Thursday, September 3, 2009

A Japanese influence on an American game



In the winter of 1934, Babe Ruth and a band of big league barnstormers traveled to Japan to take the game of baseball to the Far East. Riding a motorcycle, Ruth was greeted by thousands of cheering Japanese people as he traveled from city to city. Hall of Fame players such as Jimmie Foxx, Lefty Grove, and Lou Gehrig, as well as Babe Ruth were among the fourteen players who played a series of twenty-two games in Japan that winter. Two years later the Japanese Professional Baseball League was formed and the rest is history.

Baseball, known as America’s pastime, has been around in this country since the American Civil War. It’s been said that Union soldier Abner Doubleday invented the game after the Battle of Gettysburg. The first professional American team recognized is the Cincinnati Red Stockings that formed in 1876. It’s safe to say that baseball has a well versed and storied past in this country. The game stems from climactic folk heroes such as Babe Ruth to esteemed villains such as Barry Bonds and Shoeless Joe Jackson. There have been scandals, dramatic post-season finishes, labor strikes, historic record controversy, and even gambling, but the game itself has remained steadfast.

Only now in the 21st century is the game beginning to take a foot hold in other countries. This past March, the sport held its second World Baseball Classic. It is a global tournament between member nations to determine superiority and dominance within the sport. Baseball has spread as far south to the Caribbean Islands, across the Atlantic to Italy and Greece, and has spread as far east into Japan and the rest of Asia, where it is quite arguably the most popular of all, second only by the United States.

The initiation that Babe Ruth gave the game in the winter of 1934 to the citizens of Japan ignited a passion in that country that has taken shape now for over seventy-five years. Only now are we beginning to market to that country in ways we could have only dreamed about in the past.

Japan is an island location, located in East Asia in the Pacific Ocean comprising of over 3,000 islands. A major economic power, Japan has the world’s second largest economy by nominal GDP and the third largest purchasing power parity. It is also the world’s fourth largest exporter and the sixth largest importer. It’s a developed country with high living standards and boasts the longest life expectancy in the entire world. Its history dates back to nearly 30,000 B.C., and for much of that time period, complete power was held by the Emperor.

The twentieth century brought many changes to Japan including its involvement in World War II. Ironically, during that time period it was Japanese ball players who once cherished American culture and sports were now crying out to the masses, “To hell with Babe Ruth!”

It wasn’t until after the Second World War that they’re economy began to thrive again and with that, the country began to divulge into leisure activities such as baseball. All of the sudden, the Japanese culture embraced the sport once again and continued on with its storied past.
Sadaharu Oh played for the Yomiuri Giants of the Japanese League from 1959-1980. Over the span of 22 seasons, Oh hit 868 career homeruns, which is a record that stands to this day in Japan and is likely never to be broken. This is mostly due to the style of baseball played there, which emphasizes small ball and sacrificing runners. If Sadaharu Oh had played in the American Major Leagues, he would have broken Babe Ruth’s record by over 100 Homeruns. The entire fabric of how American’s view the hollowed homerun record would have been changed forever. Babe Ruth would be a mere footnote in American history instead of a cultural icon. Barry Bonds and Hank Aaron would be an afterthought, and the entire game itself would be different.

However, in that period of time, American’s viewed Japanese baseball as inferior to the American version. It’s been said by many baseball historians that Oh would not have been as successful had he had a chance to compete in the Major Leagues. Additionally, in that period of time, baseball was just then getting used to the idea of having black ballplayers in its league. The American game was in no shape whatsoever to welcome any Asian into the mix.

The first player to reach the major leagues from Japan was Hideo Nomo who was a star rookie pitcher for the Los Angeles Dodgers in 1995. All he did was win the rookie of the year, throw two no-hitters and lead the entire league in strikeouts twice. “Nomo-Mania” had commenced. He is credited for essentially paving the way for Japanese ball players to relocate into the United States. After finding a loophole in his Japanese professional contract, Nomo was able to leave his country behind and go on to dominate the National League. Others since, have soon followed in his footsteps.

Ichiro Suzuki is credited as the first position player to leave the Japanese leagues for greener pastures in the United States. Since his major league career started in 2001, he has been considered annually as one of the leagues best hitters, and has an outside shot at making the Major League Baseball Hall of Fame, which if it occurs, he will become the first Japanese born ball player to do so.

