The Sweeper

The name’s Seamus Headley.  I’m the maintenance man around here, which is just a fancy term for janitor.  Most people in this place call me “Sammy,” which makes enough sense, I suppose.  A few of the patients call me “dummy,”  and I’d like to smack them upside their crazy-ass heads but then I’d blow my cover.

I’m supposed to be acting deaf and dumb, and if I hauled off on one of these nutcakes, everyone would know I’m not who I’m pretending to be.  But for now, I’ve got ‘em all bamboozled, especially the docs, who nodded their approval when I grabbed a broom on my first day here and started aimlessly sweeping the place up like that big dumb Indian in that movie that came out 35 or so years ago about all the kooks in the kookhouse and that cold-as-ice bitch nurse that the guy from Easy Rider almost choked the life out of.  It’s funny; I can’t remember the name of a picture that came out in 1975, but I can remember one from ’69.  In fact, I don’t remember much after ‘69.

Anyway, I’ve been sweeping ever since I got here, but I’ve also been observing.  You see, I’m actually an undercover agent working for the Coalition of Men in Black or C.O.M.B. for short.  C.O.M.B. sent me here to keep an eye on that lunatic Gip and make sure he’s doing what he’s told.  I’m also supposed to be keeping him out of trouble, what with all these wackos running around trying to steal his shiny dice.

Yep, after the beating he took from Philly Mikey that night, Patriot Act, Inc. contracted out C.O.M.B., who put me on the case.  I just need to get close enough to keep track of his dice rolls so I can report my findings and make sure everything’s on the up and up.  It shouldn’t be a problem, though; I’ll just toss some dirt on the floor by his little table while he’s not looking, then wait until he starts throwing the cubes before I mosey on over and start sweeping.  He won’t even bat an eye; he thinks I’m as crazy as the rest of these loons, and dumb to boot.  I just hope nobody tosses a no-no or something or I won’t be able to contain myself.  Now, if you’ll excuse me, one of these yo-yos just yakked all over my spotless floor and I gotta go clean it up.  Damn, sometimes I really hate this job—

Wait a second.  What’s this?  Some kind of spiral notebook here sticking out of Gip’s mattress.  Let’s see if I can grab it without waking the sucker up…

Holy Hannah’s Ghost.  They’re his scoresheets!  Let’s see what happened on the American League side of old Gip’s brain today…

WHITE SOX 12-17-1, at RED SOX 5-10-0
Nothing but a big Chicago party puts an end to the Boston 7-game win streak. Mike Paxton wishes he was never born by the 4th inning, at which time it’s already 8-0 thanks to some Zisk and Lemon ball removing. Rick Wise comes for a few innings of calm, then gets in trouble, Ramon Hernandez replaces him and Jim Spencer puts his first pitch in the bullpen. Boston scores three in the 9th, mainly because Ken Kravec gets bored and lazy.

W-Kravec  L-Paxton  HRS: Zisk, Spencer, Scott  GWRBI-Zisk

RANGERS 6-12-0, at YANKEES 4-9-0
Billy Martin’s going to kill somebody in a bar soon.  Torrez has Gaylord Perry down 3-0 after five, then 3-1 after seven, then Sparky Lyle relieves when he gets tired in the 8th and has absolutely nothing, giving up three singles and a walk and two runs to tie the game, then serving up a 3-run ICBM to Kurt Bevacqua in the top of the 9th.  That’s Kurt Bevacqua.

W-Perry  L-Lyle  HRS: Nettles, Bevacqua  GWRBI-Bevacqua

ROYALS 5-8-1, at ORIOLES 1-6-0
No one’s got more of an injury problem than the Birds.  It’s amazing they’re still close to the top.  DeCinces joins Kelly and Maddox on the 5-game DL and it’s 1-1 into the 6th when doubles by Cowens and McRae give K.C. the lead.  Blasts by Mayberry and Otis late in the game ice all suspense from there.

W-Colborn  L-May  HRS: Mayberry, Otis  GWRBI-McRae

at INDIANS 7-12-0, TWINS 6-11-0
Game of the Day for sure, but they don’t pay me enough to write long-ass essays on this stuff, so you’ll have to make do, people.  Three-run Hisle bomb in the 1st.  5-1 Twins in the 3rd but Geoff Zahn can’t get anybody out, gives up four hits and a hit Thornton and it’s 5-4 just like that.  Carew homer off Hood makes it 6-4 but Duffy’s 2-run poke in the 8th ties it.  Here comes Andre the Pissed-off Giant in the 9th, still sore from getting plunked before.  And plunk this.  Way, way into the bleachers off Gary Serum, and the dream of a 4-game Minnesota win streak is history.

W-Hood  L-Serum  HRS:  Hisle, Carew, Duffy, Thornton  GWRBI-Thornton

American League through Wednesday, April 30

Kansas City	11	4	.733	—
Boston	10	7	.588	2
Baltimore	8	7	.533	3
Texas	8	7	.533	3
Chicago	7	7	.500	3.5
Cleveland	7	10	.412	5
New York	6	9	.400	5
Minnesota	4	10	.286	6.5

Kisses for My Catcher

Time to show these silly men why it’s worthwhile following baseball.  I know they’ve been calling me Crazy Amy over there but that’s because they’re just scared of a woman who knows what she wants and will do anything to get it.

