Chuckin' Chuck: The Astonishing Tale of Charles Manson Pitching in the Major Leagues

By Michael H. Seid

Desensitized. Thats what all sports fans have become to the plethora of criminal-athletes that pervade our sports culture. So what will the bombastic owner of the New England Mavericks do when he learns that Americas most notorious inmate has developed a literally unhittable pitch while playing for his prison baseball team? A sportsworld littered with bad boys who belong on Cops rather than on a box of Wheaties is deplorable. But when a man can throw the ball 81 times per game and not one pitch is so much as foul-tippedwhats not to love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Mar 24, 2009
• ISBN: 9781452058993

Michael H. Seid

Mike Seid is a former stand up comic and lifelong sports fan. Chuckin’ Chuck is his first novel. He has also  written the screenplay Of Yuppie Scum, the screenplay adaptation of Chuckin’ Chuck and co-wrote the screenplay Number One With a Bullet. Born in the Bronx, he played Little League baseball on the very plot of land that the new Yankee Stadium stands (the House that Seid Built?) After stops in Queens, Los Angeles and NYC, he currently resides in Cranford, New Jersey. His future hobbies will include sky diving, spelunking and rock climbing, but that is only if his 42” Plasma breaks beyond repair. And hell freezes over.

Book preview

Chuckin’ chuck

The astonishing tale of charles manson pitching in the major leagues

Mike seid

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AuthorHouse™

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© 2008 Michael H. Seid. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse    3/18/2009

ISBN: 978-1-4389-6785-1 (sc)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2008907552

Printed in the United States of America

Bloomington, Indiana

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Author Photo: Stavros Panopoulos

Cover Design: Janelle Gonyea & Jonas Paterno

Author’s Note

Some real people appear in this story under their own names, but this is a work of fiction----- Let’s all hope.

Acknowledgements

I would like to thank all the friends I’ve ever spent time with rooting for our favorite teams and the players who have worn the laundry for those teams. This book would not exist without all of you. Nor would it exist without the nice people at AuthorHouse, especially my editor, Elizabeth Ross and cover artist Janelle Gonye. Additionally, I must thank Jonas Paterno who, when I said I had an idea for a screenplay, said No, that’s a novel. To that idea I replied, You’re nuts, I can’t write a novel. After an editor at a well known publisher said he liked the idea for a novel, I decided to try writing it. To that, Paterno said, Gee, thanks for agreeing with me. I also want to thank Susan and all of the present and past members of the Belleville Zoo. Finally, I would be remiss if I didn’t especially thank the Masters of the Sports Universe for their unrelenting will to field winning teams at all costs, rap sheets notwithstanding. To paraphrase the great Yogi Berra, thank you all for making this book necessary. I hope the reader enjoys the book and understands its important message. Regardless of whether you do or not, I think you will all agree with me: Jonas Paterno is nuts.

This book is dedicated to the memory of Bobby Murcer, a baseball hero who never let us down.

You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth.

-----Fourth Commandment

Contents

Prologue

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

Epilogue

The End

Author’s Note:

About the Author

Prologue

The little man stood on the pitcher’s mound peering in for an imaginary sign from the catcher. He giggled at the absurdity of the charade. There was no need for the catcher to throw down any fingers. The batter knew what was coming, the pitcher knew what he was about to throw, and the crowd of two dozen or so onlookers knew it as well. The little pitcher with the beady eyes and disturbing high-pitched giggle only had one pitch: the knuckleball. He threw it every time. Still, none of the previous twenty-six batters he’d faced this afternoon had even foul-tipped it once.

The man in the batter’s box was Monroe Griffin, but the onlookers knew him best as inmate number 0048999920. He was doing seven-to-ten for putting his boss’s head in a waffle iron. Seems Monroe had been a bit sensitive about taking orders that day, which was disconcerting to his boss considering the Tupelo Tic-Toc Diner was bustling that morning. The order that set him off reminded him of his tenure as a major leaguer. A cup of coffee: that’s what made him snap that day. Lucky for Monroe, his boss didn’t die, but the left side of his face will forever sport a fetching tic-tac-toe board. He also developed a spastic twitch that occurs whenever one of his patrons orders coffee. Or waffles. Especially waffles.