Major League Baseball benefitted measurably in 2001 by allowing for fans in Japan for the first time to vote on the players in the All-Star Game. The result was the highest voter turnout in league history and Ichiro became the highest vote getter. This essentially set the precedent of beginning to market the American game to Japan.

As a result, Ichiro merchandise sales in Japan set all-time highs and Major League profits began to rise substantially. Ichiro’s team, the Seattle Mariners became the most popular team in Japan. The Mariners were even more popular than all of the teams in the Japanese Professional Leagues, and as a result every one of their games was televised in Japan. This allowed for additional marketing opportunities. Suddenly, Japanese companies were buying advertisement sign boards inside of Seattle’s own Safeco Park. The games began to be broadcast by Japanese broadcasters, and an influx of Japanese media began to take over the Mariners’ press box. Ichiro became not only an American fascination, but a global empire, that took Japan by storm. Ichiro became the legend that Sadaharu Oh had only dreamed of becoming. Not only that, American baseball owners were profiting in ways that they never thought could actually happen.

What had started in 1995 with Hideo Nomo as an anomaly became a full-fledged marketing opportunity in the spring of 2001 with Ichiro Suzuki. Somewhere in between, the American game became even more popular in Japan then the domestic version. Japanese fans complained of the boring conservative brand being played locally that had dominated the country for over seventy years, in favor for the exciting, free-willing style of American Baseball. In Japan, it is commonplace to sacrifice oneself for the good of the team. This led to low scoring affairs with little fan fair. It was clear that the Japanese preferred the 3-run Homerun to the sacrifice bunt. Japan became enamored with American Stars such as Ken Griffey Jr., Mark McGwire, and Sammy Sosa. All of whom appeared larger than life to the Japanese public.

Finally Major League baseball began to understand how to market itself outside of its own country. The league owners realized that Japan was a huge un-tapped market. Slowly, they have begun to infiltrate the market by selling baseball merchandise, equipment, advertisements, and corporate sponsorships. Not to mention essentially selling back its own home-grown players.

In 1995, it is estimated that Japan’s major satellite network, NHK, reached 7.4 million households. In that period of time, the network televised every start Hideo Nomo made even if it was at 4am, local Japanese time. Whenever Nomo pitched, it became a national news story. Japanese travel agents began to sell “Nomo Tours’ to Los Angeles that included tickets to Dodger games. By the time Ichiro reached the Major Leagues in 2001, the satellite network had doubled in household size, and has been growing exponentially ever since.

Additionally, American-Japanese baseball relations have reached into popular culture. In 1992, Tom Selleck starred in the film Mr. Baseball. The plot revolved around an aging American Ballplayer that was put on the trading block with the New York Yankees in favor of a younger prospect. He then resurrected his career by going over to Japan to play. There he learned to embrace the Japanese version of the game and continue his successful career. The film was a huge blockbuster hit in Japan, and is a further example of a marketing opportunity in that country.

In 2006, Trey Hillman, manager of the Nippon Ham Fighters became one of the few American born managers to reach a God-like status to the population. That season he took the last place Fighters to win the Japanese World Series and as a result he was given the opportunity to manage in the American Major Leagues with the Kansas City Royals. Citizens on the island of Hokkaido, in northern Japan, celebrated Hillman’s success by opening up an American Style Texas barbeque restaurant in his honor. Pictures of Hillman from childhood to adulthood adorned the walls of the restaurant and he will forever be remembered as the American who rescued the failed Japanese club into a celebrated national champion.

Additionally, Hillman used his newfound platform as a stepping stone in relations between the two versions of the American-Japanese game. In some ways his managing style in the Japanese League has been adopted and reformed to fit a version of American Style. Hillman embraces lefty-righty balance within the lineup and continues to have a preference for pitching, speed and defense within his American roster, as opposed to power and slug which has been prevalent within the American game for over fifteen years. Hillman’s brand of baseball is not exactly new to the league, as variations of the philosophy was dominant within the 1960’s and 70’s. However, he has in fact adopted some Japanese drills that have become apart of the Kansas City Royals Spring Training routine.

Since the 1995, many players in both countries have crossed over the Pacific Ocean to play the game of baseball. Some have relocated in order to make significant more money and take part in “a coming out party,” while others have relocated to jumpstart a failed career in hopes of finding a roster that will accept them. Relocated players have to consider various variables when contemplating immigration to the new country. Language and cultural barriers are to name a few. However within time, most players adapt and if deemed successful, they become apart of the history of that brand of baseball to both the American and Japanese citizens alike.

