Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts
Showing posts with label baseball. Show all posts

Thursday, April 12, 2018

The Story of Shattering Baseball's Color Barrier



"I don't think it matters what I believe, only what I do."

Jackie Robinson (Chadwick Boseman)

This Sunday will be the 71st anniversary of Jackie Robinson's historic major–league debut.

Three days before the 66th anniversary, on this day in 2013, the movie "42" premiered in American theaters. It told the story of that event with Chadwick Boseman starring as Robinson and Andre Holland playing black sportswriter Wendell Smith, who played a significant role in encouraging Branch Rickey (Harrison Ford), the general manager of the Brooklyn Dodgers, to choose Robinson to be the first black ballplayer in the majors.

Blacks had already served with distinction in World War II yet the armed forces were still segregated. Robinson broke baseball's color barrier more than a year before Harry Truman desegregated the troops.

Last week, we marked the 50th anniversary of the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., who is widely regarded as the father of the civil rights movement. But King was a teenager when Jackie Robinson first played in the major leagues.

When Rickey presented the idea to Robinson, the future barrier buster asked if Rickey wanted someone who didn't have the guts to fight back.

Rickey replied that he wanted someone who had the guts not to fight back.

It was a different country in the 1940s, and Rickey knew that there would be obstacles every day in every city. He knew that whoever that first black ballplayer in the majors turned out to be, he would be subjected to all kinds of abuse — almost all of it sanctioned by the laws and attitudes of the time.

That is probably difficult for many people to comprehend in the 21st century.

But, as I say, it was a different country. And Jackie Robinson was one of those who helped change it.

The movie repeatedly made that point — as it should. To the black community, Robinson was a hero. It is fair to say he was considerably less than that in the eyes of the white community.

But he persevered.

And he inspired the many black ballplayers who followed — one of whom, Ed Charles, was depicted as a child in the movie. Charles, who died last month at the age of 84, was a member of the 1969 Amazin' New York Mets.

As miraculous as the Mets were, they weren't as miraculous as Jackie Robinson's barrier–breaking season.

While Charles was presented as a child of perhaps 9 or 10 in the movie, he was actually a teenager in 1947.

One more thing. Ford, who was 70 when "42" premiered, was better suited for the role of Branch Rickey than he was to play Indiana Jones again (as he had five years earlier) or Han Solo again (as he did two years later). In fact, Ford was five years older than Rickey was in Robinson's historic season.

Thursday, September 21, 2017

Negotiating the Curves of Life and Baseball



I've been a sports fan all my life, and I enjoy good sports movies, but "Trouble With the Cueve," which premiered on this day in 2012, wasn't really a sports movie, even though it had baseball as its backdrop.

I tend to enjoy Clint Eastwood movies, but I will be the first to acknowledge that sometimes you can see things coming in a Clint Eastwood movie long before they get there. Such moments are always there in Eastwood movies, but what keeps them from being trite is the fact that they are always poignant in their presentations. They never seem cliched even if at times they are predictable.

Case in point: Eastwood movies have ways of repeatedly reminding the audience of the title in obvious and not–so–obvious ways. It isn't always easy to tell them apart, either. In "Trouble With the Curve," Eastwood played Gus, an aging baseball scout whose eyesight was failing him. Early in his scouting career, "curve" probably referred only to a type of pitch, but all sorts of new images became associated with it as his character aged.

There were curves that his life and his work kept throwing at him. Of course, everyone is susceptible to that — but I got the sense from watching the movie that Gus had been more fortunate than most. Not so in his later years. At one point in the movie Eastwood was driving his car and was in a collision with another car on a curving road.

Then there were his problems with his daughter. In that instance, I suppose, curve could be physical as well as psychological.

Of course, the curve that held the movie together was the one that a hot prospect couldn't hit. Gus couldn't see it, but he could hear it. It was easy not to like the prospect; he was the kind of narcissistic athlete that, unfortunately, is seen more and more frequently these days. The audience's first glance at him told you everything you needed to know — after demanding peanuts from a ballpark vendor he derisively called "Peanut Boy," the prospect clearly believed he needn't compensate the vendor for the nosh.

"Peanut Boy" got even with the prospect later — in a scene that was reminiscent of the one in "The Natural" when Robert Redford's character blew three straight pitches past a blowhard slugger. In "Trouble With the Curve," it clearly confirmed that Eastwood's character had been right in his assessment.

To say any more would deprive you of the pleasure of experiencing that cinematic moment. It was a gem even if you saw it coming — and, frankly, I didn't.

Eastwood movies seldom pull a fast one on the viewer. There's an honesty in Eastwood movies. They never start out as one thing and then shift gears improbably halfway through. What you see is what you get.

Eastwood movies tell good stories well — something that hasn't been in style in Hollywood for awhile, which may be what appeals to a writer like myself. "Trouble With the Curve" was no exception to the Eastwood rule.

As I say, sports was the backdrop of the story, but it wasn't what the story was about — unlike, say, for example, "Million Dollar Baby." Actually, I thought it had more in common with "Gran Torino." Perhaps that is because Eastwood has entered a different phase in his life and career. He is playing older men and chronicling what life is like for older men in today's world. Sometimes they are retired. And sometimes they are, like Gus in "Trouble With the Curve," being pushed toward retirement to make room for the new.

It was never said directly, but I suspected that Gus remembered a time when older people were treated with respect, and their experience was valued — and he lamented the absence of that in the modern world, where computers get the respect and people get the leftovers, if there are any.

Gus knew he wasn't perfect. He was seen at the grave of his long–dead wife, confessing his shortcomings and telling her how much better she had been at some things than he was — especially communicating with their daughter.

Gus' daughter Mickey (Amy Adams) was all too aware of his imperfections. The two were estranged, apparently had been for years. She harbored resentments, as most of us do, about her childhood (and adulthood, too) and her all–too–frequently absent father.

In spite of themselves, they shared many similarities. They were driven to succeed in their careers, above and beyond anything else — although, as it turned out Mickey, an attorney who was in line for a partnership at the Atlanta law firm where she worked, was more driven by her father's career than her own.

She was with her father at the request of his longtime friend and current employer, played John Goodman, who was concerned about Eastwood more as a friend but also as an employee who could still do his job. In the process she met a former pitcher (Justin Timberlake) who had been recruited by her father — but then blew his arm out and was angling for a broadcasting gig via talent scouting.

