RE: The fate of your worthless trading cards

Dear Readers,

I’d like to speak to all of you about a very pressing issue that affects many of us on a daily basis. That’s right, folks. I’m talking about the boxes full of worthless trading cards that forced your bowling ball bag and ironing board out of the closet and into your bathtub.

Now, I’ve faced this problem on more than one occasion. There was that grab bag of batboys-through-the-ages cards I picked up for a bargain price at the card show. I’m sure you’re surprised to hear that little experiment didn’t pan out.

Then there was the time I thought I’d struck it rich when I strung together a dozen full sets of ’87 Topps cards. What I didn’t take into account was the fact that Topps produced enough packs of cards in 1987 to give a stale piece of tooth-shattering, flavorless bubblegum to every man, woman, and child south of the moon.  

But still, no choice was worse than allowing a pallet-full of Rick Schu rookie cards to “just happen” to fall off the truck and “roll voluntary” into my garage. And out went the riding mower, my tool set, and the car…not to mention my last shred of dignity.

But I’ve had enough, people. I’m taking my garage back, and I’m doing so at the expense and reputation of those bargain basement baseball cards. And I’m not just talking about the average Joes, neither. I’m going for the throat. I’m heading straight for the scrubs, the most worthless cards I can find. Oh yes, my friends, they’ll be facing my wrath first.

Here are just a few of the ideas I’ve come up with in trying to free myself of these worthless cards.

The School of Hard Looks

In the fine tradition of all past and present ball players who have mimicked the pained expression of a hardened criminal in their trading card photos, I give you the game of Hard Look War. That’s right. It’s just like the ordinary playing card version of War that you’re used to, except the winning card is always that of the player with the hardest, most intimidating expression on their face. So basically, you want to stay away from any card with David Eckstein on the front. But definitely drop a Pete Incaviglia card on the table and watch your opponent’s ’95 Kevin Stocker Donruss shrivel up in fear. 

I guess you’re wondering what happens when the inevitable dispute arises from a difference in judgment between you and your opponent. I gotta to be honest with you, I don’t see this one ending pretty. Just make sure you pick a playing partner that is small, fragile, and slow of foot. Isn’t that why younger siblings were invented, after all?

Drink The Blues Away

Ok, so you’re looking for any excuse to knock a few back on your day off. Isn’t that the perfect reason for a new drinking game? I think it is.

But then you hear it: “Honey, you said you’d move your baseball card collection out of the closet. It’s been sitting on top of my wedding dress for three years!”

Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered. Go in there and grab that dusty box of baseball cards. Hell, while you’re at it, you might as well throw that dress on a hanger for her. Good, you’re golden. Now grab yourself a six pack and get to work.

The game is simple. Grab a handful of cards, toss them in the air and let them fall where they may. Then, pick up the card that landed closest to you, and then next closest, and so on. Every time you pick up a card with a player whose career average is under .250 you chug a beer.

There, that should keep you busy for at least ten minutes. When you’re finished, toss the cards in the trash and repeat with another handful.

Melt Them Down For Energy

Hey, all I’m saying is I’m tired of signing over half my pay check to the pimply geek behind the counter at Sunoco. I’m also tired of a frigate’s-worth of crappy trading cards hogging my whole garage. Are you starting to connect the dots? I mean, can you imagine a world where the Bud Smiths and Rick Reuschles of the world contributed to the conservation of world energy? It sounds like Utopia to me, folks.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more convinced I become about the inevitable conversion to crappy trading card energy. Then again, it just may be because I’m pretty sure Al Gore is probably sitting on an unopened case of ’87 Topps. The dude needs some space for his solar panels in that garage of his.

Make Them History

You’ve heard of Casey At Bat, but why not Momar or Churchill At Bat. All you really need is a few crappy trading cards, a black marker, and a hazy understanding of world history and you’re ready to morph your least favorite baseball players into your favorite historical figures…at bat.

The best thing about it is you don’t even need art skills to turn Von Hayes ’85 Fleer into Von Kaiser Hayes ’85 Fleer. The possibilities are endless and, I assure you, the revenge is sweet.

Some of my personal favorites include Brian “Davy Crockett” DuBois ’90 Upper Deck, Lloyd “Rick James” Moseby ’88 Donruss, Jeff “Honest Abe” Innis ’90 Upper Deck, and Jeff “Ponce De Leon” Granger ’94 Upper Deck. (pictured here)

Make Them the “Butt” of All Jokes

This one basically speaks for itself, and I’m not talking about actually bad mouthing your baseball cards to your friends. What I am referring to is probably one of the most childish and immature things you could possibly do to your worthless trading cards. That’s also why it’s my personal favorite.

A friend of mine back in middle school once astutely likened the small crevice which forms on the side of your index finger when you bend it down towards your palm to yet another crevice which undoubtedly makes more sense with the subtitle I’ve so subtly placed above. Of course, I did what any sports-minded person would do after hearing something so nonsensical. I took the ball and ran with it.