It’s now been over 75 years since Babe Ruth and his barnstorming team took the field in Japan. Since that time the popularity of baseball has slowly begun to take shape and has emerged now as an institution in that country. The country is well represented in international competition and continues to show the world an adaptation of the style of game that is foreign to Americans but natural to its own populace. The Japanese brand will continue to influence how Americans view the game in the future and must consider it an honor to do so. Given the state of a global economy in today’s world, it’s no doubt that the Americans have identified a market that was previously unexploited and have done what they do best. That is to sell its brand to those that are willing to consume, and it’s clear that the Japanese are content to oblige. Babe Ruth never did have a clear vision of the excitement he started.

An evening with Sgt. Slaughter...Cobra clutch included


Today I was driving south on I-29 from the airport to downtown KC. It occurred to me that it was the first time I had driven that route since the day I picked up Sgt. Slaughter from the airport. As I was making the drive south I got to thinking about the conversation me and the Sarge both had that day. From the moment I picked him up to the last time I saw him sitting on the side of the curb of the Hyatt in full “Sarge” attire, I couldn’t help but think how much of a tragic figure he really was. That day, I really did learn a lot about what it meant to be a “celebrity."
I awaited his arrival at Terminal B at KCI airport. I held up a handmade sign hastily scribbled with the name “Robert Remus” on the front. Just an hour before, we joked whether or not we should actually put his wrestling name on the sign. Would anybody notice? Would anybody care? I was standing there a solid 15 minutes when I saw him. He was a mountain of a man with broad shoulders and a chip on his shoulder. His frame was pushing 6’5 and 330lbs., a true giant amongst the commoners. Wikipedia had told me hours before, that he was born on the exact same day and year as my dad. They may have shared the same birthdays, but different were their experiences. I was soon to find out how different those stories actually were.
I greeted him cheerfully as he recognized my sign. I naively asked him if he’d ever been to Kansas City before and his response was classic. “I’ve been here too many times,” he said as we made our way to the car. I didn’t know what that meant, but was eager to find out.
I helped him with his bags to the parking lot as we exchanged a few pleasantries. My experiences picking people up from the airport were limited to minor league baseball players. The occurrence was limited mainly to baseball has-beens and never-weres. I knew the game but a feeling emerged over me as if I would not forget this experience any time soon. This was going to be different. We put the bags in the trunk and jumped in for the 25 minute ride to the Hyatt in downtown Kansas City. MapQuest had assured me of that.
As we made our way south past Vivian Road, he mentioned to me that he and a wrestler buddy of his of years past, used to rent an apartment there. He asked me to drive by to see if it was still there. But alas, it was not. It looked as though it had been torn down for some time. I could see a look of depression fill his face. It was there, while looking at the torn down apartment, when he started to talk about the good old days and how his life had changed, most of it, not for the better. He did his best to recall the happier times when he wrestled in a small television studio in St. Joe 30 years beforehand. When he spoke about those days, you could really see that he missed them dearly. He mentioned an old woman that absolutely hated him because he played the “villain”. He loved playing the villain more than anything in the world.
We entered downtown, and it was unrecognizable to him. He hadn’t been here in 20 years. I mentioned that the city was building a new arena downtown and you could tell that he couldn’t have cared any less. “They all look the same,” he said when talking about the new arena.
I asked him what life was like on the road. It seemed as though a cloud had hung over him. He had spent some 30 years on the road. Oh he had seen his fair share of good times. He mentioned a bout he had had in Alaska against Andre the Giant. He had gone up against Hulk Hogan. He fought the best and he made it to the big time. But now his life was reduced to minor league appearances and slugging through his old “Sgt. Slaughter” routine for peanuts compared to what he used to pull in. One failed marriage later and a life spent not getting to know his kids, he was here in Kansas City just doing another gig. Just enough money to pay his child support and his bills. I felt sorry for him in away. He had not lived a normal life.
We arrived at the hotel. They did not know him or have his reservation. He turned to me for answers. You could see that this was an all too familiar scene in his life. Thankfully, a quick call to Bryan Williams, the community relations director, and a couple of minutes later we were back in business. He was tired. I helped him to his room and put down his bags on the bed. “Can you believe I can still fit into this old outfit?” he said to me as he held up his wrestling garb. It was as if I was staring into time machine of failed expectations. How does one respond to a question like that?