Here on the well-manicured baseball diamond in yard four of the Corcoran State Prison in Kings County, California, history was being made—not baseball history but prison history. Never during his tenure at Corcoran had the warden actually been this close to his prison’s most famous inmate. Actually, he is the world’s most famous inmate. Charles Manson was the little beady-eyed pitcher on the mound. That’s right. Charlie fucking Manson himself: Mr. Helter Skelter, Big Daddy of the Manson Family, Vince Bugliosi’s ticket to fame and fortune, Dennis Wilson’s pot dealer, Squeaky Frohm’s mentor. But today he was just Chuckin’ Chuck, getting ready to humiliate big, bad Monroe Griffin and complete his ninth straight perfect game.

To the onlookers, who were mostly veteran correctional officers and prison officials, the sight of Charles Manson had always been surreal to begin with. He was not just another prisoner but an all-time pop culture freak show of immense proportions. There has been so much literature and commentary on this man that there is really nothing more to add, save for the little-known fact that he really does fold laundry quite well.

Monroe took a few exaggerated warm up swings, bringing the bat around in a big looping circle a la Willie Pops Stargell of the 1970’s Pirates—the We Are Family Pittsburgh Pirates. Charlie stepped off the mound and glared at Monroe, who beamed a vicious smile back at the pitcher. He was trying to rile the little man up. It is well known inside the giant concrete walls of the prison that Manson does not like to be chided. Again, Monroe took the exaggerated looping practice swings, spat a thick stream of tobacco juice in the pitcher’s direction, and began to hum—quietly at first, but the little pitcher knew just what he was humming. It was Sister Sledge’s We are Family.

C’mon, little man, show me what you got, Big Daddy! exclaimed Griffin. "We are FAM-I-LEEY! I got all mah sistah’s wit me! Ha ha ha! Fuckin’ psycho! Shit, bring it man, bring it."

Manson’s body language suddenly changed. The growing irritation and tautness seemed to drain out of him and he was a loosey goosey, wiry, rubber-band man with a large grin that seemed to begin at one earlobe and stretch to the other earlobe just like the Joker in Batman. Awright, you big fat piece of shit, Charlie shot back. Here comes my number one … two … three … four … and five. He held the ball out in his hand, showing the grip. His fingernails were dug in at the top and sides of the baseball, and he was holding it out exaggeratedly as if to say, You can see it but you still can’t hit it." And then his scrawny little body began to twitch spastically and he giggled the kind of giggle your senile grandfather would let out when someone slipped on the ice and landed on their ass.

Now Griffin was the one upset by the chiding and yelled, Alright, shithead, just pitch the muthafucker already!

With that Charles Manson paused and everyone froze as he stared deep and hard into Griffin’s eyes. It lasted just one second, but it would have made Bella Lugosi proud. Then he wound up and floated his eighty-first pitch of the afternoon. It hovered, danced, and floated like a drunken butterfly. It was so slow that it seemed as if it was going to stop in mid-air and return to its giggling master. Griffin’s eyes opened so wide and his bat was cocked so far back that the onlookers thought this was finally the swing that was going to connect with the ball.

As the bat exploded toward the floating, tantalizing cockteaser, Manson was already hopping up and down and laughing his ass off. Monroe grunted and started to say something like, I got you this ti— but he whiffed and spun himself around in the dirt like a corkscrew as the bat went flying right toward the onlookers. They all ducked in time, except for the warden, who caught it flush, right smack between the eyes.

Monroe couldn’t take the utter humiliation of the little elfin freak laughing in his face again, so he charged the mound and threw his very rotund but athletic body at Charlie. It was fruitless, of course, because in a flash the tiny pitcher was already high-tailing it across the yard still giggling, leaping in the air every few yards and clicking his heels together for good measure. The guards didn’t move, since they were quite used to Charlie being chased around by the humiliated batters after another perfect game.

