A Day In the Fantasy Life....
Posted: Fri May 08, 2015 7:29 am
He stared at Josh Harrison's stats. .175/11/2/6/0. Remembering how proud he was to take him in the ninth round of the Main Event.
Harrison lasting till the ninth round was a steal!
Or so, he thought.
He pictured Harrison as a sparkplug. A guy at the top of the Pittsburgh lineup that would set a very potent offense in motion.
Still pictures of him didn't seem to contain the ball of energy that he had become last year.
Now, looking at the still photo that accompanied his statistics on a site page, his drafter thought he looked more like a convict.
By fantasy law, he could be tried for treason.
18 steals last year. Now, zero.
He's black fer crissakes, he thought to himself.
No steals, damn.
Harrison's drafter was white. Just turned 60 last year.
He was raised with the ideals that white folks stayed among white folks. Same for blacks.
His Dad was adament that both races could not mix. Anytime riots broke out in the 60's with black people marching or the marching turning to violence, his Dad would scream at the tv, "Let them rob, steal, and kill each other. Idiots!"
The racism passed down from generation to generation.
It wasn't called racism back then.
It was just the way it was.
His Dad called boxing, 'a sport taken over by black people.'
He did use the words 'Back people' preferring the 'N' word.
His son never liked that word.
When Cassius Clay fought Sonny Liston for the heavyweight Championship, his Dad thought that the world would be a better place if Liston won.
Liston was a huge black man. He stood like a tree. As strong as a black ox. And had the punch like that of a full bottle of Jack Daniels. Such a black man would be intimadating to his Dad in real life.
Now, somebody to root for.
He rooted for him because Cassius Clay was loud and obnoxious.
He was 'uppity'.
That was the word white people used for a black person that didn't know their place.
Cassius Clay did not know his place. He was a proud black man who did not say the things white people wanted to hear.
Clay was skinny. Liston will clobber him.
His Dad knew that Liston had taken just one round to pummel Floyd Patterson.
Should be the same for the uppity Clay.
His son was nine years old. Always with a ball in his hand. He started lisening to the Giants on radio when he was six years old.
His hero, Willie Mays.
His Dad was ok with Mays.
Mays said all the right things. So did Willie McCovey.
His Dad was resigned to the fact that blacks and Spanish were going to play his white sport.
"They let Robinson play, they can't turn the faucet off now"
But, that Juan Marichal should learn how to speak better English! "If they're going to come to America, they should speak the language like we do!"
His son idolized Mays, without hardly seeing him. Except for a few highlights that the sports on the news showed.
Russ Hodges, the play-by-play guy for the Giants seemed genuinely amazed by some of the things Mays did.
His son wished he were Willie Mays.
Not once did he ever think that about his own Dad.
His son watched some of Cassius Clay's highlights. He enjoyed the athleticism in Clay. He wasn't a bruiser like most heavyweights. He was fast.
If I could move like that, I'd brag too, he thought to himself.
Inwardly, not saying a word to friends or especially his Dad, he became a fan of Clay's.
He enjoyed the reactions that Cassius Clay would induce when bragging about how he would beat Liston.
He wished there was a baseball card of Cassius Clay.
Still, he worried that Clay would get killed.
Liston was a bad man. Even went to jail.
Championship fights were on radio back then. The Dad sent the wife out of the house to shop, or go to the library, or go out with the girls. He knew that a Championship fight, even if listened to on radio, was never a place for a woman.
He invited some friends over.
All rooting for the same outcome. Liston to knock Clay's block off and put him in his place.
The son, hoping for the miracle that Clay would escape with his life.
Winning for Clay?
Too much to ask.
His Dad asked others if they had heard what Henry Cooper, the English boxing Champ had said.
With answers in the negative, he told them that Cooper would only fight the winner if the winner were Clay. That Cooper wouldn't even walk down the same street as Liston.
They all laughed.
His son pictured parts of Clay all over the ring after Liston got done with him.
The fight started. His Dad and his friends started throwing air punches whenever the radio announcer would describe a Liston punch. As if to help Liston along. Not that he needed help.
The first round ended. Clay was alive.
He had already lasted longer than Floyd Patterson. Maybe he'd be ok.
The fight continued. The radio guy, like most, had started out convinced that Liston would kill Clay.
Now, after a couple of rounds, there was doubt that Liston was even hurting Clay.
In fact, it seemed like it was Clay who was using his speed to get the better of Liston.
The son pictured how Willie Mays could steal a base.
A slow, plodding Frank Howard was only a danger with a bat in his hands. On the bases, nothing.
The son envisioned Clay as Mays, Liston as Howard.
Liston could not come out for the seventh round. Clay had run him ragged. His quick rabbit punches having more effect than Liston's haymaking misses.
That's what we get for rooting for ANY black guy, his father and friends agreed.
They were confident that Clay would be Champ for a very short time. And that maybe a white fella, even that guy from England, should take advantage so there would be a white champion.
The son went to his room and turned on his own radio.
He wanted to hear more about the new Champ.
Now, now he looked at Josh Harrison's stats and picture.
He snickered.
His Dad would say that that is what he gets for rooting a black guy.
He had drafted Harrison because of dual positionality mainly. He already had a 3b, not many outfielders. When drafting him, he liked the thought that if there were injury or underperformance at either position, Harrison would be gold.
Funny thing about dual positionality guys is that when they get hurt or underperform, it hurts twice as much.
He can't drop Harrison.
But, he wants to.
Harrison has not looked at all like he did last year.
He, of that sparkplug personality. He, of the big smiles and exuberance in loving what he did.
Now, swinging as if disinterested.
