It’s Mothers Day! Maybe I can find a way to tie a salute into baseball!
Growing up as a lil’ Midwest Cracker ain’t easy when you’re a dictionary defined bastard and your Family Name doesn’t carry much street cred beyond the local diners. They say it takes a village, in my case that village was the Kirschner/Purtell addition down by the Fly Ash Mountains and Lake Contrary Elementary. The ruler of my particular village was the toughest dame I know, Grandma Betty.
Grandma Betty is the Original Ax, a country wife who brings the thunder no matter the weather. She’s one of the last Saint Joe Levi workers and to this day, sneaking up fast and faster on 100, she feels sorry for making the “dishwarshing” machine work so much and will try to do the dishes herself if no one is watching. Back in the day hardcore was watching her slay a migraine by tying a piece of cloth tight around her head, Rambo Style, and then working several laps around the house with her tiny push vacuum thing. And while Saint Patrick may have driven the snakes from Ireland I’ll bet his great grandkids never watched him take a 2X4 to a rattler.
In the cherished memory file, my “Buck O’Neil Greatest Day In Baseball” was every summer evening at Grandma Betty’s. Grandma Donna would be working the long shift at Perkins, Aunt Anna would be doing something along the same lines, that left me and cousin Buttons at her disposal. “Disposal” would include, but not be limited to, “Polish Poker”, Wheel of Fortune, the simplest yet most delicious hamburger ever, and then the Kansas Mother#$%^ing City Royals!
Grandma Betty would probably take a shotgun to the man who would call out George Brett, at the least you would taste her snake killing board. Allow me to share a childhood moment with you that attests to the country strength of her beliefs.
Big Mike: George Brett’s The Man!
Small Josh: Nu-uh!
Big Mike: He could beat your ass!
Small Josh (thinking he was going to get Big Mike in trouble for cussing): Grandma Betty, did you hear what Mike said to me!
Grandma Betty (thoughtfully): Well, could he?
Small Josh (meekly): yeah…..
Grandma Betty: Well, there ya go.
The point here is that George Brett is like John Wayne around her house. Very little modern decoration was allowed in that little country fort of hers, but a small Kellogg’s Cereal George Brett baseball card stayed forever within her plastic lampshade. King George held court above the sleeping gnome and bejeweled owl as every evening the Golden Age Royals flirted with the postseason and crushed the competition.
My Grandmas are badasses, and a throwback to the age of responsibility when you sucked it up and made it happen, even if you didn’t like how you got into the mess in the first place. I just mentioned the “Golden Age” Royals, some of you may not know what I mean by that. Believe it or not “we used to be somebody” over at Kaufmann Stadium. Brett, Willie Wilson, Frank White and the rest of the Boys in Blue would crack bats and bust heads year in year out as we paraded about the postseason and brought the ’85 Series title home. They were a lot like my Grandmothers, badass individuals who took full accountability.
Something changed in the 90’s, some fans will tell you it’s free agency and I can see the parallel argument to divorce in the modern family. My grandmothers never once considered “free agency” no matter how their teams (families) were performing. They rode it out, did the tough work, and took one for the team whenever it was needed. Free agency stripped the Royals of that, but it’s just an excuse. The problem was they quit being badasses, something Grandma Betty has never done.
George Brett almost hit .400 with hemorrhoids, after him we had a parade of the weak and uninspiring: Bob Hamlin? Fatty who faded. Mike Sweeny? Couldn’t stay healthy and turned the cheek more than a door to door Mormon. David Dejesus? He’s lucky Grandma didn’t napalm him herself the millionth time he got picked off first by a lefty and then made that stupid fuckin’ grin. Grienke? Oh sure, he always seemed like he was about to go Columbine on the place, however, that’s hardly inspirational. But nowadays the times they are a’changing and the new boys in blue are a group the Hardcore Granny can get behind.
Bam-Bam Billy Butler makes the “Manny Face” when meat crosses the plate, and this is one of the “Manny Traits” that is universally known as a good thing. The only other comparison I can make is the face Mike Singletary used to make before a tackle, Bam-Bam is a hungry man and he knows when dinner is coming his way. Moreover he takes this shit seriously, and we’re starting to see a whole team of men that are forsaking the “just happy to be here” mentality of the DeJesus years.
Red Sox fans used to want a championship before they die, Grandma already got one but by god she deserves another. Baseball is back in Kansas City, and aside from giving the “warshing machine” a break I can think of no better Mothers Day present for the Original Gangster of Midwest Grannies.
Happy Mother’s Day everyone.
No comments:
Post a Comment