Paulie Five Fingers and the Dodgers

Every ball’s a home run when you have a big enough bat

by Bryan Zepp Jamieson

04/01/03

http://www.zeppscommentaries.com/Humor/pauliebaseball.htm

"You know, last summer I took my mother to a baseball game."

"I wouldn’t have figured her for a baseball fan, Paulie." It would be only a faint exaggeration to say that Paulie’s mother is 250 years old, weighs 45 pounds, and can lift a full-sized SUV over her head.

"Well, she wasn’t. In fact, this was the first baseball game she had ever seen. This was last summer you understand, and it was at Yankee Stadium. They were playing some no account national league team whose name I forget..."

"The Giants."

"If you must use that word in my presence, yes. In any case, we had good seats, right along the first base line. Mind you, she knew nothing of the game. By way of example, I had to correct her a few months later when she confidently pronounced that the state anthem of New York was "Take me Out to the Ball Game."

I suppressed a laugh. Laughing at Paulie Five Fingers’ mother could make you one with the Hudson river. "Why did she think that?"

"Well, before the game, they played the National Anthem. So at the seventh-inning stretch, which she took to mean half time, they played..." Paulie splayed fingers, inviting the antiphon.

"...the STATE anthem. Right." I grinned. Sort of like the Englishmen who put on "American accents" and always end up sounding like Elvis Presley or Huckleberry Hound, two Americans of note in England.

"Any way, the game began. The first Giant came up to the plate. He swung on the third pitch, and it was right to the center fielder. One away.

"Except Momma didn’t realize that. She knew that scoring was done by hitting the ball and running around the base paths, and when he hit the ball, she stood up and shouted, ‘Run, Mister Base-a-ball Man! RUN!’ So I explained that he couldn’t run, because the outfielder had caught the ball and so he was out.

"So the second Giant comes up, and he grounds to short. Mom sees the ball get hit, and again jumps up and shouts ‘Run, Mister Base-a-ball Man! RUN!’ So I explain that no, he can’t run, because he has been thrown out at first base.

"The third Giant comes up, and on a three-and-one pitch, Gomez is low and away, ball four. The Giant tosses his bat, and starts walking toward first base. Mom sees this, and shouts, "Run, Mister Base-a-ball Man! RUN!"

"So I explain that he can’t run.

"‘Why not?" Momma asks.

"Because he has four balls."

"Momma looks startled, then thoughtful, and then stands up, clenches a fist and shouts, "Walk Proud, Mister Base-a-ball Man! Walk PROUD!"

As the laughter died down, a voice intruded. "I have a joke I can tell." Puzzled, I looked around. It was Creeping Jimmy.

Well, fair enough. Paulie had told me that he could talk. I have a friend whose parrot can recite the entire Gettysburg address. It’s not that big a deal.

Paulie looked avuncular. "Tell us your joke, James."

"What do Chevrolet owners do during the winter?"

Paulie and I pursed lips and shrugged.

"They listen to Fords rust."

"That’s very good, James..."

"Wait. There’s more. What do Ford owners do during the winter?"

We presented palms. No idea whatsoever.

"They listen to Chevrolets rust."

I pantomimed applause, and Paulie said, "That’s very good, James. I’ll have to remember that one. Now, why don’t you go get something to eat."

"Jimmy feed now?"

"No. Jimmy EAT now. Jimmy FEED later. OK?"

"‘K" With that, Jimmy shuffled off. Paulie looked at me. "‘The wonder of the dancing bear...’"

"‘...is not how marvelously it dances...’" I replied.

"‘...but that it dances at all.’ Still, he’s come a long way since his days on the Municipal Court."

"Jimmy used to be a judge?"

"No. The Defendant."

Well, it was a pretty stupid guess. "I take it he was there pretty often."

"He made his share of appearances. Zepp, tell me, what do you think of the Dodgers?"

I was caught off balance. "Uh, the Los Angeles Dodgers?"

"That is where they are presently located, yes."

"One of the highest payrolls in the league, and they haven’t been to the World Series in 15 years. A bunch of overpaid underachievers, that’s what they are."

"Did you know that the team is up for sale?

Uh-oh. "Um, no, I didn’t, Paulie."

"It is so. It seems that Rupert Murdoch wishes to buy a large cable conglomerate, the better to tighten his stranglehold on all human thought, and in order to finance this endeavor, he is doing some liquidations."

"Murdoch owns the Dodgers?" That was a pretty sickening thought. It would be like learning that Rush Limbaugh had just bought the Museum of Modern Art. It also explained why the team seemed to have lost much of the stability that had been its hallmark under the O’Malleys, when they hired new managers every generation or so.

Paulie swept on. "Therefore, the Dodgers are on the block. Even a hockey apostate such as yourself should know that next only to the Yankees, no baseball team has a more storied history. Koufax, Roseboro, Garvey, Valenzuela..."

If I didn’t stop him, Paulie was likely to name every Dodger to play since the days when they were known as "The Trolley Dodgers". I grinned. "Don’t forget Juan Marichal."

Paulie glared. True Blue Dodger fans don’t like to be reminded that he was briefly a Dodger. With his train of thought derailed, I seized the opportunity to expedite the conversation.

"So who do you think is going to buy them?"

"I am."

"Oh, no, no, no, no. No no no no! You can’t be serious!"

"Do I ever joke about money? Or baseball?"

That didn’t sound good. "Uh, how much is Murdoch asking?"

Paulie named a sum that sounded vaguely like the gross national product of an eastern European nation. In the local currency. You could buy a lot of cable conglomerates with a number that big.

