by Slate. com
While the A's may have been outraged, they shouldn't have been surprised. The obscene gesture—the crotch chop, and the crotch grab, and the extended middle finger—is as a much a part of baseball as, well, spitting and scratching. Digital articulation can be found, Zelig-style, at almost every important time, place, and event in baseball history. In fact, just two games prior to Lowe's outburst, the Sox watched teammate Byung-Hyun Kim flip off the Fenway faithful after getting booed during pre-game introductions.
Hall of Fame pitcher Charles "Old Hoss" Radbourn, a 19th-century ironman who won a record 59 games in 1884, is reputed to be one of the ancestors of baseball bird-flipping. (Though in this photo, it's hard to tell exactly what he's doing.) As photography widened the finger's reach, so did television bring it to the masses. In 1953, Dodgers pitcher Russ Meyer was caught making obscene gestures on television, leading to a three-day suspension and Commissioner Ford Frick's opposition to close-ups in the dugout.
When baseball's color line was shattered, the finger was there. Jackie Robinson may be famous for turning the other cheek, but other black players weren't always stoic when faced with fan abuse. In the early 1950s, Danville first baseman Bill White—a future president of the National League and one of the first African-Americans to play in the Carolina League—flipped off a vicious group of hecklers in Burlington, N.C. After the game, White's teammates had to brandish bats on the walk to the team bus.
A St. Louis
groin grab changed the course of baseball history. If shortstop Garry Templeton hadn't crotched off to fans in 1981, Cardinals owner Gussie Busch probably wouldn't have demanded the testy shortstop be shipped away. A trade that winter swapped Templeton for Ozzie Smith; the Wizard of Oz immediately began building his Hall of Fame résumé, leading the Cardinals to the 1982 World Series title. For Smith's old team, the San Diego Padres, obscene gestures are a crucial part of franchise lore. Despite two World Series appearances, are there any more indelible Padres memories than Roseanne's crotch grab, following her lustily booed rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner," and general manager Chub Feeney's ouster for shooting the bird at a pair of rooters on Fan Appreciation Day? And luckily for the Royals, this year's playoff run wiped away reminiscences of the organization's finger-borne moment in the spotlight. When that shirtless father and son attacked first-base coach Tom Gamboa last year, the father contended that Gamboa started it by flipping them off.
Of course, not all gestures are created equal. An obscenity can connote anything from perceived sexual dominion, to disgust, to hedonism. (Expos second baseman Jose Vidro apologized when a devil-may-care, two-handed, two-fingered salute he gave on the bus was caught on tape earlier this year.) The bird can even indicate admiration. Earlier this year, Barry Bonds told ESPN the Magazine that he loves hitting against John Smoltz because he's the only pitcher who's willing to mouth off to him. How does the home-run king salute the closer's brio? By surreptitiously flipping him off from the dugout. (As Billy Martin could attest, there's nothing more puckish than a covert bird).
Why is baseball in particular so blessed with a legacy of digital obscenity? Among team sports, baseball gives fans the most opportunities to filter indignation onto a specific player. Because each athlete stands in the field, in a discrete spot, for minutes at a time, it's easy for vitriolic fans to localize their anger—and for some of baseball's most notoriously hotheaded players to absorb it.
Ted Williams never acknowledged the home fans with a tip of his cap during his playing career. But he did once greet them, after being booed for a poor fielding performance in a doubleheader, by performing what he later called "insulting gestures." Albert Belle performed a one-armed salute for fans who threw coins at him when the former Indian returned to Jacobs Field as a member of the White Sox; he later greeted an unappreciative Orioles home crowd with crotch grabs and bird flips. Among his many noteworthy feats of provocation, John Rocker flipped off Shea Stadium. And Carl Everett, who always does his own thing, has focused his ire on authority figures: He has both flipped off an umpire and directed a post-home-run crotch grab at elderly pitcher Jamie Moyer.