Where was he going to go? He may be the best prison knuckleballer of all time, but he’s no threat to escape or hurt anyone. That had been proved many times over by a litany of prison psychology tests. Rather than being a physical threat to anyone within the prison walls, he’s looked on as more of an Ernest T. Bass sort of character—that annoying runt on the Andy Griffith show who would always throw rocks through windows, then laugh and taunt and run away from Barney Fife. So maybe the only thing ol’ Charlie needed was a hug.

The scattered crowd in the bleachers gathered themselves and a few tended to the warden’s bruise over the bridge of his nose. The stray bat had left a welt between his eyebrows the size of a quarter. He held a handkerchief to his brow to stop the bleeding as the men around him concerned themselves more with the comical vaudeville antics in the yard. Charlie was still running and laughing. An exasperated Monroe Griffin had given up the chase and was actually laughing himself now.

Oh man, Charlie … you really missed your calling, dude. No offense, but you should’ve laid off the LSD in the ’60s, man. You could’ve been the real deal. The guards began to clear the yard and a cooperative Manson and Griffin held out their arms to be shackled and led back inside. The small crowd of officials broke up as well—all except for the warden, two close aides, and a pale, skinny young man wearing a Family Member visitor’s badge who had sat alone at the end of the back row of the bleachers. The three well-dressed gents mulled over what they had just witnessed.

Just like they said, the warden offered as he stared out at the pitcher’s mound. He shook his head slowly and disbelievingly and repeated, Just like they said.

What do you make of this? the younger aide asked. I mean, could these guys be pulling some kind of hoax? Twenty-seven up and twenty-seven down. Nine times in a row! Prison ball yard or not, that’s insane stuff. And Griffin, the guy’s only two years removed from pro ball.

What kind of hoax? the warden said as he dabbed at the bloody bump on his brow.

Well, we’re sitting here watching one of the all-time great con artists. Have you forgotten what he convinced a commune of hippies to do? Who knows what the hell this is all about? The man was one of history’s worst all-time evil Svengalis. Maybe he’s cooking up something in his old age. One last mind-freak before he goes to the big Spahn Ranch in the sky.

He’s up for parole again in three months, the warden said. He’s going to use this somehow. I just know it. The warden and his aides began walking toward the prison gates and their private parking lot. The pale, skinny young man descended the bleachers, took out his cell phone, and pressed a speed dial button as he headed toward the prison exit.

Boston, June 2006 — Philadelphia Phillies Pitcher Brett Myers was arrested across the street from Fenway Park last night for slapping his wife on the street in front of horrified witnesses. The pitcher’s wife refused to press charges, defending her husband by saying, We was both drunk. Myers will be starting for the Phillies tonight versus the Boston Redsox.

1

It was the second day on the job for the skinny, pale young man. Seth White was barely two months out of college and here he was sitting opposite arguably the most famous owner in all of professional sports, Hugh J. Winbaugh III.

I have a dilemma, said Winbaugh.

Yes, sir?

I like to sleep in the nude. The only problem is … I look really good in pajamas. So, I’m going to have little horseys tattooed all over my body.

Yes, sir.

Winbaugh frowned and pushed back on his expensive pinewood desk for leverage. A wheel on his big leather desk chair squeaked as the owner’s hefty legs swung up to the desktop, where he left them. He frowned as he glanced down toward the source of the squeaky sound. Yes, sir? Winbaugh asked. Is that all you can muster up when I tell you that I’m going to have little horseys tattooed all over my body?

Well, Mr. Winbaugh, the intern stammered, I, um, I, don’t know how to respond to that. It’s your body after all …

Oh, for crying out loud, kid, it was a joke! Don’t you get it? Horseys … tattooed … all over … Oh, never mind. The girls downstairs told me you seemed to have a good sense of humor. Were they wrong?

