Wild Pitches: Rumblings, Grumblings, and Reflections on the Game I Love

—

To Lisa, Steven, Jessica, and Hali, my amazing family, whose love, passion, and support have been a greater source of inspiration than they’ll ever know. They probably think they’re the presidents of my fan club, but in truth, I’m the president of theirs.

Contents

Foreword by Tim Kurkjian

Introduction

1. The Big Picture

2. It Happens Every Spring

3. Champions

4. October Classics

5. What I Got Right—and Wrong

6. Legends

7. Philly!

8. Just for the Fun of It

Acknowledgments

Foreword by Tim Kurkjian

When my Hall of Fame ballot arrived with the names of Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens on it for the first time, a difficult assignment became significantly harder, so perplexing, in fact, I needed to talk to a rational, clear-thinking friend about what to do with my vote. So I called the person that I always call in times of need or confusion, Jayson Stark, because he is so generous with his time and information, and because he is the voice of reason.

In this age of social media, where we rush to judgment, and value getting it first over getting it right, Jayson Stark has not betrayed his journalistic roots—fairness and accuracy first—from Syracuse University and the Philadelphia Inquirer, where I met him 30 years ago. It is hard to be the voice of reason these days, but he remains it, and so much more, to baseball writers across America. I have had great mentors—Dan Shaughnessy, Randy Galloway, Peter Gammons—but I’ve learned more from Jayson Stark than from anyone in the business about where, and how, to look for things of interest.

He has been, for so long, the voice of so many things in baseball, which you will read in this book. He is the voice of the funny quote. For years and years, he has always found the smart, amusing guys in the game, and gone to them when humor is needed to describe a game, a play, or a predicament. There are too many of his guys to name, but Larry Andersen, Jim Deshaies, Andy Van Slyke, Casey Candaele, Dann Bilardello, and Adam Dunn have made me laugh so many times over the years because Jayson went to them when a joke was needed. My contribution to that humor has been Rich Donnelly, who was a coach in the Texas Rangers system when I met him 30 years ago. I’d tell Jayson, You have to call this guy. He is so funny. And now Rich’s laugh runs through Jayson’s columns.

Jayson is the voice of the great statistic. He has presented these numbers in different ways, under numerous titles, be it his Zero Heroes, Box Score Line of the Week, or his Department of Useless Information, which is never useless and always entertaining. He once told me that he kept track of every non-pitcher who pitched in a major league game for about a decade, and made it a goal to talk to every one of them about their experiences on the mound. And he has memorized some of the great lines in box score history.

I have stuff rattling around in my brain that I can’t get out, he once told me. I can still remember Bob Forsch’s pitching line from 1989: 7-18-10-10-0-3. I remember a writer asking him, ‘But at least you didn’t walk anyone,’ and Forsch said, ‘Why would anyone want to?’

Jayson is the voice of the trivia quiz. In many of his columns, especially his famed Rumblings and Grumblings, he would insert a trivia question. It became so popular, the Mike and Mike morning radio show has him present a trivia question every Tuesday. (I don’t know if they’ve ever gotten one right.)

Jayson is the voice of historical context. When someone retires, or is eligible for the Hall of Fame, or is in the running for the Most Valuable Player, or Jayson’s own yearly award, the Least Valuable Player, no one puts a career or a season in perspective better than Jayson. His fascination with the history of the game makes him a must-read when comparisons are made between players of 100 years ago and players of today. His work the last two years on the achievements of Miguel Cabrera tell us exactly how great he has been. And we now know just how great Mariano Rivera was, based on Jayson’s great research.

Jayson is the voice of the unusual play or situation. In a game in 2013, Brewers shortstop Jean Segura stole second base. Then, with runners at first and second base, he tried to steal third, got caught in a rundown, and wound up back at first base! Then he tried to steal second (again!) and was thrown out—all in a span of five pitches. It was one of the strangest base running maneuvers in the history of baseball, and no one took more glee in researching it than Jayson. Of course, he has all his guys at the ready for such a play, be it Dave Smith at Retrosheet or SABR historian David Vincent. They know when something strange happens, a play that demands an explanation, the first call is going to be from Jayson.