Pro football has produced some excellent practitioners of the art of obscene gesturing—linebacker Bryan Cox springs to mind—but in recent years, the NFL has limited aggression with mandatory penalties and fines. In baseball, where there are no codified penalties for gesturing, severity of punishment correlates with whom you're pointing at. The Padres' Phil Nevin simply apologized for flipping off a heckler, while Pudge Rodriguez was suspended for a game for showing his finger to an umpire. Jose Paniagua faced the most serious consequences: When the White Sox reliever shot the bird at home-plate ump Mark Carlson on Sept. 9, the team promptly released him.
Of course, Nevin and Rodriguez are former All Stars, while at the time of his exile Paniagua had an ERA of 108.00. In baseball, it seems the indiscretions of the middle finger are tolerated only when the other four are pulling their weight.
Whither the Fridge?
The evolution of the NFL fatso.
By Josh Levin
Updated Friday, Sept. 19, 2003, at 2:47 PM PT
There's no greater joy in sports than watching a fat man run back an interception. In the first week of this NFL season, mammoth Bills defensive tackle Sam Adams leaped a few inches and engulfed a short pass from Patriots quarterback Tom Brady. Then he took off, darting diagonally toward the near sideline. At the last instant, when it appeared the 335-pound tackle's ample momentum would cause him to tip like an overstuffed wheelbarrow, Adams nimbly cut the corner and sashayed into the end zone, arms flapping and shoulders bobbing.
Adams' spectacular return typifies the heady mixture of stout play and high comedy that fat tackles have brandished throughout NFL history. It's often said that pro football came of age when Johnny Unitas led the Baltimore Colts to a 23-17 overtime victory over the Giants in the 1958 NFL championship game. But Johnny U's teammate, Hall of Fame defensive lineman Art Donovan, exerted influence on the sport just as significant as that of the Colts' vertical passing game. The self-deprecating Donovan, who answered to the nickname Fatso, is responsible for inaugurating the most lasting of pro football stock characters: the lovable, fat defensive tackle.
The ample carriage shared by Donovan and the fattest of the football fat meshes perfectly with populist folk herodom. In a game where the player's faces are obscured by helmets, hefty defensive linemen have a physical attribute that no piece of equipment can cover up: a sloppy, floppy gut. They are the only players who might reasonably be mistaken for the guys wearing their replica jerseys.
In recent years, no player filled the role of the cartoonishly larger-than-life gridder better than William "The Refrigerator" Perry. In his rookie season of 1985, the Fridge's toughness against the run helped the Bears to the Super Bowl. And though not nearly the team's best player, the Fridge was probably the most popular Bear, owing to his comic forays into the offensive backfield and the winning gap-toothed smile he flashed in the classically awkward "Super Bowl Shuffle" video. In the early '90s, 340-pound Green Bay Packers tackle Gilbert Brown stepped into the Fridge's tradition of genial gianthood. While, like the Fridge, Brown contributed to the Pack's Super Bowl run, he was also known for toting sacks of hamburgers around the team's practice facility. At the peak of his popularity in 1997, "The Gravedigger" was given a fitting homage when a Green Bay Burger King franchise honored him by christening the double-stuffed Gilbertburger (hold the pickles).
Wide loads like Fatso, the Fridge, and the Gravedigger were often credited with solid play, but most fan and media attention focused on their impressive bulk. The unlikely player who brought about a sea change in fat tackle perception was the wisecracking, mulleted Tony Siragusa. While linebacker Ray Lewis scooped up the MVP award in Super Bowl XXXV, Siragusa and his comrade-in-thighs, then-Raven Sam Adams, were credited with clogging up the opposition's interior line. Instantly, fat linemen went from garish roster-filler to coveted accessory.
More
than the other major pro sports leagues, the NFL excels at plagiarism. When one team wins with the West Coast offense, ten teams install it the following fall. And when a fat linemen tandem wins the Super Bowl, fat linemen became "run stuffers." In 2001, in the immediate afterglow of the Ravens' title, five of the first 19 players selected in the NFL Draft were 300-pound-plus defensive tackles—this after one of the first 24, one of the first 23, and zero of the first 32 picks went for tackles the prior three drafts. That same offseason, the Bears brought in stuffers Keith Traylor (340 pounds) and Ted Washington (365 pounds), who helped take the team to the 2001 playoffs with a 13-3 record. In 2002, one year after cult hero Norman "Heavy Lunch" Hand proved instrumental in the Saints' playoff drive, Grady Jackson, Martin Chase, and Hand came together like a fat Voltron to form New Orleans' half-ton "Heavy Lunch Bunch."