Well, sir, they just met me yesterday so I don’t know how they would know—

Oh, I see! They sent you as the sacrificial lamb—the new guy in town, Johnny ‘new boy.’ I remember that old trick. The kids always did that to me when we moved to a new town. We were always moving and I was always the new kid. Traumatized me, absolutely traumatized me, I tell you. Ever have your face smashed into a pile of crushed bananas with a blindfold on?

Seth tried to squeeze his answer in during Winbaugh’s anecdote. Um, no.

Well, I’ll tell you, when the kids all say it’s a big pile of shit, you tend to believe them for the moment. Finding out its really crushed bananas is only a minor consolation in the long run.

Excuse me, sir, but I’m not following. They told me that you had an assignment for me. They called it a gopher job, and since I’m the brand new intern I should get my feet wet around here. They didn’t say anything about crushed bananas or blindfolds.

Winbaugh breathed deeply and then exhaled slowly while shaking his head and smiling. Kid, he said, I don’t know why, but I like you. You have to loosen up a little, but it’s only your second day here, so I guess you’re a little intimidated, huh?

No, sir, I’m—

I remember the first time it was my second day on the job. My father’s dealership in Indianapolis. The big boss there scared the living daylights out of me. I found out years later that it was all Dad’s setup to teach me that you have to be tough. You have to be tough in this life, you know, kid. Can I call you kid?

Ye— Seth couldn’t even finish the three-letter word.

"Good! Anyway, second day on the job and in walks this hulk of a man. Had to be pushing seven feet and he walks right up to me and demands—demands—to buy a fleet of trucks for his landscaping business. The guy needs six trucks right away. Like as in yesterday! This behemoth grabs my lapels, lifts me up, and says it’s my ass if I don’t have his trucks there in three hours. He looked like that big, bald karate guy in The Longest Yard. Matter of fact, it might have been him. So anyway, I had to think fast and make a decision right then and there. And that’s what you’re going to have to do in about thirty seconds when I tell you what your gopher project is. Are you ready to hear all about it?"

So what happened with the bald—

The phone on Winbaugh’s desk rang and the owner jammed a finger down on a button.

Yes, Ephie. He scowled. I thought I said hold all calls unless … He lowered his voice to a whisper. "You know, unless it’s her."

Maybe you should pick up the phone instead of talking on speaker, Ephie counseled her boss.

No, no, just what is it please?

Well, Mr. Caldwell, the gentleman throwing out the first pitch tonight has some concerns about appearing.

Huh? What’s his problem?

He feels since he was the only hostage released alive it might pain the other family members to see him throwing a baseball and rejoicing in it in front of the fans. Also …

"Oh for the love of … Also? Also what?"

He’s afraid that if he bounces the pitch, he’ll get booed.

So what? We’re only going to have a couple thousand people in the stands tonight. And most of those are giveaways, goddammit. Can’t Dollar Bill handle this? What does that sonofabitch do all day anyway? Give this one to D.B., Ephie. Winbaugh banged on the phone button and the conversation was over.

So where were we, kid?

You said you had a decision to make. What was the decision and how did it turn out?

You’re into this little story of mine, now aren’t you, kid? Good, good. Because you’re going to learn a life lesson right here, right now.

Yes, sir.

So … I knew there was no way to get those six trucks to our lot in three hours and I also knew this nut job could hurt me severely. My choices were: make a bunch of calls to God knows who and pray they could come through for me with the six trucks, tell this guy right then and there that this was not going to happen today and have him drop me by the lapels onto my head, or lie to him and tell him to come back in three hours and in the meantime call my Dad and tell him I want to work for his amusement park in Canada instead of selling cars in Indy. Phew, quite the predicament, hey, kid?

Winbaugh crossed his arms, leaned back farther as the wheel under his chair squeaked again, and paused, waiting for the intern to ask what had happened. Seth didn’t bite. He just stared straight ahead, knowing full well by now that the blustery owner was going to cough up the punch line whether he was asked about it or not.

