Sharpie Scribbles – chapter IX, the King and the Ring

-- by Josh Suchon

Note to readers: The feedback on the “You Were Lucky, Hershiser” story was so positive, and triggered so many memories from a childhood where my playground was the Oakland Coliseum, I’ve decided to share more of these stories. I’m blatantly stealing this idea from “Cardboard Gods” author Josh Wilker, who used his baseball card collection to tell the story of his childhood in the 1970s. Wilker gave me his blessing, so I’m going to use my autograph collection to tell the story of my childhood in the 1980s.

This chapter doesn’t fit the usual formula of baseball players who I bugged for Sharpie Scribbles as a kid, then bugged for interviews as an adult journalist. These are just two more good stories from my summer internship with the Watertown Indians minor league baseball that I wanted to share.

As mentioned in the previous chapter of this series, we had three memorable promotions during that summer. Sparky Lyle Day went fine overall, but I constantly felt like an idiot because it was so disorganized.

This post is about the other two big events: when legendary fast-pitch softball star Eddie Feigner's barnstorming team came to town, and when unknown pro wrestling wanne-be imposters came to town.

Let's start with The King.

The first time I saw Eddie Feigner was an episode of ABC’s Wide World of Sports. He was incredible. The Washington Post once described him as “the greatest softball pitcher who ever lived.” Feigner was the pitcher on a four-player softball team, dubbed “The King and his Court,” that took on all comers around the world. They didn’t have outfielders. They didn’t need outfielders he was so dominant.

The King could pitch behind his back, through his legs, from second base, blind-folded, and you still couldn't hit him.

By 1996, Feigner was 71 years old and still unhittable, but a younger guy did most of the pitching to save his arm. The King pitched an inning or two against the best team of ringers we could assemble from the area. The game wasn't close. Nobody could touch the King. Everybody on "The Court" mashed at the plate. 

The King and his Court were a relic from an era long before I was born, the ultimate barnstormers. Combine that with a ballpark that was located at the Alex T. Duffy Fairgrounds, it felt like we were in the 1950s.

I was on the on-field PA announcer. I introduced the players and described the action. Most importantly, I handed the wireless microphone to “The King” and let him entertain the crowd by giving the history of himself, the team, and tell stories.

Sharpie Scribbles – chapter VIII, Sparky Lyle

-- by Josh Suchon

Note to readers: The feedback on the “You Were Lucky, Hershiser” story was so positive, and triggered so many memories from a childhood where my playground was the Oakland Coliseum, I’ve decided to share more of these stories. I’m blatantly stealing this idea from “Cardboard Gods” author Josh Wilker, who used his baseball card collection to tell the story of his childhood in the 1970s. Wilker gave me his blessing, so I’m going to use my autograph collection to tell the story of my childhood in the 1980s.

My autograph collection is well over a thousand. It’s not worth counting the exact number. But let’s call it an even 1,200 as a nice round number. Out of those autographs, 1,197 were obtained between 1987-91, during my teen-age years when it was clear I had no girlfriend.

Only four of these autographs are displayed in the office of my apartment. They are Willie Mays, Roger Maris, Stephen Strasburg and Sparky Lyle.

Mays and Maris are there for obvious reasons. They’re on the sweet spot of a baseball, and they’re pretty sweet. The Strasburg signature came from a donation to the Aztec Athletic Foundation, and fits with my collection of San Diego State schwag.

Lyle’s signature makes me smile more than any other. It was obtained in the summer of 1996, when I was an intern for a minor league baseball team. My days of collecting Sharpie Scribbles were long over, but I made a special exception for Lyle because I’d spent the previous 24 hours shuttling him around a random city in upstate New York.

The signature states: “To Josh, thanks for putting up with all the shit!”

Podcast: expanding Interleague -- good for ball? Or bad for ball?

We're in the middle of baseball interleague play right now. Next year, as the Astros move to the AL West, interleague will take place every day. On our latest Podcast, we debate what this means. Matt Hurst hates it. Josh Suchon likes it. They discuss if this is the next step in making the designated hitter in both leagues, and the ultimate day-night doubleheader for two-market teams.

Sharpie Scribbles – chapter VII, Dad

-- by Josh Suchon

On this Father’s Day, I wanted to tell the story of the ultimate father-son baseball vacation, and the impact it had on my future occupation.

By the end of summer in 1990, my obsession with getting Sharpie Scribbles was fading. I was busy working 4-5 days a week as a busboy at Chili’s. It was the summer before my last year of high school. It was harder to get autographs because new restrictions and barricades were in place.

College was getting closer. I knew that I’d major in journalism or broadcasting. My focus was shifting toward my own writing, rather than getting the scribbles of my future subjects.

Whether my obsession was playing sports, taking photos at sporting events, getting autographs and batting practice home runs, using every penny to buy baseball cards and other memorabilia, or reading every piece of sports journalism out there, my dad was there to support me.  

I’m sure my Dad thought it was a little ridiculous, or a lot ridiculous, that I spent so much time and money and energy collecting baseball cards and other items to get autographed. He showed remarkable patience. He provided so many rides to card shops and card shows, and on wild goose chases to find convenience stores that sold the specific type of baseball card packages that I was seeking.