Remember when I said that you can sometimes see things coming from a ways off in an Eastwood movie? Well, this relationship was one of those things.

But that was OK, too.

It wasn't the best Clint Eastwood movie I have ever seen, but "Trouble With the Curve" was worth the time it took to watch it.

Friday, July 14, 2017

The Timeless Tale of Lou Gehrig



"All the arguing in the world can't change the decision of the umpire."

Lou Gehrig (Gary Cooper)

Of all those who have worn the pinstripes of the New York Yankees, few have worn them with as much distinction as a man who never played an inning of major league ball, Gary Cooper.

Cooper portrayed Yankee great Lou Gehrig in "The Pride of the Yankees," which premiered on this day in 1942.

I'll save you from doing the math. That's 75 years ago, but the story itself is timeless.

Not only was he the pride of the Yankees. Gehrig was the pride of humanity, and it is a story that seems to be too good to be true — until you realize it is true.

Well, there were some details that only an expert of some kind would know — like the fact that even though Gehrig's jersey number could be seen in re–creations of World Series play from the 1920s, the Yankees did not start using numbers until the very end of that decade. Or the fact that some of the car models that were seen in the movie did not exist at the time when they were supposedly in use.

But Gehrig was, if anything, more noble in real life than he was in the movie. And there was no better choice to play him than Cooper, the 11th–greatest male movie star, according to the American Film Institute.

Cooper made a career of playing characters, both real and fictional, that were worthy of admiration.

He played Sergeant York, a real–life hero from World War I. After he played Gehrig, he played fictional hero Will Kane in "High Noon."

The American Film Institute included all three roles in its list of the top 50 movie heroes of all time. Deservedly so, too. If Cooper had not died in 1961, he might well have been cast to play Atticus Finch in "To Kill a Mockingbird," judged by AFI to be the most heroic part in movie history — but I'll tell you the truth. It is hard for me to imagine anyone other than Gregory Peck as Atticus.

To get back to the casting of "The Pride of the Yankees" ...

There were times when Cooper wasn't quite right for the part — like when he was supposed to be playing Gehrig during his college days. Cooper was in his 40s, simply too old for that. It would have been better to have a younger actor play the younger Gehrig — perhaps the movie's producers couldn't find one who looked enough like Cooper.

Other than that, though, he was perfect for the part. Teresa Wright was perfect in her role as his wife, and Walter Brennan, a three–time Oscar winner who appeared with Cooper in "Sergeant York," was ideal as sports writer Sam Blake.

Cooper and Wright were rewarded with Oscar nominations for their work. Brennan was not.

In all "The Pride of the Yankees" received 11 Oscar nominations but only won one — for Best Film Editing.

For me the defining moment of Cooper's performance was not the re–creation of Gehrig's farewell to baseball but rather when the character visited a hospitalized child and promised to hit two home runs for him in a World Series game.

Turned out there were some inaccuracies in that tale, but that really doesn't bother me. It was the kind of thing Gehrig would have done. It was just the kind of guy he was. Like when he delivered his "Today I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth" speech less than two years before his death.

He knew he was dying. Where many people would be thinking only of themselves and the unfairness of their situation, Gehrig's heart was full of gratitude for the love that surrounded him in Yankee Stadium that day.

He never seemed to think of himself. He was always thinking of the other guy. And when that Lou Gehrig Appreciation Day was held at Yankee Stadium in 1939, his words reflected gratitude for what was given to him, not bitterness over what had been taken away.

Those of us who are less saintly can only hope to face our deaths with that kind of dignity.

It took a special actor to bring that to the big screen, and Gary Cooper was a special actor. As great as he was as Sergeant York and Will Kane, his performance as Lou Gehrig may have been his finest.

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

The Unnatural



General manager: Want to look at a pitcher?

Mouth McGarry (Jack Warden): At this point, I'll even look at you.

General manager: He's a lefty.

Mouth McGarry: Lefty, schmefty. What's the difference? If he's got more than one arm and less than four, he's for us.

Twilight Zone is absolutely one of my favorite TV series of all time. But no series is perfect, and Twilight Zone certainly had its share of misfires. I have mentioned before how I always watch the Syfy Channel's semiannual Twilight Zone marathons on New Year's and the Fourth of July and how there are certain episodes I always make it a habit to watch, whenever they happen to be aired.

Likewise, there are episodes I avoid. Those are the episodes I loathed the first time I saw them. Oddly enough, those episodes often turn out to be the most popular among other Twilight Zone fans. (I've never been able to explain that. It's kind of like being in my own personal Twilight Zone episode.)

That seems to be the case with the episode that first aired on this date in 1960 — "The Mighty Casey," a title that was inspired by Ernest Thayer's 1888 poem "Casey at the Bat." Now, I will admit that I have always liked baseball — more when I was a boy than now, I suppose — but I just never warmed up to this episode.

Others did, though.

The tale was about a fictional down–and–out baseball team called the Hoboken Zephyrs that was so bad it had to call a single victory a streak. The story opened with the team holding tryouts — and drawing a pretty motley crew.

Jack Warden played the beleaguered manager. He was convinced there were no — ahem — diamonds in the rough.

And then an older man came to the dugout. Warden thought it was a joke — a middle–aged man angling for a role as a rookie pitcher? No, he was a scientist who wanted to introduce Warden to the pitching prospect, s somber–faced fellow named Casey. The older man was Casey's creator. Casey, you see, was a robot.

Warden sent him out to the mound to throw a few pitches. His fastball scorched the catcher's mitt.

His off–speed stuff bewildered batters who tried to hit it. Granted, they were Zephyrs — and wannabe Zephyrs. The real test would come when he faced legitimate big–league batters.

Warden figured he had nothing to lose — his club was already 31 games out of first place — so he put Casey on his roster.

And it really seemed to pay off. The mysterious Casey appeared unbeatable. He went on a shutout binge; he put together a real winning streak and had Warden dreaming of winning a pennant.

Then disaster struck. Casey got beaned in a game and was taken to the hospital for evaluation. While he was there, it was determined that he had no pulse, no heartbeat.

Baseball rules clearly state that a lineup must be made up of nine men — and Casey didn't qualify, but his creator said he could give Casey a heart if that was what was necessary to earn the designation of human.

And that's what he did.

But, when Casey rejoined the club, there was a problem. The addition of a heart had given him something he had never had before — compassion.

It was obvious right away that something was different. He was smiling.