He said he was going to take a nap and I told him that I’d be back to pick him up at 4:30pm. We exchanged numbers and I was on my way.
I arrived back at the Hyatt at 4:30 on the dot only to find the Sarge at the hotel bar. He was half lit and ready to go. We jumped back into the car and I gave him the rundown as to what to expect on the night. He had heard these words before. Just another gig, ho hum, sign a few autographs, take a few pictures, give a few half nelsons. It’s all part of the deal.
He was surprised to see the Kansas Speedway. He had no idea that it was near our final destination. His face lit up like a little kid at Christmas. He was an avid NASCAR fan and it seemed as though this was the one thing in life that kept him going. “Lets drive over there!” he shouted gleefully while pointing at the speedway. “Man I went to Daytona last year and you wouldn’t believe how big that place was.” He was in heaven.
We pulled into the Community America Ballpark. “It’s time for work,” he said and he dutifully put his game face on. I showed him to the clubhouse dressing room and within minutes he was in character. He wore black wrestling spandex, black wrestling boots, a camouflage shirt, aviator sunglasses and his trademark drill sergeant hat fully pimped out in sequence around the brim.
I was to be his game-day bodyguard. It was a fact at which seemed preposterous. He outweighed me by over 100lbs and seemed at least a foot taller. I had no business protecting Sgt. Slaughter that day, but was thankful for the experience.
At 5:30pm the gates opened. We had positioned ourselves behind the left field wall. We had a table, a couple of chairs, a money pouch and all the beer we could drink. All we needed now were thousands of drunken rednecks oozing for an autograph and picture.
Thankfully for us, they had arrived. It seemed as though every wrestling fan and drunken redneck in Wyandotte County had come to see the legend. The lines stretched over 200ft. He was in rare form too. He got a kick out of the stories he heard from the fans. “I remember seeing you up against Andre the Giant!” one drunken fan said. The Sarge’s face shined. He too remembered it. And there was a part of him that wished he was still there, back in the spotlight. Back where he was on top of the world. Instead, he was just another has-been selling his past for a few extra bucks in Wyandotte County, KS. His mood changed. He loved hearing the old stories but couldn’t seem to get past the present. “Let’s get us another couple more beers Aaron,” he said to me as the line to see him stretched halfway down the third base line.
He had been signing autographs now for a little over an hour now as one excited fan approached him. To meet Sgt. Slaughter had been this guy’s lifelong dream. Dressed head-to-toe in WWF attire, this man was prepared. He handed the Sarge a wrestling magazine from 1971. “I cannot believe you have this!” he said to the fan. “I’ve been looking for this for years!” He showed me a picture of him and Kansas City wrestling legend, Harley Race on the cover. They both were going at it in St. Joe, Missouri. And he seemed content. He was a younger man then and his life ahead was full of opportunity. For that split moment, his face looked as young as that picture in the magazine. He signed the magazine and took a picture with the man and it was on to the next one. He showed a plethora of emotions in that autograph line. Some excitement, some discouragement, some just plain drunken.
The minor league ballgame brought him a couple of on-field appearances. One where he sang during the seventh inning stretch while using his trademark “wrestling” voice. He sang "Take me out to the ballgame" as if he'd just drank a glass of gravel. And another where he refereed the sumo match. He had done his job dutifully and it was time to take him back to the Hotel.“I’m not sure I have too many of these things left in me,” he said while driving back to downtown Kansas City. His body had betrayed him from years of abuse. Perhaps it was one “cobra clutch” too many. Or quite simply put, he had spent just too many nights on the road. In fact, the road was his home and a hotel room was his sanctuary.
We pulled into the hotel drive and he got out. He thanked me for sharing the evening with him and I too expressed the same gratitude. I assured him that if needed I could be back in the morning to take him back to the airport. “No,” he said, “I’ll just call a cab. You go and have a good time tonight. Try to get some ass for the ole’ Sarge!”I drove away contemplating the rest of the evening and the events that had taken place. I couldn’t get over the ups and downs, the highs and lows, of a truly tragic figure.
Suddenly, I heard my phone ring. I didn’t recognize the number. So I answered cautiously. “Hello?” I whispered. “It’s the Sarge! You forgot to pay me!”
“Damnit, I’ll be right back. Sorry ‘bout that.”
I turned the car around and raced back to the hotel. I made a quick left into the hotel parking lot. I gazed to my right only to see a mountain of a man sitting quietly on the side of the hotel curb in full “Sgt. Slaughter” garb. Drunken hotel customers walked past him without the slightest hint of recognition. He was glad I was back, but glad it was over. “I thought you were gonna stiff me!” he said in a desolate tone. I thought that said it all.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

