A Belfry Christmas Carol
Bob's Backstop for December 20, 2005
|
A Belfry Christmas Carol Bob's Backstop for December 20, 2005 |
Snow falls gently on the ground outside the large brick building that dominates the quaint village of Camden Yards. Five times as long as it is tall, the imposing structure does not deter the bedraggled group of carolers that trudge through the snow, pausing at the large oak door with the brass plaque that reads:
THE BALTIMORE ORIOLES
At the prompting of one, they begin to sing…
“Hark! The L.A. Angels Sing…Being a Contender, That’s the Thing! Greed on Earth, the market’s gone wild, Eight years of losing’s hard to reconcile!”
There is no response from within. Finally, one man pounded on the door, the echo filling the drafty room inside. Nearer to the door sat a tall thin man, the worn shiny fabric of his clothes belying the seeming importance of his position. He is huddled over a Bill James Baseball Abstract. Further inside, an impeccably dressed balding man sat at a much larger leather-covered desk, a list in his hand entitled “DC Council Bribes”. Obviously used to getting his way, his ogre-like countenance grew more twisted at every note uttered by the singers outside.
“FLANAGAN!” he bellowed. “WHAT IS THAT RACKET? I CAN’T CONCENTRATE!”
“Um, Mister Angelos, it’s the free agents. The ones nobody’s signed. I guess they’ve heard we haven’t signed anyone yet, and they are here hoping for some handouts, like every year.”
“Oh REALLY?” snarled the old man. “I’ll show THEM!” He flew to the door and flung it open. Looking out at the sea of hopeful faces, he bellowed, “Get out! Get out of here and take your infernal Merry Christmas with you!”
Out of the crowd came a sharp rebuke. “The same to you, too, Gov’nah!”
“WHO SAID THAT? Was that YOU, Conine, you ingrate? You, Surhoff? You can all go to hell as far as I’m concerned. I do not make myself merry at Christmas, and I cannot afford to make idle people merry. Now, get out of here!”
He slammed the great door and turned to face his employee. “Now, Flanagan, I told you I wanted to sign some big names. The only players I saw huddled around our door were the same old faces, castoffs, men on their last legs. What is going on here?”
“Well, sir, it’s all the losing. No one wants to come here any more. We don’t have stability in the front office, we’re poor-mouthing our financial position in the press all the time, we don’t have a good farm system, and we’ve been losing for eight years. I’d say that pretty much sums it up.”
“There’s nothing I hate more than excuses, except maybe for Albert Belle. Look, Flanagan, you’d better get things going around here, or you may celebrate Christmas by losing your position! Good night!”
He stepped into the cold winter night. As he turned away from securing the door to the warehouse, he found himself face-to-face with two men with ruddy complexions and ready smiles. One spoke.
“Good evening sir. Do we have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Angelos, or Mr. Oates?”
The old man snarled. “I am Mr. Angelos. Mr. Oates, my late partner, passed away on this very night only a year ago, though we hadn’t spoken in years; I bought him out back in 1994; it just costs too much money to put up a new sign. But I assure you gentlemen it is no pleasure for me to be speaking to the likes of you.”
Ignoring the hostility, the other man stepped forward. “We’re sure his generosity is well represented in the heart and pocketbook of his surviving partner.”
“You flatter me not, sir. I know who you are. I’m not interested in Johnny Damon, Mr. Boras. You can forget it.”
“But sir, the fans of your fair city turn to you for supplication. For warm thoughts and dreams to tide them over the long winter months into the promise of the spring and the summer that lay ahead. At this time of year, it is customary to buy a few players, spread some joy among the common folk and create some controversy for the talk shows and web pages. What will the people do if not for hope of their ballclub in seasons to come?”
“Are the minor leagues not still in operation? Do we not have games with constant advertising, billboards so thick in the outfield that you can’t see fly balls, kids running amok, empty-headed promotions, and giveaways of canned hams between innings?”
“Why, yes, they are still in operation. I wish I could say that they were not.”
