1991 Baseball History No Shock To One Fan

So the Ryan Express threw another no-hitter.

Yawn.

And that Rickey guy out in Oakland? Stole another base, I hear.

No biggie.

"Why so passive?" you might ask. (Go ahead, ask. I've got all day.)

Good question. Glad you asked. And I've got a logical answer, one quipped by Yogi Berra several years ago:

Just a case of 'deja vu' all over again.

What's that mean? Well, in a nutshell, it implies that these are events which should not have surprised anyone. Nor should have the responses from the two baseball stars.

Rickey Henderson's quest for Lou Brock's all-time stolen base record has been the subject of a thousand-plus stories in the papers, television and radio. He opened the year a few shy of the mark, and there was no doubt he would get SB No. 939 sometime during the year.

After all, when you average something like 80 steals a season, it would be a pretty lousy year if Rickey swiped only one or two by October 6.

So Rickey's pursuit of Brock's achievement was no surprise. Nor was his response on the field, when he grasped third base (the one he stole for the record), held it over his head, and exclaimed, much like a combination of Muhammed Ali and Mars Blackmon, "I am the greatest!"

That leads us to R. Nolan Ryan (or "Mr. Ryan" to the rest of you), the greatest strikeout machine baseball has ever seen. Unlike Rickey, Nolan handled his brush with greatness as professionally as anyone I've ever seen.

Nolan'd tale is legendary. A lot of people anticipated him going up against the Detroit Tigers last weekend, because he could very well strike out 27 batters. The Tigers whiff crew of Cecil Fielder, Mickey Tettleton, Pete Incaviglia (a former teammate of Ryan's) and Rob Deer was expected to turn Tiger Stadium into a wind machine more powerful than a Lansing politician in the middle of a campaign swing.

But Detroit missed out. And the Toronto batters missed everything.

When the Express hit Toronto (not the other way around, obviously) May 1, it hit with a fury. Sixteen strikeouts. No hits.

No major shock.

But even more impressive was Nolan's response. Instead of insulting the intelligence of everyone in the stands, his teammates, the other team and the television audience - as Henderson did - Ryan spoke calmly and collectively into the microphone, giving words of appreciation to everyone around him for their hard work, his laidf-back Texas drawl commanding the moment. Indeed, if he had been any more relaxed and composed, I would have sworn he had taken too many Valium after the game.

Yes, it was history. When this 44-year-old Texan throws a no-hitter, it's an historic event.

But it's not unprecedented. Let's face it. This was Nolan's seventh no-no. That's almost twice as many as Sandy Koufax, second on the list. Whenever Ryan goes out on the mound, you can almost expect a no-hitter.

No, the act itself is not surprising. It seems to happen every year. If you want a no-hit surprise, put me on the mound. Then you'll be in shock if there's a no-hitter.

How long will he keep it up? Who knows? Nolan could be throwing peas past his own grandson before he retires.

Yes, this will be a season of records and milestones in the major leagues. Rickey should steal No. 1,000 by the end of the year. And Ryan should have three or four more no-hitters by then, too.

When they happen, they won't surprise me. Not a bit.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Tax Time Offers Plenty Of Questions, Sweating

I am on the phone, sweat forming profusely on my brow, preparing to talk to the most powerful organization in the world.

The Mafia? Wimps, all of them. Joh Gotti? Get real.

The staff of 60 Minutes? Not even close. They might put you on the spot, but you know they can splice you right out of the segment.

The military leaders who directed Desert Storm? C'mon. Give me a break. Even military might can't compare.

No, this is one powerful group. They make strong men wince. Women shake. Accountants busy.

They are ... the IRS.

Ye,s they are the original Bad Boys. Long before the Detroit Pistons began elbowing their way to back-to-back NBA crowns, they were there, imposing on hundreds of thousands of people, many innocent, with the single-scariest word in the English language:

Audit.

This isn't about an audit. But it is about fear. Who do you fear more - Clint Eastwood, Mike Tyson, or the voice that says, in an ever-so-pleasing, yet terrifying, tone, "Hello, Internal Revenue Service. How may I help you?"

How can you help? Hmmm. Maybe by TAXING THE RICH INSTEAD OF THE MIDDLE CLASS!!!

Sorry. Lost my cool.