His drafter allowed himself to think that maybe his Dad was right.
It was wrong, but it made him smile.
Harrison lasting till the ninth round was a steal!
Or so, he thought.
He pictured Harrison as a sparkplug. A guy at the top of the Pittsburgh lineup that would set a very potent offense in motion.
Still pictures of him didn't seem to contain the ball of energy that he had become last year.
Now, looking at the still photo that accompanied his statistics on a site page, his drafter thought he looked more like a convict.
By fantasy law, he could be tried for treason.
18 steals last year. Now, zero.
He's black fer crissakes, he thought to himself.
No steals, damn.
Harrison's drafter was white. Just turned 60 last year.
He was raised with the ideals that white folks stayed among white folks. Same for blacks.
His Dad was adament that both races could not mix. Anytime riots broke out in the 60's with black people marching or the marching turning to violence, his Dad would scream at the tv, "Let them rob, steal, and kill each other. Idiots!"
The racism passed down from generation to generation.
It wasn't called racism back then.
It was just the way it was.
His Dad called boxing, 'a sport taken over by black people.'
He did use the words 'Back people' preferring the 'N' word.
His son never liked that word.
When Cassius Clay fought Sonny Liston for the heavyweight Championship, his Dad thought that the world would be a better place if Liston won.
Liston was a huge black man. He stood like a tree. As strong as a black ox. And had the punch like that of a full bottle of Jack Daniels. Such a black man would be intimadating to his Dad in real life.
Now, somebody to root for.
He rooted for him because Cassius Clay was loud and obnoxious.
He was 'uppity'.
That was the word white people used for a black person that didn't know their place.
Cassius Clay did not know his place. He was a proud black man who did not say the things white people wanted to hear.
Clay was skinny. Liston will clobber him.
His Dad knew that Liston had taken just one round to pummel Floyd Patterson.
Should be the same for the uppity Clay.
His son was nine years old. Always with a ball in his hand. He started lisening to the Giants on radio when he was six years old.
His hero, Willie Mays.
His Dad was ok with Mays.
Mays said all the right things. So did Willie McCovey.
His Dad was resigned to the fact that blacks and Spanish were going to play his white sport.
"They let Robinson play, they can't turn the faucet off now"
But, that Juan Marichal should learn how to speak better English! "If they're going to come to America, they should speak the language like we do!"
His son idolized Mays, without hardly seeing him. Except for a few highlights that the sports on the news showed.
Russ Hodges, the play-by-play guy for the Giants seemed genuinely amazed by some of the things Mays did.
His son wished he were Willie Mays.
Not once did he ever think that about his own Dad.
His son watched some of Cassius Clay's highlights. He enjoyed the athleticism in Clay. He wasn't a bruiser like most heavyweights. He was fast.
If I could move like that, I'd brag too, he thought to himself.
Inwardly, not saying a word to friends or especially his Dad, he became a fan of Clay's.
He enjoyed the reactions that Cassius Clay would induce when bragging about how he would beat Liston.
He wished there was a baseball card of Cassius Clay.
Still, he worried that Clay would get killed.
Liston was a bad man. Even went to jail.
Championship fights were on radio back then. The Dad sent the wife out of the house to shop, or go to the library, or go out with the girls. He knew that a Championship fight, even if listened to on radio, was never a place for a woman.
He invited some friends over.
All rooting for the same outcome. Liston to knock Clay's block off and put him in his place.
The son, hoping for the miracle that Clay would escape with his life.
Winning for Clay?
Too much to ask.
His Dad asked others if they had heard what Henry Cooper, the English boxing Champ had said.
With answers in the negative, he told them that Cooper would only fight the winner if the winner were Clay. That Cooper wouldn't even walk down the same street as Liston.
They all laughed.
His son pictured parts of Clay all over the ring after Liston got done with him.
The fight started. His Dad and his friends started throwing air punches whenever the radio announcer would describe a Liston punch. As if to help Liston along. Not that he needed help.
The first round ended. Clay was alive.
He had already lasted longer than Floyd Patterson. Maybe he'd be ok.
The fight continued. The radio guy, like most, had started out convinced that Liston would kill Clay.
Now, after a couple of rounds, there was doubt that Liston was even hurting Clay.
In fact, it seemed like it was Clay who was using his speed to get the better of Liston.
The son pictured how Willie Mays could steal a base.
A slow, plodding Frank Howard was only a danger with a bat in his hands. On the bases, nothing.
The son envisioned Clay as Mays, Liston as Howard.
Liston could not come out for the seventh round. Clay had run him ragged. His quick rabbit punches having more effect than Liston's haymaking misses.
That's what we get for rooting for ANY black guy, his father and friends agreed.
They were confident that Clay would be Champ for a very short time. And that maybe a white fella, even that guy from England, should take advantage so there would be a white champion.
The son went to his room and turned on his own radio.
He wanted to hear more about the new Champ.
Now, now he looked at Josh Harrison's stats and picture.
He snickered.
His Dad would say that that is what he gets for rooting a black guy.
He had drafted Harrison because of dual positionality mainly. He already had a 3b, not many outfielders. When drafting him, he liked the thought that if there were injury or underperformance at either position, Harrison would be gold.
Funny thing about dual positionality guys is that when they get hurt or underperform, it hurts twice as much.
He can't drop Harrison.
But, he wants to.
Harrison has not looked at all like he did last year.
He, of that sparkplug personality. He, of the big smiles and exuberance in loving what he did.
Now, swinging as if disinterested.
His drafter allowed himself to think that maybe his Dad was right.
It was wrong, but it made him smile.
