3,000 hit club

Wow! What a week. Excitement palpable in the tri-state area as Derek Jeter closes in and then masterfully surpasses the 3,000 hit plateau. A great honor for a great ballplayer, a great teammate, a great Yankee and, presumably, a really great guy. Takes me back to the night that Ron Swoboda crushed number 3,000! It was drizzly, as I remember, some late September chilly weather keeping most of the crowd at home. I went to the game with my neighbor George, his boy Elroy and we lounged in the comfort of the Spacely Sprockets luxury box. More remarkable than the rarified air of numbers with commas and all that was the fact that it took 'Rocky' almost 45 full seasons in the bigs to reach this milestone! Averaging almost 70 hits a season and a victim of the pre-bionic platoon system Swoboda, much of his upper body now replaced by robotics, seemed calm and collected during batting practice. "I think I can play a lot longer" the burly right-fielder quipped during a pre-game interview with Lindsey Nelson III. The game lumbered on and in the bottom of the seventh, Swoboda disconnected himself from the dugout charger, took a few tentative swings, and strode to the plate, a green LED flashing barely visible beneath the snow white home uniform. The Rawlings-MacGregor Pitch It machine silently delivered pitch after pitch. The crowd grew quiet, the only audible sound the whirring of the despised mechanical contraption located in the center of the diamond. The machine seemed to hitch and shudder. "Bring back human hurlers!" bellowed one of the faithful. "Yeah, and then we'll be back to counting pitches all night" I muttered underneath my breath while she studied the lines on my face. I must admit I looked a little uneasy when the 'pitcher' finally delivered. Swoboda glared, the spheroid flew, and with a resounding "pop" of polycarbonate bat meeting naugahyde ball -- history was made.

Congratulations Derek! Welcome aboard!

Older than that now

Older than that now. Older then than now.

I just watched "No One Gets Out Alive" on Ovation. (They are going pop music-crazy this week – right now I am recording Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison, a documentary that promises to put the concert in "its historical perspective" which mean what I do not know.) "Alive" is a one hour tribute to Jim Morrison replete with the necrophiliogical ramblings of Ray Manzarek who has made a cottage industry out of semi-inept keyboard playing alongside a died-too-soon rock legend.

So here is the deal – why is it that departed rock stars, some departed rock stars, have a certain age impinged on them. Meaning they never look their true age. Morrison should, through my eyes, look like the twenty something punk that he was. Janis too – should look all of her twenty two years. Pigpen – a young man drinking himself to death. But they don't, they just don't. They look older, not wiser, older.

True, some of this could be due to the ravages of the excesses that bought them an early seat in Rock and Roll Heaven. Much like the coroner who examined Charlie "Yardbird" Parker and determined the thirty-four year old to between fifty and sixty.

Lennon – older than the above, to be sure, less ravaged too, but he will always appear to me to be my elder. Cobain – there's the rub, there's the 'some'. To me he does look like a twenty seven year old. Is it because I never wore Nirvana Boots or sported a Nirvana Haircut? So is it my infatuation that colors my perception?

A twenty-two year old ordering a caramel whatchamcallit looks like . . . well, whatever she looks like it is nothing like the woman belting "Piece of My Heart" at Monterey.