Therefore, for ultimate comic relief, I suggest you get yourself a pair a scissors and a few worthless trading cards and follow my directions.

First, you need to find a card with a good pose on it. In this case we’re looking for anything that gives new meaning to the line from Rookie of the Year, “Pitcher’s got a big butt.”

Then you need to go to cuttin’on it. Basically, you cut the player’s mid section out of the card. Stay with me here, the results are worth it.

Finally, you need to bend the tip of your index finger down to your palm. Look for the crease on the side of your finger…it’s hard to miss. Now, simply place your bent index finger behind the little window you created with the scissors. Take a look.

Woops, looks like somebody took part in a little too much sliding practice! Is there any wonder why there’s such a pained expression on Glenallen Hill’s face as he slides into home?

Please Help!  

So there you have it. In this writer’s opinion I’ve provided you with a fairly comprehensive list of possibilities when confronted with the troubling problem of what to do with your useless trading cards. I just wish there were more options out there because that pallet-full of Rich Schu rookie cards in my garage isn’t getting any smaller. That’s why I’m open to any ideas you all may have out there to alleviate my problem. Please keep them coming.

Thank you so much for your time and understanding in seeing me through what is obviously one of the more pressing issues of our times.

Sincerely,

C.G. Morelli

The Sporting Scribe 

The Most Important Innovations in Sports Equipment History

 I’m sure I can only speak for myself when I say that studying sports equipment is really interesting. See, I know most sports fans out there aren’t thinking about what kind of resin Roy Halladay powders on his hands before hurling a 90 mph heater. And there aren’t many fans, like me, who see a boxer laid out on the canvas and wonder what kind of mouthpiece it is laying beside him in a puddle of his own drool.

It’s this hazy attention to details that causes many of us to take these seemingly innocent innovations for granted. We fail to see the important roles they play in the lives of our athletes and rarely think about how things would be different without them

Therefore, I feel it is my duty to present to you the most important innovations in sports equipment history.

Honorable Mention – Nerf Footballs

Ok, so these flashy globes of foam rubber aren’t really pieces of equipment used by the professionals, but they sure make your Uncle Harry look like Johnny Unitas.  Maybe he was telling the truth when he told you he would have went pro if not for that damn alien abduction. Either that Nerf ball is scientifically designed to soar 90 yards with a flick of the wrist, or your Uncle Harry’s stashed some performance enhancers in that six pack of brew he’s got dangling from his belt loop.

5. Football Helmets with Facemasks

Just think, it wasn’t until the 1950’s that the modern football helmet and face mask were mandated in the pros. Before that, guys pretended to be tough while wearing the same leather helmet worn by Snoopy in his exploits as the Red Baron. Could you imagine how many teeth must have littered the turf by game’s end? It must have looked like closing time at the Chic-let factory. I guess on the bright side, however, not having facemasks would have eliminated pretty-boy smile guys like Tony Romo and Tom Brady from the game. Of course, I’m sure it also eliminated any chance of having the ability to produce rational thought after an average playing career.

4. Batting Helmets

The original batting helmet, used from the mid 1800’s all the way up into the 1950’s, was portable, fit like a glove, and was incredibly inexpensive. That’s because it was the human skull. Apparently no one thought it was a priority to protect the most vital organ in the body from whizzing, rock-hard projectiles. That is until the Major League death toll from wild pitches tallied six players by 1951. Teams like the Pittsburgh Pirates took notice of this scary statistic and began wearing protective helmets. Of course, the rest of the league immediately branded them as pansies… until 1954, when Joe Adcock was knocked unconscious by a wild pitch for a full 15 minutes. After that, the league decided to mandate the helmet rule for all players. Now you couldn’t catch a ballplayer standing in the on-deck circle without a helmet.

3. Hockey Goaltender Masks

You have to be either extremely brave or extremely stupid to stand in front of a blazing slap shot and stop a puck with your face. Until Jaques Plante of the 1960 Canadiens finally donned a protective mask, hockey goalies were a little bit of both. Since then, the goalie mask has progressed from the full plastic variety, made famous by Jason Voorhees in the slasher flicks Friday the 13^th, to the modern version of a helmet and a protective metal cage that we commonly see today. Both varieties have allowed goaltenders to escape their playing days without losing an entire row of teeth or winding up with a face only a mother could love. 

2. Protective Cups

There’s really not much to say here. To even provide a reminder of sports without the trusty walnut shell would be an exercise in barbarity to anyone who’s ever taken a knee to the groin during a game of rough-touch football. But, yes, the forefathers of sports didn’t think twice about leaving the little guy open to injury. Makes you wonder how we all came to be, doesn’t it? The first cup was actually just a rolled-up piece of leather. Yeah, that gives you peace of mind. Thankfully, a wide variety of lightweight and sturdy materials now exist to protect you from the ultimate manly mishap.