“GOOD. I was afraid for a moment that someone had managed to keep them from their useful purpose!”
“But sir, many would rather die than go to a game in Ottawa.”
“Then those who would rather die should do so, and reduce the surplus population. Good NIGHT, gentlemen!”
________________
Within a few blocks, Angelos arrived at his home. After a brief meal, he retired to bed. Suddenly, he heard a noise coming from the living room. Soft at first, then louder and louder. It sounded like the “Orioles Magic” song!
Rising from his bed, he rushed into the living room, to be confronted by the most amazing sight. It was a man, or at least the appearance of a man, wearing an Orioles uniform and a Texas Rangers hat.
“Johnny? Is that you? It can’t be! You’re ---“
“DEAD? Yes, Peter, I’m dead all right…about as dead as the chances you’ll ever win another division crown.”
“But why are you here? HOW are you here? What do you require of me?”
“Much.”
“But why me, Johnny? Please speak to me…give me comfort!”
The apparition frowned. “I have none to give.”
“But you were always a man who could be counted on for a kind word, Johnny…”
“That’s not what you need on this night, Ebeneezer, uh, I mean, Peter Angelos. When I walked this earth, my thoughts and deeds were of one accord, to be positive, to say the uplifting thing, to help others. I still wish to do the latter. I have heard the anguished cry of Orioles fans everywhere, Peter. It is they I am here to help, they – and you. I have come, Peter Angelos, to grant you one last chance for the life of your franchise.”
“The life of my franchise? Who sent you? It was that infernal Thomas Boswell, wasn’t it?”
“No, Peter. I am exactly who I appear to you as, the spirit of the late Johnny Oates, here to offer you one last chance at redemption before it’s too late for you, and your team. You will be visited three times tonight by ghostly spirits like myself. The first appearance at one, the second at two, and the third when the clock strikes three.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Believe me, Peter, this is for your own good. I must go now; I still have to go see John Hart and Tom Hicks before the night is through.”
“But Hart is only a consultant now.”
The ghost smiled. “I haunt him just for fun. Farewell, Peter…”
The elderly attorney had no idea what to make of the vision. At first fearful, he grew dubious, and then skeptical. He blamed the event on overwork, and finally returned to a fitful sleep.
While encapsulated in the deepest of sleep, he was awakened by what sounded like the noise of a crowd. He slipped on his robe and turned to the door, which glowed a deep, rich gold. Fingers of light shot through the keyhole, under the door, and through the transom. As he warily approached, he heard a booming voice. “COME OUT HERE, ANGELOS, I’m waiting for you!”
Angelos opened the door, but was blinded by a bright light that filled the room.
“Too bright for you? I’ll turn it down a little. THERE…”
Angelos opened his eyes. The room was full of pennants flapping in mid-air, glowing with a light that appeared to be spun gold. In the center of the room stood a tall lanky man in an Orioles uniform.
“Who, who ARE you?”
“I am the Ghost of Pennants Past…gaze well upon me, for you have never seen the likes of me before!”
“You look familiar…”
“I SHOULD, you funny looking little man. When I walked this Earth, I was the shortstop for four pennant-winning ballclubs. The Blade’s the name, and fielding was my game.”
“But what are you DOING here?”
“Look around you. THIS is the past of this club. Division championships, World Series rings, flags flying in the breeze. Look over there…what do you see?”
Angelos squinted. “I don’t see anything…perhaps some faint shadows.”
“Come over here and drink some of this,” the ghost said as he extended an Aramark cup decorated with a likeness of Ray Miller.
Angelos drank it down. “What is it? It’s delicious! I’ve never tasted anything like it!”
“Of course you haven’t! It’s the Milk of Common Sense and Patience! Now, look again…what do you see?”
“Oh, my, I do see now. Crowds milling excited around ticket windows, fans making their way to their seats, vendors hawking National Bohemian, men wearing white dress shirts, boys with their dads, all of them cheering on their favorite players…I can smell the popcorn, the cotton candy, the hot dogs…why, there’s Paul Blair, poised to track down a fly ball, daring the batter to hit the ball over his head, the endless stretches of green grass, the cathedral that was Memorial Stadium…”
“Those are YOUR memories, Peter. The ones you had as a younger man. They belong to you. Why do you forsake them?”
