Wednesday, October 2, 2024

 

Charlie Hustle

 

Peter Edward Rose died Monday, September 30, 2024. He was eighty-three years old. I had a complex relationship with Pete Rose, though I never met the man. Let me explain.

           My introduction to baseball began with my dad. Family legend holds that he began playing catch with me in the backyard when I was three. Not long after that, I began organizing backyard games with my pals in the neighborhood. Baseball became an obsession for me, from sandlot ball to Little League, Peanut League, High School, American Legion, all the way through my first year in Junior College.

Somewhere along the way, it was etched on my baseball soul that you had to hustle. That meant running out every ground ball or pop-up, running to your position at the start of an inning, running back to the dugout after the third out, and giving one hundred percent effort on every play. In my mind, hustle was a rule, every bit as important as three-strikes-you’re-out.

When my sons, Matt and Gabe, reached Little League age in 1987 and 1988 respectively, I began a coaching “career” that spanned ten seasons. I had a program with four major goals: have fun; teach fundamentals; teach teamwork and sportsmanship; teach the value of hustle. I knew if we did those things well, winning and losing didn’t matter much. And that’s where Pete Rose came into my life. I used him as a prime example of the way the game should be played. He was “Charlie Hustle,” always giving one hundred percent effort.

And what was the value of hustle? I stressed two things with my players. First, hustle makes good things happen in a ballgame. Second, coaches absolutely love hustle. Show that you are a hustling ballplayer, and there will always be a place for you on a team.

In August1989, Pete Rose was declared “permanently ineligible” by Commissioner Bart Giamatti for betting on baseball. Several players, including my sons, came to me and said, “So, what do you think of Pete Rose now, Coach?” There was no defense. I had to find a new example, a new hero to sell the value of hustle.

The baseball pundits are likely to hold lively debates over Pete Rose’s legacy. How is it that the man who holds so many all-time records, including the most hits with 4,256, is not in the Hall of Fame? Can we separate the near-perfect ballplayer from the imperfect man? What about all those guys in the Hall who we know were not choir boys? (Hello, Ty Cobb. Raise your hand, Babe Ruth.) And if we forgive Pete and let him in, what about the steroid users like Barry Bonds, Mark McGwire, Sammy Sosa, Alex Rodriguez, and Roger Clemens?

Americans are quick to forgive and offer a second chance if someone comes clean, confesses his or her misdeeds, and offers a sincere apology. Maybe if Pete had done that way back in 1989, we would have put it all in the rearview mirror. Let bygones be bygones. After all, he racked up all those records before he started betting on baseball. Didn’t he?

Pete couldn’t do that. He kept up the lie. He said, It ain’t so! And when each new scandal broke (cocaine, steroids, sign stealing), he said, See, I never done none of that. He finally confessed in 2004. Everything the Dowd Report alleged was true. And that was the tip of the iceberg. His personal life was even more of a mess: tax evasion, paternity suit, statutory rape. He was a deeply flawed human being.

But, man, wasn’t he fun to watch? Ripping line drives from both sides of the plate, flying headfirst into bases, playing infield and outfield positions with equal effectiveness, the heart of The Big Red Machine, three times a World Series champ. And always, day in and day out, the relentless hustle, hustle, hustle.

Pete Rose is dead, RIP. Long live Charlie Hustle.

_____


 

      

Monday, September 30, 2024

 “You can take the boy out of Vallejo, but you can’t take Vallejo out of the boy.”

My new book, The Short Stories of C.W. Spooner, will be released October 31. Check out the cover image over there on the right—an aerial shot taken at dawn, Mare Island to the right, the City of Vallejo to the left, Mt. Diablo in the background. Many of my stories take place in Vallejo. Simply put, it will always be home.

The Kindle edition is available now to pre-order from Amazon.com, which means Amazon will automatically send a copy to your Kindle on the release date. The paperback and hardbound editions will also be released on October 31.

You may ask, “Dude, why are you doing this now? Why collect all your short stories in one volume?” The answer is simple: I always wanted to be a writer, but I got a very late start. In rushing to make up for lost time, I made mistakes. This is my opportunity to correct those errors and put my stories in final form. Did I fix everything? Is this volume perfect? Probably not. But I know it is much improved.

I hope you will find a few stories you like. Maybe you’ll keep the book around to reread an old favorite now and then. Or just let it lay around in plain sight as a conversation piece. If nothing else, at 540 pages, it makes a good doorstop.

One thing I know for sure: a book is no good without readers. Thank you for reading!