The problem with the fat lineman is that his productivity is often difficult to evaluate: There's a very fine line between actively tying up blockers and slouching around doing next to nothing. Since the run stuffer's supposed contributions don't show up in boldface on the stat sheet—in the Packers' 1997 Super Bowl season, Gilbert Brown had only 16 solo tackles—it's easy to assume that when the defense plays well, so does the stuffer. And when the stuffing's not up to snuff? Well, it's easy to blame the fat guy. I bet the big lug didn't even participate in the team's offseason conditioning program!
A recent New York Times article posited that the fat tackle's days are next to numbered. Now, the argument goes, every team prefers a Warren Sapp type—a defensive tackle with ample gut but quicker feet. In the 2003 NFL Draft, five of the first 13 players selected were defensive tackles in excess of 300 pounds—and all can supposedly rush the passer. Dewayne Robertson, the human landform the Jets selected fourth overall this April, typifies this new breed: His combination of size, quickness, and stamina would seem to augur ill for one-dimensional fatsos in the mold of the Fridge.
But in a league where the average career lasts less than just four seasons, fatsos have enjoyed surprising longevity. The Fridge played for 10 years, Siragusa for 12. Of the present crop of fat linemen, Hand is entering his ninth year, Dan "Big Daddy" Wilkinson and Brown their 10th,* Traylor and Chester McGlockton their 12th, and Washington his 13th. Often, that hardiness stems from adaptability: McGlockton and Wilkinson collected sacks in their slimmer days, and Traylor was a linebacker. Now they've ballooned into beefy run-stuffers. So, while it's possible that Robertson and his nimble cohorts will put today's fatsos out of a job, it seems just as likely that they'll grow into the position themselves.
Presumed Innocent
The bogus nostalgia for the lost days of Little League.
By Jeremy Derfner
Posted Tuesday, Aug. 19, 2003, at 11:37 AM PT
As far as anyone knows, none of the ballplayers at the Little League World Series is actually a hot-dogging high-school ringer on 'roids. This year's boring tournament is a Danny Almonte hangover. But the relative tranquility hasn't kept the sportswriters from fuming about the decline and fall of baseball boyhood. Yesterday's New York Times, for example, reported ominously "Little League Innocence Fades in TV Glare."
With ABC and ESPN spending more than $7 million for the broadcast rights to the series, the Times complained, the sensitive little tykes now spend their time giving interviews instead of taking batting practice or, better yet, making new friends. They can't even cry off-camera anymore! Back in the good old days, "there weren't five satellite television trucks" camped out behind the ballpark and "[e]leven- and 12-year-olds were not considered major box office draws."
But Little League's innocence, if such a thing ever existed, faded a long time ago. In 1948, the United States Rubber Co. (maker of Keds and Uniroyal tires) bought the sponsorship rights to what was then a small rec program in Pennsylvania, and the league has been a PR juggernaut ever since. That year, the World Series was called the Keds' National Little League Tournament, and the players wore jerseys with the words "U.S. Keds" and "U.S. Royals" stamped on the chest. The boys, it turns out, have been boffo from the beginning.
Take the story of Joey Cardamone, star catcher of the 1948 champions, the Lock Haven All-Stars. Joey became a Little League folk hero because he graciously shook hands with two St. Petersburg, Fla., players as they crossed the plate after hitting home runs in the tournament final. A charming display of youthful innocence? Absolutely, and that's why the sponsor put it on film. An estimated 80 million Americans saw footage of the handshakes in a movie trailer (brought to you by U.S. Rubber) about Little League. The newsreel was even translated into Japanese and showed in Japan.
