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Bring ‘Em On

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baseball-snow

Now that the 12 Days of Christmas have given way to the Magi, my epiphany reveals that I’ve heard very little from baseball’s winter leagues. Plus, I haven’t witnessed a baseball game since the Arizona Fall League Championship. Horrors.

Despite MLB‘s #NoOffseason promos, it sure feels like #NoBaseball with a side of below zero wind chill to me. Instead of ice on the Susquehanna, I’m more than ready to see a freshly mown outfield expanse and a neatly groomed batter’s box. Rather than hear the furnace kick on every ten seconds, I could really go for the echoing crack of the bat or a sizzling rope hitting a first baseman’s mitt.

Give me short sleeves (or at least baseball sleeves), a baseball cap and a good pitching match-up.  I want to get lost in the strategy of a pitching sequence or a perfectly executed hit-and-run play.

Put me in a seat at a ballpark where I can soak up the sun, make a cold draft “evaporate,” and arm chair manage my way through a tight, well-played ballgame. Between innings, we’ll talk about the prospects, the playoff chances of the big club, and the team’s new faces.

I’ll happily thaw by enjoying a couple of Spot Dogs (“Two up, please, Eric!”), stroll on the boardwalk in the sunshine, and pick up a slight breeze wafting toward left field. For me, two things that are never overrated: 1) warmth; and 2) baseball. Bring ’em on!

FM (No Static at All)

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In The Transition I mentioned that the radio station that just hired a 14-year-old was an AM day-timer. So why the confusing title for this post (thanks to Steely Dan)?

Ever heard of Cable FM? This was a unique way for this small-town AM day-timer to generate revenue after the FCC said it had to sign off the air.

Think about how radio stations (before the Internet) could be viable businesses. Only through advertising. When could those stations attract the most advertisers? Usually between Thanksgiving and Christmas. But when your station has to sign off at 4:45 PM every day during December, how can you squeeze all those commercials into every hour without losing listeners?

Well, this small AM station was innovative enough to offer cable FM, which expanded its reach beyond over-the-air. Not only did this allow the station to broadcast wildly popular high school football and basketball during the evening, it also allowed me to practice my radio skills after the AM signed off, while my family and friends could listen. That gave me additional incentive to do well.

I had a blast. But I wasn’t going to improve without professional help.

That’s why I’ll always be grateful to Curt, Rick and our boss, Jim, for always taking time to help me. Since they did it all (as you must do at a small station), I had the advantage of learning many different skills. I learned a lot just by observing them and listening to them. But they also worked with me, explained all kinds of situations and even assisted with my slight dialect. (If you grew up in this part of Central PA, you would exhibit a touch of Pennsylvania Dutch. My dad’s grandparents didn’t speak English.) I still notice it in family and friends from home, but I practiced and practiced until I sounded like the voice of America rather than the voice of a PA coal-mining town.

I now paid special attention to radio and TV commercials, how the voice talent emphasized certain words and phrases. I listened to on-air talent from any station, their content, their deliveries.

Meanwhile, I would need to attain my FCC 3rd Class Radiotelephone Operator license by passing a test at the courthouse in Philadelphia. In those days, this “ticket” was required to monitor that the broadcast transmitter was operating within regulation. One would maintain a log every hour or two by documenting transmitter readings with signature, time and date.

Next time, we’ll get to one of my favorite parts of working weekends on the air.

The Transition

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With my left arm in that ridiculous compression sling, I decided to put down my bat and pick up a mic. Once healed, I could still play rec baseball, so I began to concentrate on trying to team my passion for baseball with — oh, I don’t know — broadcasting, perhaps?

My voice was maturing into a rich, relaxing delivery. Not terribly deep, but more easy-listening. It would stand out from the crowd.

I started a radio station in my family’s basement. My dad repaired record players and other electronics for fun, so I had a pair of turntables, cassette recorders and a mic.

Once I had enough nerve to tell my friends, they reacted as though they wanted to try it, too. They brought their own music and we played radio through a real Radio Shack AM transmitter.

