"To
see the talent is as much a gift as to have the talent."
—Reggie
Otero
THE
COLOR COMMENTARY
The
only one who was there from the very beginning, the only one who
is always there in the middle of everything, was The Old Swizzlehead,
aka Rapid Ricky Falls, who was the closest thing John Barr ever
had to a friend. And even his account must be taken with a healthy
dose of incredulity not only because of Falls's renowned propensity
for obfuscation, exaggeration, and outright deception but also
for the simple fact that no one ever got that close to Barr, the
greatest if not the most beloved player in the game.
He
was grudgingly accorded the former title by the writers, the green
flies at the show as the layers liked to call them, who knew his
honors and statistics. By the end, the flies and the fans could
duly recite all the battling titles, the home-run crowns, the
gold gloves, and the most Valuable Player awards. They could list
for you the long string of division championships, league pennants,
and World Series titles he had won for the New York Mets since
that day he had first walked into the Shea Stadium field, fresh
off two years in the minor leagues and before that God only knew
where, and proceeded to tear off four straight line drive hits.
And after that a thirty-one game hitting streak, and after that
thirteen years of unremittingly battering the small white around
one ballpark or another.
He
was the kind of instant phenom they all should have loved. Tall
and lean, hawk-faced and loose-footed, looking every inch the
ideal, baggy-uniformed ballplayer of the thirties that still bedeviled
their psyches. He layed hard, worked on his game, stayed alert,
took extra batting practice. He was even duly modest and diffident
about his tremendous to be. John Barr let his bat and his glove
speak for him, and they were eloquent.
He
could do everything on a ballfield; that was beyond dispute. In
an era of designated hitters, platoon players, spot starters,
short relievers, and middle-inning relievers. Barr could play
the whole game. Better still, there was a certain quality of danger
that attached to him. There have been great players who never
had a great moment; men who went on year after year, running up
formidable statistics, but were no more fearsome than anybody
else in the few, crucial moments of their careers. They popped
up or flied out in key at-bats, or did not even fail that spectacularly.
They simply singled when they should have homered, cut the ball
off from going into the gap when they should have made the diving,
sliding catch. They layed on no great teams, took part in no immortal
moments, and passed quietly and respectably from the game, vaguely
admired by all.
This
was not the case with John Barr. His very presence at the plate
seemed to jar things loose. It caused the opposing pitchers and
fielders to proceed in jerky, tentative movements. His appearance
at the big moment almost always guaranteed that something would
happen, and usually something that entailed a ball whacked viciously
into the furthest reachers of the stadium, and his opponents sent
stumbling desperately after it.
And
yet by the end he was still no more than a redoubtable shadow
to the flies, the fans, even his own teammates. You could not
say he was loved, except perhaps by Ricky Falls or Ellie Jay,
Queen of the Sportswriters, who loved him not so much for the
raw talent but the dedication that she perceived. For Barr played
wrapped up in himself, in the narrow devotion of hitting the ball.
There were never many color stories on the man, no quotes that
went beyond a few, monosyllabic words, no glowing or lurid accounts
of him from former teammates. Nothing to say where he came from,
other than the name of a small New England town with a funny name.
No visible family, friends, women, or interest of any kind outside
of a ballpark.
The
only one who got more inside on him was The Old Swizzlehead, or
again possibly Ellie Jay, who divined in him something that not
even Falls could quite discern, after all his years with him.
Something detached from the workaday problems of run-of-the-mill,
superstar, millionaire athlete gods. Something truly not normal.
Yet it was Falls who saw him through his entire career right from
the first moment he set foot on a professional ballfield. Or so
he claims. It is The Old Swizzlehead who can better describe the
true essence of the great man than anyone else alive or so he
says.
THE
OLD SWIZZLEHEAD
He
was the best.
I
know how the flies like to throw that word around. These days
somebody makes a good relay throw, he becomes the best player
in the game ever. But John Barr was the best, for real.
You
have to think about how unusual that is. Maybe Ellsworth Pippin,
The Great White Father, is the best owner and general manager
of all time. Maybe the Rev. Jimmy Bumpley is the best TV evangelist.
Maybe even Dickhead Barry Busby is the best sportswriter. I dont
know. But I doubt it. And I know John Barr was the best.
Where
I grew up, we used to shoot hoop on the outdoor courts on Amsterdam
Avenue. We used to lay day an night, nonstop, an we thought we
were pretty bad.. But we all knew the best player in the project
was my cousin and homeboy, John Bell.
He
could two-hand dunk behind his back, every time you gave him the
ball within three feet of the basket. We knew he was the best
player in the city, best player anywhere. Had to be.
One
day we decided we was no good we would go down an play in Riverside
Park. There was a guy down there three inches shorter than John
Bell, who could start at the top of the key, take one step, an
jam it through with just his left hand. He blew by my cousin like
he was standin still, an he rejected everything he put up. He
musta scored two hundred points over John Bell that afternoon.
That
was when I knew. At the next court there would be somebody even
better. An the same thing at the next one, an the one after that.
