Hal's Latest Victory Is A Spot In Cooperstown

The phone call was a complete surprise to Harold. The 70-year-old Detroit native, now living in the suburbs, had hoped and prayed this special call would come through.

And now, as he listened to the voice of a Tampa Tribune reporter, he was in shock.

"Congratulation, Harold - you've been named to the Baseball Hall of Fame!"

What was Harold "Prince Hal" Newhouser's first reaction to the news? "Paul, I thought he was kidding me. I didn't know what to think," Newhouser said.

Even after the Detroit-area and national media began calling him for quotes, and stopping by for photos, he didn't fully believe his 30-year wait had ended.

"I told them, "You know, I haven't even been called by the Veteran's Committee, so I can't even verify that I've actually made it," Newhouser said. "And what's really funny is, the committee had my old phone number, not the new one, so they couldn't get a hold of me initially. Then the phone lines were all tied up, and they couldn't get through."

Verification finally came on St. Patrick's Day, and now Newhouser can circle August 2 on his calendar. The day his bronze mug joins baseball's other immortals on the Cooperstown walls.

Now, I never saw Hal Newhouser pitch for the Detroit Tigers. Never witnessed the lanky southpaw earn any of his 207 victories, or his 1945 World Series-clinching triumph over the Chicago Cubs.

No, I never saw him pitch. I did much better. I batted against the newest addition to the Baseball Hall of Fame. One of the perks of growing up with a former baseball pitcher as a next-door neighbor.

When playing pick-up streetball while in junior high and high school, I would trot to Newhouser's house and ask our resident baseball pitcher to toe the slab for us.

Newhouser, ever the kind and generous one, would always agree to take his place on our makeshift mound. Even after a full day on the job. He'd pitch an inning or two, then let us go back to facing someone of our own size and age.

When not facing us on the mound, Newhouser would tell us stories, such as about his duels with Cleveland Indian pitching rival Bob Feller. I might have grown up during the Tiger "depression years" of Jason Thompson and Duke Sims, but was brought up on the gospel of Hank Greenberg and Virgil Trucks.

And for years, we rooted for Newhouser to be voted into Cooperstown, where the best of the best are represented.

He was our neighbor, our friend.

But somewhere along the way, the voters - baseball's writers and Veteran's Committee - shoved Newhouser to the side. The excuse was, his best years came during World War II, when many of the top players were overseas.

Newhouser was voted the American League's Most Valuable Player in 1944-45, the only pitcher - and one of only nine players ever - to win the honor back-to-back. he won 29 games in '44, 25 more in '45 and a pair in the World Series that year.

In fact, 1945 saw Newhouser win the rare Pitcher's Triple Crown - leading the AL in wins, strikeouts and earned run average. He is the last AL pitcher to do this.

Newhouser acknowledges his wartime success. "But I won more than 200 games in 17 years," he said. "What about the other 150?"

What about those other seasons? Indeed, when the Boys of Summer came home after the war, the Detroit-born pitcher proceeded to win 26, 17, 21, 18 and 15 games the following five seasons - all with the league at full strength. This success, Newhouser said, should have been enough to quiet the critics.But he waited. Newhouser waited for the call since the early 1960s, never knowing if he was close to making the cut. he felt he belonged, but had no control over the decision.

Waiting is something Newhouser had to learn over the years, because when he had his game face on, he was the 1940s "Angry Young Man." He - and others - remember those tirades, when he would shatter light bulbs in the player's tunnel after being yanked from the mound.

But since leaving the field, Newhouser has mellowed. The Hal Newhouser I know does not resemble the one I missed by a few decades.

Except in the win column, where Hal's 208th victory is his ticket to Cooperstown.

Congratulations, Hal. The voters finally figured out something I've known for years.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Arguments Against School Are Flawed

ANNOUNCER: Hello, and welcome to "Let's Pretend!" - the call-in radio show where you, the voting public, get to have your wildest fantasies and opinions shattered by Paul the Prophet.

Today's topic is the March 27 West Branch-Rose City new school millage vote. And now ... here's Paul!

PAUL: Thank you, and welcome to the show. Let's go to the phone lines. Hello, you're on "Let's Pretend!"

CALLER: Yeah, I think it's just terrible that the school district is holding this election when all the senior citizens are down in Florida. It's a conspiracy, I tell you. They're the ones who have limited income, and they don't have a say in the vote.

PAUL: Hold on. I think your logic is all messed up here. First of all, there's this thing called an absentee ballot, which is designed for voters who will be out of the area to vote anyway. So saying the snowbirds are being denied their chance to vote is 100 percent wrong.

Secondly, having the seniors out of town has nothing to do with setting March 27 as the millage vote. The first one was held in late September, and the district had to wait six months before having another election. March 27 happens to be 181 days after the first vote.

One more thing: If this vote fails, the district still has a chance to get a third vote in during the current fiscal year, which ends September 30.

That's why the election is taking place now.

OK, who's next?

CALLER: I am. Listen, I am sick and tired of hearing how crowded these schools are. When I was growing up, I was in a one-room school, and I got a good education. Kids today got it easy.

PAUL: You might be right, sir. But schools today have to follow certain guidelines, laws which were not around when you were growing up. If they don't, then they lose out on state funds.

It's almost like the state is holding money hostage. For example, if there are too may students in the classrooms, the schools lose money because of overcrowding.

Also, this is a lot different world than when you were growing up. Kids have to learn how to use computers. Even 10 years ago, this was unheard of. Using and learning this kind of technology is mandatory if today's students want to have any hope of job success in the future.