C.W. Spooner

_____


Friday, July 5, 2024

Dear faithful readers,

Have I got a book for you! It is The Truth That Can't Be Told 3 (TTTCBT 3 for short.) It is the third
anthology of short stories and poems from the Lake Forest Writers' Roundtable, and there is a lot to like in this volume. For example, my two stories: "Chasing History," co-authored with Jarold "Jerry" Warren; and "A Score to Settle."

The hero of "Chasing History" is none other than the great Willie Mays. Jerry and I began working on this story about a year ago, and it is ironic that TTTCBT 3 was released the same week Willie passed away. I think you'll enjoy the story, especially all you old Vallejoans out there. 

"A Score to Settle" is, in reality, two stories. One an account of actual events, and the other a fantasy quest for redemption. I should warn that it may tug at your heartstrings.

There are many more stories and poems for you to enjoy from authors you met in Books 1 and 2 of this series. Book 3 will give you a glimpse into what they've been up to lately, and it just might motivate you to seek out more of their published work. I highly recommend TTTCBT 3. You'll find it on Amazon.com. Add it to your bookshelf or e-reader library. You'll be glad you did.

Sincerely,

C.W. Spooner 

_____


Thursday, June 20, 2024

 The “Say Hey Kid”

 

Willie Mays died Tuesday, June 18, at the age of 93. In my late-teens and early-twenties, I was fortunate
to see him play, first at Seals Stadium, then later at Candlestick Park, fortunate to witness several of his 660 homeruns.

In all the accolades that have poured in, I find one thing missing. No one has mentioned the way Willie played the game. He played with joy and excitement, and the understanding that he was playing a kids’ game and getting paid to do it. When you saw Willie before a game, he was smiling, laughing, the guy on the field having the most fun. When the game was underway, he swung hard, ran hard, slid hard, and ran down every ball he could get a glove on. There were no poses when he executed a homerun swing, no dramatic bat flips, no showing up the pitcher, no taunting the opposing dugout. He simply ran the bases and touched home plate.

In other words, he played the game the way it is supposed to be played.

It wasn’t all roses and tickertape parades when the Giants moved to San Francisco to begin the 1958 season. The New York City media may have created the legend of Willie Mays, but the San Francisco press was more than willing to tarnish the idol. Willie was the target of many snarky articles that questioned his character and commitment. One season (I can’t remember the year), Willie collapsed on the field. Whether it was from illness or sheer exhaustion was never clear. If memory serves, he missed only a couple of games. The press had a field day, suggesting Willie was “dogging it.” One line in particular I will never forget: a columnist in the San Francisco Chronicle quoted an anonymous teammate as saying, “We may have lost our centerfielder, but we gained an Academy Award.”

Willie never complained about the bad press. In fact, to my knowledge, he never complained about anything. He just played his game, year after year, compiling one of the greatest records in the history of baseball. Check out his five full seasons in New York, and then his prime years in San Francisco—1958 though 1966. His record speaks for itself. And it made him a perennial All Star selection. The All Star Game became a Willie Mays showcase. Everyone wanted to interview Willie, to share the smiles, the laughter, the pure joy of the game.

A few years ago, I was listening to a Giants’ game and Willie joined the broadcast team for a few innings in the booth. He was asked if he was at all bitter about having to play the heart of his career at Candlestick Park, where the howling winds turned homerun balls into pop fly outs. Willie said, “Oh no, no, no. I’m happy with my 660 homeruns. That’s a good number.”

As I said, no complaints.

Tony Kornheiser, a host of the ESPN show “Pardon the Interruption,” said that Willie wasn’t the greatest in any one category. There were better hitters for average, better homerun hitters, better base stealers, better fielders, and so on. But Willie was in the top five in EVERY category. In the history of the game, he was the most complete all-around player.

There is another category to consider: respect. Listen to what Willie’s contemporaries—the guys who competed with and against him—have to say. It is quite possible that, on and off the field, he was the most respected player ever.

He played the game the way it is supposed to be played.

_____


           _____


Wednesday, June 12, 2024

Tuesday, June 4, 1968

 from ’68 – A Novel

 

It was just before midnight and Skip’s Place was busy, a good crowd for a Tuesday night. Marty was behind the bar, helping Skip keep pace with the orders. She had a definite bounce in her step tonight. It was primary election night in California and her candidate had been declared the winner by all three networks. She listened casually to the chatter at the bar, refusing to be drawn into any of the debates. She and Skip had an unwritten rule: never discuss politics or religion with the customers; it was bad for business. They did not need to know that she had worked tirelessly for the campaign, making phone calls, stuffing envelopes, walking the precincts and leaving door-hangers on every knob. It was hard not to respond to some of the comments, but she bit her lip and moved on. He won! We won! There’s hope! She said it over and over as she worked the bar; it was all that really mattered.

