Salem Baseball Folkfore

I arrived in Roanoke in 1983 under unusual circumstances. Entwined in a clandestine relationship with my recently divorced employer (a harrowing story best left untold), I found myself searching for an opportunity to escape the New York metro area with some urgency. Presented with an offer to become the Assistant General Manager of the beleaguered Salem Redbirds baseball team at an annual salary rate of $6250.00 (plus commission), I packed up my duds and fled South forthwith.

Upon arriving in Salem the culture shock was considerable. Following my first day at work I excitedly called my Mom and informed her that I had seen a real cow on the way back to my apartment. Remember, cattle are scarce on the south shore of Long Island. My first sales meeting was in downtown Roanoke. Armed with my fence sign and program advertisement pricing and information, my best friend and boss, General Manager Bob Kitchen provided me with directions to Campbell Avenue, assuring me that I would know I had arrived in downtown when I saw the "big buildings." I was in Vinton before I realized that I had passed right through that section completely.

For four years I toiled at the old Municipal Field an accomplice to some of the worst ball clubs in Carolina League history. My favorite year was not the 1987 championship run of the Salem Buccaneers, but the final season of the Redbirds in 1986. The team finished a dismal 45-93, fourth in a four team division, however, it was behind the scenes where the 86' Birds were much more interesting.

Mike Bucci, a former Philadelphia Phillies farmhand managed the team, yet never established a residential address in the area. A genial yet frugal man, "Bootch" saved on living expenses by setting up house in a pup-tent inside of the ballpark. Our skipper would rise in the morning, mount the riding mower and trim the field as if he was tending to his own lawn. Occasionally, in the case of stormy weather, Bootch would abandon his stadium teepee and sack out in his tiny office or beg for lodging on someone's couch.

1986 was also the year Kelvin Bowles bought the team, brought in Sam Lazzaro, an experienced baseball man from upstate New York to be Vice President of the team and promoted me to General Manager. Bob and I ran the club kind of like a summer camp and Sam's steadying hand would soon carry the franchise into the realm of real professional baseball. However, in 1986 there lingered a good deal of "Redbird-ness," yet to be expunged.

Prior to a home game verses the Hagerstown Suns, Eric Clark, our groundskeeper and I noticed one of our relief pitchers playing with what looked like a cat on the outfield warning track. Upon further inspection we discovered that the animal was, in fact, a jumbo sized rat who was gnawing on the end of a stray baseball bat. Clearly, we had to find some way to capture the rodent, chase him from the premises or sell him a ticket previous to game time.

First, I have to tell you that I am deathly afraid of rats, yet Eric was a former Marine, so I figured that he canceled out my substantial yellow streak. Joined by Eric's brother Sam, the longtime clubhouse manager, our public address announcer, some bat boys and a few others, we ventured towards the outfield and began the hunt. Our first strategy was to chase the offending pest out of the gate with a show of stampeding man-power. We gave chase driving one three-wheeler, a riding mower (me), and on foot. Stunned, at first, our furry friend scampered towards the right-field exit only to quickly spin around and drive our convoy back towards center-field.

Next, we pursued our quarry with a garden hose forcing the vermin to seek refuge in a drainage grate. We continued to flood the grate in hopes of drowning our prey, yet he managed to float to field level unharmed, shook himself off and headed for left field. Out of ideas and somewhat tired, we considered finding the rat a uniform and adding him to the game line-up.

Finally, our extremely un-athletic PA announcer Jeff offered a wild solution. Producing a golf ball from his left pocket, Jeff explained that he could throw small objects with extreme accuracy and he could end this stalemate with one good toss. None of us thought that Jeff could even hit the scoreboard with a golf ball, much less a speeding rodent, but we agreed to let him try.

Jeff crept towards the rat (that had stopped to catch a breather), silently stalking his prey. Like a bear swatting at a salmon, Jeff wound-up and fired his Titleist at its target. As expected the ball missed the rat, however, as if by divine intervention, the ball then rebounded off of the outfield wall, struck the rodent on the head and knocked him unconscious. It was a one in a trillion shot that left us all dumbfounded. Eric scooped the dazed creature up with a shovel, and placed him outside of the park where it quickly regained its faculites and ran up Florida Street.

Few know this, but the greatest pitch thrown in Salem that year came, not from a big league prospect, but from the hand of a portly PA man with the heart of an exterminator. It was just that kind of year.

To Sleep, Per Chance......

I can sleep anywhere at any time. Hook my collar on a sturdy nail and I will nod off without a moments notice. In a matter of seconds I am drifting into a dream world seemingly free of stress, heartburn and grief. However, sleep does not necessarily denote rest and there is where my trouble begins.

Beneath Jon's shut eyelids lurks an aggregation of sleep disorders that would stir the average bear out of hibernation. I walk, talk, roll, flip, and even shave (half of my beard one night) in the throws of slumber. Amazingly, my long suffering wife has managed to retain her sanity through seventeen years of these bizarre nocturnal antics, though I fear she might gently smother me with a pillow one darkened night.

Scheduled by my doctor to participate in a sleep study several weeks ago, I grew feathers the night before and surrendered my chicken-hearted self to Colonel Sanders rather than attend. Aside from having to wear one of those sleep apnea contraptions that makes the subject look like a test pilot getting ready to leave the atmosphere, I feared my monitoring tape might appear on YouTube the following morning under the heading "Disturbed Old Fat Man in his PJ's."

This affliction has haunted me since childhood. One night my father discovered me kneeling next to my bed, shoving a stack of books under one of the legs. When asked what I was doing I reportedly answered "fixing a tire." Not one to allow an opportunity to pass, my Dad pointed under the bed and informed me that a few of my lug nuts had scattered towards the passenger side. I faintly remember him giggling as I scrambled under bed for the missing parts.