My dad was a huge sports fan. It’s where I developed my love for sports. He didn’t care about autographs or memorabilia. He just wanted to watch a game, be entertained, and cheer on his teams.

As a result, I’m sure the trip we took in 1990 was just as thrilling for him as it was for me. We'd talked about it, then decided to go for it. He told me to look at all the schedules in baseball to find the ideal week. That was the easy part. Dad made it happen financially.

Podcast: The State of the NBA

In the latest Out of Ink podcast, Josh and Matt take a look at where the NBA stands during the Finals; how LeBron is viewed; how individuals run the league vs. teams; and how the torch is being passed. All that and more in "The State of the NBA."

Podcast: A divided Bay over San Jose

In the latest Out of Ink podcast, Josh and Matt discuss the fight over territorial rights in San Jose. The Oakland Athletics want to move to San Jose. The San Francisco Giants own the territorial rights and are blocking them. Commissioner Bud Selig has waited over three years, yet still hasn't made a ruling. Josh wrote about this topic before, and now the duo discusses it.

Sharpie Scribbles – chapter VI, Benito Santiago

--by Josh Suchon

Note to readers: The feedback on the “You Were Lucky, Hershiser” story was so positive, and triggered so many memories from a childhood where my playground was the Oakland Coliseum, I’ve decided to share more of these stories. I’m blatantly stealing this idea from “Cardboard Gods” author Josh Wilker, who used his baseball card collection to tell the story of his childhood in the 1970s. Wilker gave me his blessing, so I’m going to use my autograph collection to tell the story of my childhood in the 1980s.

When spring training 1989 arrived, I was ready to dominate the autograph scene. It was my third year collecting Sharpie Scribbles, my second year going to Arizona. I knew where to go, when to be there, what to say, what pens to use, and how to be ready.

Without question, that was the best week of autograph collecting in my life. Can’t remember the exact number, but 223 is what sticks in my head. Not a bad haul for a nine days.

I did have some help from family and friends.

My dad took the week off work, and we went to Arizona together. Our routine was simple. He’d drop me off at the ballpark between 8-9 am. I’d get Sharpie Scribbles all morning, while he went back to the hotel to sleep or check in at the office. He’d arrive around game time. We’d watch the game together, stick around a little later for a few more autographs, then go find a place to eat and watch the NCAA Tournament games.

My friend Chris Poulson was a batboy for the A’s at that time. He happened to be in Arizona that same week. Before one game, Chris found me in the stands and said the A’s needed a batboy for the day. The next day, he said the visiting Padres needed a batboy.

Both were great thrills. The more memorable was the day with the Padres. I had a chair next to the on-deck circle. I wouldn’t say anything to the players, unless they initiated the conversation. I remember some fans in the first row were chatting up Benito Santiago, and he was in a good mood.

In his first at-bat, Santiago hit a home run. In his second at-bat, he hit another home run. Both times, I was waiting at home plate with his bat in my left hand, and my right hand extended into the air. When he crossed the plate, Santiago gave me a high-five. Oh man, that was so cool.

Sharpie Scribbles -- Chapter V, the 1988 Olympic team

-- by Josh Suchon

Note to readers: The feedback on the “You Were Lucky, Hershiser” story was so positive, and triggered so many memories from a childhood where my playground was the Oakland Coliseum, I’ve decided to share more of these stories. I’m blatantly stealing this idea from “Cardboard Gods” author Josh Wilker, who used his baseball card collection to tell the story of his childhood in the 1970s. Wilker gave me his blessing, so I’m going to use my autograph collection to tell the story of my childhood in the 1980s.

To say that I was obsessed with the 1988 Olympic baseball team is a massive understatement.

The summer of 1988 was the peak of my Sharpie-Scribbling, Ball-Chasing, Game-Watching existence. I went to 53 A’s games that year. From the time my freshman year in high school ended in June, until my sophomore year started in September, I only missed two games – and that’s because I was in Reno with my mom and sister to celebrate our birthdays.

The stars of the 1984 Olympic baseball team – Mark McGwire, Will Clark, Barry Larkin, Cory Snyder, B.J Surhoff, Bill Swift, Bobby Witt – were established in the big leagues by 1988. I recall reunions of that team at massive baseball card shows, which were exploding in popularity.

I’d already snagged most of those players’ autographs at the ballpark, so I didn’t wait in the lines and pay the money. But one of my favorite purchases was an official baseball from the 1984 games in Los Angeles.

So when the 1988 Seoul Olympics arrived, I was ready for the next generation of American heroes that would become major league stars. And when I say ready, I mean ready to buy anything that had their name on it, and ready to hound them for Sharpie Scribbles.

Gays in Sports: A Decade Later

-- by Matt Hurst

I realized early in my journalism career that game recaps and cheery feature stories weren't the best way to build up my clips package. As I aimed to work at bigger newspapers, I had to tackle bigger issues. Therefore, I had to write bigger stories that would challenge my writing, my reporting and my comfort level asking tough questions.

