"Baseball is poetry in motion." This phrase, one I use a lot, though it might elicit an arched eyebrow from those unfamiliar with the nuances of either pursuit, perfectly encapsulates the grace with which Clemente played the game. His elegant movements in right field, his powerful swing glorified in stanzas, and his laser-like throws from the outfield demonstrated an athletic artistry that few players have matched.
A poem by Kevin T. Cantwell.
My point is that Ring Lardner’s stories helped shaped our nation’s sense of itself and its pastime, but these stories wouldn’t have existed without his experience in the Central League. That raucous baseball conglomerate of Midwest toughs and shady business dealings is down there in our cultural DNA.
The 70s were tough for Cleveland. And they were especially tough for the Indians.
That tiny patch of Iowa might well have been returned to corn production when the movie makers left town, but was not. It was preserved, haltingly at first, with nothing more than a rusted coffee can nailed to a post to solicit preservation donations, and now has become an industry, a revenue stream for both Iowa and big league baseball.
Among the sleeve of tattoos on his left arm is a still frame from his favorite film, the neo-noir classic Le Samouraï. He wears his former Brewers number, 59, on his red Canadian jersey. He is two weeks shy of his 40th birthday.
The original Buckeyes were a championship-winning Negro League team that played in Cleveland in the 1940s.
How about those hats?
Remembering the Ohio State Penitentiary Hurricanes—and the day my father played against them in 1965.
The Mahoning Valley Scrappers have been a symbol of the region's comeback narrative. Now, Minor League Baseball may phase them out.