Excerpt: The Lost Lineup

In my novel releasing on Kindle July 1 – The Lost Lineup – Charles Henry is tracking down some forgotten ballplayers of history, who want just one more opportunity to play ball. In this scene, Charles and his adventurous companions witness a snippet of history – the 1870 assassination of black voting rights leader and ballplayer Octavius Catto, who only has one final wish.


“Octavius,” he called. “You have to come. The Irish are gathering down by the polling station. They’re intimidating everyone trying to vote, and the constable is doing nothing to stop them. And I saw Frank Kelly.”
“Kelly? He doesn’t scare me.”
“You gotta be careful, Octavius.”
“We’re right, aren’t we Jess? We have righteousness on our side. We have been granted the right to vote, and no one is going to stop us.” Octavius turned to the class, half of which had already returned to their seats while the other half milled around the three guests. “Class. Attention. Class dismissed for today. I will see you again tomorrow. Please go home and encourage your fathers and uncles and grandfathers and older brothers to vote. It’s the only way forward for us.” He turned to his bewildered guests. “I’m sorry, Winnie and Charles, but events are escalating. I have to go with Jess.”
Without another word, he turned and exited the building, Jess right behind him. The three followed them out onto the street. The busy Philadephia street had a glow about it. Cars whizzed but there was a veneer of light over the street, a filter which illuminated a mob on the far street corner, the place where Octavius headed. The mob chanted slurs. Angry slurs. Racial slurs. Some carried baseball bats, others raised fists that shook and mirrored their outward emotions. Some walked into the street, oblivious to traffic and the modern sights and sounds around them.
A man with a bushy mustache, wearing a derby hat and long overcoat, approached Octavius and Jess. He looked at Octavius closely, hand in his pocket, and walked past him. Then he turned around, pulled a pistol from his coat, pointed, and fired once into Octavius’ back. Octavius fell immediately to one knee and turned around to see his assailant. Frank Kelly walked up to him, pistol still pointed. Jess backed away, terror on his face. Octavius tried to move. He scooted a few feet away, still turned toward the tip of the gun. Kelly stood over top of him, and without a word, executed the teacher and ballplayer in cold blood, in broad daylight, in the middle of the street. Octavius fell to the pavement. Kelly placed the pistol in his pocket, glanced once at Jess groveling in the background, then walked past them both as if strolling for pleasure on a Sunday afternoon.
Charles and Winnie ran to Octavius’ side. Jess was gone, as was the angry mob on the corner. Other Philadelphians walked by in their 1980s garb. No one paused to look at the man bleeding and dying on the street.
Charles knelt over him.
“Can you help me, Doc Henry?”
“We need to stop the bleeding.”
“No, doc. I’m dead. It’s not the bleeding. It’s the baseball.”
“Can’t you see? I want to play again. Just once more?”
“But how can I help?” Charles asked.
“Don’t leave it alone. Promise me. Promise me you’ll try.” Octavius pleaded and reached up with his left hand. “Just one more game, Charles. One more.”
Charles reached down for him, but he was gone. His arms searched for the man, but the pavement presented itself, and the sights and sounds of a late afternoon in Philadelphia took over. Charles sighed audibly. Winnie grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet. He felt a knot in his chest and Tommy clung to his side.
“What happened, Grandpa? Where did he go?”
“I think we just saw a snippet of history, Tommy.”

Enter the Goodreads Giveaway!

I’m giving away 100 copies of the Kindle version of my new novel releasing July 1, 2022.


This is a crazy, fun book. Adventure, baseball, history, historical characters, and lots of mythology surrounding the gods of baseball. I’ll be posting a couple excerpts in the next week for a sneak peek. But for now, hit the link above and enter the Goodreads giveaway before the end of the month. Thanks for your support.

When the Clouds Part: The Best Part of Writing

Someone said (probably a famous writer whom I can’t remember) that writing a novel is like driving in the fog with one headlight out.

