It’s a 42 Game Season

by Geno Petro

Chicago Broker Owner Realtor | RE 2.0 Blogger

Author website

It’s a game of beauty 

I would imagine that most writers in this country,  urban and rural alike, have at least one good baseball story they like to tell. It is, after all, a near perfect game worthy of a passing glance if not downright close examination by anyone with a penchant for detail and statistics. Sportsman, spectator, or otherwise, there’s got to be one decent yarn in all of us when it comes to this beloved pastime. 

Baseball. It’s a beautiful woman walking down the sidewalk in a summer dress. It’s first love at first sight in May, the smell of  freshly cut grass in June and puppies in a box for a dollar–‘free’ of course, to a good home, anytime. It is watermelon in July and root beer in August. It’s the September State Fair when you’re eight and knowing God when you’re eighty.  It is a million square miles of America. 

My first Chicago apartment was three blocks east and 52 stories above the left-center alley bleachers of historic Wrigley Field. Alone and new to the city, there were many evenings during that 1996 season when I would simply gaze out above the cityscape of streets and gangways, elevated rail tracks and brown brick walk-ups that separated my high-rise dwelling from the Friendly Confines, and mentally recreate my own destiny, repairing my past with fantasy and grandeur. I’d stare westward into the lights listening to the bellows of the stadium, imagining the thrill of playing at such a level, in such a venue—that near perfect game of summer. From my soft-lofted perch I’d mentally motor around the base paths like a finely tuned sportscar and fire clothesline ropes from center to home with my rocket gun; above the cutoff man, without a bounce, and just before the collided tag out at the plate…I’d drink til the next morning with the catchers and ignore the pitchers and rookies. I’d negotiate my own contracts and wear my pants down low and hardly ever shave my jaw. 

Chicago Cubs pitching coach and veteran Hall of Famer Fergie Jenkins lived in the same building that summer as did a handful of players who were always coming up and down from the Minors throughout the roller coaster season. The Fergie I observed was a quiet man; a towering figure, usually in a cowboy hat, jeans and boots who kept a tight smile on his face and a U-Haul trailer in the parking space next to mine in the garage. His apartment was a few doors down the hall and his U-Haul was parked cockeyed, just slightly over the line into my own designated area. Having never progressed past Babe Ruth League ball myself, I didn’t feel like I was entitled to even bring up the subject much less complain to the umps at Standard Parking.  He was Ferguson Jenkins, Hall of Famer, and entitled to a liberal strike zone, I figured.

It’s a game of numbers.

I recently read where the odds of being born are 1 in 157 trillion.  (This of course, is assuming that some future biological father is lucky enough to even be in the hallowed moneyball position in the first place–another whole different set of odds, to be sure.) Once born, there is another 50%  or so chance that the tad will be a lad and yet another 1 in 160,000 chance that the lad will make it to the Big Leagues as a professional baseball player. After finally arriving at The Show, the chances of making it to Cooperstown are another 1 in 1,000.  All things equal, this is just my way of describing the legend who lived down the hall that summer and perhaps, recognized me only as the much shorter guy whose name he didn’t know and occasionally shared a silent elevator ride with, 52 floors down to the lobby. If you know anything at all about baseball then you know not to talk to pitchers (or pitching coaches ) when things are going sideways in a game, not to mention an entire season. Eye contact isn’t good either. I did speak when spoken to, however and there was one conversation in particular, I like to recall.

As you may already know, the Cubs were lousy that year, finishing a dismal  76-86 and a lightyear or so out of first. Fergie got fired on a Sunday night, a few hours after the final game in September. The next morning his parking space was empty and I never saw him again except on ESPN. As I’ve told this story over the years I’ve embellished and detracted the facts here and there, puffing up and paring back specific details.  I think it’s in my nature to do this although I try to be as accurate as I can when I’m actually mentioning real people’s names;  especially those with the required amount of votes for entrance into Cooperstown (Ron Santo, notwithstanding. Perfect imperfection, Mr Santo is).

Twelve years and several residences later I do remember this much.  The big man said, in so many words, that in a 162 game season the best teams in the Major Leagues will lose 60 games and the the worst teams in the sport will win 60 games. That leaves a mere 42 games to determine who plays ball in October and who moves their U-Haul in September.  He didn’t put it exactly that way but I think you know what I mean. Last year I showed the current Cubs pitching coach, and his wife, one of my listings close to the ball park. He wasn’t much of a talker either. To break the ice I told him a quick,  embellished version of the Fergie Jenkins U-Haul story as we toured the condo but he didn’t find it amusing.  At all. 

He shot me a look like I was crowding the plate and brushed me back with a flick of the wrist–a knuckler, a sign from the wife, I think. I don’t think he liked the part about the U-Haul. Or the pitching coach getting fired. Or losing even 60 games. Or maybe it was just the condo. He definitely didn’t like the condo.

It’s just a game

The Chicago Cubs back-up catcher for this year is renting one of our single family house listings for the season.  During a walk-through with an appraiser the other day I noticed a hardback copy of Cal Ripken, Jr; My Story, on the nightstand.  Pretty impressive I thought, for someone who doesn’t speak English and is hitting .170 with men in scoring position. Maybe he just reads English. There was also what appeared to be a fake Rolex oxidizing on the counter in the master bath so I’m pretty sure this guy is a poser–no Fergie Jenkins, if you know what I’m saying. Not even a Larry Rothschild, for that matter. (Hopefully, if any of these people do read English, they don’t read blogs and if, in fact, they do read blogs, they don’t read this one.)  Anyway—curious, intrigued, whatever…I went to Barnes and Noble and bought my own copy of the book. And here’s what I found…

A typographical error in the Cal Ripken section on ‘Perfection.’  He goes on and on in this particular chapter about how ‘practice doesn’t make perfect’ but ‘perfect practice…’  I don’t even feel like completing the cliche. Anyway, he and his editor confuse a pronoun with a contraction, mistaking  your for you’re…in the chapter on Perfection.  Not really a  big deal… if you’re not writing a book…on Perfection, which as we know, baseball nearly is.   I also picked up a copy of Baseball Digest and learned that a certain back-up catcher makes 3 mil a year…for batting .170 with men in scoring position.  And thus, unlike the rarified notion of the beautiful woman passing by in the summer dress (or my wife, for that matter, who has a few head turning summer dresses of her own) this game of ours, while beautiful in it’s own regard, can never truly be without flaw.  Not when the best teams still lose 60 games, back-up catchers with goldtone jewelry make 3 mil a year and any one of 42 games in any given season  can constitute a tipping point as to where one might be parking one’s U-Haul come October, Hall of Fame or otherwise.  And no matter how many puppies you take home for free or how good the grass smells in June…don’t even get me started on  the Designated Hitter.