“What do you mean? I want the fans today to have the same experiences. I hold down ticket costs, I don’t take excessive profits…”
“Part of the fan experience, Peter, is knowing that the team has a chance to compete, knowing as a fan that even though the team may be down and out, that the people at the top can be trusted with their faith. You are too much the focus of the Orioles. You make too many headlines. You make it difficult for fans to just enjoy the games when your ego constantly gets in the way. No General Manager. TWO General Managers. Albert Belle. Wade Townsend. Cuba. Jon Miller. Rollie Hemond. Doug Melvin. The list goes on and on, Peter. Firing managers and coaches and GMs, interfering on the behalf of players who run to you, making all those pronouncements to the press instead of a ‘ no comment’…it just goes on and on.”
“But I mean well…”
“Good intentions are not enough. If you want today’s fans to have those same memories, this all needs to be less about YOU and more about THEM. You’ve heard the saying that if you do the thing you love, the money will follow? Baseball can work like that, too. The more you love the club, and the less you love your own posturing…when this becomes less about people loving and respecting you then loving and respecting the Orioles, the wins, and the fans, will follow, too…”
With those words, the ghost began to fade.
“Farewell, Angelos. Remember what has passed between us, for I will not be this way again…”
Angelos spent awhile pondering what he had just witnessed. He came to the conclusion that only an insane man would believe what he had just seen, so he, being sane, must not have seen it.
After a fitful few moments of sleep, he woke again, this time to the sound of the sharp crack of a bat, the anticipation of a crowd. Then, applause. Angelos sat straight up in bed as he heard…
“GIVE THAT FAN A CONTRACT!”
Angelos rushed to the door. He threw it open and saw a well built man, again wearing an Orioles uniform, and another taller, older man supporting himself with a glowing golden cane.
“Pat Kelly! Rex Barney! But it can’t be you…”
“Oh, yes , Mr. Angelos. The things that exist that you don’t know about are powerful forces, indeed. Rex and I are the Ghosts of Pennants Present. Rex is here because he was still associated with the club the only time they won anything since you owned them, and I came because I wanted this as my first Christmas experience after leaving my mortal shell behind.”
“Rex, you of all people know I’m no ogre. I always held your job for you, and you know I’ve been true to a lot of the history of the club. Eddie, Boog, Frank was our assistant GM till Gillick ran him off…”
The elderly man shook his head. “What about Jon Miller? Davey Johnson? Cal Senior? You haven’t been without a downside in this area. But before we take our next caller, here’s a message from Boyle Buick…”
“What?”
“Sorry, sometimes I forget where I am. Okay, here we are back on Orioles Talk, and our next caller is Davey…go ahead, Davey, you’re on Orioles Talk…”
“Thanks for taking my call, Rex. I just wanted to say to Peter that I think I got a raw deal. I know that the charity thing was probably wrong, something I did to rub it in Roberto’s face a little bit because I thought he needed to know who was the boss. I know that I teed you off, Peter, by not coming in early like you wanted, like it was a football team and I had game films to watch or something. But you knew I was an arrogant SOB when you hired me. That was part of the reason I had been successful. That was the very reason we made it to the playoffs with a bunch of free-agent mercenary prima donnas, because I was the biggest prima donna of them all, and I never let them forget it. Why didn’t you just talk to me more, instead of both of us talking through the press? Argue, even? What could it have hurt? We’re not supposed to like each other, we’re supposed to own and run your ballclub, respectively. Instead, you listen to Alomar, you listen to Thrift, you listen to heaven knows who…just make a decision on a person, stick with it, and talk to them, and support them even when you think they are wrong. If they are wrong enough times, then replace them. But stop talking to the press…at all. It never helps the club, and usually hurts it.”