And yet this is where Jayson has always separated himself: when it comes time to write something serious, or take on someone in the game, be it the commissioner or Scott Boras, Jayson can do that, too. That hard edge was developed not just at Syracuse, but from the late ’70s and early ’80s, when he covered the Phillies, who were a rough group of guys to be around. When Phillies center fielder Garry Maddox lost another ball in the sun, and Jayson wrote that Maddox had more trouble with the sun than Icarus, the two ended up in a utility closet together, with Maddox pointing an angry finger at the beat guy from the Inquirer. And yet, Jayson never backed down with the Phillies, and he doesn’t today.

Now he is the voice of ESPN.com. When a big news story breaks, Jayson usually writes it. And, during the postseason, Jayson writes game stories during each round of the playoffs, including the World Series. He is the last guy to leave the press box every night in October, usually dragging out around 3:00 am. I was still looking stuff up at 2:30 in the morning, he said after Game 3 of the 2013 World Series. I guess I could just mail it in at that time of night, but I can’t. This stuff is too good, it’s too important. I won’t do that.

That’s my friend—Jayson Stark, one of the great voices of baseball.

Tim Kurkjian is an analyst on ESPN’s Baseball Tonight and SportsCenter. He is also a contributor to ESPN The Magazine and ESPN.com.

Introduction

Hanging on my office wall is a framed photo, of two little kids walking home from the school bus on a sunny Philadelphia afternoon, a long, long time ago. One of those kids was me. The other was my beautiful sister, Karen. I have to say, we looked pretty darned ecstatic to have made it through another day of elementary-school madness. I sure hope we didn’t mess up any big multiplication tables that day. Or anything else equally momentous.

At the time, by our calculations, I was in fifth grade, and she was in fourth grade. I wasn’t aware at that very moment that she considered me to be some sort of all-knowing fount of baseball wit and wisdom. But then she had to go and write 17 words which I still find totally amazing, to this day:

If you wanted to know a lot about baseball, my brother would be able to tell you.

She wrote that in a composition for a fourth-grade English assignment. Many years later, she framed those words, along with the photo of that joyous walk home, and gave them to me for a birthday gift. One of the best presents I’ve ever gotten in my life.

All these years later, I still look at that photo, and the words below it, and wonder how I then, somehow, got to live this incredible life. How did I get this lucky? How did it all turn out just the way I dreamed it, back when I was 10? C’mon. That never happens.

I didn’t want to grow up to be a baseball player, even then. I wanted to grow up to be a baseball writer. My mom, the late, great June Herder Stark, was a writer—an incredible, quick-witted, phrase-turning genius of a writer, I might add. And that’s what I wanted to be. But none of us can figure out how the baseball part of this story came to happen, because it wasn’t as if I was raised in the Northeast Philadelphia equivalent of the Boone or Ripken house. I was really the one and only sports fan living in it.

My dad, Ed Stark, was a brilliant guy, with a love for bourbon, barbecued steaks, and the perfect white sand on the beaches of Ogunquit, Maine. And he liked sports enough that he took me to games and played catch with me in the backyard. But he was a much greater threat to comb through every detail of his bank statement than a box score. I can’t tell you how many times he’d shake his head, as I sat in front of the TV, watching The Biggest Game of the Year (since yesterday), and tell me: Jayson, I saw that game 20 years ago.

My mom, meanwhile, loved reading sportswriters, because Philadelphia was the home of many of the best who ever lived. But I can’t remember her ever really following sports—not until her son got hired by a reputable employer to start covering them, anyway. Whereupon she quickly turned herself into such a baseball expert, naturally, that she could debate Dick Allen’s Hall of Fame credentials with me until the day she died.

Meanwhile, my sister’s worst nightmare, as she wrote in that very same composition, was that I had so many baseball photos and posters splattered on every wall, she was sure that each night, I think I’m going to dream about baseball. Reading between the lines, I’m getting the impression she had other, more important dreams in mind. I can’t imagine what. But suffice it to say that while she survived an entire childhood with me, she never wanted to grow up to be, say, Linda Cohn.

So that was my family. Looking back, I have no clue now how I turned into the sports-loving nut case I became at an early age. But by the time I was nine years old, I was hooked. And the really crazy part of my sports addiction was that I did such an excellent scouting report on myself as an athlete that long before I got cut by my high school baseball team, I’d already fixed my sights on the coolest job ever—sportswriting. I’d go to games as a kid and bring my binoculars—not to get a closer view of the field, but to look up into the press box (seriously) and try to figure out what the heck everybody was doing up there. It couldn’t actually be described as work. Could it?