            And now, just after midnight, all eyes at the bar focused on the television screen, the scene from the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, where Robert F. Kennedy was about to make his victory speech. It was short and to the point: praise for staff and special friends, punctuated with humor, acknowledging that this was just one battle in the war with many more to come.

Marty watched all of this with pride, her smile barely suppressed, wishing that she could just have a few minutes with the Senator from New York to take a pair of scissors to that unruly shock of hair, trimming it just enough to keep it out of his eyes. She wondered how many women were out there, watching this scene, thinking the same thing.

And now his entourage was turning, leaving the podium, heading off the back through a service kitchen. Look—there goes Rafer Johnson, and big Rosie Greer, and Jesse “Big Daddy” Unruh, and of course, Bobby’s wife Ethel. Marty turned back to the bar where several patrons were signaling for refills.

And then suddenly the screen was filled with chaos. Shots had been fired. Reporters were shouting into live microphones. The crowd at the Ambassador that had been cheering and laughing just moments ago was gasping, screaming, on the verge of panic. How many shots? Six? Eight? Get him! Grab him! Get the gun! Break his arm if you have to! Grab him! I want him alive! We don’t want another Oswald! The Senator is down! He’s been hit! He’s been hit in the head! Get back! Get back! Give him air! Is there a doctor here? A doctor, quickly! A jacket tucked under his head. A rosary placed in his hands … Is there a priest here? We need a priest …

 Marty shut the door to the small office that was situated just off the end of the bar.  She leaned back against the desk, her arms wrapped around her body, doing her best to stop the shaking. She felt the hot, bitter tears rolling down her cheeks and she looked around the desk and found a box of tissues.

Never again. Never ever again. I’ll never let myself get sucked into it again. First with Jack Kennedy, and now with Bobby. You let yourself care, you let yourself hope, you let yourself believe, and then some idiot out there sits in front of his goddamn TV screen and says, “Oh, I could be famous. I could be somebody! Where did I put my gun?” Well, they can all go straight to hell, and they can do it without me. Never ever again. Making the phone calls. Walking door to door. “Can we count on your vote for Senator Kennedy?” Doors slammed in your face. Dogs barking, baring their fangs. And for what? To be a part of this great democratic process, the magnificent, peaceful transfer of power? Peaceful, my ass! Democracy, my ass! It’s democracy from a gun barrel. Well, fuck ’em all, unto the hundredth generation. They can all go fuck themselves. Why? Why did I let myself care? Why did I let myself believe?

Skip stuck his head in the door. “Hey, are you okay?”

Marty glared at him, fire in her eyes. Hell no, she wasn’t okay. She wasn’t even on the same planet as okay. But … he was a good man, her Skip, a damn good man. It wasn’t his fault. No need to take it out on him.

She smiled at him weakly. “I’ll be okay. What’s the latest?”

“He was shot in the head, at close range. They’ve taken him to a hospital. As far as anyone knows, he’s still alive. The guy that shot him—I think they said he’s from Jordan—his name is Sirhan Sirhan. That’s about all.” Skip walked over to where Marty was leaning against the desk.

“Okay. Gimme a minute and I’ll be out to help you.”

“No hurry, babe. The place is emptying out. Take all the time you need.” Skip wrapped her in his arms and they held each other for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he said. He kissed her forehead and then turned and headed back to the bar.

Marty’s thoughts were tumbling now, looking for a place to land. Alive? He’s still alive? There’s hope. I should be hopeful. I should … pray.  She closed her eyes and tried to pray for Bobby Kennedy’s life, but she couldn’t make herself believe. Instead, she prayed for his family—another son, brother, husband, father taken too soon. And she prayed for his mortal soul.

  _____


 

Monday, May 27, 2024

 

Tuesday, May 28, 1968

 from ’68 – A Novel

  

Did you hear about the Scorpion?”