“Peter, do you have a response for our caller?”
“Not, not really. Davey, you’re right. I know my judgment was clouded by my dislike of Gillick and his political maneuvering. Your close friendship with him threatened me, and the way the two of you made it sound as if you won in spite of me instead of because of me led me to retreat into my back-room-politics stance. I guess I could have been a bigger man and overlooked all of that, or smarter and managed the events instead of letting them manage me.”
Pat Kelly spoke up next. “And Mr. Angelos, what about the BALTIMORE Orioles? What’s this ‘Orioles’ thing? I even hear that everyone’s taken Baltimore off of their business cards! You ought to be ashamed.”
“Well, Pat, our marketing specialists –“
“Don’t know a darn thing, Mr. Angelos! Don’t worry about the team in DC…take care of business at home, and all that will work itself out! The Cubs and the Cardinals and the Royals and the Braves all draw from entire regions, and they don’t feel compelled to stop identifying themselves by their city. And goodness, DC is HERE now…now, of all times, is the time to forget any marketing nonsense and to proclaim the whole name, the heritage, the history, the communal pride, of the BALTIMORE Orioles!”
“Pat, our time with Mr. Angelos is up. We have to go.”
“But Rex, we’re just getting started…there’s all those callers on the line…Jon Miller, Frank Wren…”
“Sorry, callers, but we’re just out of time. And Mr. Angelos, it’s been a pleasure. We hope you’ll think carefully about what we had to say to you, and all we can say as we leave is….THANK YOUUUUU….”
And they were gone.
This time, there was no sleep. When the clock struck three, a lean, tall man with a weather-beaten face and a crewcut, a fungo bat in his hand, stepped out of the shadows. He stood at the foot of the bed, speechless, his gaze fixed on the man cowering in the bed.
“So you are my last apparition? The Ghost of Pennants Yet to Come? Oh, spirit, I dread your coming more than any other I have seen tonight, and I know that I have wronged you personally, but since I know your goal is to do me good and for me to see the error of my ways, I will follow you with an open heart and mind…lead on, spirit…”
A mist formed and then cleared…a familiar play-by-play man’s voice can be heard in the background as the two hover over a gleaming ballpark hard by the banks of the Anacostia River, the national monuments in the distance…
“Hello, everyone, and welcome to the first game of the 2015 World Series, the first to be played here at beautiful Linda Cropp Field, as the Washington Nationals host the New York Yankees in what promises to be an exciting championship tilt. I’m Jon Miller, and I’m joined in the booth tonight by the color man for the Nats, Jim Palmer. Jim, how do you see tonight’s pitching matchups?”
“Well, Jon , this promises to be an interesting matchup, as we have experience, in the person of Adam Loewen, going for the Yankees. Ever since the Orioles traded him for a slumping Robinson Cano when Loewen wasn’t ready for the majors but the contract requirement kicked in, he’s been a stud, and eventually the staff ace, for the Yanks’ last five division winners. On the other side, Hayden Penn, despite a solid career, is in the middle of his first post-season after coming over to the Nats in a mid-season deal with Las Vegas. Despite his lack of experience in big games, Nats’ GM Cal Ripken says he knew the minute he came over to the Nats that they finally had the ‘last piece of the puzzle’ to take them from just knocking on the door as division champs the last three years, to deep into the playoffs. This is the Nats’ first foray into this fourth and final round…and it’s sure to prove exciting as they go up against Lee Mazzilli’s veteran Yankee squad led by Albert Pujois and Mark Texiera.”
Angelos turned to the spirit standing alongside him. “But spirit, as discouraging as these images may be, where is my team? Where is Camden Yards, the crown jewel of baseball?”
Ripken extended a bony finger in the opposite direction. The mists cleared to reveal an empty ballpark, a large sign on the exterior reading “IRONBIRD PARK AT CAMDEN YARDS” with a bulletin board sign underneath…’ BALTIMORE AREA JAYCEES NIGHT. HARRISBURG 7 PM’ Two youngsters looked up at the sign as they talked.