I am checking on other technical questions, the ones which all of us, at one time or another, must deal with.

For example:

"If the Pentagon thinks a paper clip costs $750, can I send you one in lieu of a check and get a partial refund?"

"If I form my own religion (such as, The Church of the Almighty Paul, Inc.), do i have to pay taxes?"

"Can a goldfish named Boris be considered a deduction? How about a car named Christine?"

"Are monies lost in failed S&Ls considered a business expense, or a stupidity expense?"

The line is busy. I'm not the only one with fears. I'll try again. One ringy-dingy. Two ringy-dingies. Three ringy-dingies.

Connection.

I am sweating and the IRS person hasn't even started to speak. Not that a delay is imminent. I ...

Oh. It's a recorded message. The next available IRS representative will be with me shortly.

Like it really matter.

I'm going over my notes. It's always a good thing to have notes with you when talking to the IRS. Even if the ink I use smears when sweat dribbles from my forehead onto the page.

A live assistant comes on the line. "Hi, this is Monique. How may I help you?"

(Haven't we been down this path before? Hmmm.) Listen, Monique, I got a problem, and I'm hoping you can answer it for me.

"Sure, what is it?"

Well ... uh ...

(I begin to look over my notes, squinting to read words which are now, literally, in a pool of water.

... OK. Here we go. Let's say that I can't pay all of my taxes that I still owe by April 15? What will happen?

(I picture her lips turning into an evil, diabolical smirk. The smile. The villainous laugh. The fangs sticking out of the corners of her mouth. Boy, eating late-night pizzas with sesame seed crusts whole watching Arsenio Hall can cause nightmares like this.)

She is quick to respond, and my fears come true. "Well, first you'll be slapped with a five percent penalty on the existing balance, which will continue to increase over a six-month period until it reaches 200 percent. And there's also an 11 percent interest charge which starts April 16 at 12:01 a.m., and is incurred on a daily basis. In other words, YOU BETTER PAY US NOW, MISTER, WHILE YOU STILL HAVE THE SHIRT ON YOUR BACK! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

"Hope I answered your question. Have a nice day."

Click. Dial tone.

I pull out my calculator (boy, hope the sweat pool hasn't fried the circuits). I begin to calculate. My $100 still owed on April 15 would turn into $547,982.33 by May 1.

Looks like I'll have to send a whole box of paper clips instead.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Baseball Fans, Arise! Spring Is Finally Here!

The sun was shining. The birds were singing. Undoubtedly, a sale was going on at some appliance store.

My body's alarm clock s out of whack, the result of jumping an hour ahead this week.

It must be spring.

That means my beloved Detroit Tigers are tearing up the turf at the corner of Michigan and Trumbull. And my friend Oly's lovable Cubbies are blasting horsehide onto Waveland Avenue.

(In case you're wondering, Oly is the biggest chicago Cubs fan in the world. He eats, sleeps and breathes Cubs. He says he wants to be cremated and sprinkled along the first-base foul line after he dies. In another life, he might have been Hack Wilson or Grover Cleveland Alexander. Or even Ernie Banks, although since Mr. Cub is still living, that might be a bit difficult.)

It's been a long winter. Too much snow. Too many stupid million-dollar contracts. A war. Too many other distractions. As Tom petty sang, "The waiting is the hardest part."

No more. The calendar said spring began March 20. I know otherwise. Spring began April 8, when the first pitch was thrown and thousands of baseball-hungry fans screamed with delight.

Home plate has been dusted off. The tarp neatly rolled up in foul territory. The aroma of lukewarm hot dogs, even warmer beer, and mustard-slopped jumbo pretzels filled the nostrils of people luckier than me, who were able to catch the Tigers home opener in person.

Baseball.

It's box scores and errors, doubles up the gap and "standing by the side of the road and watching that one go by."

Baseball is Hammerin' Hank, The Babe, Stan the Man, Stormin' Norman, Daffy and Dizzy. It's Oil Can and The Ryan Express, Bam Bam and The Bash Brothers.

It's Ryno, The Hawk, and "Tram to Lou for Two."

It's bleacher seats and beach balls, tortilla wars in Anaheim, blowing up disco 45s in old Comiskey Park, the Green Monster and The Big Red Machine.