And when he took the mound, it was crystal clear that something was different. His pitches didn't baffle hitters. They were connecting — and frequently, spraying hits everywhere and driving in runs in bunches.

In the locker room, the scientist and Casey tried to explain to the manager that he no longer had the killer instinct that had served him so well before.

Casey said the scientist had urged him to go into social work, and that was what he was going to do. "I want to help people," he said as he left the locker room.

And the Zephyrs were back where they had been before Casey came along.

The scientist left Casey's blueprints with the manager — and it was strongly implied that those blueprints eventually were used to create a pitching staff that enjoyed great success.

As I say, I just never really cared for this episode. There were times during its run that Twilight Zone dabbled in stories about robots, and I never really liked them.

Tuesday, June 10, 2014

'It Happens Every Spring' Was One of Best Sports Flicks



Manager (Ted de Corsia): Kelly's not indispensable.

Monk (Paul Douglas): I know, but the team can't get along without him.

Early in "It Happens Every Spring," which premiered 65 years ago today, some folks at the college where Ray Milland's character was a teacher were talking. The subject was Milland's potential as a chemistry professor. It was observed that he was a top–notch instructor during the fall semester, but he was iffy in the spring. That was when he was "absent–minded."

"It happens every spring." That's what the head of the chemistry department told the school president (Ray Collins).

Based on the context of the story and its title — and the trailers most movie audiences probably saw before they saw the movie — it probably was assumed to be baseball. And, to be sure, the movie was about baseball.

It was also about Milland's classroom work — but mostly as it related to baseball.

See, Milland was working in his chemistry lab when he stumbled onto a formula that would make an object (for example, a baseball) go over, under or around an object made of wood. He confirmed this astonishing property in an early morning tryout with a couple of student–athletes, one of whom was played by Alan Hale Jr., 15 years before he became Skipper on Gilligan's Island.

(When I first saw this movie, I could have sworn it was inspired by Walt Disney's "Flubber," but "Flubber" didn't come along until nearly 50 years after "It Happens Every Spring" was in the theaters.

(And the movie upon which "Flubber" was based — "The Absent–Minded Professor" — came out more than a decade after "It Happens Every Spring.")

Anyway, armed with this formula, Milland's character won a spot on a ballclub that was looking for a pitcher and became a sensation, striking out every batter he faced. (The scene where he pitched to the batters on the team and impressed management enough to offer him the spot on the club was reminiscent of the scene in 1984's "The Natural," when Roy Hobbs drilled every pitch that was thrown to him into the stands.)

It really isn't as predictable as it sounds. In fact, I found it to be very creative and entertaining. The script was quite clever. At one point, Monk Lanigan (Paul Douglas) mistook Milland's formula for hair tonic. He ran some through his hair and then tried to comb it with a wood comb — unsuccessfully, of course.

As entertaining as the rest of the movie was, I think it saved the best for last — when the team was facing its greatest challenge of the season in the deciding game of the World Series, and Milland's character was out of his formula. Consequently, he had to do — on his own — what his formula had done for him all season. Did he succeed?

I won't tell you that! There are some things people need to discover for themselves.

All I will tell you is that "It Happens Every Spring" — in its understated way — is one of the best sports movies ever made.

And, in her own way, actress Jean Peters helped make it what it was. Peters played one of Milland's students — his fiancee, actually (I guess schools were more liberal about such relationships 65 years ago) — and she gave a strong performance in support of Shirley Smith's and Valentine Davies' story — which was nominated for an Oscar, by the way.

They didn't win, but at least they were nominated — which is more than anyone else involved in the production could say. They lost to Douglas Morrow ("The Stratton Story").

That's a shame. "The Stratton Story" was good, but it was also mostly true. True stories write themselves.

"It Happens Every Spring" required the kind of creativity that should be rewarded.

Monday, May 12, 2014

The Tribulations of a Real-Life Natural



"You told me once, 'A man has to know where he's goin'!' Where are you goin', Monty?"

Ethel (June Allyson)

Yesterday, I wrote about the debut of "The Natural" — a fictional story about a natural–born baseball player.

Today, my topic is a movie about a real natural — Monty Stratton — whose mostly true story was made into a movie starring James Stewart and June Allyson that made its debut 65 years ago today.

Don't feel bad if you never heard of Stratton. His was a very short career — only five years.

And I say the story was mostly true because there were some liberties taken with it. Of course, that tends to be the case with biographical movies, even those that appear to be meticulous about details.

See, the story of Monty Stratton was that he was a baseball player, a pitcher, during the Depression. Frank Morgan (who was the wizard of Oz 10 years earlier) played the baseball scout who discovered Stratton playing semipro ball when he wasn't working on his Texas farm and persuaded him to come to California for a tryout with the Chicago White Sox during spring training.

The tryout went so well that Stratton made the team, and the scout was hired to coach pitching prospects.

It wasn't a fairy–tale career, though. It certainly had its rocky moments.

One of them, Stratton's actual major–league debut, yielded one of the best lines in the movie — but the scene was manipulated, presumably for what would be an understandable reason.

Stratton made his first major–league appearance on June 2, 1934, coming in as the second and final relief pitcher of the day for the Sox, who lost, 12–0. He didn't pitch as poorly as the two pitchers who preceded him; he only gave up two of the runs. But he was sent down to the minors, anyway, and didn't pitch in the majors again until the following year.

In the movie, he told his wife (Allyson) that the game had been against the New York Yankees. In fact, it was against the Detroit Tigers.

I don't know why the identity of the opponent was changed like that, but my guess is that it had something to do with the facts that (a) the Yankees had been in four of the previous eight World Series (when Stratton made his debut), whereas the Tigers had not been in a World Series in a quarter of a century (although, ironically, the Tigers did go to the World Series in 1934 — and 1935), and (b) the Yankees had guys named Gehrig and Ruth in their lineup.

The Yankees simply were better known (although, in a noteworthy filmmaking mistake, Joe DiMaggio could be seen rounding the bases in the stock footage that was used for Stratton's debut. DiMaggio didn't make his major–league debut until 1936).

"Honey," Stewart said to Allyson, "do you know there's a tailor in Chicago that gives a suit of clothes away to any ballplayer that hits the scoreboard in center field? As of yesterday, the New York Yankees are the best–dressed team in baseball."

If Stratton really did say that to his wife, he was exaggerating. Detroit scored a lot of runs that day, but no home runs were hit. The Tigers had a bunch of singles and half a dozen hits for extra bases. Zero home runs.