Until you get down to the courts in the Village where even the
pros come to play. But even then there was maybe better players
someplace: out in Bed-Stuy, or up in the Bronx. Or maybe down
in D.C., or Houston, or anywhere else, all over the world. You
don't usually get to see the bet. An even when you do, most times
you Don't know you're seein it
But
I saw John Barr. And I knew.
DICKHEAD
BARRY BUSBY
You'd
ask him, "What'd you hit?" just trying to get a quote. And he
would stare up at you with those dead eyes he had, like you'd
just asked him the stupidest goddamn question in the world. Like
he wanted to make yo afraid, the son of a bitch.
THE OLD SWIZZLEHEAD
We
used to call em his drowned mans eyes. You messed with him in
any way, that's what he'd give you. He'd go into second base,
spikes high, lookin to rip the shortstops ball off. Even on a
nothin play, with us up five runs in the eighth inning, he'd do
it.
Anybody
else did that kind of shit, there'd be a fight. But with John
Barr the shortstop would just curse n dance around for a while.
Maybe he'd make a mistake an say somethin out the corner of his
mouth.
Barr
would give him those drowned mans eyes. Dead an grey an lookin
right through you. He'd shut up, look kind of coweyed toward third
base, an throw the ball back to the pitcher.
ELLSWORTH
PIPPIN, THE GREAT WHITE FATHER
John
Barr is a great ballplayer. As far as that goes.
THE
OLD SWIZZLEHEAD
He'd
stand up there every time, with that perfect stance. Every time,
exactly the same. Legs planted like a bulldog. Elbows out, bat
cocked up high behind his ear. It was like somebody painted in
the spots where his feet were supposed to go.
Every
time. The only movement was when he would roll that bat around
a little bit in his hands, like a big lazy cat swishin its tail.
Then the pitch would come in, an it was like somebody pushed a
lever. His whole body would turn on it. Legs an knees an arms
an head, all moving together.
Perfect,
every time. He would turn on that pitch and drive it, be off up
the line, bat dropped behind him, not botherin to look where he
hit it. He knew. He looked like he didn't even have to think about
it. I told that to him once, an he looked at me an almost smiled:
"I think about it all the time," he told me. "Every time I'm up
there. But it ain't the stance."
He
never had a real slump. Not one, in all the time I played with
him down in the bushes and in the major leagues. Not until that
last year.
CHARLIE
STANZI, THE LITTLE MANIAC
There
used to be better ballplayers when I played. They had to work
at it harder. One year when I was still a busher I got a job workin
construction in thee winter. They had a foreman who hated my guts,
and one day he threw sand in my face while I was carryin a full
load of bricks. You can bet your ass I didn't drop a brick. An
I came right back there the next day, too. I had to support my
mother an my two sisters, an you couldn't do it with what you
made during the season.
That's
why he could never be as good as they used to be, I don't care
what the writers or the statistics say.
THE
OLD SWIZZLEHEAD
But
he was.
He
was the kind of ballplayer who wasn't supposed to exist anymore.
He lived for the game. He had every detail down perfect, an not
just the hittin. He was the best rightfielder in the game. He
could throw a strike to home plate from every corner. He wasn't
that fast, but he would steal a base every time you didn't keep
him close Every time whether it was a close game or not. That
was how he played the game. He was the kind the flies all said
they loved. The gung-ho, white-boy ballplayer. Not afraid to get
his uniform dirty. Didn't know any other way to play the game.
Played with the small hurts. An all the shit. But they didn't
like him. They were afraid of him. An he wouldn't give em anything.
Not a quote, not a smile. Not the littlest indication at all that
he was even human.
It
was the same thing with the fans. Usually they go wild every time
some white boy runs out from under his cap, even if he misjudged
the ball to start with. They always think a black ballplayer like
me makes it look too easy.
But
they never warmed to John Barr, good a he was. Everybody in the
ballpark paid attention when he was at bat, but that didn't mean
they liked him. Sixteen years I played with him, includin the
minor leagues an he never made one gesture on the field that even
looked human. Until the end.
THE
COLOR COMMENTARY
Which
Rapid Ricky Falls was there for, too, just as he was there for
the very beginning of John Barr in the game. Though you have to
keep in mind the source: The Old Swizzlehead, the original trickster,
whose whole game is a deceit. Walking up to the plate like an
old man carrying wood bent over, bat balanced precariously on
his shoulder like it was too heavy for him. Still bent over when
he got up to the plate, knees buckling, bat propped up on one
hip barely above his waist. Until the ball came in, and he would
slash at it and be off around the bases like a dark streak, throwing
everything into confusion.
The
Old Swizzlehead, whom the media people would cluster around like
flies after honey (his teammates used another word), waiting for
whatever outrageous thing he might tell them next and laughing
nervously because they could never tell whether he really was
a character or just having fun with them. And usually his version
of John Barr was the most outrageous story of all. Though it still
might be true
©
Copyright HarperCollins 2001