Baseball

Bo knows baseball. Bo knows football. Bo also knows hip injuries. Now, Bo knows Chicago (the White Sox, not the Cubs). Hmmm.

The "other" Bo - Schembechler - also knows baseball and football. One wonders which Bo knows more at times, though. Detroiters are still perplexingly perplexed with Bo's baseball knowledge; after all, in baseball, there's a tendency to do a lot of throwing of the ball.

Baseball is a field of dreams (sounds like a pretty good title for a movie, don't you think?), a vast wonderland of grass vs. turf, designated hitter vs. pitcher in the nine hole, good vs. The New York Yankees.

(As Tigers and Cubs fans, Oly and I tend to do a lot of dreaming. More often than not, mine takes place at work, which draws the wrath of my managing editor. There's the dream that the two teams will meet - finally - in the World Series, like they did in 1945, and like they should have done in 1984. There's the dream that Pittsburgh Pirate Barry Bonds will sit out the season, too upset because his contract is "only" $500 million [poor baby, where's my violin?]. There's the dream that I can become the next Ernie Harwell, even without changing my name. And there's the fantasy that Sports Illustrated swimsuit goddess Kathy Ireland will walk into the Herald's editorial department and say, "Gosh, baseball-loving columnists/reporters really turn me on!")

Like I said, a lot of dreaming.

There's plenty of other sports going on right now. The playoffs are approaching in basketball. They're already here for professional hockey. Tennis, golf and bowling are saturated on the television.

And, of course, the new World League of American Football, with its fancy helmet-cams and insipid team monikers (if Bart Simpson were quarterbacking the Birmingham Fire, what would he be? A spark? A match? Smokey the Bear?), it's all glitz and no substance.

Yawn.

But I have baseball now. Forever young, baseball is still the purest game in town. Foul lines stretch to infinite dimensions; in theory, a baseball game can last forever, since no set time limit controls its fate.

It's springtime. The Boys of Summer are back in action. And, by the way, as I am writing this, the Tigers are undefeated.

Save Oly and me a few seats in the front row.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

War's Commercialism Is Too Depressing

One of the most depressing things about Operation Desert Storm was the commercialization which went on back home.

It never dawned on me that the war would spark the amount of sheer hucksterism which took place at every store and business in the United States.

Just color me naive.

It seems to have started within minutes after bombs were dropped. Shirts, flags, yellow ribbons, keychains, magnets, decals, stickers and, yes, condoms, all begging me to reach out and BUY, BUY, BUY!!!

C'mon, Gaba. It's for a good cause. Only $10. It's for life, liberty and the pursuit of BIG BUCKS.

Well, I don't need to buy some cheap red, white and blue thingamajig to show the world I'm an American. And given the permeation of this "these colors don't run" mentality across the board, I'm pretty proud to have NOT bought anything.

So goodbye and good riddance to this shameless exploitation. I was getting pretty sick of this whole "patriotism" thing, which got more overkill than either Michael Jackson's Thriller, Bo Jackson's two-sports status or Mike Tyson's hype ever did. Thank God it's over.

Or is it?

I see blatant, brazen commercials on television, showing off the Armed Forces. "Freedom isn't free," they exclaim.

They're right. The freedom our country gave to a no-vote-needed monarchy in Kuwait, just because we didn't like Saddam Hussein, sure wasn't free. We saw that every time we went to the gas pumps. We're still seeing it today.

Speaking of gas pumps, there are plenty of reaction-style ads for Big Oil. "Let's put our energy into saving it," one fuel company shouts at me.

See? No escape from the Storm.

Now, of course, we have a problem. Lots of money - including MY TAX MONEY - was spent. And the government needs more aid, because of the debts it incurred overseas.

So, here's a not-so-novel idea. How about the oil companies paying for the freedom they received to wipe out my paycheck for another day? Then, maybe, I'll buy a new bicycle. And save PLENTY of energy, if not frustration.

But even this I can live with. It's not the same as having an inner feeling of being cheated in life. Which I do.

See, I've always had this fascination with the Vietnam era. Not the war, per se. But the anti-war movement and civil rights actions that took place in the 1960s and early 1970s.

I wish I could take pare in a quantum leap, jumping back to Selma, Alabama, or Woodstock, or Kent State. Just to experience it. To be a part of it.