Stratton's next four years were more successful than his debut. He did struggle in 1935 and 1936, but he won a total of 30 games in 1937 and 1938. He was an All–Star in 1937 and received votes for Most Valuable Player after the 1938 season.

The future looked bright.

But then Stratton was injured in a hunting accident. It was severe enough to cost him one of his legs, and his baseball career appeared to be over.

That much was true. But, in reality, Stratton shot himself with a revolver. In the movie, the wound was inflicted with a shotgun. I don't know why that change was made — unless it was to avoid having to answer questions about why he had a revolver with him on a hunting trip.

If a Supportive and Long–Suffering Movie Spouse Hall of Fame is ever created, June Allyson is sure to be a charter member. At times, it seems to me that she was the very definition of the label supportive movie spouse in her movies, especially (but not exclusively) the ones in which she was paired with Stewart because some sort of personal trial was sure to follow — and Allyson's spouse was equally certain to be in denial about the situation. Thus, it was up to Allyson to be the stronger of the two.

In "The Stratton Story," it fell to her to decide between her husband's leg and his life. She chose his life, realizing that losing his leg meant the end of his dreams of major–league success.

Then she had to deal with her husband's mood swings and his apparent tendency (though never spoken) to blame her for the loss of his leg. As she so often did, Allyson played the supportive, long–suffering wife, putting up with his peevishness in silence.

Of course, I know it wasn't always that way. Allyson once played Jose Ferrer's malicious and shrewish spouse — at Ferrer's request — and she had several separations from her real–life husband, Dick Powell.

In real life, Stratton did come back. He didn't make it all the way back to the major leagues, but he did pitch in the minor leagues from 1946 to 1953 wearing a prosthetic leg. It was a truly inspiring story that was worthy of inclusion in the American Film Institute's list of the most inspiring films — but was not.

There were times during the movie when I thought it was a little heavy–handed in its foreshadowing — of the loss of his leg especially. The hunting accident wasn't presented until about two–thirds into the movie, but there were allusions to it. Early in the movie, for example, the viewers learned that, on the days he pitched for the semipro team, Stratton walked five miles into town, pitched, then walked five miles home — and then worked on his farm.

Another time, he learned how to dance so he could dance with his wife. Unbeknownst to his wife, he had a membership at a dance studio, of which he could take advantage at studio outlets in every American League city. It was a big subject in the movie.

I have never lost a limb — and I hope I never do — so I can't know how the real Stratton must have felt, but it must be an unimaginable blow to be 26 years old and lose one of your legs, particularly if you are a professional athlete. Stewart's reactions rang true — and, as it was with so many of his performances, it was hard to imagine anyone else playing Monty Stratton once the movie was made.

In fact, though, Ronald Reagan tried to get the part, but he was under contract to Warner Bros., and Warner wouldn't let him do it, fearing the movie would be a flop (in fact, it turned a profit). At one point, Van Johnson was inaccurately reported to be playing the role of Monty Stratton.

In hindsight, Johnson would not have been believable in the role. Reagan might have, but his Stratton almost surely would have differed from Stewart's — and Stratton himself said Stewart "did a great job of playing me, in a picture which I figure was about as true to life as they could make it."

Based on that, I think Stratton was at peace with the liberties that were taken. If he was OK with them, who am I to disagree? It must be tremendously challenging to be asked to portray someone who is still living.

Agnew Moorehead played the role of Stratton's mother. It was the kind of role she played frequently in her career, sort of a semi–animated Whistler's mother, and she was usually quite believable in it, but she was an odd choice because of the difference between her age and Stewart's age (she was roughly 7½ years his senior).

Allyson and Stewart were paired in three movies; "The Stratton Story" was the first. In their second movie, they played Mr. and Mrs. Glenn Miller, and Allyson's ordeal was living through the loss of her husband's life. In the third, she played the spouse of another baseball player (fictional this time) who was injured flying a new aircraft for the Air Force Reserve.

"The Stratton Story" won the only Oscar for which it was nominated — Best Story.

Sunday, May 11, 2014

Not Necessarily the Best There Ever Was ... But Close



"I guess some mistakes you never stop paying for."

Roy Hobbs (Robert Redford)

I don't know if "The Natural" was particularly inspirational. Its subject matter, after all, was probably the kind of thing that most kids have been fantasizing about forever — being the best at something.

Sometimes those dreams come true. More often, they do not.

I thought of my own boyhood dreams when I saw "The Natural" not long after it premiered 30 years ago today. I wasn't very athletic when I was younger, but I fantasized about it. Who wouldn't? When you're an awkward teenager, any scenario in which your buddies hoist you on their shoulders and parade you around in triumph — and all the girls want to be with you — is as valuable as one of Walter Mitty's daydreams.

(Come to think of it, Mitty's heroic fantasies usually ended unhappily, just short of achieving his goals.)

When I see "The Natural" now, I am more inclined to think of Roy Hobbs' perseverance, his dedication to his dream, his desire to follow that rainbow wherever it led — even though he had been, to use his own word, "sidetracked."

I guess he summed up his heart's desire when he was talking about how differently his life had been than he had expected. If he had begun his major–league career when most players do, in their 20s, he speculated that he could have rewritten the record book. "And then when I walked down the street people would've looked and they would've said, 'There goes Roy Hobbs, the best there ever was in this game.' "

It's corny, I know, but sometimes you need some corn. What happened to Roy Hobbs is the kind of thing that can happen to people in any walk of life, especially when they get blindsided by something beyond their control. It's worse for an athlete, I suppose, because an athlete's window of opportunity is so brief. People in non–athletic walks of life can afford to be more patient; the clock ticks loudly for a sidetracked athlete.

Roy wasn't bitter. He was a little wistful at times, but it just made him more determined to make the most of the time he had left.

Apparently, movie critic Roger Ebert wasn't impressed.

"Why didn't they make a baseball picture?" Ebert wanted to know. "Why did 'The Natural' have to be turned into idolatry on behalf of Robert Redford?"

That wasn't the way I saw it then, nor is it the way I see it now.

But Ebert felt that audiences knew too much about Hobbs' character and not enough about the other people on screen. "I'd love to get to know Pop Fisher (Wilford Brimley), the cynical, old team manager," Ebert wrote. "Robert Duvall, as the evil sportswriter, Max Mercy, has had his part cut so badly that we only know he's evil because he practically tells us. Richard Farnsworth, as a kindly coach, has a smile that's more genuine than anything else in the movie. But you have to look quick."