Hello, you're on the air. What's your name?

CALLER: This is Bill. I'm a first-time caller.

PAUL: Welcome to the show, Bill. What's on your mind?

CALLER: Well, I'm from West Branch. I live in the city, have all my life. I think it's pretty lousy that the district decided to place this new school out in the boonies, next to the high school. I think putting the high school out there was pretty stupid, too.

PAUL: Well, Bill, where should the new school be?

CALLER: It should be in West Branch. In the city. That's where it belongs.

PAUL: In the city? Where in West Branch are you going to find adequate room for a junior high school? I don't think there is any room.

Also, saying that a new school belongs in West Branch is pretty absurd. If anything, having it near Ogemaw Heights High School - in the middle of the district - is probably the best place for this school

Furthermore, it's called the West Branch-Rose City district. The junior high is supposed to be for students from both communities. I find it pretty amazing that other districts, such as Whittemore-Prescott and Standish-Sterling, don't squabble over territorial rights like this district does.

I think it's a pretty childish, terribly biased and stupid argument. We have time for one more caller. Hello?

CALLER: I'm sick and tired of my taxes going up, of footing the bill. If we get a new school, that means my taxes are going to rise. I can't afford it anymore.

PAUL: Well, I can't argue with that one. Yes, taxes will go up - about 2.3 mills for the new school, along with 1.8 mills to run the school for two years. That's also on the ballot.

But I also think it's worth it. Education is power. It is the key to success. And I believe that a new school, with all the advantages it offers to today's youth, is worth the price.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Only One Way To Go After You Reach The Top

Remember Eddie "The Eagle" Edwards? In Calgary, at the 1988 Winter Olympics, he became one of the most popular and best-loved skiers of modern times, mostly because he resembled anything BUT a skier on the slopes.

Eddie is my Hero of the Snow, the Icon of Ice, my Star of the Slopes. He is my god. Not as in, "Our Father, who art in Heaven," but "MY GOD, HAS HE KILLED HIMSELF YET? AND IF NOT, WHY NOT?"

Oh, yes, i remember Eddie. Last weekend, I transcended into the Twilight Zone, attacking the ski slopes of Emmet County, courtesy of my friend Oly and Harbor Springs' Nub Nob.

And like Eddie, I faced the adversity with a gleam in my eye. A lump in my throat. Plenty of medical insurance to boot.

Please understand: at least eddie, despite his awkwardness and self-admitted limited talent, had the shot at Olympic gory, I mean glory.

I ain't even close.

It's been 16 years since I clomped around in a pair of ski boots and locked the heel into those contraptions which glide and slide through and over snow.

But there I was, next to Oly, waiting in line. Not for the tow rope, like I used to back at Milford's Alpine Village. But the chair lift.

The chair lift is skiing's version of a carnival ride. It takes skill and coordination to properly sit down at just the right moment and angle the ski poles upwards so you don't clip the ground.

It also takes good balance, because - unlike the Tilt-A-Whirl and other carnival-type rides - there's no crossbar to keep you from falling forward, off the bench and into the snow.

And, contrary to popular belief, light, fluffy snow is not always sufficient for a soft fall.

"Voyage to the Top of the Nob" only takes about five minutes, which is cool ... because this is my first time in this contraption, and my nerves are shot.

Ah, the top. Finally. We get off the bench. Easy does it. Down the snow ramp, and PRESTO! I am calm, cool and collected. Full of confidence. After all, I did not fall over, despite my paranoia.

Oly sings a Van Halen lyric: "Standing on top of the world!" He's right. From where we're standing now, the skiers are the bottom - the ones we can make out - look like frantic little ants, scurrying around the lodge.

I fumble around with the poles, making sure they feel great. Slide my goggles over the glasses - what, you think I want to break them? - and follow Oly toward the beginner course.

Of course, Oly has no business being in this area. In Colorado, it would probably be illegal for someone of his experience to be in this area.

But that's OK, because frankly, I'm still worried. Not because I'll run into a flock of trees. or because I'll trip into a power transmission line and recreated July 4th fireworks. No, I'm worried that I'll embarrass myself in front of good-looking, single babes who will giggle uncontrollably and make comments like, "Where's the camcorder? Let's send this one off to America's Most Suicidal Home Videos!"

Here we are. Top of the world, for a little while. Oly leads, I follow. Hey, I'm doing this. Slight turn, turn again, pick up a little speed, straighten out, down the chute, bingo! Rockin' good time! Party on, Oly!

"Party on, Paul!"

Hey, Eddie the Eagle, eat your heart out. This is child's play. Ain't nothing to it. Piece of cake.

OK. Here I am. Top of the world, looking down again. I am off. Off and skiing. Soaring down the mountain, 90 miles an hour, poles angled behind me, teeth gritted, knees bent, body down. More speed. I have the need for speed. A cold, hard wind whips into my face. I do not mind. I barely notice. I have left Eddie behind. He is nothing. I am superior. I am the greatest. I am God. I am Rickey Henderson, the greatest man in the world! Hell, I AM ALBERTO TOMBO! IA AM ...

Spinning, face down, 90 miles an hour, toward a large snow bank and 20 thick trees. I am helpless. I am cold.

I am humiliated.

"You are Alberto? NOT!" Oly looks down on me, laughing his blonde, curly head off. He has seen through my deception.

I am not Alberto. I am not Oly. I am not even Eddie. Eagles don't fall. Not this way.

Maybe next time. Let's do it again.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.