Notes from the Shadows of Cooperstown
Observations From Outside the Lines |
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NOTES FROM THE SHADOWS OF COOPERSTOWN
Observations from Outside the Lines
By Two Finger Carney (carneya6@borg.com)
#343 December 3, 2004
REQUIEM FOR A SOFTPAW
"Requiem for a Southpaw" is one of many "Requiem" titles I've used here in Notes over the years. I used it when my all-time favorite southpaw, Harvey Haddix, passed away a couple years back -- no, it's been longer now. How time passes.
When I used that headline, I had no idea that it had been used at least once before -- by The New Yorker magazine, in a piece by J.M. Flagler, after Lefty Williams passed away. Lefty is the southpaw who suffered three losses in the 1919 World Series, and suffered a lot more when the Fix came to light. I only found that article about a year or so ago. It was written in 1959, the same year Haddix suffered his Perfect Loss, shortly after he retired the first 36 Milwaukee Braves he faced on a cool spring evening. I listened to that game, all the way to its bittersweet end, and when it was finally over, I cried. Not fair.
(I almost used the headline, "Requiem for a Yankee Fan" -- read on and you'll see why. But some might think that was a reaction to the Jason Giambi revelations in the news today. I'm not a Yankee fan, but was upset to read them -- because the grand jury testimony was supposed to be confidential. Last summer, Marvin Miller startled the audience at the SABR convention by expressing his outrage that some in the Bush administration were trying hard to get the results of MLB drug testing made public; I was startled, anyway. Would the Giambi headlines have been leaked if Kerry had won Ohio? What kind of question is that?)
Today, I buried one of my cats, and I cried a little for him, too. Pippi had lived with me and mine for over fifteen years, and I think Barb and I became closer to Pippi and his brother after our kids left for college, and the cats stayed home.
The day I left for the SABR convention last July, Pippi was diagnosed with kidney failure. Since then, he has lost even more weight -- and lately, his appetite. Today we found out he had also lost his vision, and probably had cancer as well. It was time.
My cats have appeared here in Notes a few times before -- not as often as my wife and kids. Back in #140 ("One Old Cat") I wrote about losing Frisky -- for eleven days. That was eight years ago, and in some ways, that was harder to deal with than Pippi's loss, which we could see coming. Then in #260, I wrote a little essay on the two of them, and I reprint it below as a tribute to Pippi. When Of Cats and Men appeared, I got a lot of reactions, from all the Cat People who read Notes -- something in it struck a chord. Pets are people, too, the consensus seemed to be. And everyone seemed to know an animal with more personality than some relative or co-worker or neighbor.
In the end, cats are simply cats. Because of that Broadway show, some people give cats a hard time, but that's not fair.
Baseball is its own world, and it can be a place of retreat, when the events of the world are too much. Cats have their own reality, too, and I feel privileged to have shared it some with my cats. (I say "my" cats, but that's just a phrase.) Cats are life forms and we share the same planet, and that's something. Thank goodness they don't care about our religion, our politics, our race, our values (except those which affect their feed and caring). Or our sports -- nobody's perfect.
Anyway, next time I'll get back to reprinting some of the old issues.
From the NOTES Archive, #260:
OF CATS AND MEN
I could have used as the headline here, "It's Too Early!" -- because I use that phrase almost daily. On weekdays, I use it when I get home from work, and one of my cats starts to nag me for dinner. "It's too early," I say, and usually receive back a protesting growl. On weekends, the nagging starts in earlier. My cat's dim sense of time is thrown off when the visitors in his house -- my wife and I -- are home all day.
The last time I wrote here at any length about cats was back in July 1996 -- issue #140 had the title One Old Cat, and I'll post it in the Notes Archive along with this issue. There is an old baseball game called One Old Cat, but in the summer of '96 I wrote about Frisky, who went missing for eleven days. The story had a happy ending, Frisky came home, safe and sound and a bit thinner. Just where Frisky was, remains a deep secret. If we get answers to our questions when we die and go to heaven, "Where the hell was Frisky?" is near the top of my list, although I'll probably phrase it a little differently for St Pete.
This time, I want to tell you a little bit about Frisky's sibling, Pippi. (Pippi had the misfortune to join the family when my daughter was into Pippi Longstocking -- never mind that both he and Frisky are males. Or were.)
Pippi is about eighteen pounds and midnight black. It is hard to believe he is even related to Frisky, who has white on all fours, and on his face; Frisky weighs in at about twelve pounds.
Here is the link to baseball: I believe Pippi is a Yankee fan. Frisky, I'm certain, roots for the Pirates.
Pippi takes good care of himself, and is plainly smug. Frisky doesn't care much about looks, and requires a lot of brushing. Pippi is like a Steinbrenner, in total control, holding all the trump cards. Frisky is small-market poor, perpetually nervous about everything.
Pippi would look good in pinstripes, and keep his uniform immaculate. Frisky's uniform would always be Gashouse-Gang dirty, from head to tail.
Both cats are affectionate, and enjoy the laps of family and strangers alike. But Pippi forces himself onto you (it is increasingly hard for him to leap onto laps, beds or window sills; he is a fat cat.) Frisky charms his way into place, and scratching and petting him is irresistible. He is an undercat.
Pippi is regal; his genes must contain memories of ruling in Egypt, once upon a time. He does a good sphinx impression. Pippi is an Aristocat. Frisky has not an ounce of royal blood in evidence; he is a cat for the people, a populist Democat.
Pippi oozes self-confidence. He purrs loudly, self-satisfied and conceited. He counts on winning, like he counts on me having his next plate of food served up. Frisky darts, paranoid and unsure of himself. He mews pathetically. He counts on nothing, as if each next win or meal is in jeopardy and doubt.
Pippi trusts his slaves -- we are sure that is how he regards all others on the planet -- with the security of an owner with a deep farm system, and deep pockets if things go awry there. Frisky is dubious about life, and lives day to day, his plate always subject to invasion by his brother if he eats too slowly or shows up late.
Pippi lives to eat; Frisky eats only to live. Pippi would never leave his castle, nor stray too far from his favorite room, the kitchen. Frisky will choose adventure every time.
Pippi knows and loves his place in the universe -- why should anything change? What does "share" mean? Frisky is on the lookout to escape the house at any and every opportunity. He lurks near doors, on the hunch that he'll do better in some other world out there. (Since his 1996 break-out, he wears a collar and tag; no need to fasten one on Pippi -- although my experience says most cats should carry some I.D.)
Pippi embraces his waking moments (which are not all that many) with the swagger of a Babe Ruth; I'm sure he'd smoke and drink to excess, if we let him. Frisky is a working cat, who dutifully patrols all our windows, like a Honus Wagner safeguarding the infield. He sleeps a lot, too, but you can tell he wants to be out there on that grass.
I am pleased to report that Pippi and Frisky, as different as they are from each other, are not only brothers, but friends. They take care of each other, huddle together on cool, sunless days or wintry nights. They love to spar with each other from time to time -- often right after dinner, when Pippi must feel that he deserved more, instead of an equal portion. But they have never really hurt each other. They are in this together, and are more than just good company for each other, and for us.
Don't you wish more baseball owners had their good sense?