Houston Buffs: Born 1896; Died 1962; Died Again 2012; but they will live on forever in the hearts of a few old fans like yours truly.

All my realistic friends told me that it wasn’t going to happen, but I’m old now. And hope rises in the strangest ways. Thank you, Mr. Jim Crane, for a week of false hope that the Houston Buffs were coming home for a major league reincarnation. It just wasn’t meant to be. The name that so dominated the consciousness of our baseball identity in the late 19th and early to middle 20th centuries is not coming back for a 21st century reprise.

I get it. I don’t like it. But I can live with it.

If you include this past season as worthy of account, our National League club has played baseball the past 47 consecutive seasons (1965-2011) as the “Houston Astros.” Had I been a new-to-Houston season ticket-holder or a six-year-old kid back in 1965, I would undoubtedly feel some of the same strong attachment that those folks who are still around still have for the name “Astros.”

I just don’t have it for the “Astros” name.

To me, “Astros” will always first be the marketing ploy name that Judge Roy Hofheinz slapped upon us after first executing the hope that many of us had that our “Houston Buffalos” would make it to the big leagues as our ongoing identity. Hofheinz did it by renaming the new big league club the “Houston Colt .45s” in 1962 without first working out the naming rights legalities with the famous gun company that made that iconic pistol. Rather than share revenues produced under the gun name, the Judge simply changed the name of the team with the opening of the new domed stadium and the introduction of the club’s new space theme.

“What kind of team plays baseball in an Astrodome? – Why, those would be the Houston Astros, of course?”

“Astros? – What’s an Astro?”

“Don’t ask me, but I think it may be one of those large rocks that hurdles through time and space, going nowhere in particular, but always getting there in a hurry.”

“Can an Astro land in a World Series?”

“Not likely. Hurdling through space, the odds against an Astro hitting earth, let alone landing in a World Series, are infinitesimally discouraging.”

Enough. Enough. We all got used to the name. Some people, the ones who wrote Mr. Crane this week in favor of keeping it, even bonded with the brand. And I must admit, if we were not going into the American League in 2013, there would not be another good time to change our history. We all bled together as a fan base when the “Astros” lost the NL pennants of 1980 and 1986 to the Phillies and Mets. – And we all felt the sting as “Astros fans” when Sir Albert Pujols stung us that night in 2005 with a home run that caused an extra playoff game and messed up our pitching rotation for our only World Series appearance. Going into the American League was the only open door for landmark change.

It just didn’t happen.

Today the name “Astros” has a life of its own – one that goes beyond space rocks, astronauts, or artificial turf. It is the iconic name of Houston’s major league brand – whether we all prefer it or not. It’s time to end this bump-pause in history and move on.

Rest In Peace, Houston Buffs.

Rest In Peace, Houston Buffs. The door just closed forever on your last chance to rumble the herd roughshod over the plains of major league baseball, but don’t worry. Some of us down here will continue to do all we can to make sure that you are both remembered for all time and also celebrated correctly for your important role in Houston baseball history.

New Cardinal Virtual Museum Opens Today, Jan. 30, 2012.

The new website, www.cardinals.com/museum, will be launched today, Jan. 30th, to showcase the team’s extensive collection of baseball memorabilia, as it encourages fans to explore and learn more about the 121-year old, very deep and accomplished history of the  team with the two redbirds on one bat.  The exposition includes hundreds of historical photographs, newly developed virtual exhibits, and educational videos that  examine the internal side of the collection and also highlight the biographies of the great Cardinals in club history. The new webpage also has interactive elements designed to encourage fan input. Bill DeWitt III, president of the Cardinals, commented, “We wanted to create a place to showcase our vast museum collection, while giving fans a chance to learn more about the rich history of the Cardinals.” In terms of size, the Cardinals Hall of Fame and Museum collection of 15,000 items and 80,000 archival photographs is the largest team-held collection in baseball and is second only to the National Baseball Hall of Fame

(The preceding comments were reformulated from information sent to me late yesterday by Bill Rogers of St. Louis from an original notice that had been posted by broadcast e-mail to numerous Cardinal fans by Jerry Berger. Because of my ties to the St. Louis community, many of these kinds of communiques quickly reach me too. I have known St. Louis Museum Curator Paula Homan for years and all I can say is, “Paula and the other Cardinal people really know how to give history the right treatment.” – I haven’t had much chance to explore this new offering, so let’s visit it together. Maybe we shall hit upon some ideas that could ignite here in Houston.)

