For the Love of Baseball

Photo courtesy of treehugger.com

And I mean that in a good way. Maybe it’s living a block away from the beautiful Target Field. Maybe it’s watching thousands of Twins fans head to the stadium nearly every night. Maybe it’s the fact that even when we turn out the lights, the stadium lights reflect off neighboring buildings through our windows. I don’t know, but I’m feeling the love of baseball. And yes, we have tickets to a Yankees/Twins game in early August. And we’re psyched about it. But back to the baseball love…

I was at drinks with my department last night, and we were sparring about the fact that all the women had gone to see “Sex in the City II,” recently, and didn’t invite us. So, we were discussing what us guys were going to do without them, to get them back. And somehow the fact that we had books written by my brother came about. And then I had to explain that my brother Bruce had written a book about fantasy baseball — but in the literal sense (you have to read it to figure that one out) — and the guys wondered why the CEO and Executive Creative Director (at our table, too) had copies, but none of them did. Um, let’s think about that. Who signs my paycheck? No, really, I shared the book with them as plane fare during our interview process, knowing how much they travel and how often they might be grounded on tarmacs due to storms. But back to the real story…

I decided to give away some copies of the book — The Baseball Box Prophecy —  to they guys I work with, and some other guys around Minneapolis (I told you I was feeling the love… and yes, Bruce, I paid for them. Your publisher will be happy.) with the caveat that when they finish the book, they have to immediately pass it on to another baseball lover or dreamer — someone who will enjoy it as much as they did. And in the front of each book, I wrote a note to every reader, asking them to keep the prophecy alive by sharing the book, and to email me every time the book got passed along. If it takes off, it should prove fairly interesting and fun to see how many other notes get written in the book and how many emails I get from people who read this blog — and have read the book — and do the same. All for the love of baseball!

Batter Up: Son No. 6… Enough About Me

… Enough about me. Let’s talk about the book. You may remember my initial angst about reading The Baseball Box Prophecy. My initial post on the subject made that rather clear. But a few chapters into the book and I was over the angst. I was hooked. And I liked it. You can see from the rest of my posts that it provided great fodder for poking fun at my own history with the sport of baseball.

What I haven’t discussed yet is the fantasy and supernatural aspect of the story that kept me intrigued, involved and reading a 500+ page novel about a sport that tormented my life, pre- and post-adolescence. And I won’t. Because that would give it all away. It would be like going to the first Star Wars movie and having the kid next to you tell you that Darth Vadar was Luke’s dad. Bummer. But I will tell you that the manipulation of time and altered realities in The Baseball Box Prophecy is hugely fun and what kept me coming back for more. If you’ve read any of my other posts re: book recommendations, you’ll already have expected that. The supernatural genre is a favorite of mine. Altered states of reality are the best — always such an adventure. You’re talking to someone who remembers every flying dream he’s ever had in vivid detail, and longs for more. But you’re also talking to someone who vacillated between wanting to be a werewolf or a vampire his entire childhood (loved the wolf thing, but needed the flying powers of the vamp).

Son No. 3: Bruce Newbold

What makes the fantasy elements in this book intriguing is that Bruce weaves an innocence into a coming of age story to provide a connection point to readers of multiple ages. If you’re a little old and jaded, (Read: Alan) then the story lets you travel through your own time to the moments when you were a little less so and relive them a bit from a friendly distance. If you are a kid now, living and breathing tween and teen years, then you connect immediately to your love of the game, and your secret hope that something fantastical is waiting for you on your bike, in the back yard or on the ball field. Either way, it doesn’t let you down.

Thanks for the book, Bruce. Congrats! I’m so proud of you and can’t wait to see where this leads. And now, of course, my PR mind is just whirling with ways to drive word-of-mouth and sales… Book drops to national sports anchors with tween and teen sons/daughters? Daddy blog tour as “the book to be reading to your kids”? Facebook apps/games/quizzes — Which character are you: The Hag, Cletis, Elston, Roberta? Inexpensive online ad buys on fantasy baseball sites? Radio Disney interviews? Nickelodeon or Disney channel partnership and online giveaway? Search Engine Optimization and Google Ads? Ah, so much fun just thinking about it…

Batter Up: Son No. 6… “You’re OUT!” (No Duh)

