The Smart Aleck Chronicles Ii

By Mike Robertson

The original Smart Aleck Chronicles was published to little, if any notice in 2007. As noted in the preface to that volume, it had neither plot or identifiable structure, its intended purpose being to present a series of entertainments on a wide range of ridiculous activities that constitute everyday life. Whether it was faithful to that lofty purpose remains a mystery, even to the author that made that bold declaration. Four years later, a second volume of the Smart Aleck Chronicles appears, its intent no less high minded than the standards of lunacy reached by its predecessor, its implementation no less laughable. This time, as in the previous volume, there are pithy and pointless observations that may have appeared in previous publications for which the author may have had responsibility, fictitious biographies of friends and colleagues, several short works of fiction and top ten lists of observations that may be symptomatic of clinical insanity. Further, just to ensure that the reader is not entirely dismayed, there are also several courageous attempts at poetry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jan 9, 2012
• ISBN: 9781468524291

Mike Robertson

Mike Robertson, resigned for several years to the routine of retirement, continues to pursue the notion that he may have a literary aptitude, a belief that has sustained his endeavours for over a decade and the publication of various projects. His most recent effort, a novel entitled Picture Windows, is his tenth book, joining three collections of short stories, Casting Shadows, Parts of a Past, and These Memories Clear, three volumes of literary entertainments entitled The Smart Aleck Chronicles and three novels, The Hidden History of Jack Quinn, The First Communion Murders, and Gone and Back. Mike Robertson lives in profound anonymity in Ottawa, Ontario.

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© 2012 by Mike Robertson

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.

Published by AuthorHouse 1/4/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4685-2428-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4685-2429-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011962664

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

More Duke Stories

More Lists of Thoughtless Things

Short Stories

Postscript

Just Poems

More Duke Stories

ERROR

For the most part, baseball is the most forgiving of games. At the plate, it measures out excellence in percentages that would prove embarrassing in any other sport. Its best may succeed less than a third of the time without shame. In fact, they are likely to be congratulated for it. In addition, there may be entire games in which a batter may not do anything right. Such performances will not endure. They will hardly matter in the overall scheme of things. They will be recalled, if they are recalled at all, as anomalies, misfortunes, flukes, accidents or even slumps, the identification of which may be quickly erased by a couple of acceptable outings in future games. On the mound, the pitcher is accorded similar protection from the infamy of his limitations. His failure to achieve is circumscribed maybe half the time, a standard of which an intelligent practitioner will take full advantage. It can be suggested, therefore, that the ability to either hit or pitch a baseball properly is so elusive as to consign those who fail the fewest times to be among the best players.

They are, of course, exceptions to the application of such largesse. Consider the scene. It is the sixth game of the 1986 World Series. It is around midnight at New York’s Shea Stadium. It is the bottom of the eleventh inning. The Red Sox of Boston have won three of the previous five games and had taken a 5-3 lead in the top of the eleventh inning of game six. The curtain appeared about to come down on the hometown Mets. The Mets go to the plate in the bottom of the eleventh inning, make two quick outs, and then manage to tie the score with three consecutive singles and a wild pitch. Ray Knight is on second base, Mookie Wilson is at the plate, and Bob Stanley is on the mound. There are 50,000 New Yorkers, maybe half of which are carrying a concealed weapon, yelling obscenities into the darkness. Stanley deals and Wilson, fooled and off balance, manages to push a harmless roller out to first base. Red Sox first baseman Bill Buckner, the author of two base hits on this night, patiently waits. Though his feet are encased in high tops and he can hardly walk, he waits confidently. So what he thinks. Easy play. The ball is making its way directly toward him. Millions of Rex Sox fans offer up a sigh of relief. A little leaguer could field this ball.

Even Bill Buckner, his bowlegs set, his glove edging down in unwavering expectation, can catch this one. But as maybe 75 million television viewers soon find out, the impossible sometimes happens. The ball slips under Buckner’s glove, its descent maybe three inches short, travels through the infield, and stops dead maybe ten feet onto the outfield grass.

There is little need to recount the fusillade of images that follow. Knight racing around third with the winning run, Wilson, almost embarrassed with good fortune, trotting almost casually to first base. Right fielder Dwight Evans, a player of no little magnificence these past ten days, picks up the ball like it was a dead bird. He drops it, leaving it. Nightmare. Knight in lost in celebration at home plate. The Mets win to force game seven, a game which they will go on to win to take the World Series. The stadium lights seem brighter somehow, the animal yowls of the happy Met fans fill the night air like bombs bursting in air, beyond adequate metaphor. Bill Buckner walks off the field like he is being escorted towards his own execution. The explanation is simple. Boston first baseman Bill Buckner has committed a fielding error. He has let the ball go through his legs. He has cost his team the game and, as it turned out, the World Series.