Sometimes the line between passionate devotion and clinically diagnosable psychosis gets a little blurry. Sometimes it disappears altogether. And when the latter happens with enough people simultaneously at the same time in the same place it becomes “normal” – henceforth making “normal” both a fun and scary place to be for all those family members who are either standing on the perimeter of things – or not really into the flow of the “love thing” (as actor Gary Bussey now calls it in that local Chevy dealer commercial) with their Mad Old Man (or Mad Old Lady) family member.

Yes, some mad passions are trans gender afflictions and being a baseball fan is living proof that there is no sanity clause for some of us in our contracted “love of the game.” – We just have it – and it “ain’t” going away.

If you are a confused spouse, child, relative, or disengaged friend of a hard-core baseball fan, here’s a brief anecdotal test on where you may be with a loved one lost to the love of the game. If your lost loved one sounds similar to any of these exemplary fans, it just goes to show you that you are not alone.

The examples are all based on mostly true private disclosures. For the protection of confidentiality, all quotes are attributed to various John and Jane Does. Each example is for a separate individual.

(1) “My husband is an Astros season ticket holder. Last September, we had a chance to take an anniversary weekend flight to Paris, but he turned it down. He had seen every Astros loss of the 2011 home season in person and did not want to miss any of the others that might have happened (and did) during the time we would have been gone.” – Jane Doe.

(2) “My dad says it’s not OK to curse or use foul language, but he seemed to forget that rule last year. As the Astros’ 2011 season got worse and worse, I learned words that I didn’t even know existed. … By the way, what’s a long word that suggests unthinkable behavior between you and your own mom. I heard that one a lot.” – Little Johnny Doe.

(3) “Last year my ninety-year old mom died and we scheduled the funeral for the same day that the Astros were beginning a three-game series that night against the Cardinals. My husband refused to miss the opener. He figured we’d have time to get to the ballpark from the cemetery if the eulogist didn’t talk too long, and if we didn’t have to go home to change into our matching Biggio/Bagwell jerseys after the services. Since I didn’t want to see those veins that pop out in his neck whenever he doesn’t get his bratty way, I went along with his plan for reaching Minute Maid Park on time. We wore our Astros jerseys under our funeral clothes. That way, all we had to do after the funeral was to remove our shirt, blouse, and coats – and we were game-ready.” – a guilty looking Jane Doe.

(4.) “My Astro-Nut wife has to make every pre-season Astroline radio broadcast in person. Same with any other public appearance by Astros Hall of Fame broadcaster Milo Hamilton. If Milo were not retiring after this 2012 season, I’m afraid I would have been forced to draw a line in the sand with her on this one. – It would have to be ‘Milo or me. There’s no room for three!’ I may not be as young and as dashing as Milo, but sixty years of marital loyalty ought to count for something!” – dejected senior league John Doe.

(5) “My wife was never much of an Astros fan until I took her to her first bobble head giveaway game. I think it was Jose Cruz night. – Well, as a bona fide hoarder, the old gal took to it like a duck to water. now she has to go with me to every giveaway game, especially if it’s a bobble head night. She’s disappointed that they didn’t do a Drayton McLane bobber before he sold the club. Now she wants a bobble head of new owner Jim Crane and one for every umpire that’s ever worked an Astros game at Minute Maid Park. – Man! I never would’ve taken her out to the ballgame. You ought to see what it’s like walking into my house these days. It’s like a Sam’s Club where nothing ever gets sold from the shelf.” –  tired and overwhelmed  John Doe.