I wonder what it would be like to be involved with Flower Power, The British Revolution and "Make Love, Not War."

But I can't. I'm trapped in the 1990s, a castoff from a previous generation. I'll never be able to fully experience an era which, at times, I think I would have fit into much better.

What happened to all the great anti-war protests and songs?

This year, we were slapped across the ears with Whitney Houston doing a glitzy lip-synch version of "The Star-Spangled Banner" at the Super Bowl, and Bette Midler's wishful-thinking saga "From A Distance."

How about that inept all-star cover of John Lennon's "Give Peace A Chance"? The multi-voice choir should have given their efforts a break. Leave the original alone.

The radio was saturated with Lee Greenwood ("God Bless the USA") and Dennis DeYoung (lead singer of the popular rock band Styx), forced by local radio stations to share time with crying children, hysterical spouses and George Bush on an overly-dubbed version of "Show Me The Way," which, as far as I can tell from the lyrics, has NOTHING to do with Desert Storm.

I want some REAL patriotic music. How about songs like "This Land Is Your Land" by Woody Guthrie? Or the Jefferson Airplane's "Volunteers"?

What about classics like Edwin Starr's "War," Bob Dylan's "Masters of War" and Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth"?

Where's the lyrical spiritualism of a Dylan, a Pete Seeger? What happened to Joni Mitchell, Joan Baez, Arlo Guthrie and Country Joe & The Fish?

Where are the great protest singers of today?

I don't know.

And that's the most depressing part.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.

Chanticleers, Emus Are Names To Reckon With

I am consistently fascinated by the naming of things.

For example, West Branch is south of South Branch, but north of North Branch, which is located far south of here, near Lapeer.

It's a pity there's no East Branch, because if there were, it would probably be located way north, near Harbor Springs. Nothing like keeping my directions straight on the state map.

On the map of the NCAA Basketball Tournament, you may have noticed a school called Coastal Carolina, which is nicknamed the Chanticleers.

The what?

The Chanticleers. After the rooster in Geoffrey Chaucer's "The Nun's Priest's Tail" in The Canterbury Tales.

Coastal Carolina was not the only team with a unique nickname. There were the Richmond Spiders, Murray State Racers, Wisconsin-Green Bay Fighting Phoenix and Wake Forest Demon Deacons.

And, of course, there's Eastern Michigan University, which has no official nickname. They used to be known as the Hurons, but that was before school officials decided that Native American tribes do not make suitable nicknames.

Just for the record, and not really meaning to harp on directional misnomers, but the Hurons are a tribe that the dictionary says come from west of Lake Huron. Ypsilanti, last time I checked, was not west of Lake Huron.

Anyway, the lack of a nickname left people calling Eastern the Emus - which is an ostrich-like bird as native to Ypsilanti as the Huron tribe.

I should note here that commentators on Cable News Network, ESPN and several radio stations broadcasting tournament games chose to keep calling Eastern the Hurons. They probably just didn't feel right about saying "Emus" on national broadcasts.

The last nickname-less team in the Big Show was Siena College, in 1989. They had dropped the moniker "Indians," but no one called them the Emus, either. They were dubbed the Measlemen, though, since there was a measles outbreak at the New York campus.

What's in a name? Well, names are a big part of schools today. And one of the things which has come up recently in the West Branch-Rose City School District is a change of name.

The thrust of this argument is that, having a two-sivyt, hyphenated name produces a division among the two cities within the district.

Maybe there's some merit in the idea to change the name. Suggestions I heard at a recent school board meeting included:

Ogemaw Consolidated Schools.

Ogemaw Hills Schools.

Ogemaw Area Schools.

If it would help ease whatever tensions exist between some residents in Rose City and West Branch, a name change would be great.

But then some people started talking about changing school nicknames. And colors. Somebody suggested making them uniform throughout the school district.

Well, hold on. Let's not get carried away.

Even if the district name is changed, there's no need to start messing with individual school nicknames. Surline can still be the Patriots, even though there's no team locally called the Scuds.

Rose City can remain the Wolverines. However, maybe the colors should be maize and blue. Just a thought.

Whatever. Just don't mess with the nicknames. You might end up having to dress some poor student up like an ostrich at sporting events.

This article originally appeared in the Ogemaw County Herald.