1. Baseball Caps

There’s not a day that goes by where I don’t sing the praises of the baseball cap. I mean, I where a cap so often it’s become my hairstyle, and that’s the way it is for millions of hat-dependent Americans each day. Don’t feel like combing your hair? Baseball cap. Don’t want your hair to get wet in the rain? Baseball cap. Don’t have hair at all? Baseball cap. It’s the answer to most head-related issues…at least in my book.

But one thing that can’t be disputed is the modern ball cap has become an American staple, like the cowboy hat or apple pie. Thankfully, the original straw hat worn by the 1860 Brooklyn Excelsiors has come a long way. It’s been updated to the modern 59-50 style worn by current major leaguers. Otherwise I’d be sitting on a porch with a goofy straw hat and a corn cob pipe trying to whittle something right now.  

 And, really, who wants that?

You're Outta Here!!

By: C.G. Morelli

Before you get all worked up over my not-so-politically-correct decision to sing the praises of unsportsmanlike conduct in the game of baseball, please spare me the tears. I’m not here to endorse fighting, or cursing, or even umpire bashing. I’m not here to teach you how to kick dirt on someone’s shoes. I’m simply not the kind of guy who condones this type of behavior.

But still, there’s something inherently passionate about a coach who storms out on the field to defend his version of justice before his team. I don’t care who you are, there’s something completely satisfying about seeing an umpire’s arm reach to the heavens before unceremoniously pointing a manager in the proper direction for a shower.

As much as we can all admit this behavior is better left to the dogs, we still can’t quite forget there’s something about a manager meltdown that’s essential old school baseball. It’s gritty, and it brings us back to the days of old John McGraw, when winning a ball game was more about protecting your pride than protecting the fan base.

That’s why, as I attempt to fill the next three months until opening day and the next million Sundays until football starts again in Carolina, I’d like to share with you some of the most entertaining meltdowns in baseball history.

The Most Entertaining Manager Meltdowns in Baseball History

We’ll start out with the simple but classic approach to getting ejected. Here’s Ricky VanAsselberg of the Alexandria Aces minor league team giving a gentle nod to the old school as he buries home plate under a mountain of sand. Give a few style points to the ump on the toss.

Butch Hobson of the Can-Am League Nashua Pride added a little creativity to his meltdown routine. Hobson decided a call on a close play at first was so blasphemous that no one should ever again be allowed to touch that base…except, of course, the group of ten year olds seated near the top of the bleachers he delivered it to after being axed. Give this one a minute, it’s worth it.

There are a million clips of Tommy Lasorda hurling insults, spit, and whatever else at unwitting and perhaps even dimwitted umpires. The man’s slight problem with his temper is well documented. But, to me, nothing is more telling of the man’s passion for the game, his team, and his player than this clip. I mean, the guy was ready to argue even in spring training! 

Asheville Tourist’s manager Joe Mikulik would probably like to do these few minutes of his life over again.

Sometimes when I watch Lou Piniella really give it to an umpire I have to ask myself, “Was he basically put on Earth for this exact purpose?” If there’s such a thing as a meltdown artist, Sweet Lou would have to be the one and only. Here’s a double dose for you.

This is perhaps my favorite clip of all time, in any sport. Phillip Wellman, manager of the minor league Mississippi Braves, puts on a performance worthy of an Oscar after getting tossed from a Southern League game. Take note as he army-crawls to the mound, pulls the pin on the, uh, resin bag? And then tosses it grenade style? Genius.

I present to you Earl Weaver, Master of Language. WARNING! Let’s just say this might not be the best clip to play on full volume in the middle of a board meeting. But if a few choice words aren’t enough to get your panties in a bunch, I promise you’ll be in tears during this one. And, by the way, don’t ever put your finger on me again. You’ll know what I’m talking about in a minute.

Honorable Mention

I know, I know. How can I compile a list like this without including all time ejections leader Bobby Cox of the Atlanta Braves? Well, for all the times Bobby’s been given the old heave-ho, he’s really been able to keep a lid on it. That’s pretty surprising when you consider Cox has been sent packing 158 times in his professional managerial career. At any rate, here’s an honorable mention for a guy who clearly prides himself on quantity over quality when it comes to arguing.

At the Table With...Baseball Legends

By: C.G. Morelli

We’ve all heard the obligatory conversation starter before: “If you could have dinner with an influential person, who would it be and why?” Ah, the sounds of a high school history class…except without all the snoring and with only half the amount of drool.

Believe me, I’m not asking you to relive it with me because, seriously, those conversations usually turned out to be as exciting as a Kansas City Royals home game.

