Ray Heitger and the Cakewalkin' Jass Band close out a historic three-day set at Tony Packo's Cafe.
"If whatever you do in life does not sometimes bring you to tears, it's not worth doing."
—Ray Heitger
TOLEDO, OHIO — Capping a raucous three-day weekend at the legendary Tony Packo's Cafe, the Cakewalkin' Jass Band showed why they're still the hottest little New Orleans-style jazz band north of the Mason-Dixon line.
Led by Ray Heitger on clarinet, the Toledo-based octet, featuring special guest Duke Heitger on trumpet, celebrated 50 years of traditional New Orleans jazz, packing the house at the classic little hot-dog joint on Front Street where they held court for more than three decades.
With plenty of friends and family and CJB alumni on hand to help bring it home, the Cakewalkin' Jass Band and Tony Packo's teamed up once again to take Toledo back to a bygone era.
Red Barber sittin' in the catbird seat at Ebbets Field.
By Dave Mesrey
When Jackie Robinson made his historic major-league debut in 1947, becoming the first African-American baseball player in the 20th century, Brooklyn Dodgers announcer Red Barber was sitting in the radio booth that day high above Ebbets Field. The Ol’ Redhead was no doubt keeping score, as were countless Dodgers fans in the stands and listening in on WHN.
In the 1940s, scorekeeping was nothing new to baseball. The practice had been around for decades, ever since Henry Chadwick pioneered the art of keeping score in 1859.
But Robinson was something new to the major leagues. Dodgers general manager Branch Rickey’s gamble to break baseball’s color barrier with a 28-year-old infielder from California was not only groundbreaking, it was history in the making.
On April 10, 1947, Rickey issued a statement that read, "The Brooklyn Dodgers today purchased the contract of Jackie Roosevelt Robinson from the Montreal Royals. He will report immediately.”
Five days later, Barber not only wrote a black man’s name on a major-league scorecard for the first time, he completely changed his outlook on race.
Team captain Pee Wee Reese, a white shortstop from Kentucky, was one player who led the way in accepting Robinson as a teammate and as a major leaguer. “I was just trying to make the world a little bit better,” Reese said. “That’s what you’re supposed to do with your life, isn’t it?”
Inspired in part by Reese, Barber came to accept Robinson.
“Being raised in the South, when the black ballplayers came, I had to begin thinking differently,” Barber said. “I had to understand with clear eyes that I should — and must — accept him equally as I did other players.”
And so on that fateful April afternoon in Brooklyn, Red Barber penciled in the name “Robinson” on his scorecard.
Every Picture Tells A Story
Keeping score of baseball games has long been a uniquely American pastime. To do so effectively, you have to think like a hitter and keep your eye on the ball.
Over the years, keeping score has evolved into one part standard operating procedure, one part art form. So while scorekeeping guidelines are self-explanatory, they’re also open to interpretation.
“I doubt if there are any two people, fans, writers, or broadcasters, who keep score with identical symbols and systems,” Barber once said. “I do know that any fan who acquires the habit of scoring his own ballgames will find that it adds much to his enjoyment of the pastime.”
While it’s commonly accepted that “W” stands for “walk” and “K” stands for strikeout, not all scorers observe these conventions religiously.
And not even the pros in the press box can always keep their heads in the game. Longtime New York Yankees announcer Phil Rizzuto, when distracted from the action on the field, would often mark his scorecard “WW” for “Wasn’t Watching.”
Rizzuto’s colorful scoring habits eventually found their way into the stands. Baseball superfan Andorra Fields, who’s been attending and scoring games across the country for more than 20 years, always knows the score.
Andorra Fields' scorecard from the Tigers-Red Sox game April 8, 2017.
“If you could capture three or four hours in a photograph,” she says, “it’s right there in the scorecard.”
To remind herself of what’s transpired during a game, Fields often resorts to scribbling pictures on her scorecard. That could be a hot dog, a broken bat or a pair of stirrups.
When a couple of rowdy fans interrupted a recent Tigers-Red Sox game at Detroit’s Comerica Park, Fields drew two stick figures running on her scorecard.
During the same game, when a foul ball off the bat of Red Sox third baseman Pablo Sandoval shattered a glass partition behind home plate, Fields drew a sheet of glass on her scorecard with a hole in it.
“And if I drop any food on my scorecard,” she says, “it gets circled and labeled.”
