Scribbled notes on a cocktail napkin, Part XIV
Wonder Years and Golden Girls ... Comparing what generations consider ancient … the audacity of swinging big … when old doesn't look as old as old used to look
"Scribbled notes on a cocktail napkin" is my weekly Sunday feature that's a tribute to the sports columnists I grew up reading who penned Herb Caen-inspired three dot columns. It's an excuse to shamelessly plug my other side projects, post my favorite Immaculate Grid from the week with a story about one of the players, link to stories I found interesting, and string together loose topics on my mind.
Scribbling from El Paso, Texas
The year is 1988. I’m in high school. I’m involved in another of my typical baseball debates with my friends. I’m pretty sure this particular time, it was James Elliott, because he was a Kansas City Royals fan and I was an Oakland A’s fans, so we argued a lot.
I was bragging about the A’s winning three straight World Series in the 1970s. Elliott wasn’t having it. He told me that I can’t brag about something that happened before I was born (1972) or I was barely alive (1973-74). I didn’t want to lose the argument, but deep down, I knew he was right.
When you’re 15 years old, something that happened even 10 years earlier feels ancient. The first year I collected baseball cards was 1978. I was 5 years old. I didn’t truly understand much about baseball and watch it on my own until 1982.
I thought about that this week because I met a recent San Diego State grad, Colin Ruthenberg, an impressive young man who is destined for greatness in life, and I don’t say that just because he’s an Aztec.
Colin was doing play-by-play of SDSU athletics for KCR College Radio at this time last year. He graduated in December and just landed his first job in baseball, working for the El Paso Chihuahuas, this week’s opponent for the Albuquerque Isotopes.
I asked Colin the first year he truly understood and could follow baseball. He said 2013. Twenty thirteen! Man alive. That was my first year with the Isotopes. That feels like yesterday.
The 1970s felt ancient to me as a teenager. Anything that happened before 2013 is ancient to him.
Colin wasn’t alive when the Padres reached their last World Series in 1998. He never watched Tony Gwynn play in person, and was too young to complete a sentence when he attended baseball games at Jack Murphy Stadium.
It’s hard not to see a little of myself in Colin. My first year working in baseball was 1996. A few days after graduation ceremonies at SDSU, I drove to Upstate New York to work for the Watertown Indians, in a league that no longer exists.
That was 28 years ago, which means the equivalent gap between my first year in baseball to Colin’s first year in baseball is … 1968.
Color television existed in 1968, but sets were so extraordinarily expensive that most people watched the 1968 World Series in black and white.
When “The Wonder Years” television show debuted in 1988, it was about a typical suburban family way way back in the turburlent year of … 1968. Watching that show as a kid, 1968 seemed prehistoric. The equivalent nowadays would be 2004.
Last week, Jackson Holliday made his Major League Debut for the Baltimore Orioles at age 20. Holliday is this generation’s version of Ken Griffey, Jr. — the son of a major leaguer, grew up in clubhouses, reached the majors at an age when most are sophomores in college.
I remember watching Junior’s first game in the majors, at the Oakland Coliseum, on Opening Day in 1989. Feels like yesterday. He doubled into the left-center gap in his first at-bat. Pulling a Junior when opening a pack of baseball cards was nirvana that summer.
Six years ago, Jackson’s father Matt was attempting a comeback with the Colorado Rockies and spent a month playing for the Albuquerque Isotopes. Matt made the month a family adventure. Every day, long before formal batting practice, Matt and his boys, Jackson and Ethan, played baseball together at Isotopes Park.
I’ve racked my brain trying to think of specific memories of Jackson and asked my coworkers as well. The consensus memory is the boys never asked for anything, never got in anybody’s way, never bothered anyone. It was just a close-knit family, playing baseball together, having fun, helping Dad get back to the majors.
This Week’s Not-So-Random Immaculate Grid
This week’s Immaculate Grid involves three players in my next story.
It’s April 1988. I’m getting autographs with my friends at the Seattle Mariners team hotel in Oakland. We had the audacity to post up in the lobby, make ourselves comfortable on couches, wait for players to emerge, and tried not to be too much of a nuisance for the hotel staff.
I’m probably with Todd and Joe, but it could have been any combination of Chris, Corey or Jim too.
Anyway, Harold Reynolds and Alvin Davis walk into the lobby. We all get both of their autographs. Then Reynolds says, “hey, you kids got any Don Baylor baseball cards with you?”
Duh. Of course we did. Somebody handed Reynolds a Baylor card. He flips over the back to read Baylor’s stats.
“Fifty two!” Reynolds says to Davis. “I told you so! Fifty-two steals! Look, right here, 1976, Don Baylor stole 52 bases!”
In a world before smart phones, the internet, and Baseball-Reference, the only way two MLB players could settle an argument about Don Baylor was to ask kids for a baseball card for the answer.