Skip had heard the question so many times during the day that he’d lost count and could not remember the first person who had asked. The news had spread out across the country in successive shock waves from the epicenter, the Norfolk Navy Base at Hampton Roads, Virginia. It began with a news bulletin broadcast by the CBS television affiliate in Norfolk on May 27 at around 6:00 PM local time: the USS Scorpion was overdue in port and the Navy had declared a SubMiss (submarine missing) alert. The crew of ninety-nine officers and enlisted men were drawn from thirty-three of the fifty states and long-distance phone lines lit up as families reached out to notify their loved ones.

The second wave came on Tuesday morning, May 28, when major newspapers across the country reported the SubMiss alert and the fact that the Navy had launched a massive open-water search operation. In Norfolk, The Ledger-Star proclaimed, “No Trace of Sub Found as Navy Presses Search.” The headline in the New York Times read, “U.S. Nuclear Submarine with 99 Overdue.” Again, phone lines were jammed, reaching into every corner of the country, including Vallejo, California.

Vallejo, the home of Mare Island Naval Shipyard, was an integral part of the nuclear navy. Beginning with the USS Sargo in 1957 and extending to the USS Drum in 1970, Mare Island would contribute seventeen ships to the nuclear submarine fleet, including seven “boomers” (the Navy’s nickname for ships armed with ballistic missiles) and ten fast attack boats. Mare Island was also one of several sites for the Navy’s nuclear power school. Any tremor that affected a nuclear submarine would be felt in Vallejo.

With the five o’clock shift change on the shipyard, the crowd at Skip’s Place began to grow, larger than normal for a Tuesday evening. It seemed that the shipyard workers needed to come together, to talk about what they’d heard, and hopefully, hear some encouraging news about the fate of the Scorpion. Skip knew it was just a matter of time until someone would walk in with a story of connections to the ship and its crew. He didn’t have long to wait.

“Hey, Robbie. How’s it goin’?”

“Goin’ good. What’s up?”

“Did you hear about the Scorpion?”

“What about the Scorpion?”

“She’s missing. The Navy put out a SubMiss alert yesterday afternoon.”

“Damn! That’s my brother-in-law’s ship!”

All along the bar, eyes turned in Robbie’s direction. No one said a word. After several seconds, Robbie broke the silence. “Hey, Skip, I gotta call my sister in Norfolk—”

“Sure, Robbie.” Skip didn’t wait for him to finish. “Use the phone in the office.”

“Thanks, Skip.” Robbie hurried toward the door to the small office located off the end of the bar. “I’ll pay you for the call.”

“Can you believe that? His brother-in-law’s ship?”

“Anybody know what class it is?”

“Yeah, it’s a Skipjack. Built in Groton.”

“Did we build any Skipjacks?”

“Just one: the Scamp. Launched in 1960. It’s a good design—faster than hell. I hear it maneuvers like a sports car.”

“Yeah, a hundred guys crammed into a sports car. I tell you what, it’s no job for sissies.”

            “You been on one, Jack?”

“Yeah. My last six years were in the submarine service … the last three on the USS Haddo.  She’s Thresher class.”

Now all eyes turned to Jack with the respect due someone who knows.

“Yeah, no job for sissies. You have no idea what it’s like out there, underwater for weeks at a time, bored out of your skull, and then all of a sudden you’re in places you’re not supposed to be, under a Soviet destroyer or some other damn ship, and your heart’s pounding so hard you’d swear they could hear it on their sonar. I pissed myself more than once, and that’s no lie. Collisions and near-collisions, stuff you’ll never hear about, because the Navy doesn’t want you to know.”

Jack finished his beer and signaled to Skip for another.

“And you have no idea what it does to the wives, either. Killed my marriage, that’s for sure. She just couldn’t take it—the separations, the silence, the missions you couldn’t talk about. She was a good woman, too.”

Everyone felt bad for Jack. It was quiet again along the bar. He continued.

“You know, when you’re scheduled to go on patrol, they put it to you straight. Make sure your affairs are in order. Make sure your insurance premiums are paid up. Like I said, no job for sissies.”

Robbie emerged from the office and rejoined his friends. Skip slid a shot and beer in front of him and he threw back the shot.

“I can’t friggin’ believe it! My sister says she and the kids were down at the pier in Norfolk, waiting for the ship to come in. They got there at noon and she’s due in at 1:00 PM. There’s a Nor’easter blowing, the rain practically going sideways. They’re waiting in the car, trying to keep warm, stepping out every now and then to see if the ship’s coming. One o’clock comes and goes and they’re still waiting. Around 4:00, someone from Squadron comes down and tells them she’s been delayed and they should all go home. It’s easy to believe a delay, because of the lousy weather, so they go home. And on the six o’clock news, they break in with a report that the USS Scorpion is overdue and a sub missing alert has been issued. My eight-year-old nephew hears this and runs into the kitchen to tell his mom. Can you believe that shit? No call from Squadron. They hear about it on TV.”