If you really want to enjoy some baseball magic, join Big Apple Softball — the gay and lesbian league in NYC. It’s the wonderful collision of stereotypes, norms, social identities, and just pure fun. First of all, just getting called “out”is an oxymoron. But there’s more. I mean, think about it…

You have the guys who were closeted, hard core jocks their whole growing up years — possibly well into adulthood — slapping each other on the ass, talking smack about the cheerleading squad, all the while wishing they could just make out with the team  captain (unless they WERE the team captain). Then you have the other extreme — my experience (save those golden moments created by Mike and Russ) — where you simply suck at it, are constantly self-conscious, but seriously crave the comraderie supplied by the locker room bonding, team victories, and feeling comfortable in your own skin. Oh, and yes, also wishing you could make out with the team captain. And then you have those lucky ducks smack in the middle of the spectrum who were simply well-adjusted, oblivious to the term “self-loathing,” and never really cared about a pecking order or social strata through their formative years. And these guys DID make out with the team captain, and somehow lived to tell about it.

Personify these experiences and histories, put them on the field together to play in one of the most competitive rec leagues I’ve ever experienced, and you’re in for a wild ride. A glorious, wild ride! Every player on the field is finally getting his due: the chance to play ball without any of the emotional baggage and peer pressure that cut him off at the knees before he came out. Now the real love of the game shines through.

I played in Big Apple’s DIMA division, for the elite level players. I know, I know. Based on my previous posts and personal history with the sport, how could that possibly have possibly? Baseball magic, baby. Baseball magic. I had a great try-out (yes, I had to try-out) and nailed my hitting, infielding and outfielding. The rest was Big Apple Softball history. I made the team. I was playing catcher on The Warriors! Talk about coming full circle, right? Catcher. The boys on Gerdes Turd Farms would be proud!

These guys — and girl (Roberta would be proud) — on The Warriors were great. I lived for the weekends, the games, the tournaments, all of it. I played two seasons, and then my work schedule and heavy volleyball schedule started getting to be too much to juggle. Since I could play volleyball 3 – 4 times a week, and softball only once a week, I opted for the former, but really missed playing with the team. I don’t think we were necessarily as rag tag as the kids from Greenberg Junction in The Baseball Box Prophecy (our team consisted of an opera singer, a psychiatrist, an accountant, a salesman, a PR account lead, and a graphic designer, to name a few) but we definitely shared the love of the game those kids did. And still do.

Batter Up: Son No. 6… “The Lunge and the Plumbing”

After Mike and Russ headed off to college and LDS missions, the baseball magic kind of died. I focused on high school track (Dad was a sprinter, I was the last great hope for the Newbold boys to beat his 100 and 200 dash times. No such luck. I never did. Came close. Took 4th at the State Finals, but Dad still rules.) and my music. Before long I was singing and dancing my way around the world with the occassional pit stop in Bountiful, UT to recover from knee and shoulder injuries. Enter City League Softball and George’s Plumbing.

Remember how fun I thought it was to play with Mike and Russ? Extend that: Grandpa (George), Dad (Dale), Dave, Mike, Russ, Alan, a couple of cousins and guys Mike and Dave worked with thrown in for good measure, and you have a serious softball team. And then name it after your grandpa’s first business venture, and you empower it with some REAL baseball magic: George’s Plumbing.” Grandpa coached and beamed. Dad was on the mound, Russ in left, Dave in center, Mike at rover, Bruce and Paul where-ever we needed them when they were in town, the Sperry cousins in the infield, and me at catcher. Yeah, catcher. Enough years had gone by that the trauma of trying my hand as catcher for Gerdes Turd Farms was just a dull ache. Besides, where else can you put a guy with a blown ACL who is still recovering? In fact, every one one of us Newbold boys had a blown ACL at one point or another. Seriously. Someone should do a study on our family. You’s see us out on the field in full uniform, and all the Newbold’s would have an assortment of knee accoutrements. Bonus on two levels: we looked cool and the opposing teams always thought we were slow. (Remember my dad? Yeah, surprise!) Worked every time.

When I started up with George’s Plumbing, it had been years since I really played, and my days on the road entertaining had seriously hampered my baseball skills. (Come on. You can’t be surprised. How many casts of cruise ship reviews or touring musicals do you know that can’t wait to get on shore or out of the theater so they can whip up a quick game of baseball?) When it came to hitting, I was in the dirt of the infield every time — fine as long as I could run it out, but still frustrating. Mike took it upon himself to try to work with me and help me out (brave soul, given our combative history as youths, but that’s a post for another day, and besides, we’ve declared a truce). We worked and worked and worked, but I still sucked. Chopping down. Bad stance. Half swing. Anything related to bad batting form? I was skilled at it. Then he said:

“What is it when you lead with one foot, put your weight on your back, and then step forward and shift the weight to your front when you’re dancing?”

