No. 208 – Tomorrow

Performer: Silverchair

Songwriters: Daniel Johns, Ben GIllies

Original Release: Frogstomp

Year: 1995

Definitive Version: None.

I might have mentioned this before, but my job scoring games for the Columbus Clippers was the best job I ever had and will ever have, and the first season, 2004, (when I rediscovered this song) was a nonstop joy. As I mentioned, even when I might have been in the middle of something, it was never a burden to have to stop doing what I was doing to get ready to go to the ballpark.

I already told a couple of stories about the experience. Here are a few more in no particular order.

* As many said before me: A bad day at the ballpark still beats a good day at the office. I can vouch for that, but that doesn’t mean the baseball is always good.

Todd was in charge of the Clippers’ p.r. as well as the main play-by-play announcer for radio. One of his chores was when required—and during a break in the action—he would announce in the pressbox some factoid of significance for any press, including the radio guys from the other team. (Almost every team had its own radio announcer even for road games.) He’d open the door from the radio booth, lean back in his chair and intone: “That’s Andy Phillips’ second career five-hit game” or whatever was appropriate.

Todd took a break during the sixth and seventh innings, turning over the broadcast to Bob and sitting in the pressbox to eat and chat a bit. One night in August, Todd wandered into the pressbox during the sixth inning of a game that was, well, not good. In fact, it was pretty brutal.

It was something like 9-5, with each team committing multiple actual errors and mental miscues as well as having 10 walks apiece. The game dragged along, and the weather was none too good to boot. It was one of those nights—everyone knew it—and keep in mind, this was a game the Clippers were WINNING, which almost always was enough to keep the pressbox pepped up.

Todd had a press announcement to make as he entered the pressbox. It was to the effect that what we were witnessing was, in fact, unique in the 160+ years that baseball had been played: “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the worst game in the history of baseball.”

The Dispatch didn’t even run a note on it in the next day’s paper.

* Although I loved going to the ballpark every day, I always was nervous before a game. The worst thing in the world was to get a postgame call from Bucky yelling at me for what he thought was a bad scoring decision. To calm myself, I said a little mantra as I walked from my car in the VIP parking lot to the entrance doors to Cooper Stadium: “Confidence, competence  and professionalism.”

Confidence: Making the call based on my best judgment as soon as I could. Competence: Knowing the rulebook solid, so nothing would catch me off guard. Professionalism: Not letting my ego get in the way if I blew the call. Again, it was more important to get the call right than that I made the right call.

After the game started, however, I never really was nervous. The work itself was a blast … except for one time. On this night, the Clippers pitcher—I forget his name, but it might have been Alex Graman—had a no-hitter going.

And I mean he had one going—not something through 3 or even 5, which up to that moment had been my record length as far as a pitcher having a no-hit game last. AP doesn’t take note of a no-hit game until a pitcher makes it through six innings. The Clippers starter was through seven.

And I had flop sweat on my brow. Any official scorer will tell you that the worst thing in the world—even more than a call from the clubhouse—is a no-hitter that comes down to his or her judgment. From the start of the sixth inning on, I was saying another little phrase: “Just make it clean.” In other words, if a guy on the other team gets a hit, just make it a no-doubt-about-it hit, like a home run.

In the top of the eighth, I got my wish. The Charlotte batter ripped a line drive into the gap in left-centerfield. John Rodriguez in center made a desperate dive that fell a few feet short of the mark, and the ball rolled for a triple (that decided the game, as it turned out).

No sooner had the ball hit the grass when Joe over my shoulder called out, “Three-base error. He should have had that if he were positioned better.” I whipped around and saw a little whimsical smile on his face and realized Joe had reeled in another fish.

* I loved all the mascots that paraded through Cooper Stadium. My favorite by far were the Zooperstars, and you have to check them out if you’re unfamiliar with them. I loved that I got to peer behind the curtain as the guy playing Harry Canary got into costume in the pressbox for the seventh-inning stretch.

But The Chicken—the original goofy mascot—holds a certain place in my heart. I was in attendance in 1980 when an appearance by The Chicken helped the Clippers set a franchise attendance record. Sure, his routine hadn’t changed in 30 years, but what difference did it make? Watching the Chicken was like watching Chuck Berry: You were watching an originator do his thing.

Another person in the pressbox who was particularly enthralled that night was one of the young interns, He was openly bemused by stunts I’d seen dozens of times but he never had. At one point, The Chicken went and shooed off the first-base coach, so he could do his whammy routine on the umpire. The intern loved this, saying almost incredulously, “Look at him!”

“Yeah, he’s done that forever. It’s one of his famous routines.”

“Ha,” the intern laughed then turned quizzical. “What would happen if he got hit by the ball while he was standing there?”

Without skipping a beat, I deadpanned the truth, both according to the rules and the situation. “It’d be a fowl ball.”

The entire pressbox paused for a second, then another, as the enormity of my quick response sunk in. Chris turned to me from his spot operating the scoreboard almost in disgust. “I bet you thought that was real clever.”

No, Malcolm. Your response confirmed that it was.