We didn’t care that the signal traveled less than 60-feet. We had fun creating radio.

Between that, recording my own play-by-play baseball onto cassettes and listening to radio stations more intently than ever, I talked to my folks about contacting the local radio station with a letter and one of my tapes. I offered to clean and make coffee for the opportunity to learn.

The owner (also the GM, sales manager and locally well-known morning host) called me to arrange an after-school meeting. I received a tour (studios and offices in a modest colonial house), a quick audition in the production room, and an offer to learn on-the-job!

The family-owned AM day-timer (broadcasting dawn to dusk according to FCC regulations) was six miles from home. My parents reminded me that I would be sacrificing other activities. However, if I was willing to make the commitment and this is what I really wanted, they assured me that they would provide “taxi service” until I could drive.

The stars seemed to be aligning. I could now get paid to learn broadcasting at a unique radio station that could pay even more dividends for my career.

Door Closes, Window Opens

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Living near the school, I don’t have much time to think before arriving home following that first baseball practice of the season. I now realize that I need to confess to my mother, who is an RN, that my shoulders have felt weird all weekend.

Baseball activity exacerbated the situation, allowing me to experience new dimensions in pain. Just as I’d expected, no more baseball practice for me until we see the doctor.

I’ll spare you the gory details. The result? Cracked clavicle in my lead shoulder.

I wear a pressure sling for six weeks. Following that eternity, the doctor–as though he’s ordering dinner–calmly tells my parents that we’ll need another couple of weeks in the sling. Ugh.

I couldn’t wait to ceremoniously burn that sling, and now I need to begin another countdown to freedom from it. The high school season is lost, but I recover in time to play teener ball with my friends.

I never recover enough to make an impression on the high school coach. I never hit well enough anyway.

My right shoulder is never treated. I still feel that sensation across my shoulders when lifting weighty items a certain way.

Now what? I absolutely love baseball. I love to play. I love its strategy.

It’s the perfectly balanced sport between team and individual performance. Its math adds up: three outs per inning, nine innings, 90 feet between perfectly squared bases. How can this part of my life become part of my future?

I listen to games on the radio. A nationally televised MLB game is a real treat when you only receive three network stations from your antenna.

I call the local radio station for advice on how to begin a career in broadcasting. Most of the rest, as they say, is history.

New Sensation

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The first day of high school baseball practice is brisk. It feels good to throw a baseball again. My arm takes longer to loosen up. (Remember that there was a time when concentrating solely on one sport wasn’t the norm. I played freshman and JV basketball.)

After upperclassmen, I’m third in line at shortstop during infield practice. Glove work has always been second nature: short hops, backhands in the hole, over-the-head pops to short left. I make a clean first play and accurate, yet weak throw to 1st.

As a freshman, I’m one of the last to take batting practice. As soon as I begin to take warm-up swings and stretch a bat behind my neck, I feel a searing sensation from shoulder-to-shoulder.

“Gotta knock out the cobwebs,” I think. With every swing at a phantom pitch, the pain returns.

Before I and a handful of others take our BP cuts, early spring darkness envelops the field. This would be a blessing for me.

From the Beginning

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The wrestling coach pairs a toned 16-year-old against a scrawny 14-year-old whose only thought is to survive. Baseball practice finally starts next week following a long, cold winter (and several weeks of wrestling in gym class).

The thought arises, “Just go down. Give the 16-year-old a handshake and the coach satisfaction.” But then, I hear my friends urging me to compete.

They understand how I feel about wrestling. Compared to baseball … well, there is no comparison in my mind. Baseball features a beautiful outdoor landscape while wrestling takes place in a drafty gym on funky smelling mats. Baseball demonstrates agility; wrestling, brawn.

Competing isn’t an option from this position. However, I continue to hear encouragement and decide that I won’t be pinned.

A three-hour baseball game passes by in an instant for me, but this two-minute wrestling period lasts an eternity. I will not allow my shoulders to give in.

Finally, the whistle blows. I didn’t get pinned. I actually survived.

Now I can focus on a new beginning in the fresh air of baseball season. I think.