(6) “My husband is the most amazing season ticket holder the Houston club has. He personally attends 81 home games a year and only takes one person with him to each time. All of his guests have to have these qualities in common: (a) a willingness to get there in time for BP and an equal resistance to the idea that they would be there for the entire game; (b) they have to be quiet folks who don’t talk much – and don’t mind going for hot dogs in the 3rd inning, beers in the fifth inning, and pop corn in the seventh inning. – My hubby never leaves his seat. He just keeps score on every pitch that’s thrown in the game, never feeling the need for a bathroom break. His lone functioning kidney apparently was a gift from Superman. – It’s my job to make sure that dear hubby has fresh pencils and  scorecard books in his car at all times.” – long-lost Jane Doe.

(7) “My husband is one of those guys whose love of the game is not an act of inconsideration to me, the kids, his family, his work, or his faith in living to make this world a better place. – He belongs to SABR because he loves the narrative lore and statistical symmetry of baseball’s oh so beautiful, measurable game. – He goes to a lot of games, but he wouldn’t let baseball keep him from a chance to see the northern lights – nor would he allow a baseball game to taint the mourning of lost life – nor is he likely to sacrifice his intelligence or sense of decency to join the ‘mo fo’ crowd in their denigration of communication as a higher level art form. – He also bonds with all those who have grown up and even old with baseball as the fairest, most enjoyable shared constant factor in their lives. – My man loves baseball because it is the game that is not governed by the clock – and as such – its sandlot equivalent joy potentially plays out from here to eternity. – My man loves baseball, as do I. – You see, moving into the 21st century, we’ve finally survived long enough to listen and hear the truth about our love of the game. Men don’t possess a lock on tis magnetic attraction. – Women get it too. – And if this does make us mad men, and mad women, so be it. We are at peace in our madness for the greatest game of all time.” – the Soulmate Jane Doe of the Deep Blue Baseball Fan.

Play Ball, fellow mad men and women! Play ball!

My Early 2012 Baseball Valentine Lineup

Nothing like being early on a subject that most people won’t even cover, but I enjoy putting together or reading about various theme lineups based upon baseball names. I’m not even sure now how i handled this one last year, but here is my 2012 Valentine’s Day Lineup based upon baseball names. Please feel free to amend my choices or post your own suggestions here too. My research on the subject this morning was not particularly exhaustive.

Players By Position

Pitcher: Ben Flowers (1951, 1953, 1955-1956) (3-7, 4.49)

Catcher: Dante Love (2007-2009 minors) (.186, 2 HR)

1^ST Base: Pete Rose (1963-1986) (.303, 160 HR)

2^nd Base: Cupid Childs (1888, 1890-1901) (.306, 20 HR)

3^RD Base: Jim Ray Hart (1963-1974) (.278, 170 HR)

Shortstop: Bobby Wine (1960, 1962-1972) (.215, 30 HR)

LF: Jake Flowers (1923, 1926-1934) (.256, 16 HR)

CF: Ellis Valentine (1975-1983, 1985) (.278, 123 HR)

RF: Bob Bowman (1955-1959) (.249, 17 HR)

Batting Order

 Ellis Valentine, CF

Cupid Childs, 2B

Pete Rose, 1B

Jim Ray Hart, 3b

Jake Flowers, LF

Bob Bowman, RF

Bobby Wine, SS

Dante Love, C

Ben Flowers, P *

* Of course, if “Flowers” fails, we can always call upon Candy Cummings.

One of the 80 36" diameter steel buffalo medallions that once rimmed the exterior grandstand walls of Buff Stadium in Houston from 1928 to 1961.

As Greg Lucas, Jerome Solomon, and others have noted, we have to hand it to Jim Crane, George Postolos, and the new ownership of the Houston major league baseball franchise this week for really doing a good job of stirring the pot of interest in the ball club this week. Their teasing offer earlier this week to be open to changing everything from prices to the the team’s colors and uniforms to the club’s nickname did the trick of drawing brief attention way from the afterglow of the Texans’ recently completed sort-of-happy football season and the onset of the win streak by a mediocre Rockets basketball team and caused fans to tug with each other over how they disparately view the scared identity of the local baseball nine.