Even though I spent hours looking at the backs of baseball cards, I didn’t know Baylor stole 52 bases, or had previously played for the A’s, until learning it from Harold Reynolds that day.
In 1988, my 14-year-old self knew Don Baylor as a big intimidating man who was nonetheless very chill to us kids, a guy with a lot of power, who got hit by a lot of pitches, who seemed like a good luck charm to reach the World Series (1986 Red Sox, 1987 Twins, 1988 A’s) and overwhelmingly a slow designated hitter who could no longer play the outfield.
Little did I know that when he first reached the majors, over an eight-year stretch, Baylor stole 24, 32, 29, 32, 52 (!), 26, 22 and 22 bases in consecutive seasons.
The changes in how we age
This photo comparison has made the round on social media over the last few years and showed up on my feed again this week.
Pat Morita was 51 years old when filming “The Karate Kid” movie. He played Mr. Miyagi, a very old wise Japanese man who taught karate to Daniel Son.
Ralph Macchio was 56 years old when he began filming the “Kobra Kai” sequel for Netflix.
I realize both of these actors are outliers when it comes to aging. I still can’t fathom this difference.
My paternal grandfather died at the age of 57. He lived a hard life, was in the Coast Guard most of his life, served in the Korean War, drank too much and smoked too much, lost most of his hair, and stopped exercising. He looked ancient in his final years.
I’ll be my grandfather’s age in seven years.
Dang, pass the green tea.
This week’s “Where Ya At?” podcast guest: David Brickley
I host a podcast for San Diego State’s School of Journalism and Media Studies titled “Where Ya At?” Each week, I interview an alum to learn about their experience at SDSU, transitioning from student to professional, and their current job. You can listen on all podcast platforms, including Apple Music.
David Brickley grew up in Los Angeles, a huge sports fan, dreaming of becoming a play-by-play announcer. He also did play-by-play for SDSU athletics at KCR College Radio — about a decade after I did, about two decades before Colin Ruthenberg did.
Brickley became as a producer for the Ben Maller Show on Fox Sports Radio, then started a multimedia website originally titled www.GetGarnett.com that became Lakers Nation, and that led to the start of STN Digital.
He’s the Owner and CEO of STN Digital, a social media marketing firm with clients that are some of the biggest in sports and entertainment. One of Brickley’s first clients was Kobe Bryant.
Here’s a clip that explains how he started working with Bryant.
We spent a lot of the podcast discussing the power of swinging big, taking chances, and having the audacity to approach people who you might not think would ever say yes to you.
I learned a lot from Brickley. The whole podcast is filled with outstanding stories and advice. Here’s a link to the full episode.
The oldest living Major Leaguer
Anything my friend Dan Brown writes is going to be awesome. Here’s his story this week about the oldest living former MLB player, Art Shallock, who will turn 100 years old on Thursday.
Schallock was born on April 25, 1924. Elsewhere that day, Babe Ruth hit a three-run home run against the Red Sox, while Wally Pipp played first base (Lou Gehrig’s epic Iron Man streak had yet to begin). Over in Philadelphia, “The Big Train” Walter Johnson lost a 2-1 decision to the Athletics.
So began Schallock’s lifelong connections to baseball’s gods. When he got called up for his major-league debut on July 16, 1951, the Yankees made room on the roster by optioning to Triple-A Kansas City a disappointing rookie named Mickey Mantle. They would joke about the absurdity of that transaction for years.
I went looking for more perspective about the year Schallock was born.
In 1924, it was three years before Technicolor was invented, five years before the car radio, nine years before FM radio, and 11 years before the first canned beer.
Right now, the oldest player in Major League Baseball is Justin Verlander. He’s 41 years old. Verlander will turn 100 years old in the year 2083.
Were “The Golden Girls” really golden?
The beloved TV show “The Golden Girls” debuted in 1985, one of the most progressive shows of all time, the story of four older women living together in Miami who bond over their shared life experiences and complicated love lives.
It was groundbreaking television to hear “older” women discuss sex. The plot for one of the episodes was a man died while having sex with Rose. It was the second time this happened to Rose in her life.
While the ages of the show’s characters were never specifically mentioned, the website “Legit” used clues from various episodes to determine the following:
Rose Nylund was 63 years old and played by 55-year-old Betty White.
Dorothy Zbornak was 63 years old and played by 53-year-old Bea Arthur.
Blanche Devereau was 51 years old and played by 53-year-old Rue McClanahan.
Sophia Petrillo was 79 years old and played by 62-year-old Estelle Getty. She needed a professional makeup artist to cultivate a substantially older look. Estelle was actually just one year older than her on-screen daughter.
I know she’s also an outlier, but have you seen Jennifer Lopez lately? She’s 54 years old, basically the same age as three-fourths of The Golden Girls. Here’s a gratuitous photo she posted on her Instagram three days ago.
Man alive, pass the Delola.