Well, now I know better, obviously. When people ask me about my job these days, I like to tell them it’s a labor of love…and it’s a good thing, because there’s a lot of labor. But I can honestly say that, in more than three decades of covering baseball, first at the Philadelphia Inquirer and then, for the last 14 seasons at ESPN and ESPN.com, it’s never felt like work to me. Every day, I get to wake up and do something I love. And I hope it shows, in every word in this book.

What you’ll find, in the pages to follow, is a selection of my favorite columns from those ESPN.com years. Many of them have been tweaked slightly, to account for the fact that innocent people like you find yourself reading them now, years later. So some needed to be updated. Some had a few now-unimportant details surgically removed. Some required a little clarification here and there. But as I put them all together, I felt like Marty McFly, taking the DeLorean on a journey back through time, to ballparks and press boxes and spring training complexes where I’ve spent some of the most memorable days (and nights) of my life.

And behind so many of those stories, there’s another story. So let me guide you through the book you’re about to transform into a nationally celebrated best seller. Heck, if you’ve gotten this far, there’s no point in turning back now. I promise the time you spend rummaging through these pages will be vastly more rewarding than doing the dishes, or vacuuming, or whatever else you had planned.

If you’ve been reading me for more than just the last 13 paragraphs, you know that, among other things, I’m a big-picture kind of guy. I love to take a step back and look at baseball life from afar, from the top row of the upper deck, and examine why things are The Way They Are. And that led us to a chapter that we’re catchily calling The Big Picture.

Why does baseball history matter? You don’t need to ask Ken Burns. Just join me on a visit to Camden Yards, on Cal Ripken Jr. Passes Lou Gehrig Night in 1995, and to Tiger Stadium, on its last day as a major league venue in 1999. We just have to remind ourselves why the tears flowed as Ripken orbited the warning track, and why a grandson took his grandfather to that final game at Tiger Stadium, and it all becomes clear. No other sport connects past and present, with such deep human meaning, the way baseball does.

But baseball is so much more than just a nostalgia trip these days. I walk through clubhouses and see players fiddling with their iPads. And if I’d never stopped to ask about it, I never would have known the technological miracles that are allowing them to dial up numbers and video that are changing the sport before our eyes, every night. So I’ll take you on a visit inside baseball’s incredible Information Age, and let the likes of Joe Maddon explain some of the futuristic reasons that it seems like nobody can hit anymore.

You’ll find a lot of October in this book, too. I love October. I don’t sleep much. And I work so deep into the night that I cause my poor, innocent ESPN.com editors to sleep even less. But I get to see stuff, in person, that people talk about for, like, a thousand years. I sometimes stumble across lists of the greatest games ever played, and I get chills when I realize how many of them I was in the ballpark for. And now, thanks to the ingenious decision to publish this book, we get to travel back to those moments in time together.

Back to Yankee Stadium in the autumn of 2001, to watch Derek Jeter turn himself into baseball’s first-ever Mr. November…Back to the North Side of Chicago in October of 2003, on an evening when I still vividly remember looking around Wrigley Field during the seventh-inning stretch, more convinced than Ernie Banks that I was going to be able to tell my grandchildren that I was there the night the Cubs finally made it back to the World Series…Back to Busch Stadium in 2011, for what just might have been the greatest World Series game ever played, where David Freese’s walkoff home run will be floating through the October sky for the rest of time.

And back, too, to the nights when championships were won. To an epic evening in 2004, when the Red Sox set the ghosts free…Back to October of 2009, when four iconic Yankees stood on a podium in the middle of Yankee Stadium, sharing one final championship moment together…Back to October of 2010, when one of the most unlikely title teams ever did for San Francisco what the Giants of Mays and McCovey and Bonds never could.

In the midst of that journey back in October time, though, I was forced to recall what an all-powerful jinx I can be. Why did the Cubs lose the Bartman Game in 2003? You really shouldn’t be blaming Steve Bartman. Obviously, they lost because, just the day before, I’d made the mistake of writing what a life-changing event the people of Chicago, and the Cubs themselves, were about to experience when their World Series dreams came true. Oops! And what cosmic event was responsible for the Rangers becoming the first team ever to blow five leads in one World Series game in 2011? Uh, that was me, too. All because I’d written only 24 hours earlier about what it would mean to their fans to win a World Series for the first time in the half-century-long history of that franchise. So take Neftali Feliz and Nelson Cruz off the hook. I’m guilty. Sorry!