“Oh, that’s easy, it’s called a lunge.”

“Then lunge, every time you come up to bat.” ”

That’s it? Just lunge when I swing?”

“Yeah, try it.”

CRACK! Hit after hit after hit that day. I was giddy with success. God love a big brother who steps into dance class on the ball diamond to help his little brother out. No matter how old we are. Now, have you read those reviews of The Baseball Box Prophecy, yet?

Batter Up: Son No. 6… “A Trip to Bountiful”

When Cletis’ best friend, Elston, moves to a new neighborhood, it provides an interesting twist to the plot line of The Baseball Box Prophecy — the two end up facing each other down in a championship game. My move to Bountiful, UT in my mid-teens provided a plot line twist to my life, as well…

Church softball. Now, that may sound a little boring to the guy who lives and breathes pro baseball. But to the kid playing for Gerdes Turd Farms and desperately wants to have some fun and not worry about a small white orb speeding at him with intent to injure? Pure heaven. A big, fat softball that fills your entire mitt with a solid thud and is SO much easier to hit! Now THAT’S baseball — er, softball magic.

My brothers Russ and Mike and I played together on the Val Verda 5th Ward team (that’s Mormon-speak for a parish or chapter — so many wards/congregations = a stake; so many stakes = a region; so many regions = a district, and so on and so forth). I finally started to feel comfortable in my own skin — thanks to Mike and Russ. There’s something about playing on the same team as your brothers that boosts your confidence. It’s like I was given fielding skills by default, since I was their brother, and suddenly, I just HAD them. And I USED them. (Cletis and Elston mysteriously experienced the same fielding and hitting expertise with some expert coaching from the witch of Greenburg Junction) Maybe I had them all along and just couldn’t find them within my little league paranoia. But there I was playing first base! FIRST BASE! Russ on the mound, Mike in center field, and me on first! And I used to love it when Randall Honey (17 year-old) would fire a throw at me from third — the harder the better — during warm-ups and the games. I LIVED for that! It always seemed to surprise him that he never got one by me, as long as his throw was good. And that look of surprise was my inspiration. Bring it, Randall. Bring it. I think over time we may have won a few stake championships, but I can’t remember for sure. What I do remember, however, was the thrill of playing church ball under the lights at Mosquito Flats out by BARD, the city dump. Mom in the stands knitting an afghan. Val Verda 5th Ward has runners on base — me on third, Russ on first and Mike steps up to the plate. And then he brings us in. He always did. Every time.

Batter Up: Son No. 6… “Baseball Magic”

If you haven’t read yesterday’s post, you might want to start there. I can only re-live my early adolescence on the ball field one post at a time, you know. But it wasn’t all errors and embarrassment. I clearly remember my one moment of baseball magic — one of the key themes running through Bruce’s book. That moment when everything on the field came together beautifully, and I was the center of it. That moment is burned into my mind like the lightfire from The Traveller’s fingertips burns into Cletis during their battle. (You’re really wondering what The Baseball Box Prophecy is all about, aren’t you?)

I can’t remember who we were playing, but I was on-deck, watching my team load the bases. While most boys would have loved that challenge and that pressure of the RBI (“ribbies,” as my brothers called them), I was dreading it. For me it was one more chance to embarrass myself and let the team down.  So there I am  in the on-deck circle, taking awkward little practice swings that were anything but level, and praying that the batter before me would make the third out so I wouldn’t have to hit.

Bam! No such luck.  The kid in front of me connects and drives it right between first and second, hits first safely, and the other runners advanced. Bases loaded. Now batting: Gerdes Turd Farms right fielder Alan Newbold. I swear I heard a collective groan from the bench — MY bench.

But somehow, the magic happened. I watched the ball — all the way until it hit my bat — and CRACK! That ball went sailing all the way into right center! Further than I’d ever hit a ball before in my life (that’s assuming I actually had hit a ball before in my life). I was running like a mad man as I watched it continue to bounce and roll away from the outfielders. I rounded second and headed to third. My coach was jumping and waving me around third (that was a signal that was clearly apparent, thank god, or I probably would have misinterpreted it  and pulled up there), so I rounded third and headed toward home. I saw the catcher putting his mitt up, getting ready for the throw, but it wasn’t anywhere near the plate as I crossed home into glory! THAT was baseball magic!

