Dayenu (Translation: It Would Have Been Enough)

By Jonathan Eig

For Ken Holtzman

If He had led us through a century without a World Series triumph, it would have been enough.

If He had led us through a century without a World Series triumph and not allowed Hippo Vaughn to lose a no-hit game in 1917, it would have been enough.

If He had allowed Hippo Vaughn to lose a no-hit game and not given us the idiot P.K. Wrigley, it would have been enough.

If He had given us the idiot Wrigley and not banished Grover Cleveland Alexander to the St. Louis Cardinals, it would have been enough.

If He had banished Grover Alexander to the Cardinals and not sent Babe Ruth’s called shot into the center-field bleachers, it would have been enough.

If He had sent Babe Ruth’s called shot into the bleachers and not blinded us to the availability of a minor-league outfielder named Joe DiMaggio, it would have been enough.

If He had blinded us to the availability of Joe DiMaggio and not cursed us with the goat, it would have been enough.

If He had cursed us with the goat and not given us the College of Coaches, it would have been enough.

If he had given us the College of Coaches and not cast out Lou Brock to St. Louis, it would have been enough.

If He had cast out Lou Brock and not showered blessings upon the Mets in the summer of 1969, it would have been enough.

If He had showered blessings upon the Mets in the summer of 1969 and not directed a ground ball through Leon Durham’s legs, it would have been enough.

If He had directed the ball through Durham’s legs and not sent forth Greg Maddux to Atlanta, it would have been enough.

If He had sent forth Greg Maddux to Atlanta and not delivered unto us the prophet Steve Bartman, it would have been enough.

If He had delivered unto us the prophet Bartman and not made clumsy the hands of shortstop Alex Gonzalez, it would have been enough.

If He had made clumsy the hands of Alex Gonzalez and not sent the plague of loud salsa music from Sosa’s boom box, it would have been enough.

If He had sent the plague of salsa music and not rendered feeble the arms of Prior and Wood, it would have been enough.

If He had rendered feeble the arms of Prior and Wood and not given us Sam Zell, it would have been enough.

If He had given us Sam Zell and not smote Geremi Gonzalez with a lightning bolt, it would have been enough.

For all these things we say Dayenu. It would have been enough. Really.

And let us all say, Amen.

Jonathan Eig is the New York Times Best-selling author of Luckiest Man: The Life and Death of Lou Gehrig and Opening Day: The Story of Jackie Robinson’s First Season.

Posted 6/26/08 

Casey and the Spitter

by Grantland Rice
That poet did me dirty, for the mucker failed to say
A word about the pitcher “spitting” on the ball that day;
I remember well I saw him stick his fingers to his tongue,
He fired one at my noodle and it dropped below my lung.
I couldn’t soad the bloomin’ ball because it didn’t curve,
It zig-zagged from my head to knees so fast I lost my nerve,
And not only did it tiake me completely by surprise,
But I was half way blinded when the “spray” flew in my eyes.
“Hully gee,” says I in wonder, “that’s curvin’ ’em a few,”
You see it was the first “spitball” a pitcher ever threw;
I’d been against this bloke before and put him in the air,
But when the spitball butted in–well, Casey wasn’t there.
And that’s why in old Mudville the bands refused to play,
And that’s why hearts were heavy in place of being gay,
And also whey the children refused to cheer and shout,
But the spitball, not the pitcher, struck the mighty Casey out.

Quoted in Crazy ’08 by Cait Murphy

When Color Meant Color

by Sid Yiddish

Listening to the Cubs-Padres game on the radio the other night, I fell asleep in the midst of the fourth.
It happens a lot to me,
But I’m not sure why.
Perhaps it’s the broadcast itself that seems to have a shelf-life of three innings before it goes stale.

Oh man…take me back to the days of the radio broadcast team of Vince Lloyd and Lou Boudreau And good old TV announcer Mr. “Back-Back-Back Hey-Hey” Jack Brickhouse in the latter half of the sixth
And “Drunk-As-Punk” Harry Caray near the end of the eighth.

That is, when color meant color.

And insults were good
And if a name was incorrectly mispronounced, no apologies were forthright or swift
And mistakes in commercials meant laughter and fun
And broadcasters just did their jobs with intelligence
And baseball games were just good old-fashioned baseball games you tuned into on your AM transistor mid-afternoon or late at night
And there was no such thing as
Political correctness.

Posted 6/6/08 

Giant Devotion, 1908

by Rollin Lynde Hartt

Lives there a man with soul so dead
But he unto himself has said,
“My grandmother shall die today,
And I’ll go see the Giants play”?

Taken from Crazy ’08 by Cait Murphy.