American History (1866-1877)


For the past few days, I have become aware of the fact that my buddy Ed is taking American History to 1877....He then remarked to me that he was itching to find out what happend afterwards. As if he didn't know. HA HA. It was a funny joke which made me laugh. It was a quality attempt to make light of history hilarity. Truly funny stuff. Suffice to say, Ed IS living in the present and is fully aware of present day issues. However it is important to note that I, myself have taken both American History courses offered at virtually any college in the United States. But there is an ironic twist to this fact.

To complete my bachelors degree in Economics, I attended to state universities. I attended UMKC for 2 years, then transfered to the University of Missouri. Upon completion of said degree, I have only now realized that there was a flaw in my education. Specifically whilst taking my two American history courses. At UMKC I took American History to 1865, and at the University of Missouri I took American History since 1877. Somewhere along the lines I got trampled through the cracks. There is a lost 12 years of history of which i know nothing about and was not educated in a formal manner. The years 1865 to 1877 leaves a void in my life, in which I have only now fully realized. This is a fact in which I feel has lead to an emptyness in my soul. This is why I have decided to learn at least one fact per year between 1865 and 1877 for the next 12 days. I feel that upon completion of this fact finding mission, my life will be complete and I will move forward in a sober fashion.

I will begin with the year 1866...

Feb 13: Jesse James committed the first daylight bank robbery in the history of the United States in Liberty, MO

July 24: Tennessee becomes the first state readmitted into the Union following the American Civil War. This is a fact that is noted for being a backroom deal between government cronies.

Late fall: The great tea race of London ends in London. The race was a competiton between English clippers to see who was the fastest ship to bring the first tea leaves from China.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

An afternoon with Sgt. Slaughter...cobra clutch included


Today I was driving south on I-29 from the airport to downtown. It occurred to me that it was the first time I had driven that route since the day I picked up Sgt. Slaughter from the airport. As I was making the drive south I got to thinking about the conversation me and the Sarge both had that day. From the moment I picked him up to the last time I saw him sitting on the side of the curb of the Hyatt in full “Sarge” attire, I couldn’t help but think how much of a tragic figure he really was. That day, I really did learn a lot about what it meant to be a “celebrity”.


I awaited his arrival at Terminal B at KCI airport. I held up a handmade sign hastily scribbled with the name “Robert Remus” on the front. Just an hour before, we joked whether or not we should actually put his wrestling name on the sign. Would anybody notice? Would anybody care? I was standing there a solid 15 minutes when I saw him. He was a mountain of a man with broad shoulders and a chip on his shoulder. His frame was pushing 6’5 and 330lbs., a true giant amongst the commoners. Wikipedia had told me hours before, that he was born on the exact same day and year as my dad. They may have shared the same birthdays, but different were their experiences. I was soon to find out how different those stories actually were.


I greeted him cheerfully as he recognized my sign. I naively asked him if he’d ever been to Kansas City before and his response was classic. “I’ve been here too many times.” He said as we made our way to the car. I didn’t know what that meant, but was eager to learn.


I helped him with his bags to the parking lot as we exchanged a few pleasantries. My experiences picking people up from the airport were limited to minor league baseball players. The occurrence was limited mainly to baseball has-beens and never-weres. I knew the game but a feeling emerged over me as if I would not forget this experience any time soon. This was going to be different. We put the bags in the trunk and jumped in for the 25 minute ride to the Hyatt in downtown Kansas City. MapQuest had assured me of that.


As we made our way south past Vivian Road, he mentioned to me that he and a wrestler buddy of his of years past, used to rent an apartment there. He asked me to drive by to see if it was still there. But alas, it was not. It looked as though it had been torn down for some time. I could see a look of depression fill his eyes. It was there, while looking at the torn down apartment, when he started to talk about the good old days and how his life had changed. He did his best to recall the happier times when he wrestled in a small television studio in St. Joe 30 years beforehand. When he spoke about those days, you could really see that he missed them dearly. He mentioned an old woman that absolutely hated him because he played the “villain”. He loved playing the villain more than anything.