As might be expected, most responding fans did not like the idea of changing the name of the team from Astros. Having played the past 47 years as the “Astros,” many fans grew up with that identity alone as their guiding light to loyalty. They could have been called the “Worms” and the reaction would have been just as strong under the circumstances. In 47 years, the word “Astros” has gone from “What the heck is that?” to an iconic identity of its own as the name for Houston baseball. To a slightly lesser degree, a few people expressed the same allegiance to “Colt .45s,” the name the club used during their first three years of big league play.

Then there are people like me who grew up with the names “Buffalos” or “Buffs” as our identity for Houston baseball. Our minor league club was first known as the Buffs in 1896 – and then consistently called the Buffalos/Buffs from 1907 through 1961.  Those of us who originally hoped that our first MLB club would keep the only powerful nickname from Houston history when they entered the National League in 1962 would welcome a second chance at that connected-to-Houston identity when the club moves to the American League in 2013. After all, the current ballpark sits on ground that was once roamed by real Houston Buffaloes – and it’s located only two blocks or so from Buffalo Bayou – and bringing back the Buffs identity would mark the third consecutive century in which our city had used that cherished identity for its professional baseball team.

And don’t tell us that Buffs is bush because it was once minor league. Tris Speaker was a Houston Buff in 1907 and Dizzy Dean pitched for the herd in 1931 as two of many greats who once played as Houston Buffalos. Plus the San Diego Padres, baltimore Orioles, and Miami Marlins have already demonstrated that major league clubs can bear up well by remaining or renewing their attachments to historical identities that began at the minor league level.

If the team remains the Astros, I get it – and I will not be surprised or hurt by the forces that work in favor of Astros. I just don’t have the strong emotional attachment to that name that I have with the Buffs imagery of my East End childhood. By now, Astros is iconic to the idea of Houston baseball and needs no attachment by reason or rhyme to space or the space program. – Sort of like the “Dodgers” in LA are simply who they are, without any connection to the art of dodging impact with Brooklyn trolleys that started them out as such a thousand seasons ago.

Houston Buffs 1947.

The only change I could not abide would be if the new ownership changed the nickname to something windy and stupid like “Hurricanes.” Don’t people who make long name suggestions realize from the start that their suggestions will never survive in print as such? Apparently not. As we have seen with the “D Backs” and “D Rays” (who wisely dropped the “Devil” and settled for “Rays) have learned, Hurricanes would quickly and forever go to print as “Canes” and then we would get to encounter the forever fun of checking out articles on Miami U. because we saw a “Canes” headline and thought it was about Houston baseball.

That’s all I’ve got on this one, except to add: “Give me a home where the buffalo roam – and I’ll be perfectly happy – as long as they win.”

By the way, history notes this other connection between the Buffs and our current major league team. – When Buff Stadium opened in 1928, the Union Station location of our current Minute Maid Park was the primary departure depot for downtown fans who wanted to catch the interurban train that ran by Buff Stadium after they got off work on game days.

Enough said. Go Buffs. Go Astros. Or whomever. – Just win.

Joe Paterno, QB, Brown University, 1949.

I forget the precise quote, but I think it’s biblical in origin and it goes something like this: “To those who have much, much shall be asked.” Add that special requirement to the many times blessed life of the now deceased legendary coach, Joe Paterno, and you have a perfect storm formula for what may happen when our expectations of the great ones collide with the human condition of imperfection that rides within us all, and even in the hearts of the high and mighty.

Joe Paterno was a great football coach and human being, but in the greatest quiet challenge of his life, he failed all the still uncounted children who allegedly suffered in the hands of a Paterno employee, the now infamously accused Jerry Sandusky.

OK, the guy has not been convicted, but there has been enough there by eyewitness accusation to have pulled him out-of-place from doing any harm, or more harm, until his guilt or innocence could be sorted out and settled.