I like that analogy because that’s the way I write. I have no idea where I’m going. I don’t know the climax, the end game, the resolution, or who takes whom to the dance. I’m as lost as the reader until ….


It is revealed. I love it when that happens.

I never know when, or if, it will happen. Sometimes it doesn’t and I just muddle through and try to think what is the best ending. But other times, it is revealed. Not created. Not imagined. Revealed. It just comes, to me, but I did nothing to allow it to come to me. It just does.

And when it does, I’m just so happy to be the conduit of the revelation. It’s one of the BEST parts of writing. It’s kind of like a vindication of the hours spent in front of the screen and the gods of writing finally nod and say, “Ok, let’s give him some satisfaction.”

Thank you.

If you haven’t guessed by now, it happened today. I’m writing my tenth novel and I’m having an absolute blast. Probably the best time I’ve ever had in writing. It’s about baseball, of course. What else could cause me this much joy?

I’ve always admired the works of W.P. Kinsella and I’m not ashamed to say that my work is heavily influenced by his ideas. Not that I’ll ever attain his impeccable prose, but I hope to take the spirit of what he wrote about baseball and humanity and just have fun with it in wrapping it up in an engaging historical fiction that runs through the American century  from 1920-1955. The Mythology of Baseball is its pretentious title. I love it. Truly do. Early this week I was lamenting to my students that I wish the main characters were real people. I want them to have walked the earth and to have done the things that they have done. I wish it were so. But I guess that’s what makes good fiction. I hope, at least.

Today, as I was finishing one part of the story – this is not a conventional novel that starts from the beginning and ends at the end. Certainly not. Baseball is not that neat and tidy. It is many stories. Yet one story.

Have I told you that I love it?

Anyways, I was finishing one part of the story that had been causing me some consternation. I really didn’t know what was going to happen until the character made this gesture that even surprised me. It surprised me, the writer. I couldn’t tell you how much I loved it, cause the recipient of the gesture sure loved it a lot. The clouds cleared and the beauty of the moment emerged.

I couldn’t have been happier.

I can not wait to share The Mythology of Baseball with the world. It’s already at 77,000 words and counting. It will likely be my first work ever to top 100,000. I hope so, cause these characters deserve it. Every word.

PNC Park, Pittsburgh, PA – From the top of the Rotunda

Here’s one of my favorite not Italian spots in the world – PNC Park. It has, of course, been lauded over and over as a modern baseball marvel. One of the truly outstanding features of this stadium is the navy steel rotunda which forms a spiral walkway to the very top  of the ballpark. I’ve been meaning to post these since June, so now as the baseball season begins to wane, and I go into mourning, I thought I’d show you what Pittsburgh looks like from the top of the rotunda of the greatest baseball stadium in the world. Here goes:


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Legacy Square commemorating the great Negro League teams from Pittsburgh. There used to be bronze statues here. Where did they go?

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Looking straight down on the enormous statue of the great Hall of Famer Willie Stargell – one of my childhood heroes. He died the night before PNC opened its doors in 2001.

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Here’s the top of the rotunda itself. The original designs had a roof over the steel structure, but I’m so glad that didn’t happen.

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Standing at the top of the left field foul pole – fans filing in.

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Looking eastward over the Allegheny River. The tallest building in Pittsburgh – the former US Steel building takes center stage. 

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Looking Southeast over the Allegheny. PPG Paints building second from the left. In the distance Point State Park and Mount Washington.

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A beautiful view of the Roberto Clemente Bridge heading downtown.

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In my happy place.  See you next summer PNC Park.

Visuals are Overrated

Visuals are Overrated

I grew up listening to baseball on the radio. I first discovered it as a nine year old in 1976 when I stumbled upon KDKA carrying the rhythmic, ritualistic broadcasts of the Pittsburgh Pirates.  When I started playing baseball in the spring of 1977, I became completely hooked on the calls of Milo Hamilton and the young Lanny Frattare. Radio is, admittedly, my third choice for following a baseball game. Attending the game is first, no doubt, followed by watching it on TV. Radio brings up the rear.