We entered downtown, and it was unrecognizable to him. He hadn’t been here in 20 years. I mentioned that the city was building a new arena downtown and you could tell that he couldn’t have cared any less. “They all look the same”, he said when talking about the new arena.
I asked him what life was like on the road. It seemed as though a cloud had hung over him. He had spent some 30 years on the road. Oh he had seen his fair share of good times. He mentioned a bout he had, had in Alaska against Andre the Giant. He had gone up against Hulk Hogan. He fought the best and he made it to the big time. But now his life was reduced to minor league appearances and slugging through his old “Sgt. Slaughter” routine for peanuts compared to what he used to pull in. One failed marriage later and a life spent not getting to know his kids, he was here in Kansas City just doing another gig. Just enough money to pay his child support and his bills. I felt sorry for him in away. He had not lived a normal life.


We arrived at the hotel. They did not know him or have his reservation. He turned to me for answers. You could see that this was an all too familiar scene in his life. Thankfully, a quick call to you and a couple of minutes later we were back in business. He was tired. I helped him to his room and put down his bags on the bed. “Can you believe I can still fit into this old outfit?” he said to me as he held up his wrestling garb. It was as if I was staring into time machine of failed expectations. How does one respond to a question like that?


He said he was going to take a nap and I told him that I’d be back to pick him up at 4:30pm. We exchanged numbers and I was on my way.


I arrived back at the Hyatt at 4:30 on the dot only to find the Sarge at the hotel bar. He was half lit and ready to go. We jumped back into the car and I gave him the rundown as to what to expect on the night. He had heard these words before. Just another gig, ho hum, sign a few autographs, take a few pictures, give a few half nelsons. It’s all part of the deal.


He was surprised to see the Kansas Speedway. He had no idea that it was near our final destination. His face lit up like a little kid at Christmas. He was an avid NASCAR fan and it seemed as though this was the one thing in life that kept him going. “Lets drive over there!” he shouted gleefully while pointing at the speedway. “Man I went to Daytona last year and you wouldn’t believe how big that place was.” He was in heaven.


We pulled into the Community America Ballpark. “It’s time for work,” he said and he dutifully put his game face on. I showed him to the clubhouse dressing room and within minutes he was in character. He wore black wrestling spandex, black wrestling boots, a camouflage shirt, aviator sunglasses and his trademark drill sergeant hat fully pimped out in sequence around the brim.
I was to be his game-day bodyguard. It was a fact at which seemed preposterous. He outweighed me by over 100lbs and seemed at least a foot taller. I had no business protecting Sgt. Slaughter that day, but was thankful for the experience.


At 5:30pm the gates opened. We had positioned ourselves behind the left field wall. We had a table, a couple of chairs, a money pouch and all the beer we could drink. All we needed now were thousands of drunken rednecks oozing for an autograph and picture.


Thankfully for us, they had arrived. It seemed as though every wrestling fan and drunken redneck in Wyandotte County had come to see the legend. The lines stretched over 200ft. He was in rare form too. He got a kick out of the stories he heard from the fans. “I remember seeing you up against Andre the Giant!” one drunken fan said. The Sarge’s face shined. He too remembered it. And there was a part of him that wished he was still there, back in the spotlight. Back where he was on top of the world. Instead, he was just another has-been selling his past for a few extra bucks in Wyandotte County, KS. His mood changed. He loved hearing the old stories but couldn’t seem to get past the present. “Let’s get us another couple more beers Aaron,” he said to me as the line to see him stretched halfway down the third base line.


He had been signing autographs now for a little over an hour now as one excited fan approached him. To meet Sgt. Slaughter had been this guy’s lifelong dream. Dressed head-to-toe in WWF attire, this man was prepared. He handed the Sarge a wrestling magazine from 1971. “I cannot believe you have this!” he said to the fan. “I’ve been looking for this for years!” He showed me a picture of him and Harley Race on the cover. They both were going at it in St. Joe, Missouri. And he seemed content. He was a younger man then and his life ahead was full of opportunity. For that split moment, his face looked as young as that picture in the magazine. He signed the magazine and took a picture with the man and it was on to the next one. He showed a plethora of emotions in that autograph line. Some excitement, some discouragement, some just plain drunken.