There were some things about Hobbs that we didn't know — like where he had been for 16 or 17 years

OK, it's a Robert Redford movie. I didn't have a problem with that. His was the bankable name in 1984, even though his star was falling while Glenn Close's was rising. (In case you never saw the movie before, Close was Redford's childhood sweetheart in the movie.)

Redford was the reason why people paid to see that movie. And pay they did. "The Natural," which was made for $28 million, took in nearly $48 million at the box office.

I've seen many movies that were focused on a single character — seemingly to the exclusion of everything else. I thought "The Natural" handled that better than most. It had a pretty good story. Most such movies do not. And, unlike Ebert, I had no quarrel over the amount of screen time everyone else got.

The young Roy Hobbs ran into problems with a mysterious woman (played by Barbara Hershey) he met on a train. In a sense, isn't that every man's story? Well, not every man, I suppose, but many a young man has fallen from grace because of a pretty face.

And Roy Hobbs fell hard. He dropped out of sight for years, finally resurfacing as an older man trying to break in with a struggling baseball team.

He didn't know all the intrigue behind the scenes. He didn't know that Pop Fisher, minority team owner in addition to being its manager, had made a deal with the principal owner. If the team won the pennant, Pop got the team. If the team didn't win the pennant, the principal owner got all of Pop's shares. Winner take all.

Hobbs' arrival complicated things. The team was well on its way to losing the pennant, but Hobbs turned things around to the point where the principal owner had to bribe him to play badly. He wouldn't do it, promising to "hit away."

I think this is where Ebert really objected. Redford, apparently bleeding and in pain from his stomach injury, hit the dramatic home run that won the pennant — and ran around the bases amid a shower of sparks from the stadium light fixture he blasted with his mighty shot. OK, it was a little over the top.

It was "cheap and phony," Ebert wrote.

"Either he hits the homer and then dies, or his bleeding was just a false alarm," Ebert explained. "If the bleeding was a false alarm, then everything else in the movie was false, too."

Yes, except that this is the movies, not real life. A lot of things happen in the movies that are implausible in real life.

I admit, Ebert had a point when he observed that Close was "the childhood sweetheart who doesn't hear from Roy after an accident changes the course of his life. Then she turns up years later, and when she stands up in the bleachers she is surrounded by blinding light ... In the few moments she's allowed alone with Roy, she strikes us as complicated, tender, and forgiving. But even the crucial fact of her life — that she has borne this man's son — is used as a plot gimmick."

OK, Close did have a kind of beatific look on her face when she was around Redford later in the movie. I didn't really notice it when they played young lovers, but it was noticeable when they were reunited roughly 20 years later.

See, I was a child of the Nixon years. Pat Nixon always had that kind of look on her face.

Are there things about the movie that I would have done differently? Sure, but it was what it was. And, for what it was, I thought it was good. Maybe better than good.

It belonged on a list of the best sports movies. There are sports movies that I like more — the ones that deal with actual events and people (like "Eight Men Out" and "Miracle") are my favorites — but the fictional ones can be pretty good, too, and "The Natural" told a pretty good story.

Monday, April 21, 2014

Diamond Dreams



"If you build it, he will come."

The Voice in "Field of Dreams"

I know men of all ages who get emotional over the ending of "Field of Dreams." Even today, 25 years after its premiere — and after countless viewings.

I agree it's a good movie, but I guess I'm an exception because I have never become teary–eyed about it.

The performances are great. I especially liked Burt Lancaster, in one of his last movie appearances, as Doc Moonlight Graham.

While I'm on the subject, there really was a Moonlight Graham, and, apparently, relatively few liberties were taken with the facts of his life. The most noteworthy liberty was that the real Moonlight Graham made his only major–league appearance nearly two decades earlier than the one in the movie — and it came in the middle of the season rather than the final day of the season.

Moonlight Graham really did go into medicine, really did live in Chisholm, Minn., really did all those selfless things of which they spoke in the movie. I don't think the movie ever mentioned it, but Graham was born in North Carolina. Most viewers probably assumed he was a native of Minnesota.

So ...

Maybe Graham should have spoken in a more pronounced Southern accent when he was portrayed as a younger man, but Lancaster's accent was not a problem for me. After all, he was portraying Moonlight Graham after he had lived in Minnesota for half a century. His speech patterns had to have been affected by what he heard every day.

(I grew up in the South, but I have been told by many people that I don't have much of an accent. I'm really not sure how to account for that — except that my parents lived many places, including overseas, and I never really thought they had much of an accent, either, other than their use of the second–person y'all. I always assumed that was because of their exposure to other accents, and I picked up their speech patterns.)

In real life, Graham died in 1965. The shift in the timeline made it necessary for his death to be in 1972 in the movie.

Otherwise, it seems to have been true to the facts.

Doc Graham was a minor character in "Field of Dreams," though. Audiences discovered that the story really was about Kevin Costner's character, the one through whom the audience first heard the cryptic murmur, "If you build it, he will come."

It turned out to be about Costner and his father, but, for awhile there, most first–time viewers probably thought Doc Graham would be the mysterious he.

After all, Costner was the one who built the baseball field in the middle of his cornfield (and, really, I had to wonder just how many spouses would have been as easygoing about that as Amy Madigan). Costner went on an inexplicable trip to the East where he hijacked a reclusive writer (James Earl Jones) in an apparently vain attempt to make sense of the Voice's one–liners.

The hints that the perplexing comment would turn out to be about Costner and his relationship with his father were all around, and some viewers probably picked up on it, but I didn't.

So the finish came as a surprise to me — but I don't get all blubbery about it whenever I see it.

Maybe I should. After all, the finish is about the symbolic ritual of the son (Costner) playing catch with his father, the bonding experience between father and son. I think many men get emotional because it reminds them of their experiences of bonding with their own fathers.

Not me.

When I was a child, my father was a college professor, and he spent most of the daylight hours on campus. Usually, I was still in bed when he left in the morning, and I was back in bed when he came home at night. When he wasn't in the classroom, he was in his office or the library.

Anyway, we never played catch, as far as I can recall. Maybe once or twice, but it wasn't a big bonding experience. My father preferred to play chess.

Maybe if we had played catch more, the ending of "Field of Dreams" would have had more relevance for me.