Personally, I always thought it’d be more interesting to think about what you’d actually say to these people as they were huddled around your kitchen table. What would you serve them? What in the hell would they say to you?

Ok, so maybe I think about pointless stuff a little too much. But I only do it so you, the faithful readers, don’t have to.

I’m a baseball guy, so let me share with you the top five ballplayers throughout history that I’d dine with. But I’ll even take it the extra mile for you. I’ll let you in on our conversations.

5. Manny Ramirez

The Meal: Something extremely rich

The Conversation: 

CG: I’m glad you decided to stop by, Manny.

Manny: Me too. I can never pass up a free meal, especially when I don’t have a place to call home.

CG: Free? I never said that.

Manny: It doesn’t matter. You’ll pay for it. Come on, look at this face. How can you resist me?

CG: Do I look like Ned Coletti?

Manny: Actually, yes.

CG: Take that back.

Manny: Give me 30 million.

CG: What?!?

Manny: I meant 45 million.

CG: Ok, I think this dinner’s over.

Manny: (walking to the door) You’ll call back. They always do.

4. Joe DiMaggio

The Meal: Veal Parmigiana and a pack of Marlboro Reds

The Conversation:

CG: Joe, I’ll always be in awe of your 56-game hitting streak. How’d you deal with the pressure?

Joe D: Trust me, it was easier than being married to Marilyn.

CG: High maintenance?

Joe D: You don’t know the half of it.

CG: Was it worth all the trouble?

Joe D: NO!!!  Well, yes.

CG: Shocking.

3. Pete Rose

The Meal: Bread and water

The Conversation:

CG: Sorry about the skimpy meal, Mr. Rose. You know, economy’s not all too good these days.

Rose: Don’t mention it. Besides, it happens to be one of my favorites. I used to refer to it as the after-parlay special back in Cincy.

CG: Sounds, um, healthy. Speaking of health, what’s your take on the whole steroids scandal?

Rose: I’d be willing to bet more than half the league was doing them.

CG: Uh, are you sure you wouldn’t like to rephrase that last statement?

Rose: Why?

CG: Never mind….So how about those Phillies?

2. Ty Cobb

The Meal: Fried chicken, collards, biscuits, and gravy

The Conversation:

CG: It’s an honor to have you, Mr. Cobb. I’m a huge fan. I celebrate your entire body of work.

Ty: I don’t know where you think this dinner is headed, boy, but you best leave my body out of it.

CG: What?

Ty: You know what I’m gettin’ at, you yella-bellied pretty boy.

CG: Actually, I don’t.

Ty: Look, just eat your damn chicken and zip your lip.

CG: …

Ty: That’s better. Now finish all your vegetables before I sharpen my spikes on that big old nose of yourn.

CG: Mr. Cobb, it’s been real.

1. Yogi Berra

The Meal: A bowl of Cap’n Crunch

The Conversation:

CG: Boy am I glad to be sitting here with you, Yogi…a man known for his dialogue.

Yogi: Well, they say a man’s dialogue is his treasure.

CG: Who says that?
Yogi: Well, it ain’t us, so it must be them.

CG: Of course it ain’t us, but who is “them?”

Yogi: All the people who think a man’s dialogue is his treasure.

CG: But I never heard anyone ever say that.

Yogi: What do you mean? I just said it two minutes ago.

CG: Are you sure you weren’t just reading random stuff off the back of the cereal box?

Yogi: Uhhh….ummm…It ain’t over till it’s over!

CG: What the…? Oh, forget it. Where’s Ty Cobb when you need him?

Stan the Man

By: C.G. Morelli

Throughout his career, Stan Musial was a man's man. It's no surprise the nickname stuck. In addition to compiling a cartoon-like career stats line (475 dingers, 3,630 hits, a lifetime .331 average, and three MVP awards), serving in the Navy during WWII, and being elected to the Hall of Fame with over 93 percent of the votes in 1969, Stan the Man touched the lives of so many of his fellow players, coaches, and fans that you'd need at least twenty Busch Stadiums to contain them all.

On Tuesday, President Obama honored Musial with the highest honor a civilian in the United States could possibly receive: the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

Congratulations, Stan, the honor was long overdue. Here's a recap of the all time Cardinals great accepting the honor:

Rube Waddell: A Real Piece of Work

By: C.G. Morelli

Charles Edward Waddell was a small town Pennsylvania farm boy when minor league scouts recognized his ability to throw lightning. Before long, he’d attracted a nickname (“the Rube”) and he was hurling fastballs in the minors. He found immediate success and, by 1902, he was wearing a Pittsburgh Pirates uniform.

In Pittsburgh, however, the Rube found success a little more fleeting. Sure, the kid had great stuff.  But he also had a bit of a strange side to him to say the least. Waddell quickly gained more notoriety for his wild antics than for his ball playing. The man was known to actually leave the playing field during games to chase fire engines, and his unpredictable drinking binges caused him to be chronically and excessively late to games and practices.  Frustrated with his odd behavior, the Pirates cut him loose…and who was there to scoop him up but the old baseball gentleman himself, Connie Mack.