And yet, as I am currently sitting in the evening breeze of the western NY countryside, sitting by a mellow fire, listening the delightful verbal jaunts of Greg Brown and Bob Walk while I write this blog post, I cannot imagine that I would rather be watching it on TV or even in person.

Tonight I don’t have a choice. Radio is my only option, and boy am I glad.

The visual compels us. The imagination takes us away.

Baseball already has a slow, deliberate pace—perfect for gabbing, laughing, eating, and drinking. Baseball allows one to breathe, using boredom as an art form to build tension and unsurpassed drama when the game is on the line. Baseball eschews time, allows fate to be fulfilled no matter how preposterous.  Radio heightens all of this.

Baseball on radio allows you to paint your own picture while working on something else. Baseball on radio is a story, many stories, highlighted by announcers who can fill in the dead air with anecdotes, silliness, and in-depth analysis. It’s a series of crescendos—nine of them actually. Voices are magnified, great plays become improbable plays in your mind, homeruns are always Ruthian, and hard hit balls have a beautiful crack of the bat—a literal crack, that historically relevant sound of wound wool and leather on ash. Each pitch is measured, each move accounted for, each run emphasized by the natural excitement of the announcer.

I love baseball on the radio. I miss it.

Why don’t I always listen?

Because, when the visuals are available, I will always choose them. Always.

I just wish they weren’t available so often.

So thank you, stupid MLB blackout rules.

What Other Game? – Thoughts on Opening Day 2015

Opening day of baseball. It’s an important rite in my life and has been since I was young boy. It’s the quintessential American way to finally put winter to rest – regardless of the actual weather.

I’ve loved baseball ever since, as a nine-year-old boy, I started listening to the Pirates broadcasts of Milo Hamilton and Lanny Frattare. Hamilton didn’t last long in Pittsburgh but Frattare managed to broadcast Pirates games for thirty-three years.

There’s something uniquely American about baseball. Much of the world doesn’t understand it, and, living overseas before the Internet, I was cut off from the game for many long stretches in my life. But every chance that I had to get a hold of an American newspaper, I would check the standings and, of course, the box scores. I do love my statistics.

In this day and age, living overseas and watching Major League Baseball is not difficult task. A quick MLB subscription and I can watch every out of market game (which in Malaysia is all of them) live or on archive. It’s quite amazing.

I especially love when I have days off. The game will start at 7 AM my time. I can eat breakfast while watching and let my morning slowly take shape. By 10, the game is done and I have the entire day still ahead of me. On work days, well, at least I still have the archive feature.

Baseball is the most unique and best game ever created. It’s remarkable, actually. It’s a throwback, a lazy afternoon, a chat with neighbors, a moment of boredom leading to a minute of euphoria. It’s unlike any other game. How you ask? I’ll answer with a series of questions of my own.

What other game has such a uniquely shaped field? The perfect diamond of the infield, and the green, fanning grass of the outfield which can end at any number of distinct and creative fence outlines. No standardization here.

What other game is played when the defense has the ball?

What other game is an individual struggle in the midst of a team sport? I had a former boss who said it perfectly about baseball: it enables kids (and adults) the fertile moment in the spotlight – each better gets his individual turn to shine in success or have to deal with the outcome of defeat. Although individual success on the field is no assurance of victory because it’s a team sport. Someone has said that if baseball had been invented by the ancient Athenians, then the gods of Olympus would have settled their scores with a rousing pitcher-batter duel.

What other game allows natural breaks to ponder and discuss strategy or life?

What other game has been so uniquely intertwined in the fabric of America?

What other game can boast such a heady list of writers who have become the game’s ambassadors?

What other game can make me so excited for spring?


It’s back!

Play ball!

(I’ll see you in November.)


