The World’s Greatest Excuse
I often write about politics or baseball, but today through the miracle of a short attention span and having absolutely no game plan when I sit down to write one of these things, I’m writing about politics and baseball.
So let’s get started and see where we wind up, because I don’t know either.
(Exciting isn’t it? Kinda like one of those internet-arranged dates where you show up to see just how accurate the online photo your date used actually is and if she’s gained 50 pounds since the picture was taken and you’re pretty sure she’s lying because you know for sure you did when you posted that neck-up picture that failed to reveal why you get asked to play Santa Claus at the Office Christmas Party every year.)
Speaking of short attention spans and Office Christmas Parties
Back in the 1980s when I first came to work at the Kansas City Star they’d have Office Christmas Parties where they rented a hotel ball room and gave everybody free booze and we’d all get shitfaced, tell off our bosses off and confess the crushes we had on each other and then wake up the next morning and think:
“Fuuuck!!! I should not have said that and now I can’t walk through the advertising department because Shirlene might want to talk about ‘our relationship’ which didn’t exist before I drank six beers and then started doing shots of tequila. Plus…I might not have a job anymore.”
Some of those Office Christmas Party shenanigans were legendary, but then some lawyer pointed out that getting employees liquored up and then sending them out to drive home on snowy, icy streets was probably a bad idea liability-wise and the very last Kansas City Star Office Christmas Party I attended took place at 3 PM on a workday and featured cupcakes and punch which is probably why Shakespeare wanted to kill all the lawyers; they screwed up The Globe Theater’s Office Christmas Party and his chance to get warm and fuzzy on mead and confess his crush to Griselda, the Theater Seamstress.
(Full Confession: I made up the thing about Shakespeare – except for him wanting to kill lawyers – and the 3 PM Office Christmas Party actually turned out OK when I said fuck this and went across the street to a bar and pretty much everybody followed me over, but come to think of it, I was fired not long after that so just go ahead and start a revolution and see how far you get. Never forget: Spartacus had a pretty good run, but got crucified in the end.)
And now…
Baseball and politics
A great many political cartoons (and when someone uses a phrase like “a great many” that means they have no idea exactly how many and I’m no exception) require the reader to have some knowledge of current events and if you want in on the joke, informing yourself is the price of admission.
Take the cartoon at the top of this post.
Donald Trump wanted to join the rioters storming the Capitol on January 6th, but the Secret Service wouldn’t let him, so being a grown-up, mature adult (not to mention World Leader) Donald lurched at his driver and tried to get control of the wheel, and if you don’t know that, the cartoon doesn’t make a lot of sense, but if you do know about Donald’s temper tantrum, it’s a pretty good metaphor for what he tried to do to Democracy if I do say so myself and I just did.
So from here on in if you don’t understand one of my cartoons, let’s just assume it’s your fault for being under-informed and if we could extend that policy to every other area of Life, I’d really appreciate it.
Which reminds me of…
One of my all-time favorite people and one of the Funniest Dudes on the Face of the Earth, former Big League pitcher Jerry Dipoto, and if Carnegie Hall ever holds An Evening with Jerry Dipoto during which Jerry would tell baseball stories, I’d fly to New York and buy a ticket and if you ever heard Jerry tell a baseball story, you would too.
Jerry is currently the General Manager of the Seattle Mariners, but when he was still a player he used to live here in Kansas City and work out with me and would get ready to pitch in the major leagues every summer by striking me out about 100 times every winter.
And now…the World’s Greatest Excuse
Here’s the story the way I remember it:
One day Jerry is pitching for the Cleveland Indians in Baltimore and they’ve got a big lead and just need three more outs to win the game and Jerry has a man on first base (I wanna say it was Harold Reynolds), but since they have a big lead, his first baseman shows Jerry crossed wrists (the sign for playing behind the runner and not holding him on base) which teams do when they have a big lead late in games because if you have a six-run lead, giving up one run doesn’t mean anything (except to the pitcher, but the team doesn’t care, they just want their win) and if the first baseman plays back on the grass he’ll have more range and help the team get the three outs it needs.
But in this particular case some fan ran out on the field (which by the way, players enjoy immensely as long as the fan doesn’t get anywhere near them because watching security people chase some drunk idiot around is highly entertaining, but you still don’t want to jump on the field because those people do go to jail) and while all this Benny Hill level of entertainment was going on, Jerry forgot his first baseman wasn’t holding the runner on first base.
It also helps to know…
Pitchers will reach the stretch position (the point where they pause) and sometimes things just don’t feel right or they’re not ready to deliver a pitch just yet, so to buy time they’ll do one of those meaningless pickoff attempts that confuse announcers because maybe the runner is standing right on top of first base or hasn’t stolen a base since 8-tracks were popular.
When you see one of those pickoffs it’s probably a mental reset for the pitcher, not a real attempt at a pickoff.
So Jerry decides he needs to buy time with a pickoff attempt, forgetting there won’t be a first baseman there to receive his throw and when he told me this story he said:
“You know me…I don’t do anything slow.”
So Jerry whirls and fires a pickoff attempt to Caspar the Friendly Firstbaseman and the ball rockets down into the right field corner while the runner (who I still think was Harold Reynolds) circles the bases and scores. Jerry’s exasperated manager (who I believe and Baseball Reference indicates was Mike Hargrove) comes out to the mound, heaves a sigh, rubs his hand down his face and asks Jerry:
“Why do you always have to be Mr. Excitement?”
But then Jerry comes up with the World’s Greatest Excuse when he says:
“I’m working on something.”
When I told this story to my kids (who know Jerry) we laughed until we cried because once you analyze it (and we did) “I’m working on something” is a brilliant all-purpose excuse which implies that what you just saw was only one small part of a greater plan and if you only knew what that greater plan was, you’d be OK with what just happened.
Get caught with a dead body in the trunk of your car?
“I’m working on something” implies that just maybe you’re Dr. Frankenstein’s assistant and the two of you are working on reanimation so we can bring Walt Disney back to life so he can make more weird cartoons like Fantasia (tell me Walt wasn’t high as shit for that one).
Get caught with a 19-year-old stripper in a seedy motel?
“I’m working on something” might indicate that 19-year-old stripper also knits sweaters and you had to meet her at the motel at 2 AM when her shift ended to discuss the custom-made sweater you’re giving your wife for your 21st anniversary which is an outstanding idea because there’s probably not going to be a 22nd.
Fail to complete a report on time?
“I’m working on something” might indicate you’re going above and beyond expectations and you just need just a little more time before you turn in a report that will equal the Magna Carta, the Declaration of Independence and the lyrics of Mommas Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up To Be Cowboys for literary brilliance, which reminds me of my American History Term Paper my Senior Year in high school which was an indictment of all the American History they failed to teach us, but I added cartoons and wrote My Term Paper in Elmer’s Glue and then sprinkled it with glitter, so my History teacher gave me an “F” on content and an “A” on presentation which averaged out to a “C” and all things considered I was OK with that.
So from here on in, if you don’t understand a cartoon or something I wrote or why I need to use so much profanity to get my ideas across, let’s just assume you asked me what the hell I’m doing and I answered:
“I’m working on something.”
That's going in my Big Book of Answers. Wish I had read that this morning.
Well now you’re giving me something I can use!
Your stories always remind me of my own and I want credit for the restraint I mostly exhibit.