My real name’s Amy Flora Gulliver, named after my great-grandmother Florence, and her heart was bigger and thicker than mine, that’s for sure. Why else would she drown herself in a creek over a ballplayer? Ever hear of Alex Gaston? Well, he was one of the New York Giants’ backup catchers in the 1920s, and Florence spent a night with him that must have been more romantic than anything because when he ditched her she just didn’t want to live anymore.

Orange Break

The author will be vacationing in Sunny Florida next week, but I’ve set my autopilot way-back machine to upload posts on Monday and Wednesday.  Mike Lynch of Seamheads, one of the hardest working bloggers in the baseball blog business,  will have Wednesday’s writing honors, while there may or may not be a post on Friday the 2nd.  Maybe just another wacky video.

Also, I can’t vouche for my e-mail/Internet capacity down in swampland because my kid’s laptop has half its keys missing and my parents still have a contraption called Web TV, which ironically is very much like being in 1977. So bear with me this week, and I’ll be back full steam on Opening Day, our true national holiday, with a full slate of funkosity.  —J.P.

The Redemption Game

Checked my scorebook this morning and saw that someone had stolen my dice again and played a whole slew of my games.  And I know it was that creep Mikey because the pages had an onion and pepper smell and the guy’s handwriting looks like a six-year-old’s.

So I went over to complain about it to Doctor Sheila in our first aid trailer.  She’s nice and listens and always makes me feel calm, and even though she asked me more questions about what I remember from the real 1977 for some strange reason, she did promise to keep Mikey away from my rig no matter what.  See, I already got Sherman Wayman and Friendly Fred snoopin’ around wondering what I’m doing with these cards and dice, plus there’s a rumor now that Crazy Amy Gulliver has been asking about me over on the female side of the park, and she’s already been arrested once for stalking minor league ballplayers or something.  Can’t remember exactly what her story was.

Phigeddaboutit

Think I’m stupid?  Think them high-priced mechanics upstairs are gonna hot wire my head a few times and keep me from going after Gip’s dice?  Every clown with a clipboard around here thinks Buzz is missing springs in his clock, but not me, oh no.  Mikey Spano knows the street, knows the alley, and I’ll swear on my dead parole officer’s grave if I don’t know when someone’s got a good thing going.  Gip was shaking his head over every damn Phillie game a few weeks ago, and now the sons-of-bitches are winning.  I know it.  And I’m not stayin cooped up in this goofy room one more night without a trip to the Vet.  The stadium, I mean.

Annals of Embarrassment

Yeah, I know.  This is from the early 1980s, but it captures the wide-eyed innocence and unabashed dorkosity of the 70s like nobody’s business.  Is this what wearing shorts at Comiskey led to?

May the Forsch Be With You

Last night I had this screwed-up dream that the two Tommy Lee Jones clones from Patriot Act Inc. were in my trailer taking pictures of me and typing words into their little phones.  “C’mon!” I yelled, “I’m replaying your damn ’77 as fast I can, what more do you want??”

From the File of Dr. Grossinger…

Downloaded from Boston Globe Digital Archive
Article dated June 12, 1977

BOY DISCOVERED LIVING BENEATH BALLPARK

A five-year-old boy was placed into custody today by authorities after being discovered sleeping in a dark alcove beneath the third base stands of Fenway Park.  The youth, who was unable to give his name, actual residence or reason for being there, had been apparently living on ballpark food scraps and sleeping on flattened cardboard for over two weeks.  “I thought the place was haunted,” admitted maintenance worker Jose Torres, who heard the boy talking in his sleep last Tuesday night with the Red Sox away on a road trip.  Anyone with possible knowledge or information about this boy is being asked to contact Suffolk County Social Services.

April Madness

DR. GROSSINGER’S REPORT:

My colleague at Johns Hopkins had little to offer regarding patient Gip, who returned to the ward this morning with a head bandage, but while poring through his file on the plane I did come across a newspaper clipping from the Globe, dated 6/12/77. “Boy Discovered Living Beneath Ballpark.” The short article was water damaged and impossible to read, but I will be researching this further over the weekend.—S.H.G.

Nice to be back in my trailer again. I’ve had a bad feeling about that Mikey Spano since I moved here, and it was a good thing I hid my dice from him. Of course Sherman and Friendly Fred got ahold of them but doesn’t look like any harm was done, and at least they’re baseball fans. For today’s featured tilt let’s two-step down to old Arlington Stadium, deep in the heart…

Your Funky Days Ahead

I’ve had a few requests for an official 1977 Funkyball schedule, so here she is, all PDF print-worthy.  Make sure you put it on your Frigidare.  The template I’m using is from 1953, which means scads of Sunday doubleheaders and actual games on holidays.

In the meantime, shouldn’t Pete be a little more worried about beating the Expos?  (He never listens to me.)  Crank it up!