The Greatest Game Ever Invented in the Words of Ken Burns

In 1994, Ken Burns’ iconic nod to the nation’s pastime, the gargantuan 18 hour epic, “Baseball” aired on PBS for the first time. I had just arrived in Vietnam at the time and so I clearly missed it – the highest rated PBS show of all time. What is it about baseball that brings back so much nostalgia? It’s because the history of baseball parallels the history of America in remarkable ways. Eventually, I was able to watch the entire series on a friend’s VHS, and, since then, have purchased my own DVD copy of it. The episode on Jackie Robinson is required watching in my US History class.

Many complain that baseball is too slow. I contend that life is too fast, and that baseball perfectly compliments an evening of small talk, revelry, and excitement. The minutia of baseball is incredible – the individual performances – the nuances – the unpredictability – the boredom – the excitement – the slowness – the fastness.

On the 20th anniversary of the release of “Baseball”, MLB interviewed Ken Burns. Here’s what he said why he thinks baseball is the greatest game ever invented. I couldn’t agree more:

I love this game! Let’s just say, “What are the elements that make this the greatest game ever invented?”

No clock. And in what other sport does the defense have the ball? Baseball is the evolutionary improvement on cricket. In baseball, the defense has the ball. In all the other sports, the ball scores. In baseball, the man scores. And he comes home! The ball could be going in the other direction. In fact, if it is going in the other direction, he does go home.

Baseball demands blinding speed but it has this strange, contemplative pace to it. There is an amazing set of things that go on in this game that make it observable at any level. You can keep score of every pitch or at-bat, or you can just follow the game avidly, as I do.”

The pace is terrific. All meaning accrues in duration. The work you’re proudest of, the relationships that mean the most to you, have benefited by your sustained attention. Baseball rewards attention. Life rewards attention. Most of our consumer society is based upon inattention. It’s the tortoise and the hare. I’m happy to be with something that people might think is really slow because the others will sit down and rest and we will always cross the finish line. It’s the greatest game ever invented.”


A Night at PNC Park

Being from the Pittsburgh area, we are blessed with the best baseball park in America – or the world for that matter! If you haven’t seen the park for yourself or heard the accolades, well, that’s too bad. Because it is simply awesome!

I was fortunate enough to be able to attend three games this past week. I ended up with a 2-1 record. I’m sure it would have been 3-0 but my McCutchen wasn’t dirty, but it smelled so bad my wife wouldn’t let me wear it. So therefore, the loss.

But anyways. Here are a few shots of the gorgeous ballpark:

The unbeatable skyline. 2014-06-26 19.21.32 2014-06-26 19.52.05 And it was fireworks night! Bonus!2014-06-26 22.09.26

After one of the games was faith night where some of the Pirates players and coaches shared how their faith impacts how they play the game. Very cool.

2014-06-26 22.43.56 Here are the throngs before the game. It was a sell-out.2014-06-26 18.25.49 The beautiful Roberto Clemente bridge rises right out of the outfield and crosses the Allegheny River into downtown. The bridge is closed for all but foot traffic on game days.2014-06-26 19.04.21 2014-06-26 19.07.41 Action in action. 2014-06-26 19.14.28A good time was had by all. Hope you get a chance to check out this amazing stadium sometime.

Happy July 4!


Spring Training: I can now publish my bottle pictures.

As spring training starts, I realized now that it would be silly not to publish my bottle photos from last summer. After all, now it is safe. The curse has been broken.

Take a look at this:

2013-07-21 11.55.26 And this:2013-07-21 11.55.37My precious Pittsburgh Pirates water bottle. I miss it greatly.

OK, here’s the story.

There’s no sport like baseball. Nothing else can even come close. It’s perfectly elegant, cerebral, conversational, and the most superstitious of them all.

As a Pirates fan, I know a thing or two about superstition and curses. You see, they had losing records starting in 1993 right through 2012. 20 straight seasons.