“Hey, Whitey, you going to the game tonight?”
The other boy shook his head. “Nah, Dad wants to stay home and watch the Orioles on TV.”
“Wow. You’re kidding!”
“I know. I mean, they’ve been in Las Vegas three years, you’d think he’d be getting over it by now.”
“Old people. Living in the past. What can ya do?” The two walked away.
Angelos cried out. “STOP IT…STOP IT…please, spirit, take me from this place, I can bear it no longer…”
As quickly as the taciturn ghost had appeared, he was gone. As Angelos sat stunned at the side of his bed, the clock struck…seven. Leaping to his window, he threw open the sash and pushed it open right next to a startled boy pulling a new sled.
“Son, what DAY is it?”
“What day? Why, it’s CHRISTMAS Day…”
“They’ve done it! They’ve done it all in one night! But of course they can, they can do anything they want because they are spirits, after all!” He closed the window and ran to the staircase. He slid down the banister, crumpling at the bottom as he fell off in a gale of laughter. “I’ve got to go…so many people to see, so many wrongs to right. I WILL live again, throw away the past, and the future that I build will be something that will last…”
____________________
An half-hour later, Angelos burst into his offices to find Mike Flanagan sitting at his desk.
“Mr. Angelos! What are you doing here on Christmas Day?”
“Why, I came to see you, Mike. I knew you’d be here, you’re such a tireless worker and a valued employee. Mike, you’re FIRED!”
“FIRED?”
“That’s right. No more Mike Flanagan, Vice-President of Operations.”
“But, Mr. Angelos…”
“Now, Mike…how’d you like to be the General Manager of the Baltimore Orioles?”
“But, Mr. Angelos, you told us never to use that word any more.”
“Well you’re going to hear it a lot from now on. Get the uniform people on the phone. Call our stationary people, and the ticket printers. Baltimore on everything. Got it?”
“Y-y-y-yes, Mr. Angelos.”
“And another thing…right after the holidays, I want you to get all our scouts together for a meeting, where their salaries will be doubled…”
“Doubled?”
“Yes, we’re going to pay the most for the best people from now on, and listen to what they have to tell us. Call Joe Foss and tell him he’s no longer my CFO. Let’s get a baseball person in here, a bright young turk, to be your assistant, and give a lot of Joe’s duties to him. We’re going to put Joe in charge of finding and building us a new spring training home.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I don’t care who lives near Fort Lauderdale or any of that crap. Let’s do what is good for the club. And get a sculptor on the phone…I was statues of Frank, Brooks, and Cal out in the Eutaw Street Plazas. Take that Babe Ruth statue and give it to the Babe Ruth Museum.”
“Oh, and no more “Thank God I’m a Country Boy” or “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” Find something new that the fans can hang their hats on…let’s show some imagination and class. We’ll pull ‘Country Boy’ out once in awhile, but that’s one tradition that’s worn out its welcome.”
“Yes, sir. Pardon me, Sir?”
“Yes, Mike?”
“What has…happened?”
“Happened, Mike? Thanks to the spirit of some of the Orioles’ finest, I’ve rediscovered something. I like baseball, and I love the Orioles and what they can do to transform and uplift the community, even when the team’s not going well. It just has to be about the team. Something people can be proud of, argue over, cry and laugh together. George Steinbrenner couldn’t ruin the game, nor Bud Selig, nor steroids, Pete Rose, not even…me. It was still there all the time. The fault was with me. I lost my perspective. We’re going to change that. No more bleating in the press about the Sunpapers, or DC, or Confederate money, or popping off when a player says he wants to be traded. We’re going to start doing this right again, with dignity and purpose and integrity, and we’re not going to sell our souls in attempts to make quick fixes or win without ethics by signing guys like Sosa and Belle. When we DO win, and we will win our share, it will taste so much sweeter.”
“Sir, this is going to be the best Christmas EVER…”
“No, no, Mike. It’s only the beginning. A brand new beginning.”
Happy Holidays, everyone!