There is likely no crueler fate, no more devastating statistic in any sport than the fielding error in baseball. Running backs may fumble, quarterbacks may throw interceptions, defensemen may make errant passes, power forwards may miss lay ups, and Swiss masters may double fault but no other incident of fortune, misconception or miscalculation takes a more prominent place in the architecture of the game in which it occurs than the baseball error. It is a permanent element of the game, not lost in the plethora of statistics that consume most sporting endeavours. They are immortalized on the scoreboard and therefore not easily dismissed. Runs, hits, and errors. Actually recorded as an fundamental measure of the game, the error cannot be hidden in the trivia of a line score. It stands alone as a singular horror. That is why poor Mr. Buckner, no matter what he did otherwise in his career, will wear that error in the sixth game of the 1986 World Series like an albatross as he sets sail into the oblivion of the record books. That one misplay, having ascended into Red Sox mythology, will always define his place in baseball history. The error, not his 2,700 base hits, his all star appearances, or all other personal accomplishments will prevail. That error is entrenched in sports lore. You will be able to look it up forever.

Somewhere along the line, every ballplayer,no matter how inconsequential his limitations, will encounter the error. It simply happens, a curse prepared to pounce on any innocent who is, or should be wearing a baseball glove. Not all errors, however, are created equal. Sure, they are accorded equal status in the statistics, anonymously appearing as a single figure in box scores and the like. But, as Mr. Buckner discovered much to his regret, they are recalled in accordance with all sorts of situational factors. For example, Mr. Buckner could have come out clean if he had chosen a mid season blowout against Cleveland to go into his golden arches routine. Lesson one. The importance of the game magnifies the blunder. Miss a grounder in a 22-5 game and everybody laughs. Pull the same stunt in a World Series game and eternal damnation will come to clean out your locker.

Errors are also defined by the position and probably the character of the player making the error. In the infield, the first baseman, universally regarded as a generally slothful type whose sole responsibility is hit for power at the plate and to ensure that his foot is on the bag at first base, can easily be expected to blame other infielders for his misfortunes, even if the throw he drops is a waist high lollipop. On ground balls, you can forget it. Hit it through a first baseman and only a mean spirited scorer will call it an error. Because of this bias, that the fielding standards for first base are relatively low, legitimate errors by the first baseman seem more egregious than those committed by the other infielders who generally expected to be the best defensive players on the team. While the other infielders invariably commit the majority of the fielding miscues on the team, they benefit from a certain sympathy from the other players. After all, they handle more difficult chances than any other position player and can usually atone for their mistakes by making the occasional spectacular play. Shortstops for example are often seen diving all over the field for the ball and therefore can be expected to be forgiven the occasional fielding transgression.

Outfielders, however, are not as fortunate. They are much more vulnerable to criticism should they misplay a ball. Not only does the outfield seem to be an easier position to play but the consequences of any mistakes made out there are usually more dramatic. A shortstop screws up a grounder and there is a runner on first base. An outfielder drops a ball and the runner could be on third base. Moreover, it seems that outfielders, more than all other position player, are given to theatrical displays, whether intended or not, that aggravates the impact of their misdeeds. The hot dog histrionics of now Hall of Famer Rickey Henderson and the spectacular clumsiness of Jose Conseco immediately come to mind although they are likely many others.

Pitchers and catchers are in a class by themselves, the latter because of the sympathy the burdens of their position can generate and the former because of their apparent inability to do anything other than pitch. Pitchers are usually perceived as moody individuals, perhaps like prize fighters or tennis players one supposes, all exposed nerve endings and profound concentration. They can’t hit and may not be able to field. In fact, a ground ball back to the box seems like an intrusion, as if the hitter should take care to avoid disturbing the pitcher’s serenity lest the next time up, a ball bounces off your cranium. Then there is the catcher, the ancient mariner of the diamond whose responsibilities may occasionally overwhelm him. Unlike any other player, the catcher, facing his teammates as if in appreciation and facing away from the hitter as if in apprehension, usually finishes the game looking like he’s been quarterbacking the Detroit Lions. Twenty pounds of equipment and a couple of foul tips later, the catcher can claim not to have played the game but to have survived it. The occasional passed ball or dropped foul can be forgotten, no penitence required, as if criticism would only compound his burden. On the other hand, throw one into centrefield and the catcher can join any other teammate in purgatory.

Another important element of the dynamics of the error is the relative worth, or even the personality of the player making the error. Reggie Jackson, with his nearly 600 career home runs and his twenty years of dramatic flair, is an appropriate example of this syndrome. Given such credentials, his dropping of a lazy fly ball does not seem nearly as horrifying as a rookie throwing a ball into the box seats. Take away the home runs and the theatrics, and Reggie might as well be a low draftee out of Omaha. Personality therefore has its place in this lexicon. Face it. If you are as popular on the team as a case of head lice, then any bungle, no matter how minor, can be expected to elicit the baleful glare of teammates scorned. On the other hand, if you’re a Bob Uecker type character, you’re free to happily fumble your way into the hearts and minds of your mates.