But, you know, if bonding really is the point of "Field of Dreams," then it isn't just about a ritual, but it's also about the links that live on from one generation to the next.

Costner's character had a falling out with his father when he was a teenager, but they shared a love of baseball that survived his father's death.

My father and I bonded over other things.

He even taught me how to play chess.

Sunday, September 29, 2013

The Time Mister Ed Met the Dodgers



Mr. Ed was aired before my time, really, but that doesn't mean I don't enjoy watching reruns of those shows.

One of my favorites was first broadcast 50 years ago tonight — perhaps it is one of my favorites because I am a Dodgers fan, and Mr. Ed was a Dodgers fan, too. Anyway, in the episode that aired 50 years ago tonight, he paid a visit to the Dodgers and their then–manager Leo Durocher, who is often credited with saying "Nice guys finish last."

(I don't know if Durocher ever actually said it — or if he was the first to say it. I just know that I often hear it said that he said it, and sometimes I hear it said that he was the first to say it.)

Alan Young, who played Wilbur Post, was about the only series regular — other than Mister Ed himself — who was featured in the episode. I don't think Connie Hines, who played Carol Post, was in that episode. If she was, she didn't have much of a presence in it.

But she never did have much of a presence in the series, to be honest. Ed only spoke face to face to Wilbur — sometimes, he spoke to people on the phone or when there was some kind of barrier between them, like a wall — and their conversations were the foundation for the show.

The actor who played Wilbur's neighbor died a month earlier, and his character had not been replaced. His wife was still on the show for awhile, but she had a diminished role. She usually only showed up when Carol was around, but if Carol wasn't featured in this episode, there probably wouldn't have been much of a reason for her to be seen, either.

The episode was the revival of a dormant theme in the series. In the second season (1961–1962), Mister Ed "met" George Burns and Clint Eastwood. Then, in the 1963–1964 season premiere, he got to meet Durocher and some of the players for his favorite baseball team.

It's been awhile since I've seen the episode, but, as I recall, Ed was watching a Dodgers game on TV, and he noticed some things that the Dodgers were doing wrong — on the mound, at the plate, in the field — and placed a phone call to the Dodgers to offer some tips (giving his name as Wilbur Post). Come to think of it, I think he made a series of such calls.

Durocher took his advice, it worked, and the Dodgers (who actually did win the National League pennant and swept the New York Yankees in the World Series that year) went on a wild winning streak. In gratitude, Durocher invited Wilbur to visit the team — and maybe provide a few more helpful pointers.

Wilbur, accompanied by Ed, who was his "good luck charm," went to Dodger Stadium. He even got to take a little batting practice.

Really, I believe it's one of the truly funny scenes in American sitcom history. Holding the bat handle in his teeth, Ed stood (on the right side of the plate) while Sandy Koufax delivered the pitch, and Ed drove it into the outfield.

Ed went charging around the bases; none of the infielders challenged him. He turned the corner at third base and headed for home.

"Slide, Ed, slide!" Wilbur shouted out — and, by golly, Mister Ed slid. The terrified catcher climbed halfway up the backstop.

An astonished Durocher said, "That's the smartest horse I ever saw."

"He's not so smart," Wilbur replied. "He forgot to touch second base."

As I say, it's been awhile since I have seen this episode, but, whenever I have seen it, it's been the same for me as it is with a movie I've seen many times before.

I know that scene is coming. But it always makes me laugh, anyway. It makes me laugh in anticipation of it. It makes me laugh when I see it. And I continue to laugh after I've seen it.

It even makes me laugh to think about it when I'm not watching it and I haven't seen it for awhile. Now, that's funny!

Monday, September 02, 2013

I'm Forever Blowing Ballgames ...



Ring Lardner (John Sayles): [serenading White Sox after Game 5, to the tune of "I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles"] I'm forever blowing ballgames, pretty ballgames in the air. I come from Chi, I hardly try, just go to bat and fade and die. Fortune's coming my way, that's why I don't care. I'm forever blowing ballgames, and the gamblers treat us fair.

"Eight Men Out," the movie about the Black Sox Scandal that premiered 25 years ago today, is one of my all–time favorite sports movies.

In the 21st century, it is almost a cliche to regard professional athletes as overpaid prima donnas — and, to be sure, many of today's professional athletes are precisely that.

But it wasn't always that way. It certainly wasn't that way in 1919 when the Chicago White Sox — who are still believed by many knowledgeable baseball folk to be one of the best squads of all time — deliberately threw the World Series on the promise of a big payoff from gamblers.

Both the movie and the book upon which it was based indicated that the key to the conspiracy was the allegiance of star pitcher Eddie Cicotte (David Strathairn), who resisted initial attempts to convince him to throw the Series.
Bill Burns (Christopher Lloyd): Eddie's gettin' too old for this. I know what it's like. You walk out there with your arm hangin'.

Billy Maharg (Richard Edson): You couldn't pitch when you was young, Burnsie.

Bill Burns: Eddie's the key. If we don't get him, we can forget about it.

In Cicotte's 1919 contract, White Sox owner Charlie Comiskey, who comes across as a greedy cheapskate in the book and the movie, had promised a bonus to Cicotte if he won 30 games that year; then, when it appeared that Cicotte might actually win 30 games, Comiskey allegedly ordered manager Kid Gleason (John Mahoney) to bench him in the final weeks of the season, ostensibly to rest him for the World Series.

(That was a claim that was a little hard to swallow, considering that the White Sox took the American League pennant by only 3½ games over runnerup Cleveland.

(The Indians had a 10–game winning streak in September. Meanwhile, the Sox limped across the finish line, losing seven of their last nine games.

(I've never heard anyone mention it, but that end–of–season skid by the Sox provided them with plausible cover for their collapse in the Series.)

Cicotte finished with 29 wins.

But he missed five starts, and it is certainly reasonable to think he would have won at least one of them — maybe more. That is apparently what Cicotte thought, too.

Anyway, when that happened, Cicotte agreed to participate in the conspiracy. He was 35 years old. He knew his career would be ending soon, and he had a wife and two daughters (a third child was born that year) to support.

And the $10,000 that was being offered to him was nearly twice his contract salary.

Chick Gandil (Michael Rooker): You go back to Boston and turn 70 grand at the drop of a hat? I find that hard to believe.

Sport Sullivan (Kevin Tighe): You say you can find seven men on the best club that ever took the field willin' to throw the World Series? I find that hard to believe.