Ah, I can taste that moment like it was yesterday. My biggest — and only — moment of baseball magic during my two years on Gerdes Turd Farm’s little league team. But it gave me confidence. And when I was up next in the game, my team-mates actually cheered me on! “Do it again, Alan!” “Watch out outfield, Newbold’s up!” I swear I had a swagger in my walk as I stepped into the box… and promptly went down swinging. Yep, struck out in three pitches. Ah, life was good. And so was the book… but more on that in my next post. I’m simply having too much fun!

Batter Up: Son No. 6

I hated baseball as a kid. A direct correlation to how much I sucked at it as a kid. And a deeper correlation to how excellent each of my five older brothers were at the game. (No, I don’t need therapy. Get out of my head.) So, when my brother Bruce mailed me the 550+ page edition of his newly printed The Baseball Box Prophecy, I was severely torn between feelings of adulation for him, and feelings of angst for me. (How quickly the publishing of his first fictional work has centered around me. No, I still don’t need therapy.) How was I going to get through it? What if it bored me to tears? What if I didn’t get it? How honest did he expect me to be with my reaction? Then I thought, no matter my reaction to the book, could it possibly be more unsettling than coming out to my LDS family as a 22 year-old? Nah. Absolutely not. So I grabbed a glass of wine (I know, you’re supposed to have a beer with baseball, but remember my LDS upbringing… and then please forget about the wine), propped myself on the couch, and started reading.

The story is told from the perspective of an 11 year-old kid who simply LOVES baseball. Already, I felt myself challenged. My adolescent years started to swirl around me like the blue orb swirls around Cletis, the story’s protagonist…

…Gerdes Turf Farm (pronounced Ger-dees). That was the name of my little league team. Mike and Russ got to play together on some cool team with a winning record year after year. Me? Not so much. Luckily, I only had to play on that team for two years before my parents took pity on me, but we sucked. Big time. We couldn’t win a game to save our lives, and every other team in the league called us “Turdees Turf Farm” or “Gerdes Turd Farms.” Unbelievable. I laugh now, but I’m sure I was traumatized by it. I remember my first practice, when my dad took me to the ball fields out by Wickes Lumber Yards, and I had NO idea what position I wanted to play. So, when the coach asked me, I looked around the field for the position I thought might be the least embarrassing and the most safe from dropping fly balls, missing grounders, or getting beaned. Simple. I chose catcher. Lots of padding. No one sees your face. Only 30 feet from the dug-out. “Whoa,” my dad said. “Oh,” my coach said. Both of them eyed me with a mixture of suspicion and concern, but then quickly smiled, patted me on the back, and told me to grab my glove and throw some balls with the rest of the team. And that was the moment my forgettable career in little league began. (Note: my career as catcher was short-lived when I realized that someone was going to be chucking balls at me as fast and hard as they could, practice after practice, game after game. Hello right field.)

I remember our coach teaching us the “take a pitch” signal. First of all, the signal thing scared me to death. All those hand motions, no real order, and then some fake and others real… how in the hell was I supposed to track that, let alone understand what “take a pitch” meant? But, of course, when the coach asked if any of the team had questions, this catcher was silent. Like I was going to raise my hand among all my team-mates and acknowledge my stupidity! So I stayed silent. And then, when I was at bat, I got the signal: “take the pitch.” I remember that moment with clarity like my brothers remember their home runs. The pitcher was awful. He hadn’t thrown anything over the plate the entire time I was at the plate. So why in the hell was the coach telling me to take a pitch? Like I was going to get anything to swing at anyway! But I took it. I fought it every step of the way. My entire body screamed to let the pitch go by, but no, the coach signaled “take it.” So I swung at a high, outside ball — missing it completely — and struck out. Only then, looking at my coach’s face, and the faces of all my team-mates, did I realize that “taking a pitch” meant letting it go by. Ah, that moment was a glorious mix of adolescent insecurity, adolescent ruthlessness and America’s favorite past time: Little League Baseball. Nothing like it.

More on The Baseball Box Prophecy and my adolescent baseball career on my next post…