-- 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.
The most important part of this running commentary was asking the standard question of a four-person team playing a 10-person team. It always got laughs:
The
King: “We can’t play with three. If the bases are loaded, nobody is available
to bat.”
This
event was a huge hit. It was a great thrill to meet the King, watch him pitch,
watch his teammates bash home runs well over the fences, and watch a team play with
a pitcher, catcher, first baseman, shortstop and no outfielders. Best of all,
it was great listening to “The King” tell stories.
Afterward,
I caved and asked for his autograph. The King was about to sign it for me, then
paused to size me up, and wrote the following: "You should take up
radio."
The King died in 2007. This obituary will give his life and talents much better treatment than I'm doing. I'm just honored that I got to meet him, watch in pitch in person, introduce him, and get such a nice unexpected compliment from him, when I was getting his autograph.
RIP, Eddie Feigner.
***
Now
let's get to the frauds.
It was
an independent wrestling group that I’d never heard of – and keep in mind, in
addition to being an autograph nerd and baseball nerd, I was a pro wrestling
nerd too.
I read
those wrestling magazines that spouted out all the propaganda from every
regional wrestling organization in the country. I'd never heard of the company,
or any of the wrestlers. All the wrestlers would clearly pass steroid tests.
What fun was that?
The
ring was assembled on the infield. The middle of the ring was directly above
the pitcher’s mound. All the equipment literally came in a van. The wrestlers
setup the ring themselves. Us interns setup folding metal chairs around the
ring, and added a few other finishing touches.
The
promoter loved to say the phrase, “Madison Square Garden, baby.” What he meant
was this show would be just like a WWF show at Madison Square Garden. I thought
he was joking, until I heard him say it a dozen times.
A
couple hours before showtime, the promoter told our general manager the normal
in-ring announcer couldn’t make it. Was there somebody who could do it,
instead?
The GM
looked at me and said, “you’re up.”
Seriously?
I was
22 years old, a few months out of college. My broadcasting career consisted of
about 30 games on San Diego State’s college radio station, about a half-dozen
live minor league games so far that summer on radio, and one year as the public
address announcer for my high school’s basketball team.
Now I
was the in-ring announcer for a fly-by-night pro wrestling event.
Madison
Square Garden, baby.
The referee took me into the dressing room (it was the visitors clubhouse) for the important instructions. Very important: I needed some type of watch or clock to keep time. Every five minutes, I would give the referees a hand signal. Why? The conversation went something like this:
Referee:
“Each of the matches is timed.”
Me: "What do you mean they are timed?"
Referee: "Some are five minutes. Some are 10 minutes. Some are 15 minutes. Some are 20 minutes."
Me: “I
thought the matches lasted until somebody pinned an opponent’s shoulder onto
the mat for a count of three.”
Referee
(not amused by my humor): “Just give me the hand signals, kid.”
Behind
me, the wrestlers psyched themselves up for their performance, and practiced
their moves … with their opponent.
Madison
Square Garden, baby.
During
the first match, I saw how the hand signals worked. The referee looked at me
more than he watched the action. I gave him a “1” after five minutes. Next time
the wrestlers were tied up, the referee told them the time. I gave him a “2”
after 10 minutes.
The
next time the wrestlers were tied up in the corner, the referee broke them up
... and gave the time.
Magically,
the match ended about 30 second later.
The
storylines and characters were the most basic Wrestling 101 you can imagine.
There
was a good-looking, tan, blonde hair guy with muscles and pretty teeth who
wore red, white and blue tights. He came out to Bruce Springsteen’s, “Born in
the USA.” He was a “good guy.” He was victorious in his match, even though the
bad guy tried to cheat.
There
was big fat masked man from parts unknown. He was a different “bad guy.” He was
actually a super nice guy in the dressing room. In fact, he did most of the work assembling the ring earlier that day, and would take it apart when we were done. After I'd introduced him in the ring to the crowd, he calmly walked over to me, and said
quietly, “tell the crowd to shut up, and I'm going home if they call me fat.”
In my
best Howard Finkle, I informed the crowd, in the most dramatic way possible,
that the masked man said the crowd needs to do the following two things:
1. Shut up!
2. Stop calling him fat! He doesn't like being called fat! If you call him fat, he's going to leave!
Shockingly
enough, the Watertown crowd took the bait. They called him fat. The fat masked
man who worked so hard to assemble the ring threatened to leave. The fat masked
man’s opponent took advantage by working him over. The fat masked man made a
comeback, and got the upper edge.
Then
the fat masked man was distracted by the crowd calling him fat. The fat masked
man’s opponent took advantage of the fat masked man being distracted to work
him over again. This continued, back and forth, for five minutes.
When I
gave the “1 finger” to the referee, the fat masked man was about to win. Then
he got distracted by a redneck in the front row who called him fat again. The
fat masked man stopped in the middle of what he was doing, challenged the
redneck to jump into the ring, and the fat masked man’s opponent pinned him
with an “inside cradle” move.
The
masked fat man was not happy.
Madison
Square Garden, baby.
After
four matches, it was time for intermission. I told the crowd, “we’ll take a
break for a short intermission. The snack bar is open. Cold beer is available.
And some of the wrestlers will be available for autographs.”
What
this really meant: “we’ll have a very long break, so you can buy lots of food
and beer. All of the wrestlers will be available, and for $10, you can get a
Polaroid photo with you and the wrestler, which the wrestler will be happy to
autograph.”
During
the intermission, we looked at the radar and saw that rain was headed toward
the ballpark. (When you work in minor league baseball, you look at the radar
more than you do anything else, because you always have to be ready to put the
tarp on the infield.)
Remember,
we were outdoors. No roof for the ring, the wrestlers, or the fans. We let the
promoter knew that we were expecting rain.
“We’ll
shorten all the matches,” he said. I went into the locker room and told the
referee that all the matches will be cut in half because of expected rain. The
referee told the wrestlers. They didn’t seem to care.
The
intermission lasted at least 30 minutes. The second half consisted of three
matches. The first two were done in five minutes each. The headlining match,
consisting of two wrestlers that nobody knew, lasted 10 minutes.
After
the final match, I thanked the audience and climbed out of the ring. Most of
the wrestlers were out of the locker room signing more autographs. Then, the
strangest thing happened.
Somebody
asked for my autograph.
The
conversation went something like this:
Me:
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Drunk
fan: “Hell no. You gotta sign this for me.”
Me:
“Why on earth would you want my autograph?”
Drunk
fan: “You were part of this. You’re the announcer.”
After
a childhood chasing professional baseball players for their autograph, I
couldn’t fathom somebody wanting my autograph. I also couldn’t say no. During a
lot of the dead time waiting for autographs, my friends and I practiced our
signatures hundreds, if not thousands of times. Now it was going to pay off.
We’d
placed these old-time promotional billboards around town to advertise the
wrestling show. I really now wished that I’d have saved one. With the
leftovers, we handed them out at the show. That was the primary item used for
autographs.
So
that’s what I signed. After delivering my own Sharpie Scribble, I wrote (The PA
guy) afterward, so that the drunk fan would know that I wasn’t a wrestler.
Don’t ask me why I thought that was important to distinguish. It’s not like
anybody knew who these guys were.
I
handed the promotional billboard back to the drunk fan, and then something even
crazier happened.
A kid
asked me for my autograph. And so did his friend. And another friend. Next
thing I knew, I had a line of people asking for my autograph. It was
ridiculous, hilarious, and made me wonder if professional baseball players
thought the same thing the first time they were asked for their autograph by
kids like me.
Madison
Square Garden, baby.
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