Banksarelli

When you live away from Chicago it is guaranteed that you will know someone who is a diehard fan of those crazy Baby Bruins from the North Side. It is part of their heritage. From mother and father down through their children, and their children’s children, these were and continue to be official members of the living Cubs family of fanatic fans. No matter where you go to see a game in the Majors, if the Cubs are playing on the road, there will be a hoard of fans at the visiting stadiums…shouting, screaming and bringing a little bit of Chicago to their new home town.

Living in Wisconsin, there were quite a number. Growing up in the ‘50s, they would trade nearly anyone of their baseball card collection for a Pete Whisenant or an Owen Friend or…you get it. Hobie Landrith was a god to their misplaced youth as were Dee Fondy, Don Hoak, Walt Moryn, Monte Irvin and of course, the one and only Ernie.

Nearly every kid who grew up in the ‘50s knew who Ernie was. But to these devoted Cub Crazies, there were few before and until a season ago, none since that could live up to the legend of Ernie Banks.

One of my friends was devoted to the everyday doings of Ernie. If you happened to have a Sporting News (the bible of ‘50s baseball) beware of my friend. He would grab it and devour nearly every at bat Ernie had the week before. Game for Game, Inning by Inning, Ernie could do no wrong. If you wanted war, just argue who should be in the All-Star game, Banks or Johnny Logan, the shortstop of the Milwaukee Braves, then Wisconsin’s team.

But the one thing I remember most about this devotee was one day he actually believed that Ernie Banks was a relative of his. In arguing with his friends that Ernie was a distant cousin, we scoffed knowing with a large amount of certainty that he probably was not. That made our friend determined. That made him press his argument with his family. At dinner, he proposed to his mom and dad that in fact Ernie was a distant cousin. His dad, holding back a smile, gritting his teeth on his water glass, asked how he determined that. His mom simply said, ‘I never heard that. Is that true dear?’.

Then it dawned on him to pull out a Gale Wade. Now if you haven’t heard, the one Mr Wade, only played in 12 major league games in his entire career in The Show during 1955 and 1956. This was a card that nobody but a Cubs fan would want. It was bicycle spokes material. His mom loved the Wade card. ‘There’s Jeanny’s brothers’ next door neighbor’s cousin on the mother’s side’, she explained.

Maybe it was Wade who was a distant relative.

But no. My friend continued to push the issue of Ernie Banks being some-how related.

’Son…’, his dad said, ‘we are Italian. Ernie, I assume is not. Therefore, if Mr. Banks was related his name would probably have to be Banksarelli. Go ahead. Look at your Topps and see if that is his name on the back of the card.’

My friend quickly looked and it said Ernest Banks, Booker T. Washington High School, Dallas, TX. It showed in cartoon which stated, ‘He played in every game in ’54 and ’55.

Without a word, he got up from the table, excused himself, and was determined to find the family heritage tie between his beloved Ernie Banks and his family.

And that is how the legend of Banksarelli began.

It was 1957 on the East Side of Beloit, WI.

It has since shifted to Bonita Springs, FL.

Play Ball!

P.S. Gale Wade is now one of the 100 oldest living players. Is this the year he gets to see his former team win?

Booker T’s Finest

A member of the All-Century Team…Mr. Cub.

The other day, in Mesa, Arizona, there were more than 15,000 packing in the new Cubs park. It really didn’t matter who they were playing. Cub fans descended upon it in hoards. And for the same reason they gather on nearly every game no matter where the Cubs play…it’s an event. Family and friends gather for one common cause: misery and comaraderie.

Here they were, gathered again, smiling, laughing, Vienna in one hand and a drink in another. It was Cub time. It was ‘hope’ time. Will this be the year?

Back in the day, there really was hope. A young all around athlete from Booker T Washington High School in Dallas was entering his first full season. He starred in track, basketball, football as well as baseball. In his brief appearance in the previous season he had only appeared in 10 games with 35 at bats. But he took measure of greatness as he banged out 2 home runs, a double and a triple, along with 7 other hits to bat .314. He really was the hope the Cubs had been looking for since Gabby retired. For the next 18 years he would be ‘The Cub’….’Mr Cub’.

I first met Ernie Banks at a game in Milwaukee. He was there, walking through the stands, greeting everyone, shaking hands and given a warm welcome even in the dreaded enemy city of the Cream City. But this was Ernest Banks, always smiling and instantly recognizable and personable. Shaking his hand he simply said, ‘Great day to play two’, sort of giggling and smiling every second and looking directly into you eyes.

What I remember most about that day was not just meeting him but the respect the fans in Milwaukee had for him, applauding him everywhere he went in the stadium while he was waving and smiling all the way to his seat, next to Cub fans who were simply in delirium as their hero was amongst them.

And it is a funny thing about this Hall of Fame hero. He never disappointed. Here was a man who had hit 47 home runs in one season. Here was a man who drove in 147 RBI in a single season. He was an All-Star in 13 games in 11 years (remember, they used to have two All-Star games in certain seasons). He was MVP twice in back-to-back years, 1958-1959.

On this day in Mesa, everyone was talking about how they got to the park that day and one said he had just flown down from Chicago where it had been snowing when he left. Now it was 80 degrees and he ask, ‘Where’s Ernie?’.

That’s what Cub fans have been asking for decades. That’s what bring hope to these fans who follow their beloved Cubbies everywhere. Now it’s time to …

Play Ball!

Watching Attanasio

Baseball is never ending. There is a rhythm and flow that predates rock and roll. It is part of past, present and future. It is there for us, on demand, as regular as running water. We know it is there and when we want it, it comes out. It is, after all, our heritage. It is an American legacy.

The temples where the game is played of green grass has a look all its own. There, the gods of the sport, now and before, play the game. Their ghosts are everywhere. Aaron and Banks. Williams and Mantle. Spahn and Mathews, Musial and Koufax. Jackie and Robin. Through the turnstiles, past the concession stands, into the venue itself, the opening is there and passing through, there it is…it is the place where magic will happen today.

Hope for the season ahead is ever present. This is the season when the heavens will open up and victory in the form of a World Series pennant will be ours.

For many of us, it is a way of life, passed down to us from our grandparents, parents or relatives. It is our legacy. When remembering the past, it is the time we spent with our grandfather and grandmother, Mom and Dad at the ballpark. For those who grew up in Wisconsin, the home team, our home team is the Milwaukee Brewers. So much had been seen there; the great players like Roger … ‘The Rocket’, perhaps the greatest pitcher the game has ever seen, or Reggie and Yaz, Cal and Randy Johnson, as well as Griffey, Jr. and Ichiro, the greatest hitter the game has seen in our lifetime. ‘The Brewers Win The Pennant’ with Simba, Robin, Pauly, Gimby, Stormin, Rollie, Vuch, Coop, Benji and the Harvey were all witnessed with family and friends, Moms and Dads, brothers and sisters, sons and daughters. CC and Sheets, Prince and Braun, Greinke, Weeks and Nyjer, K-Rod and AxMan, brought the feeling back but fell ever so short.

This was a team that was brought to Wisconsin after the first great heartbreak of our sporting life, on a loan from the Schlitz Brewing Co. family to a car dealer’s son who would become the Commissioner of Baseball (after he was involved and found guilty in the collusion between the owners to keep players from earning their fair share through free agency) to fill the void left by the carpetbagger who moved the beloved Braves to that city down south.

We live in a world of globalization. We live in a world where the game is played by athletes everywhere. Milwaukee is a community that has diversified over the past half century as well. Today 39% of Milwaukee County is made up of Black Americans, 13% Latinos, 5% Asian Americans. It became a majority minority dominated city in 2000.

Today’s baseball team in the Cream City no longer reflects that diversity. Of the 40 man roster, there are only two Black Americans, one an aging Weeks nearing the end of his career and Davis, a young man just beginning his career. The Latino contingent is well represented, with some sixteen team members. There is one Asian, a Taiwanese pitcher who is yet to make it to the Bigs.