Mack signed Waddell in 1902 to compliment his already burgeoning roster of solid players. Waddell joined the likes of Eddie Plank, Lave Cross, and Nap Lajoie. But the Rube immediately shot to the top of the list, leading the league in strikeouts every year from 1902 through 1907. He led the Athletics in team ERA four times during this span.

For a while, with Mack acting as his surrogate father, Waddell kept his strange behavior at bay, and when he couldn’t restrain himself the citizens of Philadelphia ate him up anyway. Fans especially loved him because he would hang out at local bars in Philly and end up bartending by closing time. He was also known for playing random pickup games in the streets with local kids and for volunteering his services to the fire department.

But eventually, Rube lost his way once more and his erratic, sometimes personally endangering, behavior began to wear on Papa Mack. Waddell was beginning to wear out his welcome. A breaking point appeared to have occurred at the conclusion of the 1905 season. He had led the Athletics to the World Series that year, but couldn’t pitch against the Giants because he’d supposedly injured his elbow in a bizarre incident that culminated in a barroom brawl. It didn’t take long for the public to suspect gamblers were pulling Rube’s strings and rumors began to fly. Nothing was ever proven, but the scandal haunted the Pennsylvania hayseed for the rest of his career.

The scandal, his increasingly flaky attitude towards the game, and his strong taste for drinking, led Mack (who was at the end of his rope) to sell Waddell to the hapless St. Louis Cardinals for $5,000 before the start of the 1908 season. Mack’s Athletics, who had finished a hopeful 2^nd with an 88-57 record the season before, could not recover. Without Rube’s services they skidded through the 1908 season, finishing a pitiful and disappointing 6^th in the American League with a 68-85 record.

Many Philadelphians, who had almost unilaterally exalted the venerable Connie Mack, lost some respect for their beloved manager who, in the end, could not control his wayward “son.”  The city eventually learned to live without their loveable idiot, but it never found anyone unique enough to replace him in their hearts.

The Tall Tactician

By: C.G. Morelli

Connie Mack said a lot of things during his career. Of course, it’s easy to say a lot when your career as manager spans half a century. He once said, “Humanity is the keystone that holds nations and men together. When that collapses, the whole structure crumbles.  This is as true of baseball teams as any other pursuit in life.” This perhaps recalls the image of the Tall Tactician, a man whose impeccable values and fatherly overtones produced much veneration for him from his arrival in Philadelphia in 1900 until his departure in 1950.

When all was said and done, Mack had compiled 3,731 wins with the Athletics, the most for a manager in baseball history, besting John McGraw by over 1,000 wins. His teams won the World Series five times in that span, and the AL title nine times. Ironically, Mack also racked up 3,948 losses during his tenure as the A’s manager. This total is also, far and away, the worst in baseball history. Mack actually finished in last place 17 times while at the helm of the Athletics. So, I guess it’s fitting that the most successful losing manager of all time would also coin the phrase, “You can’t win ‘em all.”

In fact, even with his staggering total of victories and irreplaceable impact on the game, Mack would humbly tell you that he wasn’t the quintessential baseball skipper. For that title, he’d have to tab one of his contemporaries during the early part of the century.  “There has only ever been one manager,” he said, “And his name is John McGraw.”

But, in Philly, he was more than quintessential. He was the Philadelphia Athletics.

Even after a dismal farewell season in ‘50, where his team finished an embarrassing 52-102 to claim last place for the 10^th time in 16 seasons, he was still considered the man.

After all, we’re talking about the first manager in history to win three World Series titles, and the only manager ever to win the series back to back on two separate occasions (1910-11, 1929-30). Last time I checked, people in Philly don’t forget stuff like that too quickly, which is probably why Mack could walk down the narrowest, most remote alleyway in the city and still be recognized as the father of Philadelphia baseball even by the stray cats.

But it was because of this prominence, this ultimate feeling of comfort which Mack exuded upon the fans, that his departure spelled the beginning of the end for the A’s in Philly.

The loveable fan favorite, Jimmy Dykes, took Mack’s role and improved the team to a 6^th place finish the following season. Even so, attendance plummeted drastically and continued to do so for the next few years. Things just weren’t the same without the Grand Old Man of Baseball staking his post on the dugout steps.

“Any minute, any day, some player may break a long standing record,” he said, “That’s one of the fascinations about the game, the unexpected surprises.”

Perhaps Mack’s departure was one of those unexpected surprises the Philadelphia Athletics were never prepared to face. Or maybe it was the fascination for the game that suddenly left the hearts of the fans and the organization once the venerable leader had fled the battlefield.