One big reason that earlier remedy never happened will always be the fact that Joe Paterno simply turned the matter over to his Penn State superiors and took no further action, even though the university quickly settled into a “let’s watch this situation and hope it goes away” pattern well over a decade ago.

As a mental health professional whose work has taken me through this unpleasant territory a few times over the years, I can tell you this much very clearly: It is horrible for the children involved and the longer they have to stay at risk, the more damaging it is. It isn’t easy for the eyewitnesses who stand up to the reality either. The offender is most often a family member, good friend or close neighbor, or a co-worker. It isn’t easy for most people to stand up to the reality of that behavior in people they love or value. The human escape wish is common: “Make this turn out to be untrue. Just make it go away.” Others turn the corner and make an abuse report and then quickly peel back into: “OK, I’ve done my part. Now leave me alone. I’ve got a life to live.” Psychologically, Joe Paterno apparently  got that far with the Sandusky allegations and no further.

I cannot remember a child abuse case from my own professional experience that hasn’t included someone who either made a report, or pushed the information upstairs for an institutional report, and then did nothing else, but these were just everyday people. They weren’t Joe Paterno.

The world expected more of JoePa and it didn’t happen. That makes him human, but unfortunately, it also stains his memory, his record, and his reputation from here to forever. That’s a heavy burden upon Paterno’s family and all the people who love him, but it is nothing by comparison to the harm done to those innocent children.

The casualty list from child abuse is similar to the casualty list from war. It will take years to get even an imperfect reading on how damaging this one alleged perpetrator’s actions in the Penn State case turn out to be for so many people.

One other note. It’s even hard to discuss this situation without treating Jerry Sandusky as a convicted perpetrator. He deserves a fair trial, if that’s even possible. It probably would’ve happened more fairly had everything been pressed to full light years ago, but that didn’t happen. It had to get tried in the media just to get our attention.

And now – even the opportunity for all around justice gets lost in the flight.

Stan Musial with former coach Chuck Schmidt with daughter enjoy day at the beach in early 1940s ST trip.

Just finished reading the earliest of two recent biographies of Stan Musial, “Stan The Man: The Life and Times of Stan Musial” (2010) by Wayne Stewart. I had read the other, “Stan Musial: An American Life” (2011) by George Vecsey a couple of months ago.

Both writers had taken upon themselves a daunting challenge. It’s very hard to write a fascinating book about a popular, accomplished, good citizen, and already well-known athlete that will hold the readers’ interest for very long – and no baseball player in history fits that bill of difficulty any better than Stan Musial. Even Babe Ruth, the greatest bio object in baseball attracts new readers to new books about him. Because of the Babe’s character, people will read another treatment of his life to get either a new take on his famous past sins – or maybe get unlucky and read of something new that’s been unearthed.

Not so Musial. It all comes back as “modest man … the guy next door … a smile and a handshake for everyone … and he loved and took care of his mother … never cheated n his wife … was a great dad and role model … best teammate ever …. always willing to do whatever was best for the team … never put on airs around ordinary folk … and in business, was as honest as the day is long … even got to be close friends with Pope John Paul II as a very active practicing (and famous) Polish-American Catholic.

How many pages can a writer roll with that one and still hold his or her audience?

Stewart and Vecsey both did credible jobs – because of their abilities as researchers and writers – and because I really wanted to read what they had to say about my favorite active major leaguer from my post World War II childhood.

I didn’t really learn a lot of new things about Stan’s public performance, but I found Wayne Stewart’s trail on the factual unfolding of Musial’s personal life, from childhood to old age, just about the most complete I’ve ever read, and right down to a blow-by-blow unnecessary description of the deterioration in Musial’s physical health through 2010 on his way to age 90.

George Vecsey spent too much time trying to analyze Musial’s speech patterns for some fresh light on the inner soul of this seemingly perfect man. Maybe due to the fact that I come from the primary field of behavioral analysis in my lifelong “day job,” I have an aversion to excessive attention from writers who turn on a subject with a paraphrasing “AHA! The subject is smiling when he should be crying.”

Don’t go there, fellas – especially if you go there only armed with something you heard from Dr. Phil. It isn’t fair to your subject.

Vecsey exposed his writer’s expertise as a speech analyst on page 41 when, talking of a Musial childhood speech issue, he wrote:

“Musial would retain a trace of a stammer into his adult life, sometimes speaking fast in the local accent of his childhood, sometimes using familiar mantras – whaddayasay-whaddayasay, wunnerful-wunnerful – as  a defense mechanism, to soften having to speak seriously.”

Thank you, Dr. Vecsey, but we could have gone all day without reading that.

In the end, both writers paraded out the narrative, but personally found more enjoyment in the fact-centered linear account of Stewart.

In the end, I do always enjoy reading how mathematically it worked out that Stan Musial proved the even-steven quality of his hitting at home and on the road.  He finished his 22-season career (1941-1963) with a ,331 BA, 475 HR, and 1,951 RBI. His 3,630 career hits came evenly. He nailed 1,815 hits at home and 1,815 hits on the road.

The day I met Stan Musial, May 1996.

Three Versions. Take Your Pick. Or write your own.

Version 1: Classic Original.

Take me out to the ball game,

Take me out with the crowd.

Buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jack,

I don’t care if I never get back.

We will ROOT, ROOT, ROOT for the home team,

If they don’t win it’s a shame,

For it’s ONE! TWO! THREE STRIKES YOU’RE OUT,

In the old ball game.

Version 2: The Houstonian, I Don’t Wanna Go To The AL Whine.

Take me out – to the ball game,

Take me out – with the crowd.

Buy me a promise that our club is back,

Then settle down with a fifty buck snack.

We will ROOT! – ROOT! ROOT! for the ASTROS,

A-L ball –  is nearly the same,

It’s just ONE! – DUMB! – DH! away,

In the Land! – Of! – Shame!

Version 3: The 21st Century Business Model Re-formulation.

Take me out to the ball game.

Make me rich ‘fore we go,

Buy me some futures in peanut stock,

Nail me the beer track at every park shop.

Then we’ll ROOT! ROOT! ROOT! for redemption,

Of our copper exchanged for pure gold,

And we’ll ALL! GROW! RICH AS ALL HELL!

As we all – grow – old!

Mazeroski's 1960 Series-winning walk-off homer will find a 14 year old kid named Andy Jerpe on the other side of this wall. Andy left the game early to help his mom with supper and was standing among a small grove of cherry trees when the ball came down from its historic ride through the Pittsburgh sky. Jerpe preserved the ball through the winter, then lost it in the weeds of a sandlot game the following spring.

Mark Wernick, a good Houston SABR friend, dropped me a nice note about meeting Bill Mazeroski yesterday at the Tri-Star Collectibles Show at the George R. Brown Convention Center downtown. While signing a book for Mark, Wernick first apologized for asking what he knew was a question that Mazeroski had heard thousands of times – and then he asked it anyway.

“Was it a meatball, or was it a good pitch?” Wernick asked in reference to Ralph Terry’s last pitch of the 1960 World Series.

Mazeroski motioned with his hand and then spoke. “It wasn’t a good pitch. It was right over the plate. About belt high. Straight.”

“Fastball?” Wernick further queried.

“I thought it was,” Mazeroski added. “He (Terry) says it was a slider. But it didn’t slide.”

Referring to himself, of course, Wernick said, “You broke a 12-year old kid’s heart that day.”

Mark says he then noted a brief look of compassion in Mazeroski’s eyes, but that was quickly followed by an engaging laugh and further comment from the great Pirate hero. “I made a lot of them happy too!”

Wernick says he ironically agreed with Mazeroski. What he didn’t tell Mazeroski is that was listening to the game on an unauthorized transistor radio in the hallway at Mark Twain Junior High School in San Antonio at the time as a Yankees fan. The game-winning homer just happened while Wernick was walking from one class to another. Once it did it its stunning deed, Wernick says he had to duck into the boys’ rest room so that no one would see him crying from the pain that home run cased to him that day.