Several years ago I roused Janet out of a sound sleep claiming that our ceiling fan was bouncing up and down like a yo-yo. Lightly agitated, she walked to the doorway, flipped on the light switch which controlled the fan and proclaimed "Now it's going 'round and 'round, now go back to sleep you lunatic!"

These acts of quiescence don't always occur in the wee hours, sometimes the sand man visits me during the light of day. While employed as an advertising salesperson I was often asked to wait for a short while when my clients were helping one of their customers. Normally, the delay was short, however, the customer I was visiting on this day was notorious for keeping her sales reps waiting. Following a restless night, I eased myself onto a small bench in her showroom and fell asleep almost immediately. I awoke two and a half hours later, decorated like a Christmas tree. Upon my chest was a sign stating "Hi, I'm Jon the Sales-guy! Please excuse my snoring and remember that everything in the store is 20% off. I had been transformed into a human advertisement.

Flustered, my wiped the drool from my chin and sat up-right. Removing the tinsel from my hair and sleeves, I noticed a stack of photos on the counter next to me. I learned that for the past couple of hours people had not only been trimming me like a tree, but were also posing for pictures with me as well. The store owner assured me that I was the "hit of the day" and that if I didn't like the Polaroid shots on the counter, her partner would be back from the one-hour photo developers in a few minutes with some clearer images. More than a little embarrassed, I apologized for my behavior, yet politely refused to allow her to use my likeness for her Christmas cards the following year.

Perhaps I will reconsider my visit to the sleep clinic. It would be nice to wake up and feel something other than complete exhaustion and maybe someone in my house can get a night's rest as well. If you see a man on YouTube on night dressed like a trimmed-up Norwegian Spruce, you will know that I made it to the clinic safely. Sleep well.

Summer Jobs

Is there a teenager laying about your home wasting the summer months away without any thoughts of employment? Once upon a time I was that child.

Unlike like my son (currently employed as a bat recovery specialist for the Salem Avalanche), much of my youth was spent skirting work of any kind. My typical day began at the crack of two in the afternoon, followed by lunch, followed by a nap. In the vernacular of the time I was a "bum."

At the age of sixteen, my father took me to his place of employment, a dress factory in lower Manhattan, with the promise of a days pay. How hard could working in a dress factory be anyway, especially for a strong young man like me? Following nine grueling hours of lifting and stacking forty-pound rolls of fabric I had my answer. I had never worked so hard before in my life! On the way home, dad, always one to lighten the situation, explained that not only would I be paid in full for my work, but I was to be offered a position for the rest of the summer as well. It was at that very moment when my childhood gasped its last breath and died.

For two summers I toiled in that city sweatshop. No air-conditioning, no open windows, and a ninety minute one-way commute beginning at 5am. If Satan's underworld featured Hispanic radio blasting nine hours a day, I might have compared my workplace to hell. There were, however, two positives derived from this experience: 1) the respect I felt for my father and mother grew ten-fold. Witnessing and realizing what lengths my folks went to support our family was quite illuminating. 2) I got a "B" in Spanish the following semester.

Jobless again the following summer, my friend Neil and I were parentally pressured into finding gainful employment. Following a few weeks of lackluster search, the State of New York presented us with two opportunities to join the work-force in tandem. The first position was a high paying job filling pot holes on the Robert Moses Causeway; the second was a lower paying gig working as ushers at the Jones Beach Amphitheatre. Hmmm, shoveling hot tar on a road crew in the unforgiving heat or a helping elderly people to their seats at a breezy sea-side theatre? Neil and I consulted for a full three seconds before we decided to go into show business.

Jones Beach Amphitheatre is an eight thousand seat outdoor venue which sits right on the ocean. In the late seventies, the theatre featured revivals of Broadway hits from yesteryear. In 1979 I would experience a unique type of torture upon viewing seventy-two straight performances of "The Sound of Music." Even the indomitable Maria Von Trapp herself might have "climbed every mountain" and leaped off the highest peak after first forty or so shows. The cast was comprised of several long in the tooth actors and actresses who had not been on stage since dinosaurs roamed the earth. One night Captain Von Trapp's uppers slipped from his mouth right in the middle of "Edelweiss." I'm talking old.

The next year's production was "Damn Yankees," a musical starring former gridiron star Joe Namath. The best thing I can say about Joe's singing is that it was only slightly better than his running ability. The poor guy could barely walk. As ushers we were required to wear Yankee baseball uniforms, complete with cap. For a lifelong Mets fan (like myself), this was a truly repugnant. If the Yankees played ball against the Taliban I would gladly grow my beard long, wear a turban, and heckle Derek Jeter in Persian.

In 1981 the final season of stage plays were performed at Jones Beach Theatre. Barry Williams, known to most of world as Greg, the oldest son on the television show "The Brady Bunch," played the lead role of "Tony" in "West Side Story," and yes, it was as bad as it sounds. His best years behind him, Barry showed as much charm and stage presence as a broom handle with a smile painted on it.

Presently, the theatre hosts a concert series featuring Boston, The Allman Brothers Band and Journey on consecutive nights in August. From old time musical revivals to rescuing acts from the "where are they now" file, one can see a kind of symmetry forming their scheduling format.

In retrospect, I am glad that my father pried me from the couch long ago. Pops often told me "Work builds character, and it is better to have character than be a character." Still, I walk a tight-rope between stability and eccentricity daily, balancing my life as a hard working goofball, with perhaps a dash of character mixed in.