The 2013 campaign was going swimmingly smooth – downright frightfully exciting, actually. And then the bottle incident occurred.

I was taking some friends on a road trip in Malaysia. We had made it a couple hours out of Penang when we stopped at a rest area. The car wouldn’t start. We called for service and after three excruciating hours waiting for the new dynamo to be replaced, we were finally ready to go. I went to grab my Pirates water bottle out of the back of the car when I remembered that I had put the bottle near the back window. It had been staring at the Malaysian sun through glass for the last three hours. It was a melted mess.

I thought of nothing else other than it must be a bad baseball omen. I was mortified that this could only mean one thing, my team was once again destined for a fall. I took a couple pictures of the bottle and said goodbye, but I knew I couldn’t jinx anything by mentioning it to anyone or by writing about it. I had to hide the sun’s evil deeds, and I hoped that the baseball gods did not have their satellite fixed on Malaysia during that hot July day.

As the team did the city proud by breaking the cursed 20-year losing streak and by making it to the playoffs, I actually had forgotten about the water bottle.

Now I realize that the bottle was not signifying an ending, but a new beginning. The bottle, mangled in the sun, sacrificed itself for the good of the fans, bringing down the 20-year jinx.

I miss my bottle, but I was happy to sacrifice it for the good of Bucco Nation.

This summer I’ll once again get a chance to travel to Pittsburgh and I intend to buy a new replacement bottle.

Finally, the long idle winter months are beginning to thaw as the 9 inch sphere is magically thrown around the diamond.

Welcome back!


The Great One: #21

I am taking a one-post break from my usual ramblings about writing, drama, history, or life to write about the other passion in my life: baseball. I hope you enjoy!

The Great One: #21

I was a little over five years old when Roberto Clemente died in a plane crash. I don’t remember it. He wore #21.

The 2013 Pittsburgh Pirates are a few short victories away from stopping the record for the most consecutive losing seasons by any professional sports franchise. The last time they had a winning season was in 1992 – 21 years ago.

I started listening to Pirates baseball back in 1976 and 1977. I remember sitting at the dining room table in the evening with the crackled cadences of the national past-time humming over the airwaves while I was, no doubt, doodling with numbers or statistics in a spiral-bound notebook. My childhood revolved around three things: spiral-bound notebooks, a transistor radio, and a shoebox full of baseball cards.

I don’t remember why I started listening or what it was about baseball over the radio that started my four decade love-affair with baseball, but I became hooked.

I had stacks of spiral-bound notebooks which I filled with stats of make-believe players, teams, and leagues. I created games in my head by standing out in front of our house and tossing a tennis ball into the air and whacking it with a long, hard-plastic Whiffle ball bat. In my mind, I threw myself curves, grounded into double plays, and even hit home runs when the ball flew over the driveway and landed in the garden. My third baseman was a tall, oval-shaped arborvitae shrub – who had great hands – and my second baseman and shortstop combined was a medium size pine tree about twenty five feet from the sidewalk where I stood to hit the ball. The outfield consisted of an extremely tall pine tree where home runs went to die. This was real fantasy baseball. My daily games drove me to write down notebooks full of stats, and my daytime dream-ball drove me every evening to my radio where I listened to the Lumber Company powered by Willie Stargell, Dave Parker et al.

It became obvious to me over my early years of listening to Bucco baseball that the team I had joined as a blood brother for life was still coming out of the shadows of the tragic death of The Great One – Roberto Clemente. It took a small boy like me many years to piece together just who this Clemente was, how good he played baseball, and why his death had greatly impacted so many people. By the time I reached high school, I had learned enough about the man to seek out #21 for the back of my Legion ball uniform. College the same – then post-college – then softball coaching – always #21 to honor the man.

So as the Pirates get ready to breakout of their 20 year losing streak, I thought it would be a good time to remind people just who Roberto Clemente was. (This will in no way be an authoritative rendering of his life. If you want that, I highly recommend David Maraniss’ Clemente Biography.)

