Bill Veeck was an old-school baseball team owner. At one time or another he owned the Cleveland Indians, St. Louis Browns, and the Chicago White Sox. Professional sports back in the day weren’t the enormous cash cows they are now. The owners had more in common with carnies than businessmen. Veeck’s father was a sportswriter who used to pillory the owner of the Cubs over their management of the team. The owner of the team told him that if he thought he could do a better job, put up or shut up, and made him the president of the club. Veeck junior got hired to sell popcorn in the stands, and began his career in baseball from the very bottom. He had ideas, back when ideas were needed to even half-fill the stands.
It was his idea to plant ivy on the walls of Wrigley Field. He installed a movable outfield walls that could be pushed in and out depending on how many long-ball hitters were on the visiting team. He hired a clown to coach third base. He was the first owner to field an integrated team in the American League, which also allowed him to sign the oldest rookie ever in the major leagues (Satchel Paige). He sent a 3′ – 7″ pinch hitter to the plate with the number “1/8” on his uniform, who walked on four pitches because his strike zone was the size of a shot glass. He shot off fireworks after home runs, which is common now. He put player names on the uniforms for the first time. In a final, glorious moment, he sponsored Disco Demolition Night between doubleheader games, which resulted in a riot at Comiskey Park and a forfeited game to the visiting team. Disco Sucks!
He was a Marine, and lost his leg in WW II in an artillery accident. He had a wooden leg, with holes cut in it to use as an ashtray.
Bill Veeck smiles down from heaven, and says let the security guards dance.
That’s a funny way of playing baseball. I’ll admit that it’s marginally more interesting than regular baseball, but I have no idea what’s going on in both cases. Although sports in general are not my strong suit, I can easily see that they’re not too familiar with the subtleties of Major League Baseball. First off, you’re supposed to attack the umpire with a sword, not the baseball. Baseballs are expensive.
We’re the LA Dodgers, and if you study with our eight-week program you will learn a system of being terrible at everything that we developed over two seasons of sleeping on mattresses stuffed with gold bullion and hundred-dollar bills. It’s called Dodger Kwon Do! After one week with us in our eight-week program, you’ll be prepared to run with the strength of an LA Dodger’s fan, the reflexes of a throw rug, and the wisdom of a man.
The Singularity. You know, a superintelligence based on an ever-increasing volume of random inputs, adding up to… well, whoopty! The dude was taking lefts at each of the bases, so that part works. The hair farmer doing the interview didn’t seem to mind, or even notice, so what’s the diff, really?
Of course, brighter men than I have posited that if you give a million monkeys a million typewriters and wait a million years, eventually one of them will type War And Peace by accident. American professional athletes, and their lamprey cousins, American sportswriters and sportscasters, are as close to a million monkeys as we could hope for to test the hypothesis. And a microphone is as good as a typewriter. That right there isn’t the interview equivalent of War And Peace, but it’s comparable to a fairly serviceable comic book, isn’t it?
Keep typing, all you jockish Curious Georges, you’ll get it eventually.