The Chris Moeller Archives

The one about the Preacher and the Virgin

Attempts to censor the internet are creating some hilarious results. In England, citizen e-mails sent to a city council regarding building permits were blocked because they included the word "extension," and in Manhattan, the Church of St. Mary the Virgin was forced to change its website from stmvirgin.org to stmvnyc.org to hurdle spam blockers. Says the flummoxed parish priest, "Apparently Our Lady through her intercessions was not able to fix this problem to the word 'Virgin,' even though we were referring to her!"

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My re-reading of the 1992 Robert Gregory biography of Dizzy Dean has led to unexpected heartache over the loss of the great baseball nicknames. The large truckloads of money being backed up to ballplayer's homes is probably the culprit of my grief. I don't begrudge the players any of it, and Lord knows I contribute plenty with a fawning attention and open wallet for the sport, but today's players seem to have less time for frivolity and gamesmanship on the diamond, and-- I suspect-- more time off of it for sensible estate planning. Meanwhile, television cameras and microphones have all but wiped out that good old-fashioned bench-jockeying.

In the mid-'30s, during an afternoon's contest between St. Louis and another NL team-- say, the New York Giants, you would be likely to encounter the Cardinals' Dizzy and Daffy Dean, Pepper Martin, Ripper Collins, Ducky Medwick, Spud Davis, Dazzy Vance, Wild Bill Hallahan, Tex Carleton, Hollywood Wop Ernie Orsatti, Leo the Lip Durocher, Chick Fullis, Kiddo Davis, Red Worthington, Buster Mills, The Fordham Flash Frankie Frisch, and three guys that would never require more colorful names than the ones given at their birth-- Burleigh Grimes, Flint Rhem, and Burgess Whitehead. The Gothams offered up King Carlos-- later to become-- The Meal Ticket Carl Hubbell, Fat Freddie Fitzsimmons, Prince Hal Schumacher, Lefty O'Doul, Blondy Ryan, Tarzan Parmalee, Slick Castleman, Watty Clark, Hi Bell, Jo-Jo Moore, Memphis Bill Terry, Master Mel Ott, Shortwave Bartell, Gunboat Gumbert, The Pride of Havana Dolph Luque, and a couple of extra fellers named Lafayette Fresco Thompson and Homer Peel.

The deprival of this vast assemblage is lamentable, but the specific ballpark handle that I miss the most is Preacher, as in Preacher Rowe of the Brooklyn Dodgers or National League team executive Branch Rickey. The Preacher was once a pleasant rarity. One had to be either a teetotaling virgin, a clubhouse evangelist, or both to earn the moniker. Today, each team would have 12 Preachers.

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I'm trying to survive the week without a telephone, having purposely abandoned my home phone for a cellular unit last year and accidently abandoning my cell charger in Iowa City Monday afternoon. I'm left with more time for reflection upon absent friends and family, and more room in my pants pockets for beef jerky and concealed weapons.

It's back to the Stone Age. If you need to reach me, you'll have to e-mail, or comment on the blog.

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I cannot continue hyperlinking these Ken Levine posts. Eventually you're going to have to start checking his blog for yourself. I like the Bud Selig line best.

posted by CM @ 6:42 PM