Take a guess, Winbaugh dared the intern.

Um, I’m not sure I’m qualified to answer this one, sir.

Now stop hedging your bets! I need you to show some balls, kid! That’s what I’m looking for! Not a goddamn sense of humor. You’re going to need some brass balls for what’s coming around the corner! So, pick one and tell me!

Okay, let’s see.… You called your Dad and—

Wrong! I kicked that big, bald SOB in the nuts with my knee while he still had me off the ground by my lapels. He dropped me like a sack of potatoes and started crying like a little baby. Ha!

Seth was silent as Winbaugh’s face turned bright red with boastful glee. Winbaugh continued, Great day that was. I really grew up right then and there. His eyes squinted and blazed at the kid intern. The owner then glanced at his watch quickly and stood up facing Seth with a look that seemed to say, Okay, enough chitchat. Down to business.

Kid, he began, here’s the deal. As you know, the Mavericks leave no stone unturned when it comes to scouting. We are committed to finding and signing the best players to keep this organization on top—no matter where we find them. Got me?

Of course, everyone knows that. The team people love to hate.

Winbaugh’s computer suddenly chirped and a man’s voice came from the speakers. The troops love you, big guy! He glanced at the screen, clicked open and let out a bark. Oh, for the love of Pete. That stupid SOB! Can you believe this, kid?

What is it, sir? Seth asked.

That tight-ass commissioner denied our petition to use a short-centerfielder. What the hell am I supposed to do with all these high priced primadonnas I’m paying? Have ’em all collect splinters? That old fogey has been a pain in my ass for years. Do you know that Alex Martinez wanted to go into the Hall of Fame as a Maverick last summer? That’s right. He was proud of wearing the Maverick uniform, proud of the tradition and the commitment to winning.

Didn’t Martinez play for, like, three weeks for the Mavs in the late ’90s? Seth asked.

Yes, it was a great three weeks, and who the hell is that stuffed shirt to take ten million bucks out of a Latino family’s pocketbook, eh, kid? This is America! If he goes in as a Maverick his grandkids are set for life … bam! Just like that! So now Martinez is enshrined as an Astro. Big deal. When was the last time you saw someone in a cowboy hat walking around Cooperstown? I mean besides the president.

Winbaugh stood up and peered out the window at the sky for a moment, frowning at the sight of the growing cloud cover and the onset of a storm looming. The owner began pacing in a circle as the kid swiveled his chair to keep his eyes on him.

Winbaugh finally said, I have to go now. I’m late for a d— Well, I have to go.

Seth was puzzled. But what’s the gopher assignment, sir?

This is no gopher assignment, kid. It’s your first scouting assignment. So, what do you think about that?

Scouting assignment? But I’m not a scout, sir. You have a whole professional staff for that. Hundreds of them, all over the country. I don’t understand.

"It’s a scouting assignment, but it’s not a scouting assignment. All you have to do is verify one thing—just one thing. I’m sending you to watch a pitcher—a very different kind of pitcher. He’s a knuckleballer. They say he’s literally unhittable. He repeated the last two words slowly: Literally unhittable. And he’s seventy-two years old. That’s right. You heard me correctly, kid. He’s seventy-two years old—but that’s not the punch line. Ready for some big-time shit, kid? His name is … The owner looked at the young man for a brief moment before uttering two of the worst words in the English language. Charles Manson."

PHOENIX, 2006 — Former major league slugger Albert Belle was sentenced to 90 days in jail and five years’ supervised probation Thursday in a case in which he admitted stalking his former girlfriend. Belle, while playing for the Cleveland Indians, had fired a baseball into the stands and struck a heckling fan. He subsequently fired a baseball in the direction of on-field reporter Hanna Storm. He then changed his name from Joey to Albert for public relations purposes.