For the individual player, one of the most important factors with respect to errors is one’s reaction after their commission. This response, about which many an underemployed psychiatrist might well have given thought, may in turn determine the reaction of one’s teammates. The prospect of universal condemnation is an awfully powerful motive for most players to ensure when they make an error, they will not be immediately asked to surrender their uniforms. Even a superficial investigation of this phenomenon has revealed a number of distinct approaches to this dilemma. One of the more popular techniques revolves around the basic avoidance tactic. Under this formulation, the player committing the error simply pretends that it did not happen. No bowed head, no muttered curses, no displays of pique, no suicidal gestures. The player blows it and reacts as it he didn’t. If the errors are kept at an acceptable minimum, this approach will usually work, particularly if your teammates have no other compelling reason, such as an admiration for Stephen Harper, for hating your guts. An extreme variant of this technique has the guilty party hiding from his error rather than ignoring it. The practitioner of this tactic will invariably place a paper bag over his head, run off the field in apparent hysteria, or, in less sophisticated cases, attempt to pull his cap over his face. The latter approach, however, is recommended by neither therapists nor sports equipment manufacturers.

Another popular, although entirely dissimilar approach can be characterized as the emotional outburst method. This approach is based on sensitivity, whether manifested in uncontrollable laughter, guilt ridden sobbing, or a crazed burst of semi-psychotic ranting. It may have its advantages, particularly if you’re convincing enough to guarantee that your teammates will not go near you for the rest of the game. This approach is even more effective if you are known to have a history of emotional problems or have been convicted of a violent crime. Brandishing a small calibre handgun is an option here, particularly if you find yourself playing in South America.

The other major technique of responding to the occasional error has some of the annoying properties of the other two approaches. This kind of player, rather than avoid, ignore or breakdown, acts as if he cannot believe that he had actually made an error. He looks dumbfounded, as if the victim of a conspiracy. The implication is clear enough. This player is simply too skilled to err, too proficient to allow a baseball to slip through his legs or fall out of his glove. If that were not enough, some of these bozos find the gall to demand, in annoyingly loud voices, that the next ball be hit to them, as to demonstrate that the previous error was a complete fluke and not indicative of anything other than bad luck.

Finally, there is the philosophical technique. The practitioner of this particular method of avoiding sanction, at least those who remain outside of psychiatric hospitals, take an existential approach. Errors are no big deal. They are meaningless and unworthy of contemplation. Such players have been known to make errors on purpose as if to prove that, compared to the benign neglect of the universe, worrying about a fielding error is absurd. The following exchange is offered up for illustrative purposes.

What happened out there? You looked like you had it all the way.

Maybe I did. But compared to what is going on in the Middle East, what difference does it make?

None I guess, if you put it that way. But we were ahead by two runs. You drop the ball and now we are tied.

Can’t you see that everything may be a tie? I don’t understand this winning business anyway. In fact, I’m glad I dropped the ball. Otherwise, the team will think we are winning when we are not really winning at all.

What do you mean not winning? Who’s keeping score here? We were winning.

That’s just it. Nobody is keeping score.

Nobody? What happened to that old guy who likes to hang around with us?

You mean Murray?

Yeah, Murray?

He struck out last inning, burst into tears and then went home.

Who the hell let him go to bat in the first place?

I don’t know.

The man stinks .

I know. Did they put him in the field too?

No, thank god.

FADING TO GREY

It was more than twenty years that our pilgrim decided he was doubtless on the edge of athletic oblivion. At the time, he was nearing forty, hopeless middle aged in a game for the barely post-adolescent, hoping not to embarrass himself by, for example, falling off the bench during the game. People said he was cynical for suggesting such pathos but then again, who was there to say otherwise? They were all in their twenties at the time. Either way, they called all sorts of ridiculous names: old man splinter was his favourite, a soon-to-be discard it implied, fated to be extracting pieces of wayward wood out of his rear end until such time as showing up for the game became a pain in that particularly area. Golfing, an endeavour he had avoided like a social disease, began to look pretty good by comparison.

On the other hand, he knew that time was unarguably kinder to baseball players than it is in most other sports. Sure, other sports have had their Gordie Howes, their George Blandas, but that was a long time ago. Age, particularly in athletic pursuits where guile alone will not carry one along, is one albatross from which there is no escape. Slap on the blades in your forties and continue to play with players with whom you do not share a generation, and more often than not, you’ll end up sucking on nitroglycerin spray like they were popsicles. Check out a bunch of over forties playing basketball in a school gymnasium and pretty soon you will be able to hear the wheezing a block away. Football? Forget it. A game of touch with some twenty year olds and you might as well call your insurance man. And tackle? Not unless you are wearing your helmet backwards and know every ER doctor in town.

So it may come down to baseball as the last refuge of the faded jock. Isn’t baseball the sport in which a 47 year old pitcher is still winning games at the major league level? So while age alone is no automatic ticket to a few extra years in athletic purgatory, it does give some pause to those whose advancing years make them obvious candidates for retirement. This dilemma, whether to finally withdraw from the game or tough it out as the immovable object at the end of the bench, is of course only relevant for those playing at a competitive level. Presumably, if you are playing mixed softball after work or are playing with the over fifty types, this quandary would not apply. Presumably, you could continue to fumble around the ball park without regret, your disappearing skills lost in the similarly faded skills of others.

Competitive baseball, even if profoundly amateur, is another matter entirely. Unlike professional baseball, where a player who should retire may well meet his end with the help of a