Whatever the factor, the A’s would never find a way to recover within the confines of their own backyard. They were sent packing to Kansas City in 1954. Mack died two years later, having spent 66 years in baseball as a player and manager.

After a lifetime of service to the game it’s no wonder Mack once said, “No matter what I talk about, I always get back to baseball.” Somewhere, I’d like to think, Mr. Cornelius Alexander McGillicuddy is having a little chat about baseball right now.

The World Series: An American Legacy

By: C.G. Morelli

A game played by “the boys of summer” seems a bit out of place in the chilly days of October.  But, it’s during this autumn month when the Major League Baseball season winds down with one of the most exciting events in all of sports, the World Series. 

Over the course of a few weeks, teams slug it out in the playoffs, trying to earn a spot in our country’s most celebrated championship series.  But it hasn’t been around forever.  Just how did the World Series begin?

The Very First World Series

As far back as the 1880’s, head-to-head grudge matches had taken place between the top teams in various leagues.  Many of these contests featured long series of up to fifteen games and were not taken very seriously by players or spectators.  But in 1903 something special happened. 

For the first time, the well-known National League was feeling a lot of competition from a brand new league, which called itself the American League.  Many fans, who once believed the National League far more talented than the American League, began to wonder what would happen if the best team from each were to square off.  Managers on both sides saw a competition between them as a way to attract more interest in the game, and also to see who was best once and for all. 

At the end of the season, it was agreed that a tournament would be played between the two best teams in each league.  They decided to name it the World Series.

The mighty Pittsburgh Pirates, champions of the National League, took on the American League winners, the Boston Pilgrims in the best-of-nine series.  Everyone expected the Pirates, led by their star shortstop, Honus Wagner, to defeat the Pilgrims easily.  But it quickly became clear that Wagner would not be a factor.  He finished the series with only six hits, while committing six errors in the field.  Instead, a young pitcher from Boston named Bill Dineen stole the show, pitching four shutouts in the series to lead the Pilgrims to a surprising victory. 

When the team returned to Boston, fans swarmed the field at Huntington Avenue Grounds hoping to catch a glimpse of baseball’s first World Champions.  The grudge match between the two leagues created so much interest in the game of baseball that they decided to continue it every year.  The World Series has now been played for more than a century.  

           

Continuing the Tradition

Over the years, the World Series has changed only slightly, in order to make it the most competitive and exciting event it could possibly be.  In 1922, the length of the World Series was shortened to a best-of-seven series, as it remains today.  In 1969, the playoffs were created, giving more teams a chance to compete for a spot in the World Series.  In 1994, the commissioner of baseball added the Wildcard Round to the playoffs.  Many current baseball fans will agree that this feature has made the game even more exciting at the end of the season than it had been in the past.  As a result, the playoffs last a bit longer, pushing the World Series slightly later into the fall.  It is now common for the series to end in November rather than October.

Overall, however, the World Series we enjoy today has not changed much since the time of Honus Wagner and Bill Dineen.   The Fall Classic, as it has come to be known, still pits the best team in the National League against the best the American League has to offer.  It is still the grand stage for some of the greatest athletes in sports, and it still attracts the interest of millions of fans worldwide.  Most importantly, the dream of playing in a World Series some day is still fresh in the minds of many young boys and girls.

Into the Record Books

• On October 10, 1920, Bill Wambsganss of the Cleveland Indians completed the only unassisted triple play in World Series history.

• In game five of the 1956 World Series, Don Larsen of the New York Yankees pitched the only perfect game in series history by not allowing a single runner to reach base in nine innings.

• On October 12, 1982, Paul Molitor of the Milwaukee Brewers became the only player in history to record five hits in a single World Series game.

• Yankees closer, Mariano Rivera, holds the all-time record for recording the final out in four World Series championships.

RE: The fate of your worthless trading cards

Dear Readers,

I’d like to speak to all of you about a very pressing issue that affects many of us on a daily basis. That’s right, folks. I’m talking about the boxes full of worthless trading cards that forced your bowling ball bag and ironing board out of the closet and into your bathtub.

Now, I’ve faced this problem on more than one occasion. There was that grab bag of batboys-through-the-ages cards I picked up for a bargain price at the card show. I’m sure you’re surprised to hear that little experiment didn’t pan out.

Then there was the time I thought I’d struck it rich when I strung together a dozen full sets of ’87 Topps cards. What I didn’t take into account was the fact that Topps produced enough packs of cards in 1987 to give a stale piece of tooth-shattering, flavorless bubblegum to every man, woman, and child south of the moon.  

But still, no choice was worse than allowing a pallet-full of Rick Schu rookie cards to “just happen” to fall off the truck and “roll voluntary” into my garage. And out went the riding mower, my tool set, and the car…not to mention my last shred of dignity.