I could have kept those ill-fated pieces stuffed in my secret archives, you realize, and you never even would have known. Instead, I’m including them in this collection as a reminder that, in baseball, it’s never safe to assume anything, no matter how logical or inevitable it might seem. But just so you remember I’m not a dope all the time, I also included a couple of astonishing prognostications that I somehow got right. I’ll let you guess (for now) what they were—because, judging by the tweets I get when I’m wrong, I’m certain no one on earth has any recollection that I was ever right about anything. Ever.

This literary journey also took me back to many awesome stops beneath the spring training palm trees…Back to Fort Myers in 2005, when the great James Taylor strolled into the Red Sox clubhouse while I was standing there talking to David Ortiz. And I then cajoled him into reflecting, without even bursting into song, on what kind of bizarre, uncharted universe we suddenly found ourselves living in, now that the Red Sox had somehow won the World Series…Back to Sarasota in March of 2007, when a phenom named Josh Hamilton walked out of the tunnel of oblivion and into a Dairy Queen—with his Reds uniform on. When he told me the story of how he’d driven home from the game in that uniform, then laid it out on the bed just to take in the moment, I felt like calling Hollywood. Immediately. Hello? Is this Mr. Coppola? Got one for ya.

And the journey led me back to probably the most historic spring training park ever built, Al Lang Field, right in the middle of downtown St. Petersburg, Florida, where the ghosts of Babe Ruth and Stan Musial still echoed. In March of 2008, as Al Lang approached its final days of Grapefruit League life after more than 80 springs under the Florida sun, I couldn’t understand why no one other than me seemed to be grasping the significance of the era that was about to end. So I began collecting Al Lang memories, for weeks, until I found myself one day spending an entire afternoon at the house of the legendary Cardinals baseball professor, George Kissell. We both had tears in our eyes as he tried, voice cracking, to digest the thought that baseball would never be played again in a place where he said he could still hear the cheers of the crowd, even on days when this museum of baseball was empty and still.

I admit I never mind a little weeping over the stuff I write. I’m mushy like that. But I never mind a lot of laughing, either. So there’s a whole chapter in this book of pure, unadulterated fun. (I’m not big on adulterated fun, so it’s a good thing.) For something like 15 years, I’ve been trying to figure out why grown baseball players attempt to speak through their gloves to foil all the secret agents in the stands. So I launched a major investigation into this important topic. And the Pulitzer Committee can thank me later—for leaving out all the bad-breath stories these guys told me, if nothing else.

And back in 2007, as Barry Bonds was chasing a hallowed record that America was so delighted to see him break, I found it ironic that the man who was about to call Historic Home Run No. 756 for the viewers in San Francisco was a man who had hit exactly one home run—in 12 years in the big leagues. That man was one of America’s true broadcasting treasures, Duane Kuiper. So I convinced him to tell me all about his one, his only, homer. It’s a story Duane Kuiper doesn’t spin to just anybody, because a lot of people use it to poke fun at him. So I was honored that he told it. And I was more honored that a few years later, at the 2010 World Series gala, he told my brother-in-law, devoted Giants fan Bill Bernstein: You know who wrote the best story ever written about my home run? Your brother-in-law. Cool!

Then there’s a project I embarked on about a decade ago—to compile the goofy, incomprehensible Strange But True Feats of every year. A team gets five hits in a row but doesn’t score a run? A pitcher gets ejected but still throws a complete game? Another pitcher strikes out a hitter he never actually threw a pitch to? This is stuff that’s supposed to be impossible. But the independently minded sport of baseball never got that memo. So in baseball, of course, something like it happens every day. My mom always told me I should write a book and call it, I Never Saw That Before. I never did write that one. But in this book, I did include a bunch of Strange But True Feats of the (whole darned) Millennium. And as a very special bonus, they include lots of comic commentary from two of the most hilarious baseball humorists of all time—Astros/Cubs broadcast-quipmeister Jim Deshaies and a man who really should have his own show on Comedy Central, longtime coach-witticist Rich Donnelly.