Chick Gandil: You never played for Charlie Comiskey.

When Cicotte agreed to throw the Series, it opened the floodgates. The #2 pitcher in the rotation, Lefty Williams (James Read), got in on the conspiracy, along with a few other key players. There were eight in all including outfielder Hap Felsch (Charlie Sheen) and infielder Fred McMullin (Perry Lang), a utility player who did not play enough to affect the outcomes of games but was permitted to join the conspiracy after he heard other players talking about it and threatened to blow the whistle on them if he was not included.

Comiskey didn't exactly help himself with the rest of the team, either. He had promised them bonuses if they won the pennant, but when they did (with a winning percentage of .629), their "bonuses" turned out to be bottles of celebratory champagne (which, reportedly, were flat).

Consequently, many of the players were bitter. It was fertile ground for gamblers wanting to fix the Fall Classic.

Based on eyewitness accounts, most of the players who agreed to throw the World Series were obviously guilty. Cicotte lost two games, and Williams lost three (a World Series record), which was enough for Cincinnati to take the best–of–nine series.

But even today, nearly a century later, doubts remain about whether two players — Shoeless Joe Jackson (played by D.B. Sweeney) and Buck Weaver (John Cusack) — did anything to alter the outcome.

Jackson's batting average in the series was .375, he committed no errors (an important point on a team that made 12 errors in eight games), and he hit the series' only home run. Weaver hit .324 and also made no fielding errors.

(Cusack's Weaver may have been the most tragic figure in the story. Jackson was illiterate. His testimony before the grand jury clearly suggested he knew of the conspiracy but left the question of his actual participation open to interpretation. Shoeless Joe, it is worth pointing out, never received any payment.

(The evidence against Weaver was practically non–existent.)

Ring Lardner (John Sayles): Sports writers of the world, unite; you have nothing to lose but your bar privileges.

The infamous Black Sox scandal might never have seen the light of day, though, if not for the efforts of two intrepid Chicago sports writers, Ring Lardner (played by the movie's director, John Sayles) and especially Lardner's mentor, Hugh Fullerton (played by writer Studs Terkel), to expose what had happened.

Fullerton was a popular and prestigious sports writer whose suspicions were aroused before the start of the Series when he heard persistent talk that Cincinnati was a lock to win. When the Reds actually did win, Fullerton wrote a series of articles that forced major league baseball to investigate — and, ultimately, ban the eight ballplayers who had been involved (in some cases, as I say, allegedly so) from baseball for life.

Presumably for dramatic purposes, Sayles made some alterations to the story, particularly the part involving Fullerton and Lardner. In the movie, the two agreed, before the start of the first game, to keep score individually and make notes about plays that appeared "fishy." In reality, though, Fullerton did that with Hall of Fame pitcher Christy Mathewson.

Before the Series began, Gleason heard rumors of a fix as well, but he kept insisting that the players would come around. Perhaps they would have if Williams' wife had not been threatened before the eighth game. Williams was scheduled to pitch Game 8, and, like Cicotte, he had grown disenchanted with the scheme and seemed ready to pitch his usual game — until a hired killer threatened her.

The book on the scandal by Eliot Asinof was published 25 years before the movie was made, but the timing of the movie's release could hardly have been much better. Almost a year after the movie premiered, Pete Rose was banned from baseball for gambling on games.

What were the odds?

Sunday, July 01, 2012

In a League By Themselves



I have always been a devotee of history.

Even as a child, I read biographies (beginning with a series of biographies that were written especially for young people that I discovered in the public library in my hometown), and, as I got older, I branched out into other types of history–oriented books.

By the time I was in high school, I was reading scholarly treatments of important periods and events in history — works that probably were well beyond my years (certainly well beyond the years of most of my peers).

Anyway, this fondness for history extended into movies. I have never been able to resist a movie that was a re–creation (or at least perceived to be a re–creation) of an actual event — especially if it is an event of which I have little or no prior knowledge.

(That must be the reason why I liked "Quiz Show," the story of the quiz show scandal in the late 1950s. It was about an event that occurred before I was born. So, too, was "Eight Men Out," the story of the Chicago Black Sox scandal.)

"A League of Their Own," which made its debut 20 years ago today, thoroughly fit my bill.

Ordinarily, I suppose, I prefer a movie that tells the whole truth and doesn't invent anything for dramatic effect. I make allowances for small details, and I don't mind a fictional story using an actual event as its setting (i.e., "Titanic" in 1997) as long as the depiction of the actual event takes few, if any, liberties with the truth.

Tom Hanks' character in the movie was fictional, but it was inspired largely by two real–life ballplayers, Jimmie Foxx and Hack Wilson. Foxx actually did manage a team in the All–American Girls Professional Baseball League, but that was after World War II, and Hanks' character did have the same first name (but not the same surname).

Hanks' character probably had more in common with Wilson, though. Wilson struggled with alcohol like Hanks' character, he was considered colorful because of his off–field activities (read: fights) and his marriage ended in divorce.

When I saw "A League of Their Own," I already knew the stories of Jimmie Foxx and Hack Wilson. I worked on a metropolitan sports copy desk for more than four years, and some of the older guys on the staff were diehard baseball fans who never hesitated to share their recollections of the old–timers.

Through them, I even knew that Foxx had managed an AAGPBL team, but I didn't know any more than that. For that matter, I didn't know anything more about the girls' baseball league — other than the basic facts that it had existed in the 1940s and 1950s (again, before my time) and it didn't exist anymore.

So I enjoyed learning something about the league, even if the story was almost entirely fictional.

Something else was fictional, too.

I guess everyone remembers Hanks telling a sniffling player, "There's no crying in baseball!" The American Film Institute ranks it 54th on its list of the Top 100 movie quotes.

It's a good line, and Hanks delivered it well, but it isn't true. I played baseball as a boy, and I saw other players — in baseball and in other sports — break down in tears following a loss, be it narrow or decisive.

The "thrill of victory and agony of defeat" wasn't just some promotional line. If you want to see just how emotional people can get about victory and defeat, tune in to the Summer Olympic Games in about four weeks.

I suppose, though, that "There's no crying in baseball!" line would be entirely appropriate if applied to Geena Davis' character, the star player and Hanks' virtual co–manager. She really didn't care about winning and losing. She only came to the AAGPBL's tryouts so her kid sister would get the chance.