But I’ve had enough, people. I’m taking my garage back, and I’m doing so at the expense and reputation of those bargain basement baseball cards. And I’m not just talking about the average Joes, neither. I’m going for the throat. I’m heading straight for the scrubs, the most worthless cards I can find. Oh yes, my friends, they’ll be facing my wrath first.

Here are just a few of the ideas I’ve come up with in trying to free myself of these worthless cards.

The School of Hard Looks

In the fine tradition of all past and present ball players who have mimicked the pained expression of a hardened criminal in their trading card photos, I give you the game of Hard Look War. That’s right. It’s just like the ordinary playing card version of War that you’re used to, except the winning card is always that of the player with the hardest, most intimidating expression on their face. So basically, you want to stay away from any card with David Eckstein on the front. But definitely drop a Pete Incaviglia card on the table and watch your opponent’s ’95 Kevin Stocker Donruss shrivel up in fear. 

I guess you’re wondering what happens when the inevitable dispute arises from a difference in judgment between you and your opponent. I gotta to be honest with you, I don’t see this one ending pretty. Just make sure you pick a playing partner that is small, fragile, and slow of foot. Isn’t that why younger siblings were invented, after all?

Drink The Blues Away

Ok, so you’re looking for any excuse to knock a few back on your day off. Isn’t that the perfect reason for a new drinking game? I think it is.

But then you hear it: “Honey, you said you’d move your baseball card collection out of the closet. It’s been sitting on top of my wedding dress for three years!”

Don’t worry, I’ve got you covered. Go in there and grab that dusty box of baseball cards. Hell, while you’re at it, you might as well throw that dress on a hanger for her. Good, you’re golden. Now grab yourself a six pack and get to work.

The game is simple. Grab a handful of cards, toss them in the air and let them fall where they may. Then, pick up the card that landed closest to you, and then next closest, and so on. Every time you pick up a card with a player whose career average is under .250 you chug a beer.

There, that should keep you busy for at least ten minutes. When you’re finished, toss the cards in the trash and repeat with another handful.

Melt Them Down For Energy

Hey, all I’m saying is I’m tired of signing over half my pay check to the pimply geek behind the counter at Sunoco. I’m also tired of a frigate’s-worth of crappy trading cards hogging my whole garage. Are you starting to connect the dots? I mean, can you imagine a world where the Bud Smiths and Rick Reuschles of the world contributed to the conservation of world energy? It sounds like Utopia to me, folks.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more convinced I become about the inevitable conversion to crappy trading card energy. Then again, it just may be because I’m pretty sure Al Gore is probably sitting on an unopened case of ’87 Topps. The dude needs some space for his solar panels in that garage of his.

Make Them History

You’ve heard of Casey At Bat, but why not Momar or Churchill At Bat. All you really need is a few crappy trading cards, a black marker, and a hazy understanding of world history and you’re ready to morph your least favorite baseball players into your favorite historical figures…at bat.

The best thing about it is you don’t even need art skills to turn Von Hayes ’85 Fleer into Von Kaiser Hayes ’85 Fleer. The possibilities are endless and, I assure you, the revenge is sweet.

Some of my personal favorites include Brian “Davy Crockett” DuBois ’90 Upper Deck, Lloyd “Rick James” Moseby ’88 Donruss, Jeff “Honest Abe” Innis ’90 Upper Deck, and Jeff “Ponce De Leon” Granger ’94 Upper Deck. (pictured here)

Make Them the “Butt” of All Jokes

This one basically speaks for itself, and I’m not talking about actually bad mouthing your baseball cards to your friends. What I am referring to is probably one of the most childish and immature things you could possibly do to your worthless trading cards. That’s also why it’s my personal favorite.

A friend of mine back in middle school once astutely likened the small crevice which forms on the side of your index finger when you bend it down towards your palm to yet another crevice which undoubtedly makes more sense with the subtitle I’ve so subtly placed above. Of course, I did what any sports-minded person would do after hearing something so nonsensical. I took the ball and ran with it.

Therefore, for ultimate comic relief, I suggest you get yourself a pair a scissors and a few worthless trading cards and follow my directions.

First, you need to find a card with a good pose on it. In this case we’re looking for anything that gives new meaning to the line from Rookie of the Year, “Pitcher’s got a big butt.”

Then you need to go to cuttin’on it. Basically, you cut the player’s mid section out of the card. Stay with me here, the results are worth it.

Finally, you need to bend the tip of your index finger down to your palm. Look for the crease on the side of your finger…it’s hard to miss. Now, simply place your bent index finger behind the little window you created with the scissors. Take a look.

Woops, looks like somebody took part in a little too much sliding practice! Is there any wonder why there’s such a pained expression on Glenallen Hill’s face as he slides into home?

Please Help!  