Mark Wernick’s a big boy these days. He’s recovered from the original pain and simply grown in his appreciation for the moment as simply a part of baseball’s magnificent history.

The irony is that another 14 year old Pirates fan named Andy Jerpe was having quite a different experience with that event at the very moment our San Antonio 14 year old was descending into despair. Andy Jerpe had been at the game, but had left a few minutes earlier to get home and help his mom with preparations for supper.

(Had that been me, I would have  stayed inside Forbes Field. Dinner would have been late. I’d have to have risked getting in trouble later.)

Because Andy Jerpe was a “good boy,” his progress home had carried him early to a grove of cherry trees, just beyond the left field line. All of a sudden, he heard an enormous roar from the ballpark. Then, from out of the sky, this baseball (THE Mazeroski Ball) drops out of the sky and only a few feet away. – And he’s the only one around the area at the time.

“Someone just homered,” was Jerpe’s conclusion. And once he went back long enough to find out all the particulars, he knew he wanted to keep the ball. He took it home and told the family wha had happened, but there was apparently no big uproar over his possession of a souvenir ball. Fans kept souvenir baseballs all the time.

Andy built a display case for it and things seemed cool about its survival for a while – or until spring came again. And Andy’s friends talked him into using the ball for some sandlot fun. Aside from the dirt spots and scratches that immediately started checking in, the ball was making it until Andy Jerpe himself sliced the ball into some tall festering weeds. The kids looked for the ball, but all say they never found it. And that is supposedly what happened to the Mazeroski.

Andy Jerpe says he has recovered from his regret and forgiven himself for losing the Mazeroski baseball.

Speak for yourself, Andy. You’re from Pittsburgh and should have known better, even at age 14, not to have used that special ball in any kind of sandlot game. There are those of us in Houston from the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s who never would have done that – even at 14 frickin’ years of age – and we would have ordinarily killed for a good baseball – as long as it didn’t belong first to history.

Andy Jerpe, You Idiot! (Just Kidding – sort of.)

Here’s a link to a pretty good story of the Andy Jerpe experience with the Mazeroski baseball.

  http://www.pittsburghlive.com/x/pittsburghtrib/sports/pirates/s_700262.html

The Line Score: Easiest numbers in baseball to understand and, in the end, only the "runs per game" relative to your opponent's comparable total is the only stat that ultimately matters.

A recent addition to the Baseball Almanac site simply confirms what we all seem to know to the bone from other anecdotal experience with baseball history, The major production of home runs comes from players at the first base position, followed quickly by the two corner outfielders. In theory, the other corner power man is supposed to be the third baseman, but home runs from that slot position in the defense are slightly fewer than those produced by center fielders. That makes sense when you think about all the power guys who’ve played the central outfield garden spot over the years. Try toting up all the HR-bashing third basemen once you get past Mike Schmidt and Chipper Jones, Ron Santo and Ken Boyer.

The Baseball Almanac chart claims to account for all home runs in big league history, except for 21 shots that are still under study and remain uncategorized.  One other interesting note: In spite of the relative newness of its existence in only one of the two major leagues, designated hitters still account for 9,296 of all home runs, exceeding the contributions of all pinch hitters and pitchers from the beginning of time.

Here are the total home runs by position for almost all home runs, save 21, all time:

P: 3,623

C: 22,973

1B: 37,222

2B: 15,874

3B: 26,665

SS: 14,462

LF: 33,719

CF: 27,006

RF: 34,506

DH: 9,296

PH: 4,961

What follow via link is an easy-on-the-eyes clor graph of how these home numbers  by position break down relative to each other:

http://www.baseball-almanac.com/charts/HR/home_runs_by_position.shtml

Sometimes its nice to contemplate a straightforward bowl of baseball stats that are easy to see, confirming, and not confusing.

Have a nice weekend, everybody!