said to him, “we’re talking an hour of driving back and forth on Interstate 75.”
“Jeff’s there,” Sparky said. “And we go where Jeff goes.”
Jeff was Jeff Ruby, the Holiday Inn manager. Sparky loved that kid. It didn’t take a psychologist to figure it out: Jeff was the son he had wanted Lee to be. Sparky would never forget having lunch at the oldHoliday Inn, one that was near the ballpark, and he saw one of the hotel employees leaning on his mop, not doing a thing, the sort of laziness that always set off Sparky. He thought America was sinking because of shiftlessness—“How long will thou sleep, O sluggard? When wilt thou arise out of thy sleep?”—and he was just about to say something to this sluggard when he heard that voice, dripping with New Jersey: “Hey, pally! If you can lean, you can clean! Get moving!”
That was Jeff Ruby, a mouthy Jewish kid who had gone to Cornell. Sparky called him “bubula”—Yiddish for “babe”—and when Jeff transferred out to Sharonville so he could be manager of his own Holiday Inn, well, Sparky transferred out there with him. It would not be a baseball season without Jeff. And he didn’t give a damn if his coaches had to drive a few extra minutes.
“Bubula,” Sparky whispered to Jeff over dinner that night. (That was another thing: Sparky often whispered when he talked to Jeff, like they were sharing a secret.) “People don’t know, bubula. They think they know this team, they think they know the Big Red Machine, but they don’t know anything. Bubula, we’re going to be good. We’re going to be really good.”
Jeff smiled. He’d heard versions of this speech before. Every year, the day before the opener, they would have dinner, and every year, the day before the opener, Sparky would predict that the Reds would win the World Series. So far it had not happened. So far, the Machine had finished every season in disappointment. But there was an edge to Sparky’s voice this time.
“Remember, bubula,” Sparky was saying, “in life you don’t treat people the same. You don’t treat Humpty Dumpty like you treat King Tut. Don’t fool yourself about people. Some people will let you down in life. And you can’t let them let you down. Do you understand? You have to get those people out of the way. You have to follow your stars.
“I’m telling you,” he continued, “the stars will win it for us this time.”
MARSHALL
April 7 to April 19
Some people choose the city.
Some others choose the good old family home.
—E LTON J OHN , “P HILADELPHIA F REEDOM ”
Opening Day, April 7, 1975
CINCINNATI
REDS VS. DODGERS
Baseball has always been a game of myth and fables. One of the most powerful of these is that a career military man named Abner Doubleday, the man who aimed the cannon that fired the first shot in defense of Fort Sumter the Civil War, invented the game. Doubleday, it was said, sketched out the game’s rules and played the first games on Elihu Phinney’s farm in a picturesque New York town called Cooperstown. It was a sweet fable, no less so for being entirely untrue. The real origins of baseball are murky and serpentine. Baseball probably derives from games like cricket and rounders and perhaps a game called oina played in Romania during the fourteenth century. Baseball surely gained its shape and rhythms in the small towns across the young American nation, where people played their own version of bat-and-ball games. Civil War soldiers played base ball—two words, back then—all over the nation.
There are no mysteries, though, about where baseball—the professional game, the one we know, the American pastime, peanuts and Cracker Jack—was invented. That game sprang to life in Cincinnati in 1869, and it sprang to life for the most American of reasons: a group of Cincinnati business leaders grew tired of watching the local baseball team get their heads kicked in game after game. They had to get better players. And so they
“Jeff’s there,” Sparky said. “And we go where Jeff goes.”
Jeff was Jeff Ruby, the Holiday Inn manager. Sparky loved that kid. It didn’t take a psychologist to figure it out: Jeff was the son he had wanted Lee to be. Sparky would never forget having lunch at the oldHoliday Inn, one that was near the ballpark, and he saw one of the hotel employees leaning on his mop, not doing a thing, the sort of laziness that always set off Sparky. He thought America was sinking because of shiftlessness—“How long will thou sleep, O sluggard? When wilt thou arise out of thy sleep?”—and he was just about to say something to this sluggard when he heard that voice, dripping with New Jersey: “Hey, pally! If you can lean, you can clean! Get moving!”
That was Jeff Ruby, a mouthy Jewish kid who had gone to Cornell. Sparky called him “bubula”—Yiddish for “babe”—and when Jeff transferred out to Sharonville so he could be manager of his own Holiday Inn, well, Sparky transferred out there with him. It would not be a baseball season without Jeff. And he didn’t give a damn if his coaches had to drive a few extra minutes.
“Bubula,” Sparky whispered to Jeff over dinner that night. (That was another thing: Sparky often whispered when he talked to Jeff, like they were sharing a secret.) “People don’t know, bubula. They think they know this team, they think they know the Big Red Machine, but they don’t know anything. Bubula, we’re going to be good. We’re going to be really good.”
Jeff smiled. He’d heard versions of this speech before. Every year, the day before the opener, they would have dinner, and every year, the day before the opener, Sparky would predict that the Reds would win the World Series. So far it had not happened. So far, the Machine had finished every season in disappointment. But there was an edge to Sparky’s voice this time.
“Remember, bubula,” Sparky was saying, “in life you don’t treat people the same. You don’t treat Humpty Dumpty like you treat King Tut. Don’t fool yourself about people. Some people will let you down in life. And you can’t let them let you down. Do you understand? You have to get those people out of the way. You have to follow your stars.
“I’m telling you,” he continued, “the stars will win it for us this time.”
MARSHALL
April 7 to April 19
Some people choose the city.
Some others choose the good old family home.
—E LTON J OHN , “P HILADELPHIA F REEDOM ”
Opening Day, April 7, 1975
CINCINNATI
REDS VS. DODGERS
Baseball has always been a game of myth and fables. One of the most powerful of these is that a career military man named Abner Doubleday, the man who aimed the cannon that fired the first shot in defense of Fort Sumter the Civil War, invented the game. Doubleday, it was said, sketched out the game’s rules and played the first games on Elihu Phinney’s farm in a picturesque New York town called Cooperstown. It was a sweet fable, no less so for being entirely untrue. The real origins of baseball are murky and serpentine. Baseball probably derives from games like cricket and rounders and perhaps a game called oina played in Romania during the fourteenth century. Baseball surely gained its shape and rhythms in the small towns across the young American nation, where people played their own version of bat-and-ball games. Civil War soldiers played base ball—two words, back then—all over the nation.
There are no mysteries, though, about where baseball—the professional game, the one we know, the American pastime, peanuts and Cracker Jack—was invented. That game sprang to life in Cincinnati in 1869, and it sprang to life for the most American of reasons: a group of Cincinnati business leaders grew tired of watching the local baseball team get their heads kicked in game after game. They had to get better players. And so they
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