The minor league ballgame brought him a couple of on-field appearances. One where he sang the seventh inning stretch while using his trademark “wrestling” voice. And another where he refereed the sumo match. He had done his job dutifully and it was time to take him back to the Hotel.


“I’m not sure I have too many of these things left in me,” he said while driving back to downtown Kansas City. His body had betrayed him from years of abuse. Perhaps it was one “cobra clutch” too many. Or quite simply put, he had spent just too many nights on the road. In fact, the road was his home and a hotel room was his sanctuary.


We pulled into the hotel drive and he got out. He thanked me for sharing the evening with him and I too expressed the same gratitude. I assured him that if needed I could be back in the morning to take him back to the airport. “No,” he said, “I’ll just call a cab. You go and have a good time tonight. Try to get some ass for the ole’ Sarge! ”


I drove away contemplating the rest of the evening and the events that had taken place. I couldn’t get over the ups and downs, the highs and lows, of a truly tragic figure.
I suddenly heard my phone ring. I didn’t recognize the number. So I answered cautiously. “Hello?” I whispered. “It’s the Sarge! You forgot to pay me!”
“Damnit, I’ll be right back. Sorry ‘bout that.”


I turned the car around and raced back to the hotel. I made a quick left into the hotel parking lot. I gazed over to my right only to see a mountain of a man sitting quietly on the side of the curb in full “Sgt. Slaughter” garb. The hotel customers walked past him without the slightest hint of recognition. He was glad I was back, but glad it was over. “I thought you were gonna stiff me!” he said in desolate tone. I thought that said it all.

Monday, August 3, 2009

i am back

hello folks after a little time from my blogging i am back to give you all a little run down on what i have learned over the past couple wks.

1. first never joke about fucking a prostitute, your girlfriend or fiance will not think its funny mine didn't she started crying. the explanation i was in the military and all my buddy's did wont hold water.

2. if you fucked a girl while stationed in Okinawa even though you were not technically with your girlfriend or fiance don't tell her again she might start crying.

3. face herpes sucks it makes you look like a leper, i got this training for a fight its not real herpes but its in the same family.

4. don't become a royals fan, i for real saw something in them i thought it would be a good yr well i and a lot of folks were wrong.

that's just a little i have learned, life is funny, you spend yrs trying to get it right but i want to tell you all you wont. you will commit mistakes like i mentioned or worse, but you go to bounce back. that's the key.

and my final lesson i learned was after you stuck threw all the things life throws you in the end your all alone... that will lead me to explain my dick in the wind theory for another day.


for now the Salmon is out

Sunday, July 19, 2009

The Erin Andrews Peephole Saga


I'd just like to say a few words on the Erin Andrews story that has broken over the past few days. For those that don't know, Erin was filmed through a reverse peephole in her hotel room. And yes...she was naked.


Now, I'd like to state, there is not one man in this country or universe for that matter that would not like to see Erin Andrews naked. You'd almost have to be a communist if you didn't. But there's good naked and there's bad naked. I'm not saying that what I saw was bad naked, but how it went down was definitely not cool.


Only a dirtball hillbilly sleaze would put a camera up to a peephole. These are the type of dudes that you see on the Chris Hansen, "Catch a Predator" show. If you really want to see Erin Andrews naked, do what any other respectable male in this country would do...Buy her 3 long island iced teas at the hotel bar and let the magic run it's course. It's not exactly rocket science here. Nobody thinks you're cool because you peeped into a peephole, dude. In fact, that's very un-dude of you to do.


I'd be willing to bet my entire life savings, that given a few more years, Erin would've gotten naked for the entire world on her own merit, legally. Possibly for Hugh Hefner. Now we can all kiss that dream goodbye, thanks to this douche bag.


By the way, I saw the video. She's good looking and all. And I bet deep down inside, behind the impending lawsuits and negative attention, I'd bet that she's secretly really into all of this exposure. Any good looking woman out there loves to be told she's hot, just to feed her ego. Afterall, she's worked hard on her craft and her body and she deserves a little attention. But guys out there reading this, don't go overboard. Don't be a douche bag about all of this. Act like a Marcus Allen touchdown. Act like you've been there before.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

4th of July and wedding day are they the same

i am getting married and it accord to me that the 4th of July and wedding day is the same thing.

everyone gets together and spends far more for a single days event then ever needed.

money is spent tempers and alcohol flow freely.

and in the end something blows up then its done aand over with