My first job out of college found me working at a small paper - the Vallejo Times-Herald - and allowed me to work on these aspects whereas if I had started as an intern at, say, the Los Angeles Daily News, I wouldn't have been allowed to explore these stories, let alone ask any editors for their approval when I pitched them.

My sports editor at the 25,000 circulation looked at me sideways when I mentioned my idea: a story about why the public did not know any homosexual athletes in major professional team sports.

"You sure you want to do that?" he said.

I nodded. It wasn't just for my clips. It was a story I wanted to dig in to.

(Tangent: It's a story I'm still interested in as Josh and I discussed in our latest podcast. I find it fascinating that as a population, we are worried about homosexuals and that our backwards American values prevent the majority of the population from accepting it. As some comedian once said "If gays want to get married, let them. They can miserable just like every other married couple." I also chuckle at the thought that Mike Piazza held a news conference to tell everyone he was not gay.)

***

It was the back story that interested me the most.

As the Editor-in-Chief of a left-thinking college newspaper at a left-thinking university (are there any right-thinking universities?) I was faced with overseeing almost-daily social acts from various groups around campus. I had gotten to know Harley Augustino on a somewhat friendly basis because he always seemed to be involved in every active party.

He was marching with gays. He was protesting an Oliver North appearance. Despite being white, he was out front with several ethnic groups.

Sharpie Scribbles -- Chapter IV, Dave Henderson

--by Josh Suchon

Note to readers: The feedback on the “You Were Lucky, Hershiser” story was so positive, and triggered so many memories from a childhood where my playground was the Oakland Coliseum, I’ve decided to share more of these stories. I’m blatantly stealing this idea from “Cardboard Gods” author Josh Wilker, who used his baseball card collection to tell the story of his childhood in the 1970s. Wilker gave me his blessing, so I’m going to use my autograph collection to tell the story of my childhood in the 1980s.

When I reflect on my childhood experiences with Dave Henderson, the following items come to mind first:

1, Hendu often wore all-white jump suits and was totally paranoid that our Sharpies would get on his clothing when he stopped to sign autographs in the player parking lot.

2, Hendu had not one, but two fan clubs in the Coliseum bleachers. “Hendu-land” was the last section of bleachers in left-center before the batter’s eye. “Hendu’s Bad Boy Club” was in right-center, a section without stairs going down because the batting cage was below.

3, Hendu had a gap between his front teeth, on display whenever he flashed that awesomely goofy grin. He flashed that grin when he signed my “One Strike from Boston victory” 1987 Fleer card, and somebody asked him about those playoffs.

4, Hendu’s performance in 1988 made me forget about the departure of Dwayne Murphy, one of my favorites and the last remaining member of the A’s 1981 playoff team.

5, Hendu coined the term “Fly Boys” for the two biggest legends in the bleachers.

Mike Kelly and Jay Didier were rock stars among the regulars who showed up for autographs, chased batting practice home runs, cheered on the A’s from the bleachers, stuck around postgame for more autographs, then did it all over again the next day.

Their rock-star status, at least to me, was based on their ability to fly down the stairs. Yes, fly.

The ultimate coming-OUT party

A number of prominent NFL players, past and present, recently told OutSports.com that they'd have no problem welcoming an openly homosexual player into the locker room. In this latest Out of Ink Podcast, Josh and Matt discuss how close we are to this happening, the type of athlete needed to break this "barrier," what regions of the country would be most accepting, and the type of teammates needed.

Sharpie Scribbles -- Chapter III, Curt Young and Rick Honeycutt

-- by Josh Suchon

Note to readers: The feedback on the “You Were Lucky, Hershiser” story was so positive, and triggered so many memories from a childhood where my playground was the Oakland Coliseum, I’ve decided to share more of these stories. I’m blatantly stealing this idea from “Cardboard Gods” author Josh Wilker, who used his baseball card collection to tell the story of his childhood in the 1970s. Wilker gave me his blessing, so I’m going to use my autograph collection to tell the story of my childhood in the 1980s.

In the early days of my autograph collecting, tact wasn’t my forte. Honestly, I was a total spaz.

When I saw a player’s car pull into the parking lot, I sprinted as fast as I could to the car. One time, I nearly got hit. I wasn’t very organized. I’d have all my baseball cards in hand, shuffling through them nervously, and sometimes drop cards. The process of handing over a card and pen to a player, then getting it back, was always awkward.

It didn’t occur to me to give the ballplayer room to get out of his car. I was too busy trying to box-out other autograph seekers for the best position. I’m sure the players thought I was the most annoying kid ever.

The first few days, I used a ball-point pen on baseball cards, the ultimate sign of an amateur. The first Sharpie that I bought was red, which is probably the worst color for autographs. Another rookie mistake.

What finally taught me to calm down was an experience with A’s pitcher Curt Young. A few A’s pitchers would carpool to the Coliseum on a regular basis. It wasn’t the same people every day, but I recall that some combination of Young, Gene Nelson, Rick Honeycutt and Dennis Eckersley were usually together.

One day, early in the 1987 season, I was in ultimate spaz mode as I sprinted up to Curt Young. The conversation went something like this: