MY
JOURNEY TO SABR 48 – Part 1
(Or “What I did in my 2018 Summer
Vacation”)
By
David H. Lippman
In my day, 40 years ago, at the start of every school year, my new teacher would face my class from the front of the room, and say, “Let’s all get to know one another, shall we? We’ll all write an essay, ‘What I did on my summer vacation.’” He, she, or it would write that on the board, and we would groan. Not because we had to do an essay on what we did on our summer vacation, but because, for most of us, it was pretty bloody dull.
The real purpose of the essay was so that the teacher could determine at a glance our level of ability to write clearly, in 500 words, and a little bit of who we were. The essay didn’t make much sense to me. We would turn in the essay to the teacher, he, she, or it would read them, grade them, and hand them back to us, all red-penned, with negative comments on our paragraphing and use of grammar and punctuation. The only time the teacher was angry about content was when one of my schoolmates described in graphic terms that he and a female counselor at the summer camp he worked at went off in the bushes on regular evenings, took off their clothes, and got frisky with each other. He got sent to the assistant principal’s office for writing “fictional pornographic filth,” while he insisted it was the “God’s honest truth.”
I usually joined him there, for asking the question that we wrote the essays, turned them in to the teachers, who graded them, handed them back to each of us separately, so he got to know us, we did not get to find out about each other, and we certainly did not “get to know about” him. That view was considered impertinent and insolent, and when my teacher told me so, I would leap to my feet and flip him the Hitler salute and swear allegiance to Der Fuehrer…but that’s another story.
The story I would write would be invariably the same. My brother and I sat through baseball games at Yankee and Shea Stadiums, watching the Yankees win and the Mets lose. Having little else to write about, I would dissect the Yankees’ advantages (Reggie Jackson, Thurman Munson, and Ron Guidry) and the Mets’ flaws. (Bruce Boisclair, Richie Hebner, and Kevin Kobel)
Well, this summer, I took my vacation in Pittsburgh, and it was again baseball-related, but it was a hell of a lot more fun. From June 20 to June 24, I was attending the Society for American Baseball Research’s annual National Convention, my third such, as a member of the Biography, Black Sox, Media, and Game History Committees, a chapter officer of the New York Casey Stengel Chapter, and a Yankees and Giants fan. (The Giants being my favorite National League team for reasons too complex for this essay)
This time around, I thought I’d keep a journal of the event, which I thought would be entertaining for readers. As I took plenty of photographs, it will be well-illustrated.
Pittsburgh has a very long baseball history – the Pirates claim to have been there since the 1880s, and some of the most legendary players in the game’s history have worn their distinctive black-and-gold: names like Honus Wagner, Willie Stargell, Ralph Kiner, Paul Waner, Lloyd Waner, Arky Vaughan, Dave Parker, Pie Traynor, and two that stand above the rest: the titanic Roberto Clemente, whose deeds transcend sport, and a man who was best described by Shakespeare’s King of France, in “Henry V,” in Act 2, Scene 3, literally:
Witness our too-much-memorable shame
When Cressy battle fatally was struck
And all our princes captived by the hand
Of that black name, Edward, Black Prince of Wales.
For those having trouble with Shakespeare, “No Fear Shakespeare” renders it thus:
Reflect on the battle of Crécy, where, to our everlasting shame, all our princes were taken prisoner by the Prince of Wales, he whom they called Edward the Black Prince.
And the “battle of Crecy” can be translated to the “1960 World Series,” and “Edward the Black Prince” translates to “Bill Mazeroski.” Our boys – the Yankees led by Casey Stengel, outscored, outhit, and outpitched the Pirates, with Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Yogi Berra, and Bobby Richardson powering 55 runs to the Pirates 27. Whitey Ford pitched and won two shutouts, 12-0 and 16-0. But the Pirates prevailed in the ninth inning of the seventh game when Mazeroski broke up the 9-9 tie to win the game with a home run off of Ralph Terry. Mickey Mantle cried all the way home to Pittsburgh, knowing that the Yankees were the better team.
Yogi Berra knew it, too, and he shared his memories of that in an effort to comfort Yankee fans four decades later after the horror of the final inning of the 2001 World Series, a year that the Yankees and New York City needed a World Championship more than it ever had in its entire history, but was denied it.
Anyway, I also had a complaint about it as a Giants fan – the Pirates had denied the New York Giants the 1927 pennant, and it would have been wonderful to see a Subway Series at any time. It was the only year that Rogers Hornsby played for the Giants, and I’m sure that Waite Hoyt would have put that miserable grouch in his place. More recently, the 1971 Giants won the National League West one the final day of the season, and the Pirates zapped them in the playoffs. It was the only time that Dave Kingman played in the post-season, although he picked up a World Series Ring in 1977 when he finished up the year (10 games) with the Yankees.
So I had to go and represent – the Casey Stengel Chapter, the Yankees, the Giants, New York, and myself. Besides, Pittsburgh seemed an interesting town. I hoped to get a look at it when not in the hotel.
I packed out the night before, on June 19, loading two bags with notepaper (for the journal), a couple of books to be autographed by fellow members who I knew were speaking, and ensuring that my t-shirts and caps were such that at all times I would be wearing both Giants and Yankees gear – Yankee hat and Giant t-shirt or Yankee t-shirt and Giant hat. I planned the t-shirts with great concern – more so than an actress choosing her gown for the red carpet at the Oscars. Yes to the t-shirt from the 2010 Yankees Old-Timer’s Game, which had the names of all the attendees on the back, honored the late Bob Sheppard and George Steinbrenner on the front, and had pictures of great Yankees from Ruth to Jeter. No to the battered Yankees-Mets 2009 interleague series shirt, as it would confuse the issue. Yes to the t-shirt with the 2014 front page of the San Francisco Chronicle that had all of the Giants’ World Championships, five in New York, three in San Francisco, marked with little orange flags. The light color would be good for watching the game in the heat. Yes to the t-shirt that said “New York’s Finest, Bravest, Winningest” with the logos of the NYPD, NYFD, and the Yankees on it – that would show visitors who was the best. And so on.
My wife Kathy and daughter Wallis (freshly graduated from college) looked on in amusement at “Daddy the Dork” making these critical decisions, but I told them it was like suiting up for the Game. You had to be in uniform. “You’re still a dork, Daddy,” was the answer.
I couldn’t go by car to Newark Liberty International Airport – both had elsewhere to go, but a miracle of Newark and my neighborhood is that a New Jersey Transit bus line, the “Go28,” runs directly from two blocks from my home with limited stops, straight to the airport, with racks for luggage. So here we go:
June 20
10:10 a.m.: I flop down to wait for the bus to the airport, and expect a long wait – it runs every 20 minutes to half an hour. Instead, it shows up two minutes later, and I have to dash out to flag it down. The bus is nearly empty. I hop aboard, flash my monthly bus pass (it works on this line, too) and grab a seat. The bus zooms off, making limited stops, avoiding ordinary commuters. I break out Willie Randolph’s autobiography, “The Yankee Way,” and start at the start. Willie defined Yankee excellence all his life.
10:19 a.m.: The weather this morning is absolutely perfect, as we zoom south down Newark’s Broadway and into Broad Street, the main artery of the city since its founding in 1666. Some 350 years later, Broad Street looks much better than even 10 years ago – the empty Wiss Jewelry Building has been replaced by a 27-story Prudential Insurance Company skyscraper, complete with a Starbucks. The abandoned Hahne’s Department Store is now a Whole Food Market, its upper floors turned into housing and a Rutgers art studio. Military Park, Newark’s oldest, has had a massive renovation that includes new carousel and lunch area, and free Wi-Fi. Gutzon Borglum’s immense bronze statue “Wars of America,” which depicts 132 Americans of both sexes and a number of horses fighting for liberty in conflicts from the Revolution to the Great War has been cleaned up, its sword-shaped garden around it replanted with new flowers.
This is a Newark that few people see – well, judging by the nasty posts in the comments section of media outlets on our news. According to these readers, Newark is a permanent cesspool, despite all my 20-year-efforts as a public relations man for the city. Perhaps the fact that Newark has made Amazon’s 20-city shortlist for its “HQ2” may answer the nay-sayers. Maybe not. My fields are history and baseball, not business. Except the business of baseball.
The only major loss is the closing of the “Subway” sandwich shop at Broad Street and Raymond Boulevard. There were two downtown, one here, the other near City Hall, and they were occasional lunch breaks for me.
I pass by City Hall, my workplace, and think, “Back on Monday!”
11:12 a.m.: I finally get through the complex automated check-in procedure at the airport. I swear, you have to have a degree in computer science to get on a flight to Pittsburgh. After tapping screens and showing identification, I finally line up to endure the TSA’s draconian security process.
When I was a kid, and my family flew to Montreal for Expo 68, we had to wear our best clothing for the plane. Now people fly as casually as possible, holey jeans, bare midriffs, t-shirts and shorts. The dress is casual, but the security is tight.
12:01 p.m.: On the United Airlines plane at last. My least favorite airline, and not just because their Gestapo dragged a doctor off a flight in Chicago last year and beat him severely. I have rarely, if ever had a good flight on United. British Airways, QANTAS, and most of all, Air New Zealand, have given me good service. But United is an airborne disaster. Sure enough, this plane is narrow, with four rows, 156 seats, five of them the usual extra-wide first-class seats.
12:10 p.m.: During the safety briefing, I pay attention. I read that flight attendants get mad if you don’t do so. Besides, if something bad happens, I want to be ready. While the flight attendants give the briefing, we taxi to the runway. It always amuses me that flight attendants in real life look nothing like the models and actresses they use in the commercials – more sober and professional than the happy-go-lucky actors.
12:12 p.m.: As the plane takes off, I go back to the life of Willie Randolph, and read about how he learned both baseball and discipline playing baseball on the Parade Grounds in Brooklyn, just south of Prospect Park. He also met his future wife, as an eighth grader, fell in love, and have been a couple and then married ever since, and still are. As a guy who has been married 23 years (and gone through difficult times but held it together), I am greatly moved.
12:27 p.m.: The plane takes off, and we zoom over the Linden oil refineries, and head west. Most visitors to New Jersey only drive up and down the New Jersey Turnpike, so all they see are the factories, oil refineries, swamps, airport, and seaport. That’s their view of New Jersey. They never see the beauty of our mountains, the culture of our cities and theaters, or the history of places like Morristown and Monmouth. It’s a shame.
12:30 p.m.: As we bank and head west, I look down and see endless suburban blocks, rows and rows of split-level homes. It makes me realize just how heavily populated New Jersey really is. If New Jersey stinks so much, how come Newark alone has 280,000 people and Wyoming, a wonderful place, has a grand total of 350,000? Can’t answer that. I go back to Willie Randolph. He gets scouted by the Pirates, signs with them, and makes his debut with their big club in 1975. At season’s end, he is traded with Dock Ellis and others to the Yankees for Doc Medich. Ellis tells Randolph that the Yankees are more interested in the young Randolph than the veteran pitcher Ellis, which is absolutely accurate. Ellis does one year with the Yankees, 1976, and then is dumped on the Oakland Athletics. Randolph goes on to glory with the Yankees.
1:04 p.m.: I feel the usual pop in my ears, and realize we are descending into Pittsburgh. I will need lunch soon.
1:21 p.m.: The pilot announces there is a 20-minute landing hold-up due to thunderstorms, which will be a meme for the rest of the journey. I hope they clear up the weather by game time. We circle over Pittsburgh. I read about Randolph’s rookie season with the Yankees, and how much he admires Billy Martin.
1:30 p.m.: Out of the airplane. I hike to the baggage carousel, scoop up the big bag, and discover that the terminal is not the terminal. Well, it is the terminal. But you have to take an underground shuttle from this terminal to the other terminal, where the ticketing, parking, and transportation resides. That way, Pittsburgh can have a terminal where planes can load and unload at any point. Chicago has something similar, I recall.
Before I reach the shuttle, I find two large statues standing guard at the entrance to this two-stop subway. One is William Pitt. The other is Franco Harris, making his “Immaculate Reception.” They have important priorities in Pittsburgh.
The one-stop subway is virtually all standing-room, and zips along quickly. It dumps passengers on one side and loads from another, for greater efficiency. After that, I head in search of the bus that will take me downtown.
1:47 p.m.: I’m out of the gate. Pittsburgh’s airport is like all airports. The information folks tell me where to find the bus. I go there. Like all airports, a scruffy homeless man staggers up to me and begs for a dollar. No, I am not supporting his drug dealer. I have to purchase a plastic commuter card, like a credit card, to ride the local buses, which are run by the “Port Authority.”
Port Authority? Port Authority? Who the hell are they kidding? Pittsburgh is in the middle of Pennsylvania! Three rivers and no ocean! This sounds like a Robert Moses-style scam to me – create an authority for a temporary purpose, and then make it permanent by issuing bonds forever. Then non-elected people with no accountability to anyone can do what they want forever.
2 p.m.: The bus arrives, and it proves fairly comfortable. We head off and down interstate highways like I-376, east toward downtown. Outside heavy clouds mass.
2:10 p.m.: The clouds turn into heavy rain. I hope tomorrow’s Pirates game with the Arizona Diamondbacks will not be rained out. However, I am prepared. I pull out my New York Yankees rain cape, purchased years ago at the old stadium, and wrap myself up in it. Not only am I prepared, I am representing.
2:26 p.m.: I-376 is also US 22, which means that if I keep heading east on I-22, I will be back in Newark. It’s circular reasoning. The bus makes a few stops at specific stations through the rain.
2:31 p.m.: The driver puts the bus on a dedicated busway, which consists of two lanes, only buses, and has periodic stations where commuters can board various bus routes to go downtown. I’m impressed, and wonder if this was formerly a trolley route. If so, they should have kept the trolleys.
We go into a tunnel and when we emerge, the rain is still coming down, but Pittsburgh appears through the clouds and mist. It is fairly impressive from the south side of the Ohio and Monongehela Rivers, where the three rivers meet. Downtown Pittsburgh is the usual mass of modern and post-modern skyscrapers, surrounded by bridges. The bus rumbles across a double-decker bridge – eastbound on top, westbound below, and the hotel is across the street from the bus stop.
2:45 p.m.: I get off the bus, lugging my kit, and walk through pouring rain into the Grand Wyndham Hotel. They are hosting the American Disabled Association’s national convention, which is in its last day, as well as SABR, which is just getting started. Conventions are the lifeblood of hotels, because of their massive and profitable use of the facilities. However, this one is clearly a strain on the staff, as people in wheelchairs, tapping canes, or trailing service dogs, struggle through the lobby. I hope that nobody makes any cracks about the blind guys being umpires. Interestingly enough, one of the lectures on the schedule is a history of “Baseball for the Blind.”
The staff has my reservation, and a member asks me if I would be happy to get put on a higher floor. While I have a fear of heights, the 21st floor is not a problem. I am given a room that has a fantastic view of the point where the three rivers – Ohio, Monongehela, and Allegheny, actually meet. Outside, the rain batters down.
I take off the cap I have worn on the trip, my Royal Navy HMS Cornwall cap, which goes on every single major trip I go on. That cap has been up Mt. Fuji, to Hong Kong, to Hawaii, the United Kingdom, Baltimore’s Fort McHenry, San Francisco, Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Maine, Philadelphia, and Antarctica. Now it has been worn in Pittsburgh. It will stay in the bag the rest of the way. I put on a Yankees cap and head downstairs to check in.
3:15 p.m.: The registration process is as simple as ever – I ran it myself last year in New York’s Grand Hyatt Hotel, stuffing the goody bags and then checking in the victims. They have my name tag, a Pirates lanyard, and a bag with the usual material – event program, list of Pittsburgh distractions, upscale eateries – and a Pirates cap. I won’t be wearing that. I have to go to a charming young blonde to get my paper for the awards luncheon and the Pirates game, and the charming young blonde turns out to be an acquaintance from last year’s SABR convention…Blair Clancy, of New York, New York.
Ms. Clancy is a Sports Management Major at New York University. More importantly, she was one of our interns at SABR 47 in New York, handing out materials to attendees with gusto and good cheer. Most importantly, she is Whitey Ford’s granddaughter. We recognize each other and have a pleasant chat. She is near her degree, but hasn’t got a job lined up yet. I tell her she can use me as a reference. She tells me that Whitey is in good shape, living in Long Island (in summer) and Florida (in winter), slowing down a little, but still enjoying watching the Yankees on TV. The whole family loves going to Old Timer’s Day. I tell Blair I would love to watch a Yankee game on TV with her grandfather and hear his analysis of the game…it would be more interesting than most broadcasters. She says she enjoys doing that herself.
With that done, it’s time to get some lunch. Preferably cheaply. One goal is to save money on this expedition.
3:47 p.m.: I spotted a McDonald’s near the hotel, so I put my rain cape back on – I was letting it dry in my hotel room – and head over for my favorite McDonald’s food: Egg McMuffins. Everything else is weak. I take along baseball writer Leonard Koppett’s brilliant “The Thinking Fan’s Guide to Baseball” for company. Koppett was a tremendous writer, and I spoke to him once by phone from Japan, and he graciously autographed my copy of the first edition of the original book, which had “Man” for “Fan” and was written in 1966. It is therefore obsolete in some areas (and not just for sexism), but for baseball’s changes (free agency, designated hitter rule, players’ unions), but some of it translated easily into the new book, particularly the game as it is played on the field. I devour the chapter on hitting as I devour the food.
4:15 p.m.: I head back to the hotel, and as I do, I walk by the glass entrance to the Pittsburgh Light Rail/Subway, which has a major downtown station here. The line is like the Newark City Subway in two respects – light rail cars and no turnstiles. You have to use your Port Authority card to get on, and fare inspectors make sure you have a valid one. The station has a public address system, and when not giving announcements, it plays music. However, unlike clothing stores, it’s not hip-hop, and unlike elevators, it’s not Muzak. It’s Mozart. I recognize “A Little Night Music” anywhere. Good to see that the Steel City has some class. Probably scares off vandals, too.
4:34 p.m.: Back in the hotel room, I put the Yankee rain cape away, and review the schedule. First event is the Welcome Reception at 6 p.m. I have an hour and a half until that, so I conk out for a nap. I should be up in time…..
6:20 p.m.: Holy Cow! I’m late for the welcoming address! I race down to the main ballroom, and find it full of fellow baseball fans. Most of them are like me, in their 50s and older, but there are younger folks. Many are men, but there are a lot of women. Nearly all are wearing the caps or shirts of their favorite teams, including the Negro Leagues.
The food consists of finger food and light material, which means I’ll need a real meal later. I take the finger food and start chatting with folks.
Suddenly an ancient retired sportswriter from California, named Steve Ames, rising from his seat with the aid of a metal cane, collapses onto the floor, suffering cuts on his right arm as he does so. I put aside the dull finger food and like the Navy veteran I am, respond to the emergency. With some help, I am able to lift him up and prop him into a chair, while hotel security arrives at the double with a bandages and walkie-talkies. The medics wrap him in bandages and ask if he wants to be transported to hospital. Absolutely not, he says. He doesn’t want to spend the convention in the hospital. The medics finish their job, and we sit for a while.
Steve tells me of growing up with the Oakland Oaks, and how Casey Stengel managed them and recognized the talents of their young second baseman, a local kid with small size and a large nose named Billy Martin. The rest of the story we know forever.
After Steve feels better, he rises properly on his cane and heads off for a drink. I chat with the other attendees. Among them is a woman wearing a Detroit Tigers road jersey with the words “Rally Goose” on the back. That makes no sense.
Rally Goose tells me that the shirt is one of many official items the Tigers have been selling and marketing since the incident earlier this year when a goose landed on the field at Comerica Park. Groundskeepers encouraged the goose to take off, and he did – right into a grandstand scoreboard and its lights. Doubtless he was utterly confused by the noise and lights.
The goose collapsed onto the lower deck seats, and would have probably been trundled off to a dumpster, but a veterinarian was sitting nearby, and she dashed over. She said the goose had merely suffered a concussion and she took the dazed bird to an animal shelter, where he was treated, given a few shots, and released in a park later.
The goose became a symbol for the Tigers – they got a wooden goose decoy and now keep it in the dugout. When one of their young stars hit a walk-off grand-slam home run, he was greeted at the plate by teammates holding up the wooden goose.
Now the Tigers sell “Rally Goose” merchandise, and show “Rally Goose” messages on their scoreboard. I’m impressed. I wonder what a good Yankee bird would be…a pigeon? A seagull? An English Sparrow? Would a New York mascot have to be a bird? How about a cockroach, a rat, a mosquito, house fly, a bedbug, a waterbug, or a Central Park dragonfly?
I greet people I’ve known from previous SABR events. They are impressed by my Mariano Rivera t-shirt, which lists his career highlights from signing to retirement. And my daughter snickered at my t-shirt choices.
We eat our finger food and talk about baseball history…it’s always fun to talk baseball with people who know the game cold, and no trash talk. Even though folks there are wearing Mets, Red Sox, and Dodgers attire, we can cheerily discuss how, for example, being a catcher requires more than offensive and plain defensive skills – since you catch every pitch, a catcher must understand pitching. Furthermore, they are the only player in the game who faces the action. That’s why so many catchers (Connie Mack, Mickey Cochrane, Brad Ausmus, Yogi Berra, Wes Westrum, Bruce Bochy, Joe Torre, Tony La Russa, Ralph Houk, Wally Schang, Ray Schalk, Joe Girardi, Darrell Johnson…)
I meet up with Jason Pomrenke, who is taking official photos of the event for SABR. We are pals, and he is head of the 1919 Black Sox Committee, which researches that scandal. I have a personal interest in that fiasco, as my great-uncle, Sam “Izzy” Lippman, helped rig that World Series.
Izzy was an interesting guy. He began his career in questionable occupations by cleaning spittoons in the pool hall that Giants Manager John J. McGraw co-owned with the “Big Bankroll,” Arnold Rothstein, around 1906. Izzy got free Giants and later Yankees tickets, and introduced Grandpa to baseball in 1908, when they saw Christy Mathewson fire a 3-0 shutout at the Reds. Grandpa was hooked.
By 1919, Grandpa was a pharmacy major at Fordham University and Izzy was a bagman and enforcer for Rothstein. When the Big Bankroll orchestrated the rigging of the World Series, Izzy was sent around New York to handle betting slips, make payoffs to winners, and collect from losers. Having a sharp mind, quick fists, and a closed mouth, he did his job. If you didn’t pay your losses to Izzy, he would beat the hell out of you.
When not working for Rothstein, Izzy led a crew that robbed furniture warehouses. They would often get a tip on new furniture from the night watchman, and drive up in their truck, give him $100 or beat the hell out of him, or both, and take the furniture they wanted. What they didn’t fence, they gave to my family, which was the only reason Izzy was invited to family events. Otherwise, they couldn’t stand him. “A shame for the neighbors, he is!” my relatives would yell.
In the mid-1920s, Izzy disappeared. Apparently he was skimming the take from Rothstein, and the Big Bankroll didn’t like this. We don’t know why Izzy did something that stupid – drug addiction, gambling debts, booze addiction, expensive girlfriends, but he did. What we do know is that Izzy is forever a cornerstone in the infrastructure of New York – he’s holding up the Hell Gate Bridge.
Jake tells me that the Committee, based in Chicago, is making little progress on finding the missing pages of White Sox Secretary Harry Grabiner’s diary, which may – may – contain the dope on how Sox owner Charlie Comiskey and others worked behind the scenes to hide the Sox players’ confessions and get them acquitted at trial. Too bad for all concerned that Commissioner Landis overruled everybody.
We talk about how funny it is that Ray Schalk, the “Clean Sox” catcher on that squad, made it to the Hall of Fame despite his mediocre statistics (compared to Hall of Famers). Two of the other major “Clean Sox,” Urban “Red” Faber and Eddie Collins, are also up at the Hall, but justifiably so.
“Maybe they should add Nemo Leibold, the right fielder,” I say. “He played the Series clean but dull.”
Jake laughs and heads off to take photos.
I head downstairs to the computers, and check on my e-mail, the Giants, and the Yankees. The Yankees have come back from a 5-0 deficit when Giancarlo Stanton smashed a walk-off two run homer in the bottom of the ninth off of Ryan Cook to cap a massive rally. Yankees win, 7-5.
This is a big moment for Stanton, as it’s is first such dramatic moment at the Stadium, and the fans who have been irritated by his high strikeouts have obviously leaped to their feet, and are making the ballpark vibrate. I kind of wish I could be there, but this is a good substitute.
I also see that I’m “Judge No. 23,” which pleases me. I volunteered to judge the presentations, as I did in Philadelphia in 2013. The first time I did it, I gave everyone high marks. This time I’ll be tougher, having had experience.
I head back up to the room, and the rain is drenching down. It patters off my window. In the distance I can see lightning bolts illuminating the sky. The bolts you see are actually the reverse flow coming up, not the main bolt coming down, for some reason.
I read the schedule for tomorrow: opening remarks, a panel on Roberto Clemente, a presentation on why Babe Ruth never became a major league manager, another one on Ralph Kiner and Branch Rickey, the Giants and Dodgers moving west, legendary black baseball writer Wendell Smith, and Moe Berg. I’d better get up early.
I watch the lightning for a while, blasting over the Steelers’ stadium, and then hit the sack. It’ll be a long but fun day tomorrow.