I grinned and leaned back. Paulie’s "business activities" kept him flush, but he didn’t have that kind of money available. Even if he did, it would be unlikely the baseball owners would allow him to buy a team. A sport that still banned Pete Rose from the Hall of Fame for gambling – betting on his own team to WIN, no less – wasn’t about to let Paulie assume one of the highest visibility ownerships in the sport.

"So all you need is a couple of hundred million, right? Let me see..." I pulled my wallet out and leafed through it. There was paper in it, but it was all ones. "Oh, gosh, I’m a bit short, Paulie. Maybe you can borrow it from the Notorious Doctor Groovy."

Paulie smiled. "Always the jokester, Zepp. I have backers."

"Backers?"

"Financial and negotiatory."

"‘Negotiatory’? Is that even a word?"

"I just used it, did I not? We have been in consultations with affected parties, working to determine what, exactly, each party seeks to their advantage as a part of the deal. For the city of Los Angeles, for example, it would be sole ownership of Chavez Ravine. For the national league..."

I interrupted. "You propose to GIVE the city Dodger Stadium? Why would you do that?"

"Aside from the fact that it is a relic, nearly fifty years old? I don’t need it, and the city could use it to attract an expansion baseball team, or perhaps some Canadian team tired of snuffling in the outer dark and cold. It would ameliorate any complaints the city might make about my proposal, as well."

"You would give away the stadium, and invite a competing team to come in. Paulie, this isn’t making much sense to me. What am I missing?"

"It is a rather complex deal. For example, we propose to give the Yankee organization a heirarchial advantage in the telecasting of games in the New York area. We would have to consider the problems of division realignment, especially if the Minnesota or Montreal clubs elect not to move to Los Angeles."

I splayed my hands out. "OK, this is gibberish. It’s too late for you to be playing April Fools’ jokes. What’s your racket?"

Paulie scowled, lowered his head, and aimed an eyebrow at me. Ooops. I had just committed a faux Paulie. "Um, what’s your scheme, I mean?"

Paulie have me a pitying shake of the head. "How poorly you know me, Zepp. Tell me, where was I born?"

"New York, of course."

"And when was I born there?"

"Um, 1946, right?"

"That is correct. And how old would that have made me in 1958?"

I felt puzzled. "You would have been 12, I guess."

"An idyllic time, when, like any red blooded twelve year old, I lived and breathed baseball. It was my life, my passion, my raison d’etre.

"And the pinnacle of baseball, the very flower of my passion, was my beloved team, the Brooklyn Dodgers." Paulie leaned back, smiling, and knit his fingers across his expansive front.

I don’t know how long I sat there staring at Paulie with a perfectly blank expression. Probably it wasn’t more than a couple of seconds, but it seemed longer. Then it hit me.

"You want to move the Dodgers back to Brooklyn!"

The Dodgers had left Brooklyn for Los Angeles way back then. But since then, the team had been in LA nearly as long as it had previously been in Brooklyn, and had built up a mythos and charisma to match "Dem Bums." Gill Hodges, Duke Snyder, even Jackie Robinson were faded, dusty black and white memories. People these days, when you said "Dodgers," thought of Vin Scully, palm trees, that goofy serrated blue canopy over the center field bleachers, "The Home Run" by Kurt Gibson, Tommy hauling his belly out to home plate to confront the umpires. Brooklyn’s claims to the team had become weak, ethereal, distant. In a town that specialized in blasé, the Dodgers had been cool for almost fifty years.

Paulie was planning to make a lot of people unhappy. He smiled a most expansive smile.

My voice became a whisper. "How close are you to pulling this off?"

"Closer than you might think. We couldn’t get the original site for the stadium, but found a run down section where nearly everyone is willing to sell for the right price, which is surprisingly low when it includes life-time season tickets to the Dodgers. Mostly older Brooklynites, much like myself. The borough of Brooklyn is more than willing to help, and even the greater city anticipates revenue from such a move, and is quite happy to help. Even the Yankees see benefits in restoring a legendary cross-town rival."

As a Los Angeles Dodger fan, I didn’t like the idea of the team moving. But against all reason, I thought that Paulie might work out pretty well as a baseball owner. His other . . . activities . . . he would keep away from the sport he loved. But it seemed such a Quixotic pursuit...

"Paulie, shouldn’t you just let the past bury its own."

"Zepp, burying the past breeds ignorance. The past is the only thing we have to learn from. I know this, because I make my living from people who can’t learn from the past."

Paulie reached down and pulled up his briefcase, thumbed it open. "This," he said, waving a booklet at me, "will put me over the top, financially." He tossed it on the table between us.

I picked it up. Looked. like Barry Bonds was on the cover. Looked again. "Paulie, this is a press promo pack for the San Francisco Giants. How’s this going to help you?"

"Turn it over."

On the back was a monochrome picture of an old-style New York baseball stadium. The text on the picture, in the sky above the stadium, consisted of one word: "Cathedral". It was clearly meant to evoke memories and a sense of reverence for the storied past of the Giants, who, like the Dodgers, had abandoned New York in the winter of 1957.

There was just one thing wrong with the picture. The big sign over the main entrance of the stadium said "Ebbets Field" Not the Polo Grounds, which was where the New York Giants played.

Ebbets Field was the home of the hated cross-town rivals, the Brooklyn Dodgers.

"I snapped up about 800 of these before the error was noticed. I’ve been selling them for $125,000 each to wealthy interests in New York. There’s nothing Brooklynites loved more than anything that made the New York Giants look foolish."

"This is . . .quite a project, Paulie. I wish you the best of luck."

"Thank you. But of course, I have my bases covered, so to speak. If this deal falls through, I have another team that I am considering buying and moving to Hololulu, which is lacking in pro sports teams."

"Who would that be?" I asked, thinking that it would be a good home for the long suffering Montreal Expos.

"Have you ever heard of a hockey team called ‘The Maple Leafs’?"