Joey Jay signed a contract with the Braves (Milwaukee) in June of 1953 for about $250,000 in today’s money plus a $50K bonus. He was only 17. He was the first ever little leaguer to make it to the majors. It’s not clear if he had already grown into his 6′ 4″, 230 lb frame yet, but he was big. His obit in the NYT today says: “Jay quickly won himself a reputation as an eater and sleeper of championship caliber. He seldom was seen awake without a candy bar or a soft drink, often with both. He would eat in the bullpen during ball games.” Gotta love it, no?
He pitched seven shutout innings in his first start when he was just 18. But his early years in the majors with Milwaukee were “pretty dreadful.” “I fitted in nowhere. No one was deliberately unkind to me. I was just ignored and felt like the batboy.” He was traded to Cincy before the ’61 season and blossomed, going 21-10. Cincy won the pennant that year, but lost the WS to the Yankees in five games. But get this — Jay won the only game the Reds won. He won 21 games again in ’62 and finished his career at 99-91 with a 3.77 ERA.
When he retired, he really retired. “I don’t live in the past, like most ballplayers. I don’t wear my World Series rings; my mother has my scrapbooks, and if someone offered me a baseball job, I’d turn it down in a minute. When I made the break, it was clean and forever. It’s infantile to keep thinking about the game. It gets you nowhere. Most ex-ballplayers keep on living in some destructive fantasy world. Not me. I’m happier than ever since I left. And do me a favor. Don’t mention where I live.”
OK, Mr. Grumpy-pants. Jay is survived by his wife Lois, five kids, and a bunch of grandkids and great-grandkids, who are all pretty good eaters too, I’d bet.
Rest in peace, Buddy.
This poem is called “The Book of A.” It’s by Wesley McNair and was in today’s Writer’s Almanac.
Raised during the Depression, my stepfather
responded to the economic opportunity
of the 1950s by buying more
and more cheap, secondhand things
meant to transform his life.
I got this for a hundred bucks,
he said, patting the tractor that listed
to one side, or the dump truck that started
with a roar and wouldn’t dump.
Spreading their parts out on his tarp,
he’d make the strange whistle
he said he learned from the birds
for a whole morning
before the silence set in.
Who knows where he picked up
the complete A-Z encyclopedias
embossed in gold and published
in 1921? They were going to take these
to the dump, he said. Night after night
he sat up, determined to understand
everything under the sun
worth knowing, and falling asleep
over the book of A. Meanwhile, as the weeks,
then the months passed, the moon
went on rising over the junk machines
in the tall grass of the only
world my stepfather ever knew,
and nobody wrote to classify
his odd, beautiful whistle, formed,
somehow, in the back of his throat
when a new thing seemed just about to happen
and no words he could say expressed his hope.
If I had to pick one poem to explain why I enjoy including poems in Owl Chatter, I could do worse than pick that one.
Up for picking a nit or two? In the puzzle on Sunday one of the answers was ALASKA PENINSULA. Rex said he thought it oughta be the Alaskan Peninsula (with an N) (as it appears in the NASA website, hrrrrumph). But he conceded the official name lacks the N, and then Commenter Natasha blew our minds with the following: According to the Alaska edition of the Associated Press Stylebook, “Alaskan” should only be used to describe a person who is from Alaska. If using an adjective to describe anything else related to Alaska you should use “Alaska.”
Well, I suppose that settles that!
How about this clue for the word THE: “Word following a comma in an alphabetized list.” Get it? In a list of books or movies in an index, say, if the first word in the title is “the,” e.g., The Bad and the Beautiful, it will be listed as Bad and the Beautiful, The.
It’s election night in the U. S. of A. The sentiment in Crossworld, at least as far as the commentariat in Rex Parker’s blog goes, is fully behind Harris.
Here’s a headline from The Onion: RFK Jr. Demands Secret Service Protection After Finding Cheez-It On Kitchen Floor.
Word is Trump promised to place RFKJ in charge of the nation’s health. Of course, we know what his promises are worth.
Hey, get this: Miriam Webster’s Word of the Day today is psephology. WTF, right? So it means “scientific study of elections.” You’re quite the card, MW.
The puzzle was not election-themed. It did have a nice visit by Aretha though. Let’s hear it girl! (It was supposed to be Carole King’s night.)
Ain’t gonna top that. See you tomorrow folks.
The Wellington Files 