, of course.

Where are the great minds (there must be some) in the current crop of writers and columnists? Have their thinking caps blown off in a strong nor’easter?

It’s important, at least in some corners of American culture, that these historic plays have easy handles — like the “Immaculate Reception,” “The Play,” and “The Called Shot.”

To me, the Manning to Tyree pass has to be remembered as “The Tyree Miracle.”  It’s the only name that makes sense.  True, Manning’s part in the play–eluding a near-certain tackle by the dog-tired Patriots’ pass rush–was impressive, but Manning is already a big name, thanks in part to his pedigree, and he would have been remembered in NFL lore whether or not the pass succeeded.  Tyree was a nobody and it becomes easier for his name to become synonymous with this one spectacular catch on football’s greatest stage.  The incredible determination he showed in hanging on to that pass even while he was falling and the ball was trying to squirt over his head epitomized the Giants’ utter refusal to lose in that tremendous upset.

I’m calling it the Tyree Miracle and I hope the rest of the world gives him that bit of justice.    

If you could ignore that it’s tainted, and swallow Barry Bonds’ straight-faced denial that it’s tainted, the new all-time home-run brought us some great theater, at least. Bonds was fortunate enough to surpass Henry Aaron at home in San Francisco, where he is beloved. There was no doubt about the shot, to nearly dead-center field, which afforded him the chance to stand exultant at home plate, with his arms overhead, like a bronze statue of an athlete at the height of his glory.

The steroid issues and related legal issues that have plagued Bonds–he might soon be indicted for perjury–cloud the record, of course, but in a twisted way the controversy has amped up the entertainment value of the moment.  Every talking head on sports radio and TV has feasted on the unanswerable questions that now haunt baseball–among them, where would Bonds be now if he had never used performance-enhancing drugs? (The trajectory of his career up to the end of the 1990s would have suggested an impressive total, but far short of where he is now.) Another interesting question:  Where would Aaron or, for that matter, Babe Ruth have finished if they had enjoyed the advantages of modern biochemistry?

Now that the home-run chase is over, perhaps the most interesting pursuit in sports is now Tiger Woods’ slow but seemingly inexorable push to tie Jack Nicklaus’ record of 18 major championships.  The good news (and I’m assuming, since there’s no reason to think otherwise, that Tiger is not a steroid cheat) is that Mr. Woods is a total class act.  He is one of the few superstars–Wayne Gretzky was another–who keeps alive the genteel values of grace and sportsmanship that most of us admire.  I’m less pleased that Tiger does not seem to have a worthy rival.  For a time, it looked like Phil Mickelson–who’s also a classy and likeable guy–was going to step up and challenge Tiger’s dominance in a way that would have been thrilling for golf fans. Unfortunately, after his collapse on the 72nd hole of the U.S. Open in 2006, when he fired a double-bogey to throw away a tournament he had all but won, Mickelson has gone AWOL.  He’s vanished beneath the waves like so many of Tiger’s would-be challengers before him.  Too bad.  Let’s hope he can get his act together, but so far it isn’t happening.

One of the week’s most compelling sports stories–lost in the hoopla over Bonds–is the resurrection of former major league pitcher Rick Ankiel of the St. Louis Cardinals.  This is one of those real feel-good stories where you really have to applaud a guy.

Ankiel, you might remember, was a strapping, 20-year-old pitching prodigy when struck out 194 batters in 175 innings for the Cardinals in 2000, his rookie season. The left-hander won 11 games that year and started the Cards’ post-season opener against the Atlanta Braves–an experience that became a nightmare. He threw five wild pitches in one inning, nine in just four innings in the playoffs, and developed such a mental block or mechanical problems, or both, that he never recovered. He couldn’t find home plate with a search light, and his once-promising career was last seen spiraling down the toilet bowl.

Now, Ankiel is back–as an outfielder.  After slugging 32 home runs for Memphis at the Triple-A level, Ankiel was called up to the majors this week and hit a three-run homer Thursday in a win over the San Diego Padres.  It was a testament to one athlete’s determination and tenacity that he was willing and able to reinvent himself and work and work until he made it back to the majors.  It’s hard to top that sort of triumphant story.

Incidentally, the Ankiel story strikes a particular chord with me, because it answers one of the biggest criticisms of my novel, “Screwball.”  Some readers, obviously failing to see the parallels between pitcher Ron Kane and erstwhile Red Sox pitcher Babe Ruth, thought it was completely implausible that Kane both pitched and played the outfield.  The lambasting I’ve taken has left a series of frankfurter-like grilling scars across my torso.  Guys like Ruth and Ankiel make the point very convincingly that a few superior athletes have the abilities to do both.  