Roberto Clemente was a fiercely proud Latino ballplayer from Puerto Rico. His prowess in right field is the stuff of legends. He won 12 consecutive gold gloves with a power rocket of an arm that was second to none.

He was lifted from the Dodgers organization in the Rule 5 draft – quite the coup for the Pirates organization. In the 1960 World Series against the New York Yankees, he hit safely in all seven of the games, setting the stage for him to become one of the very best players of the 1960s. He won the N.L. MVP award in 1966 and led the Pirates to three consecutive NL East titles in 1970-1972. His star shined the brightest during the 1971 World Series against the Baltimore Orioles where he, once again, hit safely in all seven of the games extending his World Series hitting streak to 14 games. He thrived in the games biggest stage.

On the last day of the season in 1972, he pounded a double into Three River’s Stadium’s left-center field gap – his career 3000 base hit, reaching the plateau of baseball giants, assuring him of induction into baseball’s Hall of Fame after his retirement of from the game. When that hit reached the outfield, his career batting average was .317. Little did everyone know that that number would be his final career average.

Clemente was often a misunderstood player. He didn’t care for the English label “Bob” which graced a few of his baseball cards. He was moody, often complaining about injuries, and fiercely proud of his Puerto Rican heritage, which was still a subject of great consternation during the turbulent civil rights era. During one of the great moments of Roberto’s career, while basking in the achievement of defeating the Orioles after the 1971 World Series, he was asked a question by legendary Pirates’ broadcaster Bob Prince, but before he answered, he turned to the national TV audience and spoke his love to his mother and beloved homeland in Spanish. It’s little wonder that boys and players all over the Caribbean grew up idolizing the man. He was the first great Latin ballplayer. The first Latin ballplayer inducted into the Hall of Fame, and the idol of every boy from the banks of Pittsburgh’s Forbes Field and Three Rivers Stadium to rugged sandlots of Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic.

But for all his baseball pedigree, he is, perhaps, just as revered for his love and compassion for all of humanity.

On a stormy night, New Year’s Eve 1972, Clemente boarded a plane of questionable air-worthiness that he had hired himself, that he had coordinated and loaded himself, with a humanitarian load of supplies headed towards the victims of a horrific earthquake in Nicaragua which had occurred a week earlier on December 23. The plane took off and quickly crashed into the sea just off the coast of Puerto Rico. His body was never recovered. Panamanian teammate and Pirates’ catcher Manny Sanguillen scoured the beach for days looking for evidence of Roberto’s remains. None were ever found.

On March 30, 1973, the baseball writers of America conducted a special election, waiving the five year retirement requirement, and elected Roberto Clemente to the Baseball Hall of Fame posthumously.

His death signified how he lived. Graciously. He loved people, and if he could help, he would put aside his own holiday plans in order to put others first. On the field or off, Roberto Clemente stands as a symbol of greatness, and the statue of him outside of PNC Park, or the bridge renamed after him, which leads thousands of people from downtown to the ballpark on gameday, stands as a reminder of the human being he was. And of course, I have to mention the Clemente Wall, the 21-ft high wall in right field of PNC Park, which watches over his hallowed position, providing a sense of history and depth to the 126 year old franchise.

If you take a walk around PNC Park on any given day, you’re likely to see as many Clemente jerseys as McCutchen jerseys. That’s the power of the spell he has cast over the city of Pittsburgh and the baseball-loving portions of the Caribbean for the last forty years.

So it is extremely suitable for the number 21 to once again rear its head and make itself known in 2013. A twenty one year losing streak for the proud Pittsburgh franchise would just be unacceptable. The streak will end at 20, and in the highly superstitious realm of baseball, I’d like to think that Roberto somehow had a hand in it.

(Note: The Clemente family has a biography about Roberto set to release in September 2013. You can see more information about that HERE.)