ABC, ESPN, and ESPN2 will show more games (35) this year than ever before, but the difference is only one of degree. This kind of media attention is a Little League tradition. Throughout the 1950s, boys' baseball was standard radio fare. Local stations aired regular-season games, and network affiliates across the country carried the postseason action. Little Leaguers appeared in countless newsreels. The annual awards ceremony sometimes happened twice, once for real and once—in better light—for the cameras. ABC started televising the championship game way back in 1960. The intensity of ESPN's coverage reflects the glut of air time in the age of cable, not a new willingness "to make unpaid, unwitting commercial endorsers out of schoolchildren who still have a bedtime."
If media-made youth sports dates back 50 years, so does all the hand-wringing about it. Change the details and the Times lament sounds a lot like the host of exposés that appeared in the 1950s, culminating in a 1957 Sports Illustrated two-parter about "the epic war over the league's merits." Back then, reports of Almonte-esque impropriety abounded. A coach in Allentown paid his best players with fancy jackets and a free trip to New York. Overbearing parents encouraged their sons to break the rules. Spectators in Utica were betting on Little League games. Surely, this is not an experience we wish we could recapture.
Like U.S. Rubber in the 1950s, ABC and ESPN drown the kids in attention because cute sells. Little League World Series games don't draw better ratings than your average Brewers-Padres game because the quality of play is better. They draw well because watching young ballplayers emulating their favorite major leaguers tugs at the heart strings. And because people are suckers for crying kids.
"It's about the experience and the competition," a producer working on the series told the Times. "It's pure. It's almost innocent." Little League's PR people have been trying to get this message across since the Truman administration. The bogus nostalgia for innocence proves just how well the tactic has worked.
The Anti-Ichiro
Why Hideki Matsui will make a perfect Yankee.
By David Shields
Posted Monday, March 31, 2003, at 12:48 PM PT
Hideki Matsui, the new Yankee outfielder, is the anti-Ichiro: tall and muscular, not small and wiry; home runs instead of singles; earnest rather than witty. Where Ichiro is a dizzying mix of contrary and contradictory attitudes toward Japanese society, Matsui embodies its most traditional aspects. During the U.S. stars' tour of Japan during the fall of 2002, Ichiro, asked a question by a Japanese reporter, answered in Japanese. The Yankees' Jason Giambi interrupted him: "Hey, you've got to speak English now. You're a big-leaguer." Ichiro said, "Shut up, dude." When Matsui lost a home-run hitting contest to Barry Bonds during the same tour, Matsui said, "Today became a memorable day for me. I really admire his power and he sure is the No. 1 hitter in the world." Asked recently if he thought Matsui would achieve success in the major leagues, Ichiro characteristically deconstructed the question: " 'Success' is such a vague word. The records, numbers, and opinions of other people are secondary. I never set personal statistical goals." At his debut press conference in New York, Matsui, asked if he thought he could duplicate his 2002 year with Japan's Yomiuri Giants (50 home runs, 107 RBI, .337 batting average) this coming year in the major leagues, said, "It's probably going to be a little difficult, but I will try really hard to see if I can get results close to what I ha
d last year. My strongest point is that I can hit home runs, and I hope I can produce the same result in America."
Matsui and the Yankees are a perfect fit. They're clean-cut, pleasant, old-school, and bromide-bound. They're inevitably described as "classy" or a "class act." And like the Yankee stars (with the conspicuous exception of David Wells), Matsui has configured a public persona so bland and all-encompassing that anything remotely real rarely penetrates or escapes the heat shields he has erected.
Born in 1974 in northern Japan, Matsui grew up in rural Kanazawa City, Ishikawa. As a boy, he hit the ball so far right-handed that his older brother forced him to hit left-handed in pickup games. (He still bats left but throws right.) He became a national legend when, in the Koshien High School tournament, he was intentionally walked five times; while fans booed and yelled and even threw garbage on the field (virtually unheard of in Japan), he quietly dropped his helmet and ran to first base each time without complaining. Until leaving for the United States in February for spring training (followed by 150 members of the Japanese media, who chartered their own flight to New York), he lived in an exclusive Tokyo apartment tower. He keeps to himself and is single—"the cost of being so focused," one publication speculated.
