Give Me a Double Schmaltz

As baseball commences in what most fans hope is the dawn of the post-steroid era, I find it hard to believe that the 2008 season marks the 10-year anniversary of when nobody seemed to care too much about dubiously inflated muscles. After all, added bulk—however much an ill-gotten gain—led to astronomical numbers as a Cub and a Cardinal chased home run history almost daily. I was certainly among the half-wits applauding the incredibly hulky cheats. Baseball was on the rebound from a recent strike year, so I happily watched the long balls fly. In the interest of recycling, I dug up a reflection I wrote at the time. Some of the principal players of this piece are dead, or newly retired, or even not so newly retired but not fond of “talking about the past,”—at least to Congress. I’m still in Indiana, though Lafayette instead of Nobletucky, and less inclined to drink in karaoke bars alone. I usually go with other folks.



Baseball fans throughout the country seemed to be counting off taters like so many schoolchildren anticipating a summer’s start. Not one, but two monster men—Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa—were chasing Roger Maris’ record for home runs. Maris, complete with crew-cut and Mickey Mantle beside him in the lineup, had hit 61 in 1961. My dad had a Bobby Thomson story about how the 1951 “shot heard ‘round the world” even blasted through a bar in Indiana. I picture my father—skinny and younger than I would ever know him (as if in black-and-white newsreel) —leaping from a barstool and raising flattened hands to an astonished face, already fashioning his own storied version of the Giant Dodger killer. His first son, Mick, was about two months away, and I imagine for the moment how good he felt to be this witness to history.

So I went banking on a memory from a big redheaded Cardinal. I didn’t even like the Cardinals. Having grown up in the Big-League barren state between Cincinnati and Chicago, I worshipped at the wheels of the Big Red Machine. But on the evening of McGwire’s historic 62nd homerun of the 1998 season, I strolled into the Sandpiper in Noblesville to take part as an eyewitness to Cubs-Cards game, which really only meant something to the Cubs in terms of a pennant race.
Having gone broke in Chicago, I was back home in Indiana, where everything seemed too small town for me, and most my days there contained a sadness I couldn’t shake. Not even with a 12-pack. I wouldn’t pay 30 dollars a month for cable so I’d drop about 25 bucks in a bar whenever history reared its head on anything but channels 6, 8, or 13. And even 6 was real fuzzy.

The Sandpiper’s a friendly enough place. Cheap beers. Women barkeeps call you “Hon.” Pool in the back (not the swimming kind). A decent fare of fried food. I wouldn’t want to spend a weekend there, but it worked well as a weeknight watering hole.

The bar was lined with men on this Tuesday evening, a day beyond Labor Day. McGwire didn’t take long to do his part—his line-drive shot barely clearing the fence, setting off a frenzy of festivities. I figured it would be emotional. He hugged his team, climbed into the stands to hug the Maris family, thanked the home crowd, and traded hugs and mock slugs with Sammy Sosa.

But the Sandpiper isn’t someplace where I want to be emotional. Men with tattoos and a history of skipped dental appointments are far more common there than fellows looking to share their feelings. So here I am, welling up a bit. My head tucked under a Sport Literate hat, I avoided any direct gazes. I sort of ignored the guy sitting one empty barstool from me who said, “That’s just about the greatest thing for baseball.” I agreed with a solemn nod, but was afraid of turning to him like the deathly-ill Robert DeNiro in Bang the Drum Slowly and crying, “Hold onto me; I’m scared!” Fortunately, I held off.

After the mini-mid-game ceremonies, the game progressed in fairly quick fashion. Cub announcers Steve Stone and Chip Carey kept the hankies high as they interviewed longtime Cardinal announcer Jack Buck. The old man was in tears, plus he was shaking with some sort of palsy. Christ, this could have brought Pol Pot to tears. If I’d been at my apartment, you could’ve diapered me.

Then, in the latest innings, when the sound went down, and (I had forgotten that this was part of the Tuesday night package) the karaoke went up. Probably the same people singing the same songs every week. There weren’t really any awful singers, which is one way to make karaoke fun for the listener. Sort of like having a president that makes you feel better about yourself because he’s more perverted [Clinton years]. “Hell, I don’t sing that bad!” I could yell. One gal, large of hair, sang a Stevie Nicks song sounding a bit like Dolly Parton. One old boy (though that’s merely expression because I don’t reckon he had any more than my 32 years) sounded like Kenny Rogers scratching out first Bob Seeger and later Eric Clapton numbers.

I watched the muted post-game ceremonies, while my ears were accosted by half-hearted, though not half-bad, renderings of “My Heart Will Go On,” that “Titanic” love song about drowning teens; “It’s Now or Never,” done ala Elvis; and “Wind Beneath My Wings,” as performed by a heavyset waitress with camel-toe shorts and a beeper that bound her to a boyfriend. It’s a wonder the whole place didn’t flame up in hysterical sobs. One middle-aged guy in black t-shirt spoke out a couple of Charlie Daniels’ tunes, and I imagined that Jack Buck could’ve done just as well. If I had talked to anyone in that joint I may have said that the night was happy-sad, like when a daughter gets married, or an army son gets a war-time medal. But surely they would have bounced me out on my pointedly odd ear.

I’m sure McGwire was pouring his heart out. By now, though, few people were paying attention to baseball. One ball-capped guy, playing pool in the back, turned up the sound and stood with a closed-mouth smile and squinted eyes under one television. I stopped by on a return visit from the can to listen, but again feared an awkward hug.

The karaoke was taking a decidedly country turn. “I Feel Lucky,” “You Don’t Have to Call Me Darlin’, Darlin’,” and something about Bubba shooting a jukebox because a song made him cry. Seemed fitting. And it all seemed to me worth repeating. I paid the bartender, who did indeed call me Darlin’, ducked out of there feeling about six beers better, and made my own short run home.