2

They started their sessions the same way every week: just staring at each other until Seymour asked, Well, Charlie, how was your week? The portly, benign-looking man sitting in the worn, overstuffed plaid chair was Seymour Edlestein, Charles Manson’s personal psychiatrist. Edlestein was brought in to work personally and exclusively with Charlie after the last of thirty some odd shrinks the inmate had worked with over the years just couldn’t handle the job anymore. The last one had been seen one day wandering through the drab, industrial-green hallways muttering, He’s in my head man, he’s in my head.

Charlie looked at the floor and said, You’re gaining weight, you fucking schlump.

Edlestein was unfazed, We’ve discussed many times how these sessions are not about me but about you and your progress as a prison inmate, as well as a potential—

I care about you, Seymour, you putz! You gotta cut out the carbs, man. You’re gonna drop dead one day like that fat umpire. He keeled over when I was two outs away from mowing down cell block eleven. And you’re a doctor, man. You should come in here and set an example for me. Have a little respect for your own body.

You carved a swastika into your head, Charlie.

"Oh, for Christ’s sake, Seymour, that was thirty-five years ago. Didn’t you do anything silly back in the day? Don’t you have any whiskey-induced tattoos hidden under those boring clothes? That’s another thing we gotta work on, Sy, your attire. Man, you’re living in the ’80s, my friend. I tell ya, you walk in here one day in a Members Only jacket and it’s your ass, pal!"

Edelstein was used to Charlie’s technique in these sessions and just let him go on until he got bored with his own antics and then withdrew again. Charlie wasn’t finished just yet.

How’s your wife, Sy? he asked sincerely. This is territory that any prison official, shrink or not, takes seriously. Is the inmate speaking in code? Is this a subtle threat? Or, as Edelstein believes is the case with Manson, is he just making idle chatter to avoid dealing with his own issues?

She’s fine. Thank you for asking. Charlie, I heard about your success with the prison baseball games. How does that make you feel?

Aw, I’m just toying with them. I could really do much better, Sy.

Knowing full well that Charlie had strung together nine perfect games, Edlestein said, No, you can’t, Charlie. You really cannot do any better than you’ve been doing.

What the fuck does that mean? You accusing me of something here, Dr. Edelstein?

Man, a paranoiac really is one step ahead of you all the time, the Doctor thought.

Not at all, Charlie. What gives you that impression?

I know what people are thinking, Charlie said.

Now, we’ve discussed this type of delusion as well. Don’t you recall our discussion about how people can’t really quote, be in someone else’s head, unquote?

Shit, Doc. Forget the Members Only jacket. I should kick your ass for flashing those air quotes.

Tell me what you feel people are thinking about your performance on the baseball field.

They think its bullshit. That it’s some type of con game me and the other guys are pulling.

Have you heard anyone say this or do you believe they’re just thinking it?

"I know they’re thinking it, man, because, man, there’s no fucking way to explain how I came up with this pitch in this can that’s totally unhittable, right, man?"

So, tell me. How did you come up with the pitch?

"I was in the libery. That dufus Rodriguez was supposed to leave some meth for me in the stacks, but he fucked up. So I figured as long as I was there, I might as well grab something to read while I dealt with the after effects of that slop they serve us. I picked up Ball Four. Ever read it, man?"

I did, back in high school. Funny book.

Yeah, funny. But I don’t dig the way that dude ratted out his brothers in the clubhouse. That’s some big-time pussy shit.

Did that particular part of the book strike a chord, Charlie?

Hell yes. When a group of people, any people, have a common goal and one member of the group splits off, the whole thing crumbles. Unless the group decides to oust the rat right then and there.

Can you give me any examples?

Sure, the Gambino family, the Columbo family, the Partridge family, the Adams family, the …

"You seem to be intrigued with the term family."

Charlie, with a playfully chastising look at Edelstein, said, "Joking. Hellooooo. But while we’re on the topic, Sy … Et tu Seymour, Et tu? That whole family thing is really played out and I’m tired of taking this every day and in every way