What a time to begin my blog!  The sports world (not to mention the world at large)  seems caught in a harmonic convergence of scandal and negativity.  The NBA is facing the greatest crisis of integrity, or lack of it, that any professional league has faced since 1919.  The NFL has the Michael Vick fiasco.  Major League baseball is relatively lucky–its biggest problem is that its most hallowed record, the all-time home run mark, is passing to a guy regarded by most who cover the game as a prickly, arrogant steroid cheat.

Yikes!

Let me say a couple of things before I address those topics.  First, a huge thank you to Brandon Ribota, the website genius, for making this blog possible.  Please see his credits on my website.  Second, I intend to speak out in this space whenever I feel inclined, on subjects ranging from sports to politics to writing.  I won’t have a set schedule but I promise to speak my mind.  I welcome any feedback, as long as it’s clean and reasoned.  If your intent is to leave obscenity-laced rants, please go elsewhere.

All right, back to the column:  I’ve been monitoring the radio sports-talk shows–most notably the excellent ”Loose Cannons” show and the Lee “Hacksaw” Hamilton show, both on AM 570 radio in Los Angeles–and I’ve got two points to make to some of the misdirected fans who call in spouting opinions.

Quite a few people have raised a question about whether Michael Vick would be the target of so much negative media attention stemming from the federal dogfighting charges if he weren’t black.  The suggestion is, the Atlanta Falcons’ quarterback would be treated very differently–and not nearly crucified so much in the media–if he were white.

Hogwash.

Here is a case of fans playing the race card where it is not warranted.  Unfortunately, I can make my case on this point by pointing to the NBA scandal, where referee Tim Donaghy has resigned and the FBI is actively investigating the ref’s purported wagering on games in which he worked.  Donaghy is white and he wasn’t even famous before the scandal broke. Yet the case has received and will continue to receive enormous media coverage, including a lengthy, live press conference on ESPN by NBA Commissioner David Stern.  Why?  Because the sanctity of the game is in question.  It’s not about race; it’s about the issues involved. 

The reprehensible cruelties involved in dog fighting, coupled with Vick’s celebrity, are enough by themselves to make the federal allegations newsworthy.  If Peyton Manning were the target of similar charges, you can be sure there would be every bit as much media coverage.  Let’s be glad America has progressed to the point where race isn’t always an excuse to go after people and concern ourselves with  issues that are relevant.  As one of the more sensible callers on Hamilton’s show pointed out, “It’s not about race.  It’s about what’s right and wrong.”

Next, Barry Bonds:  I personally have nothing against Barry Bonds.  A lot of media people seem to think he’s a jerk, but when I’ve seen him interviewed he often seems thoughtful and genial.  I’d like to be able to root for the guy, but the steroid issues are troubling.  Could any athlete on such an elite level as Bonds confuse body-altering steroids for “flaxseed oil”–and over a period of years?  Seriously?

Remember that Bonds had virtually dropped out of the top echelon of major league sluggers when Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa and Ken Griffey Jr. were assaulting the record books some years ago.  Of all those guys, Griffey is now the only one who, in retrospect, looks clean.

Many otherwise knowledgeable fans and columnists will excuse steroid users by saying, rather flippantly, “You still have to hit the ball.”  Yes, well, hitting the ball is one thing.  Clearing the outfield wall 400 feet away is another.  Everyone seems to forget that illegal steroids help a batter in two ways.  The extra strength and muscle quickness he gains from steroids means that a batter can wait longer on a pitch. He can accelerate the bat more quickly from a position of rest. This gives him longer to see the ball and improves his chances of making solid contact.  Better contact more often naturally means more home runs.

Apart from that, the muscle strength of a steroid user means he has a chance to hit a home run even when he does not make perfect contact.  Balls that would die at the warning track instead carry over the fence.  To overlook these advantages by recklessly saying, “You still have to hit the ball,” denigrates the legacy of past great home run champions like Hank Aaron, Babe Ruth and Willie Mays, who compiled their records (as far as we know) without illegal chemical enhancement.

The hypocrisy and fraud that I’ve seen in sports for many years now is one of the reasons I decided to write “Screwball,” my biting indictment of the win-at-all-costs attitude so prevalent today.   However, I don’t want to seem entirely negative, so let me take a moment to applaud Tony Gwynn and Cal Ripken Jr. on their induction into the Baseball Hall of Fame.  Those two men were magnificent amalgams of talent and class–exactly the opposite of the kinds of athletes I assaulted in the novel.

Hail to both those guys!   And meanwhile, here are my first winners of The Ron Kane Award, given whenever I feel like it to the Biggest Loser Around:

First place (tie):   Former NBA referee Tim Donaghy, Falcons quarterback Michael Vick.

Honorable mention:  Alexandre Vinokourov, two-time Tour de France winner, yanked from the middle of the 2007 race after testing positive for blood doping.  

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