Along the way, as I was spending my career searching for those goofy little feats, those big-picture epics, and those October moments I’d never forget, I got to spend some time with a bunch of baseball men who fit the definition of legends. So there’s a chapter on them, too. What was it that drove Bobby Cox to get himself thumbed out of more baseball games than any manager who ever filled out a lineup card? Somebody (besides the umpires) had to get to the bottom of that, right? And where did Cox’s favorite player ever, Chipper Jones, rank in the annals of the greatest third basemen and switch-hitters of all time? When I sat with Chipper for 45 minutes one day and told him what the numbers said, even he found it all too mind-boggling to comprehend.

But not all the stories turn out happily ever after, even when they involve men who soar to heights no one before or after them has ever reached. So how could I not reflect on the sad story of one of the most fascinating people I ever covered, Pete Rose, and how I inadvertently turned into one of the reasons that his Hall of Fame election day never came. And then there was the Hit King’s partner in baseball exile—the Long Ball King, Barry Bonds. How appalled was Bud Selig in 2007 by the idea that Bonds was about to hold the most exalted record in his sport? More than the commish could ever bring himself to put into words. And the more I listened to him avoid saying those words, the more I realized the powerful point he was trying to make by not uttering them.

Finally, as I think I mentioned once or twice, I’m a Philadelphian. I’m not sure why I never got around to moving to, ohhhh, Maui. But shockingly, I didn’t. I’ve stuck around Philly for most of my life. So I was pretty much required by law to include a chapter for all my fellow Philadelphians—both of them—who keep trying to convince me I’m their Favorite. Sportswriter. Ever. (Shhhh. Don’t mention how we’re related.)

Only in Philadelphia could millions of people grow misty-eyed at the demise of that giant round slab of concrete (complete with concrete turf) which we knew, affectionately, as the Vet. So you can all reminisce one last time about the Vet’s final day of life. And only in Philadelphia could a team lose its 10,000th game (not in one year) and inspire its fair city to throw a party to honor it. But that happened, too. Really. I always felt that 10,000th loss should have inspired an awakening, not an excuse to drink more beer. So you can reflect on that uplifting message here, too.

But Philadelphians aren’t really the cold-hearted, mean-spirited, wing-gobbling, cheese-whiz-slobbering boobirds they’re made out to be by so much of non-215-area-code civilization. They fall in love way more easily than they’re given credit for. With a man named Harry Kalas, for instance, a fellow who became so much more than just the ultimate, heaven-sent voice of baseball. I really believe that on the day he died, he was easily the most beloved Philadelphian since maybe Benjamin Franklin. But there was a similar sort of love affair with a fun-loving, screwball-snapping October hero named Tug McGraw. And even with a career .161 hitter named John Vukovich. So those men, all gone too soon, are remembered in this book, too. Couldn’t do a Philly chapter without them. Could I?

Oh, and there’s one more surprise feature you’ll find in these pages, by popular demand. Yeah, yeah. Of course I snuck a few trivia questions into this book, too. Since my good friends, Mike and Mike, have somehow turned me, totally by accident, into the Alex Trebek of baseball trivia, or something like that, I knew you’d want me to scatter an occasional trivia stumper throughout these chapters. So you’d better get all the questions right. There’s going to be a quiz.

You know, when my sister wrote that fourth-grade composition, way back when, about her beloved big brother and his hopeless case of baseball fever, I’m sure she never imagined what a visionary she would turn out to be. Or that we’d still be laughing about her eloquent words all these years later. But every time I read them, I wonder if some things in life truly are meant to be. Those dreams I had, at 10 years old, launched me on this journey of a lifetime.

And what a journey. It was at a baseball game that I first saw the remarkably smart and gorgeous woman I was crafty enough to marry, the incredible and inspiring Lisa Stark. It was in baseball where all three of my kids—Steven, Jessica, and Hali—would wind up working, or interning, or both, as they began exploring what they wanted to do with their lives: Steven pointing a TV camera in the Phillies’ dugout, Hali as social-media genius for Major League Baseball, Jessica as a jack-of-many-trades summer intern who then moved on to other, amazing pursuits. In other words, baseball actually became, sort of, the family business. Wow. How cool is that?

So obviously, this sport has been so much more, in my world, than just something to write about. It has shaped my entire universe for more than 30 years. And now, as I look over this collection of all these tales I’ve been fortunate enough to tell, about the greatest sport there ever was, I’m reminded again of how much fun I’ve had telling them (even when it was 4:00 am and I was the last guy left in the stadium). Hopefully, you’ll have just as much fun reading them.