So there you have it. In this writer’s opinion I’ve provided you with a fairly comprehensive list of possibilities when confronted with the troubling problem of what to do with your useless trading cards. I just wish there were more options out there because that pallet-full of Rich Schu rookie cards in my garage isn’t getting any smaller. That’s why I’m open to any ideas you all may have out there to alleviate my problem. Please keep them coming.

Thank you so much for your time and understanding in seeing me through what is obviously one of the more pressing issues of our times.

Sincerely,

C.G. Morelli

The Sporting Scribe  

A Playoff Toast to Fans of Philadelphia Sports

By: C.G. Morelli

Hello, my name is C.G., and I’m a Philadelphia sports addict.  I don’t know when this obsession began because I can’t remember life without it.  Maybe it was something I learned at an early age.  Maybe I have some kind of rare genetic defect.  It’s hard to say, really.  Heck, there could have been something strange in the water I drank as a kid.  Come to think of it, though, I didn’t actually drink much water when I was a kid because I was too busy gulping down a different kind of liquid.  We called it wooder.

I know, I know…you might say wooder is just another pronunciation of the word “water,” some kind of regional dialect or something.  But I know better.  There’s much more to it than that.  All you have to do is pour yourself a glass and you’ll see the difference.  There’s something a little upsetting about a hearty gulp of luke-warm tap wooder.  At first taste, it may seem similar to the garden variety water people drink all across this great nation, and probably even around the world; but I’ve been exposed to the Schuykill River’s bounty my whole life.  And let me tell you, if you’ve had the same experiences as me then you know that wooder is by no means water.  It’s not even close. 

I dare you to sip its sweet nectar at some point in your life so you can taste the acrid heaviness of rusty pipe mingling with the stale tang of supplemental fluoride.  I’ve borne witness to many an outsider who, after taking a manly swig of wooder, could do nothing but spit it up like a baby who’d just been force-fed a jar of strained peas.  But, for those of us who have been gulping it down by the glassful since we were babies, the taste cannot be matched anywhere on Earth.

You really can’t underestimate the importance of wooder.  It’s what we all have in common, isn’t it?  It’s the source; the thing that makes us the anomaly that we are to those poor souls who have only had the chance to drink plain water.  Take me, for example. I’ve been an imbiber of wooder for more than thirty years, and I’ve swallowed enough of that slimy substance to experience its effects first hand.  If you were to follow me around for a while, I’m sure you’d pick up at least a few of my…uhhh…quirks.  After being in my presence for any prolonged period of time, you may notice an unusual amount of pride welling up inside me for a broken-down city.  Or, you may witness a hard-nosed (some would say unhealthy) exuberance for all sporting events that involve Philly or its people in any way.  You may even see, in me and in those of my kind, a lack of what people who drink ordinary water would call a “positive outlook.” 

Blame it on the wooder, I say, because it runs through your veins, burrowing deeply within, infecting the blood and marking you an imbiber for life. If you don’t believe me, a simple pin can prove my theory.  Go ahead and give yourself the slightest prick of the skin so that a few drops of blood trickle onto the tip of the pin.  If you drink ordinary, run-of-the-mill water, then you can expect to see a couple of boring, deep red blobs, none different than the ones you’ve seen throughout your life.  But, if you’ve been drinking wooder all along, you’ll notice something quite different, something that corresponds with the four seasons.  The four seasons in Philly, that is: Baseball, Basketball, Hockey, and Football. 

In the musty, humid months of Philadelphian summer, I can prick my skin to produce a few drops of bright red blood.  In the damp months of late spring, as large clusters of burgundy buds begin to form on the graying branches of the deciduous trees, the blood squeezed from my veins oozes a distinct orange; sometimes I can get a few red, white, and blue drops in a very lucky year. 

Of course, when the summer winds down and the final weekends along the Jersey Shore have been spent, the blood that runs through my veins is a deep, midnight green.  And there is no blood more hungry, more envious of the champion than that which spills the color of the turf at the Linc. Sadly, sheer desire has not translated into ultimate victory.

Our flagship franchise has remained unfulfilled; disillusioned and annoyed by years of empty hoping and stale wait-till-next-year promises.  Outsiders often stare in our direction and wonder, “Hey, buddy, why the brash attitude?” or “Where’d ya get the chip, pal?”  I just return their glare each time with a look that says, “It’s the wooder, kid.  There’s somethin’ in the wooder.”  It’s just who we are and what we know.  It’s what makes the football culture in this great city something special.  Championships or not, ten losses or 10,000 losses, it simply doesn’t matter.

So, if you want to brand me as some kind of addict, then go right ahead.  I’ll keep standing up here with my glass of wooder, admitting to all of you that I can’t possibly do without my teams or my fair city.  Call me a chump, call me weak...whatever.  Because even though I stand up here by myself, I know I’m by no means alone.  Here’s to you Philly, old pal.  I toast to you in advance…with a great big glass of wooder.

Go Birds. This year will be different.