We no longer live in a Jim Crow era. Yet the team that is in Milwaukee has just two Black Americans. When they made a run for the pennant, the starting first baseman, second baseman and center fielder were black. Prince was beloved since he came up through the minors and would, fans thought, forever be an All-Star Brewer. Rickie was the college educated, All-Star second baseman. Nyjer was the center of joy. And he did get THE HIT. Together with Braun, Hart, Lucroy, Grienke, Vonnie, K-Rod and Axford they made their run which would be only the first of many to come. Today there is no Prince, no Nyjer, no Grienke, no K-Rod nor Axford. And there is no Hart. Rickie is waning, Vonnie is struggling and Braun is coming back from the unknown.

The team has no minority manager or coaches with the single exception of John Shelby who begins his third season on the coaching staff after joining the organization as outfield coach/eye in the sky, whatever that is; no upper management who are minority. Yet this is the governing body of the team that represents a majority minority city in the great Midwest. ‘A team is a reflection of the community it represents.’

The owner is from Los Angeles. There is little that is the same on Wilshire Boulevard or Pacific Palisades as compared to Pigsville or Lincoln at Kinnikinnick. In the City of Angels, Brats (with Secret Stadium Sauce) and beer are as foreign as sushi and wine are in Bayview. Brookfield is not Beverly Hills and Racine has kringle. Try finding that at Gilsons. This is a town where there are bubblers and kids wear rubbers on their feet when it rains. There is a separation here. It is not just distance, but a cultural misunderstanding that Milwaukee is the same as it was or the same as everywhere else. It is not. The Packers and Brewers, Badgers,  Bucks and Marquette belong to Wisconsinites, not Californians. Curley, Uecker, Crazylegs and Chones are our guys. Spencer Tracy, Fred MacMurray and Gene Wilder are our guys. They all, uncommon individuals and brilliant in their craft, who have all played at one time or another in California, are Wisconsinites through and through. The Brewers, every last one of them who ever played in the Cream City, belong to us.

If there is one thing a person from Los Angeles knows, it is star-power. They know that if you have a star for your program or movie or team, people will come and fans will pay in record numbers to see them. It is as eternal as Cary Grant, Bob Hope or Babe Ruth. They don’t call Yankee Stadium ‘The House That Ruth Built’ for nothing. Mark Attanasio lives and works in Los Angeles. He occasionally shows up in Milwaukee as the owner. He should know more than most what a star does to propel a team and make money. The present team looks like a fragment of their former self. Yes, the payroll is manageable and the team will make money…a lot of money. What is our VORP? Who gives a crap. Enough with Keith Wollner. We want a PENNANT. We want to be competitive. We want it NOW.

A former owner of the Milwaukee Brewers in the old American Association, Bill Veeck, said, “Baseball must be a great game because the owners haven’t been able to kill it.” The fans will fill the stands. And records will be broken. But we need a Prince or a Price, a Tanaka or, hell, a first baseman who can play first base. It is time for change. It is time for an owner to get in touch with the city his team represents and a management who represents a constant path to victory. We are watching Attanasio.

We will be heading to Maryvale in February and again the gates will open and warm, brilliant sunshine will illuminate the field. The lines will be chalked and fans will press for autographs. The smell of brats and beer will fill the air and the boys from the team representing Milwaukee will take the field. Will this team have a chance to win the pennant or will this owner be like so many before him, make money on a fan base who will support them regardless of the outcome. He will earn it on the millions who will go through Miller Park. He will earn it from broadcast and telecast, mobile and digital rights. He will earn it from the advertising in the stands and on merchandise that is sold. He will make it from those over the limit teams who will spend monies to try to win the pennant and pay the  tax. He will earn it by paying for mediocrity on the field, in the dugout and in upper management. Can you spell Masahiro? David? Or, even Prince?