Robbie was quiet then. His friends bought him another round.

Jack, the former submariner, spoke up. “Hell, as my old man used to say, ‘There’s the right way, the wrong way, and the Navy way.’ I guess this is the Navy way.”

“Look, Robbie …” Skip felt the need to offer some hope. “Missing doesn’t mean lost. She may be out there in the storm somewhere, disabled, unable to radio in. They’re launching a search. They could find her … anytime now.”

“Yeah? Maybe you’re right, Skip.” He dropped his eyes and thought about it for a few seconds. “I’ll have to take some time off … check on flights to Norfolk … my sister’s gonna need some help.”

Robbie’s friends took his car keys and ordered another round for him. They’d see to it that he got home safely.

 

In the days and weeks to come, the news would trickle out to the Scorpion families and the world at large. Around mid-day on May 27, Memorial Day, the Submarine Squadron 6 command became concerned and began a series of radio transmissions asking Scorpion to check in. Receiving no reply, Squadron transmitted alarm up the chain of command, and at 2:15 PM, COMSUBLANT (Commander, Atlantic Submarine Force) requested two reconnaissance aircraft to begin a search along the ship’s intended track. Finally, at 3:15 PM, the official SubMiss alert was broadcast to the Atlantic Fleet.

Years later, additional facts would become public knowledge. The last radio transmission from Scorpion was received shortly after midnight on May 22, when the skipper, Commander Francis Slattery, gave his current position and said he planned to be in port at 1:00 PM on May 27. Later that day, SOSUS, the then-secret underwater acoustic monitoring system, recorded the explosion that sent Scorpion to the ocean floor under eleven thousand feet of water, four hundred miles southwest of the Azores. On May 23, Vice Admiral Arnold Schade, commander of the Atlantic Submarine Force, requested and received approval to launch a top-secret search for the wreckage of the submarine.

Of course, the Scorpion families, waiting on Pier 22 in the middle of a howling storm on May 27, knew none of this. Not that it would have provided any comfort to know that their sailors were on eternal patrol.

_____


 

Tuesday, May 7, 2024

 The Power of Words

 

I just finished reading Doris Kearns Goodwin’s An Unfinished Love Story – A personal history of the 1960s. This is a must-read for history lovers, especially if you came of age in the decade of the 60s. It will take you through all the milestones etched in your memory: the first televised presidential debates; Kennedy’s inaugural address; the Cuban Missile Crisis; and on and on. There are triumphs, such as the Civil Rights Act (1964), Voting Rights Act (1965), and Neil Armstrong setting foot on the moon in 1969. And there are tragedies: the assassinations of JFK, MLK, and RFK; riots in many of our great cities; and of course, the Vietnam War and the debacle of the 1968 Democratic National Convention in Chicago.

Richard “Dick” Goodwin was in his twenties when he joined the Kennedy campaign in 1960 as an assistant to chief speech writer Ted Sorenson. During a remarkable career in public life, Dick Goodwin worked for John Kennedy, Lyndon Johnson, Eugene McCarthy, and Robert Kennedy. His fingerprints and his words are found in major speeches and policy declarations for all these men. Pick a major policy initiative of the 60s and Dick Goodwin was there.

I first became aware of Doris Kearns Goodwin in 1994 when she appeared in Ken Burns’s documentary, Baseball. She recalled listening to Brooklyn Dodger games on the radio and keeping score to give her father a play-by-play account when he arrived home from work. She was six years old and convinced she was keeping her father’s love of the Dodgers alive. I’ve been a fan of DKG ever since hearing that story. In addition to being a baseball fan, she has compiled a distinguished career as a presidential historian. Her books include: Lyndon Johnson and the American Dream; Team of Rivals – the Political Genius of Abraham Lincoln; Leadership in Turbulent Times.   

Dick Goodwin met Doris Kearns in 1972; they married and were together until his death in 2018 at the age of eighty-six. This book was their last collaborative effort, a sequential review of more than three hundred boxes of archival material Dick had accumulated over his years in public life. The fact that he died before the book was completed suggests the title: An Unfinished Love Story. That Doris went on to complete the project gives their story its exclamation point.

Beautifully written. Packed with emotion. Highly recommended. As I said in the beginning, this is a must-read, especially if you are of a certain age.

 

_____