But first, some good old-fashioned plugolas. Our esteemed Boston manager Josh Wilker’s book Cardboard Gods: An All-American Tale Told Through Baseball Cards has just been published, and if it’s anything like his warm and hilarious Web site, it should be a classic. I received my copy from the Amazon e-jungle yesterday but have yet to dive in. Readers can order it on-line right here.
Also, I just came across news of an upcoming book by Dan Epstein, called Big Hair and Plastic Grass: A Funky Ride Through Baseball and America in the Swinging ’70s. It isn’t available till May 25, but if this volume doesn’t deserve mention on this site, nothing does. Dan has been writing about different decade culture for some time, and you can access all of his work and pre-order the funk book here.
Okay, on to what I promised in the headline, in true Wilkeresque style:
One of the strange things about living in SoCal is the occasional brush you have with a famous person in the most mundane way. When my kid Jake was in pre-school he would sometimes go for playdates at the gigantic Pacific Palisades home of a little Iranian friend of his. One day when I went to pick Jake up, it came up in a conversation with the boy’s mother that I was a huge baseball fan. The boy’s mother laughed, and said that one day a Latino nanny rang her doorbell with two young children in tow. “Would your son like to play with Steve Garvey’s kids?” the nanny asked. When she was politely refused, the nanny just turned around and tried the next house on the block.
I am in no position to speculate about what this meant, and surely enough has been written already about the Dodger star’s off-field life, but whenever I see a photo or video of Steve Garvey, I think of this bizarre story.
On the other hand, I should probably cut him a little slack. His Dodgers are kicking some early butt in this league and he’s been a big part of it. And I did move out to California driving my grandma’s Monte Carlo.