1. The Big Picture

June, 2006

Why Baseball’s History Matters

Why Baseball’s History Matters, Scene 1

The place: Camden Yards in Baltimore. The date: September 6, 1995.

There are moments in baseball that couldn’t possibly happen in any other sport. This was one of them.

Most baseball history is made with no notice, with no warning. But not on this night.

On this night, 46,272 spectators arrived at Camden Yards knowing exactly what they were about to witness—and even when they would witness it.

Halfway through this game, the second it became official, Cal Ripken Jr. would finally break Lou Gehrig’s legendary Iron Man record. He knew it. His teammates knew it. Everyone in America knew it.

There was no reason for this particular moment to turn into one of the most powerful and emotional experiences in the lifetimes of those who witnessed it. But somehow, it did.

What we remember is this: the Orioles played this exactly right. They didn’t schlock up the occasion with phony announcements or scoreboard overkill. Mostly, they just unfurled a number on a wall:

2131.

And grown men cried for the next 20 minutes. Cried. Wept. Couldn’t stop.

How did that happen, anyway? Why did it happen?

Here’s why: it happened because baseball matters.

It matters to us in a way that no other sport matters.

There is no number in any other sport that could possibly be draped on the side of a warehouse and evoke the tears and passions that 2131 evoked. None.

For 24 hours, the number 2130 had hung on that wall. Everyone who saw it knew exactly what it meant:

Lou Gehrig: 2,130 games in a row, a record that could never be broken.

So to see that number change was all it took to unleash the earthquake in our souls that erupts when we realize we are witnessing something powerful and moving.

There is no sane reason that the rewriting of any line in any record book should be that moving. But this was a night that made it all so clear.

These aren’t just numbers, not in this sport. They are numbers that tell stories. They are numbers that connect names and memories and generations.

Just the numbers alone can make you remember another night, deep in your past, at some other ballpark—maybe one that no longer stands.

They can make you remember what it felt like to watch Nolan Ryan throw a baseball, or Mike Schmidt swing a bat, or Rickey Henderson pump toward second base.

They can almost make you feel what your grandfather might have felt as he watched Stan Musial come to his town. Or Ted Williams. Or Lou Gehrig.

They can bring back voices, freeze-frames, black-and-white images buried so securely in the back of your memory banks, you’d forgotten they were still rattling around inside you.

All sports have their memories, because memories are what sports are all about. But in baseball, we don’t have to cue the marching band or the video machines to sledge-hammer anybody into remembering.

In baseball, we don’t need anything more obvious or complicated than a number on a wall.

Why Baseball’s History Matters, Scene 2

The place: ancient Tiger Stadium in Detroit. The date: September 28, 1999.

To the people who didn’t get it, Tiger Stadium was just another rusting mass of steel and concrete by September of 1999, a decrepit structure made obsolete by peeling paint, obstructed views, and modern baseball economics.

But we know better. Those of us who get it know these places where we go to watch baseball games are not just buildings. They house much, much more than grass and dirt and half-eaten hot dogs.

They house our heroes and our heartaches. They house our passions and our memories. They house the seats where our fathers sat with their fathers. So after a while, they come to mean more to us than just about any place in the world.

Which means saying good-bye to them isn’t easy, even when we know it’s time.

By September 28, 1999, it was time for Tiger Stadium. Time for good-bye.

So on this day, the day of the 6,873rd and final regular season game at this historic place, 18-year-old Aaron Scheible led his 80-year-old grandfather, Ben Saperstein, to a pair of seats in the lower grandstand beyond first base. It was a special gift, from grandson to grandfather. Just like Tiger Stadium.

It had been 72 years since Ben Saperstein’s first game in this ballpark: Tigers versus the ’27 Yankees. He could still see that game in his mind’s eye as vividly as he saw it then.

He pointed toward a spot in the left-field bleachers. That was where he and his big brother sat that day. Then he pointed again—toward the perfectly clipped grass in right field.

And Babe, he said, was right out there.

There used to be many parks in this land where a grandfather could utter those words to a grandson. With the passing of Tiger Stadium, however, there were only three—Fenway and Wrigley and Yankee Stadium.

Ty Cobb played baseball in these places. So did Walter Johnson. And Rogers Hornsby. And