The thing she did care about was the safe return of her husband from World War II. When he did come home, she dissolved into tears in his arms and left the team the following day.

But she also had her moments of regret.

I'll admit, there were times when I thought the story was a little too predictable, but, in general, I thought Penny Marshall did a decent job of directing. And the presentations of women who felt torn by their changing roles in society were honest and faithful to the women of that time.

When your project is the re–creation of an historical event or period, you can only take liberties for so long and with so much. (In the early 1990s, I remember hearing the politically correct folks of that day complaining about all the smoking in "JFK," and, a few years later, the same people complained about the smoking in "Apollo 13" — but the truth was that you couldn't do a realistic portrayal of those time periods without showing many adults smoking.)

Marshall could have used the opportunity to present an alternate reality, to make a feminist statement, but it wouldn't change the truth about life in the 1940s. That's a story that needed to be told.

And the truth was that, during World War II, women did take on new tasks and responsibilities that, previously, had been reserved for men.

But the men were in Europe or the Pacific. Someone had to, er, uh, step up to the plate.

When the AAGPBL was formed, it was filling a void left by the pro baseball players who had entered military service. When it became clear that the baseball players would be returning, many of the women of the AAGPBL went back to their homes and their domestic duties. And, for them, I suppose, their lives went on pretty much as they had before the war interrupted.

Some were not satisfied with that, though, not after experiencing life as a bread winner.

"A League of Their Own" was about a step forward for women — before anyone really knew about feminism.

To present it as a time of something that it really was not — a radical shift in societal gender roles, say — would have done the league and the women who played in it a disservice.

It wouldn't have been honest. It wouldn't have told the truth — and, in this case, at least, truth really was stranger than fiction.

The fiction that was written for the story was the harmless kind of fiction that, by and large, contributed to (rather than detracting from) the facts.

And, even after two decades, it is still a great summertime story — as just about any movie about baseball is, in my opinion.

On a hot summer night, I can do worse than watching something like "Bull Durham," "Field of Dreams" or "Pride of the Yankees."

Likewise, I can do worse than watching "A League of Their Own." Much worse.

Thursday, April 07, 2011

Playing Ball



A new baseball season has begun.

It is a time of new life — and of remembering when life was new. For many of us, those memories involve baseball, the smell of dirt and grass on a warm spring day, a light breeze in your face, a glove or a bat in your hand.

Some movies bring back memories like that. Such a movie made its debut on this day in 1976 — "The Bad News Bears" — and, while it didn't exactly mirror my childhood memories, it does bring back a specific memory to me.

I don't recall hearing much about the movie before I saw it at the theater. What I do remember about the day I saw it was that it was perhaps the last time my brother and I went to a movie with my grandmother — just three of us. If there was a later occasion when just the three of us went to a movie, I don't remember what it was.

My brother and I were both teenagers by that time, and we were getting a bit old to be going to movies with our grandmother, but she insisted that she wanted to take us to see this movie.

I must confess that I felt somewhat obligated. I remembered years earlier, when she and my grandfather had visited my family in our home in Arkansas, and my grandfather wanted to drive me to school one morning. But I was short–sighted. I didn't want to do that. I wanted to ride in the bus with my friends, as I did every day.

In the end, Grandpa relented, but I can still hear him complaining to my mother, "All my friends get to take their grandchildren to school."

In hindsight, I can see I denied him that pleasure. And it is a regret that has remained with me all these years.

I never had the chance to make it up to him. He died a month later.

In 1976, I decided that, if it would make my grandmother happy to take me to see a movie, it was worth a couple of hours of my time. But, after I saw it, I couldn't help wondering why she wanted to see it.

Maybe she was drawn in by the casting. My grandmother was a fan of Walter Matthau, who was the star of the film. As I have written here, her fondness for Matthau went back at least to his work in "The Odd Couple" — and might have gone back farther than that.

It is possible, I guess, that the only thing she knew about the movie before she saw it was that Matthau was in it. At least, that is what I assumed at the time.

She was an avid reader of movie reviews in the Dallas newspaper, but I don't remember her saying anything about what the critics said about that movie. If she had read a review of it, she might have been a bit put off by it. There was a lot of language in it that she almost certainly didn't like — and it's hard for me to imagine that, in the straight–laced city that Dallas was at that time, the reviewers didn't at least mention that children were using objectionable and offensive language throughout the film.

In fact, I remember stealing glances at her while we watched the movie on a warm early summer afternoon in Dallas. I wanted to see how she reacted to the vulgarity and the ethnic slurs that came from the mouths of several children, one in particular.

It was hard to tell much in that darkened theater, but she seemed to enjoy the movie and never mentioned the language to me — or anyone else (at least not within my hearing range). My memory is that, when the three of us returned from the movie, she was full of praise for the story and the acting and laughed as she recalled several scenes.

I don't know what she thought of Matthau's co–star, Tatum O'Neal — who had won an Oscar for her performance in "Paper Moon" a few years earlier. We never discussed O'Neal.

For his part, Matthau also was coming off an Oscar–winning performance. But the performance wasn't his, it was George Burns' in the film in which they co–starred, 1975's "The Sunshine Boys."

In a way, I guess Matthau's character was a precursor to Tom Hanks' in "A League of Their Own." Matthau was a drunken manager of a Little League team that was getting pulverized in every game — until he brought in a couple of "ringers." Then the team started winning and wound up facing its rival in the championship.

A couple of the other adults in the cast would have been familiar to audiences in 1976 — Vic Morrow was in it, and so was Joyce Van Patten — but none of the other children has gone on to do much in movies. Brandon Cruz appeared as Bill Bixby's son in the TV series The Courtship of Eddie's Father in the late 1960s and early 1970s, but, other than that ...

Not even O'Neal, whose career has been a bit sporadic in the last 35 years, did much after "The Bad News Bears." Yes, she's been in some movies. Yes, she's been on some TV shows. But her career seems to have fizzled as she got older.

The makers of the film knew how to set audiences up for sequels and remakes, though. "The Bad News Bears in Breaking Training" came along the following year, and that was followed the next year by "The Bad News Bears Go to Japan," neither of which came close to matching the original.

Then, about a quarter of a century later, Hollywood issued a remake of the original starring Billy Bob Thornton. I've heard it wasn't bad, but I've only seen clips.

I guess I inherited my grandmother's appreciation for Matthau.

And I guess I figured that you can't improve on perfection.