It is time to …

Play Ball!

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New Orphans Plotting At The Wrig

The first memory of the game, like many before and after, was with my Grandfather. A fervent baseball fan, he would be in the living room, sitting in his favorite corner chair (the ‘easy’ chair) where the game would be on the radio with Bert Wilson calling the action. He would always say, “I don’t care who wins, as long as it’s the Cubs!”. They were the first major league club I ever saw in an exhibition game against the Milwaukee Brewers of the American Association.

What happened this past week was a milestone of sorts. Those loveable Cubs were not in the basement of the Central Division of the National League. What in Clark & Addison is happening?

For as long as one can remember, the one word you could use with the Chicago Cubs was ‘hope’. When Jack Brickhouse (‘Hey-hey!”) was calling the play-by-play, ‘hope’ was in the form of Dee Fondy or Ernie Banks (reminded me of legendary Crusader shortstop, Lenny); Phil Cavaretta or Stan Hack on WGN. Hack was my Grandfather’s favorite player. No wonder. He was a .301 career hitter. When it was Vince Lloyd calling the play-by-play (Holy mackerel!”) or ‘Harry’ in the booth, (“It might be…it could be…it is!”), ‘hope’ was Santo or Gracie; Ferguson or Sarge. Problem was…all of these teams rarely finished above level…above .500 for the season.

There were a few Cub teams that finished above .500, but in the 21st Century, the beloved Cubbies have only been above .500 for a season 6 times, including the heartbreaking 2003 season (we simply will not mention the guy’s name and you know who we are talking about). In the 1990s, there were only two seasons when they finished above level. Same with he ’80s; three times in the ’70s; four times in the 60; none in the ’50s and only twice in the ’40s in which they were in their last World Series. Since 1937, when Bill Veeck planted the ivy that grace the outfield walls of the ‘Friendly Confines’, the Chicago Cubs finished above .500 only 21 times in 76 YEARS. That brings a whole new meaning for the word  ‘hope’.

This is a team that is celebrating their 137th year in the National League this season. The National League of Professional Baseball was formed with an eight-team circuit consisting of the Boston Red Stockings (now Atlanta Braves), Chicago White Stockings (now the Cubs and starring A. G. Spalding, the sporting goods king), Cincinnati Red Legs (expelled after the 1880 season for marketing beer at their games and for playing on Sundays were reformed in 1881 and are today the Reds), Hartford Dark Blues (disbanded in 1878 due to one of the first gambling scandals in the game), Louisville Grays (disbanded in 1878), Philadelphia Athletics (expelled after 1876), Mutual of New York (expelled after 1776 season) and St. Louis Brown Stockings (folded after 1877).

There were great teams along the way. After the 1902 season, a group of young kids named Tinker, Evers and Chance gave the Chicago Daily News the distinction of renaming the team The Orphans. This band of superb players were legendary. In 1906 they won 116 games and lost to the rival White Sox in the World Series but won the World Series in 1907 (110 wins); in 1908 and 1910 (104 wins). They were no longer orphans but baby bruins and renamed the Cubs.

These beloved Cubs were last in a World Series in 1945. Who can forget ‘Curse of Bill “The Goat” Sianis’, with aging pitching star Lon Warneke; Hank Wyse who had a 22-10 record that season; Phil Cavarretta at 1st with a .355 BA; Stan Hack at 3rd with a .323 BA; Peanuts Lowrey with a .283 BA; Andy Pafko with a .298 BA, all of whom where managed by the legendary Charlie Grimm.

That was then.

Today it is up to a group of New Orphans named Rizzo, Castro, Wood, Samardzija, Valbuena, Feldman and Castillo. Led by Dale Sveum on the field and Theo Epstein in the front office,  for a brief moment this past week the New Orphans were born. They were not in the basement of the Central Division.

Never being sure of what a season will bring, ‘hope’ this year may be more than a reminder of the past. Three wins in a row will do that. As of this Sunday morning, they are NOT in the basement.

Play Ball!