Play-by-play announcer Pat Hughes is in his 23rd season as the radio voice of the Chicago Cubs. Last fall, when the Cubs beat the Cleveland Indians for their first World Series title since 1908, Hughes was in the Progressive Field press box keeping score during the dramatic Game 7.
After the game, Chicago’s WSCR tweeted out Hughes’ scorecard. With nearly 6,000 games scored over his long career, Hughes says his style of scorekeeping has evolved to where it’s second nature to him.
“There’s nothing scientific about it,” he says. “I use colored pens, and that’s about it.”
Hughes typically writes the Cubs lineup in blue ink, their opponents in red, and the umpires in black. “I also put things like stolen bases, wild pitches, and errors in red,” he says. “Those things stand out.”
Hughes, naturally, was very meticulous during the World Series. But he’s not always so diligent when it comes to keeping score.
“Sometimes for spring training games,” he says, “I’ll put ‘D.R.M.’ for ‘Doesn’t Really Matter’ or ‘I.F.’ for ‘I forgot!’”
The Final Frame
In all their years in Brooklyn (1884–1957), the Dodgers won just one World Series — in 1955. Robinson retired from baseball after the 1956 season, falling one game short of a second world championship.
In his penultimate game in Brooklyn, an aging Robinson, batting just .275 for the year, singled in the winning run in the bottom of the 10th inning to force a deciding Game 7 against the Yankees.
If you’re keeping score at home, that’s “1B, RBI.” (Single, run batted in.)
Despite mountains of
evidence illustrating its utter fucking insanity, Americans continue to
publicly fund the construction of shiny new sports stadiums for the benefit of
a few, all while our public school systems are in shambles, leading to an
ever-ignorant public who cannot or will not recognize these stadium schemes for
what they are.
All the while, the
state of American journalism is so sad that few well-trained journalists (RIP, copy editors) can even afford to work in their field
anymore.
The few well-paid
journalists left, like WXYZ-TV Channel 7’s Carolyn Clifford (sorry to pick on
you, Carolyn; my TV reception’s not so good, and I can't afford no stinkin' cable), are all
too often reduced to the role of cheerleader.
What Detroit's Channel 7
did tonight in prime time (an hour-long special gushing over the shiny new Pizzarena downtown) was a disservice to the viewing public and a disgrace to the fourth
estate.
At the very least,
WXYZ should've displayed an onscreen graphic identifying it as a paid
promotion.
Instead, Clifford & Company acted as if the Ilitch family's sparkling corporate playpen would solve all the city's woes.
America needs to
find a way — and find it fast — to fund major, legitimate journalistic
enterprises that truly serve the public good. And I'm not just talking about NPR and PBS.
Instead of
continuing to set aside public funds for another wealthy businessman to build another fucking big top
(bread! circuses! stadia!), maybe it's time to start earmarking public dollars to help
support a truly independent mass media — professionally trained reporters
who aren't beholden to their corporate overlords, free to inform and educate
the public instead of merely entertaining them.
As demonstrators
marched in the streets of Detroit tonight outside the gilded gates of Little Caesars Arena to protest the headlining act and his (ahem) complicated relationship with the
Confederate flag, Channel 7's Clifford displayed nary a clue as to why anyone anywhere would object to Kid Rock christening yet another field of schemes.
Independent journalism is in its death throes, comrades.
The question is: Can we can stop the bleeding before it's too late?
After 30 years in exile, the ponies are back. Six hours before post time, and the clubhouse is already full. One by one, the old men amble in, floating up the escalator, staking out their turf, scribbling in their forms.
Whether the ponies come back next spring is anyone's guess. Now they're leaving again.
The horsemen are pulling out. The money's all gone. Still waitin' on the morning line.
I first came here in '74. My father brought meto see the buggies. I was 5. Won 50 bucks that night. Haven't won much since. Now after another day of morning workouts and gallop girls, another day of Coney coffee and buttered toast, I make my way back to the clubhouse and find an empty seat. Table 709. Last one in Money Row. The Money Man is here.
So is Cabbie.
So is Old Man George, cloudy and stooped in his Kevorkian cardigan. He is the constant. Between races, Rasheed bounces from table to table, picking the brains of his fellow horseplayers. He is animated and agitated. The horse don't lie. I scan the channels for the feed from Thistledown, and I hear the voice of Kate Smith above the din. Someone, somewhere, is blaring "God Bless America." On a wall of monitors in the ragged clubhouse, I see a man on horseback at the Meadowlands clutching an American flag. It is 18 minutes till the eighth race. On the other side of the glass, a man watches the races at Gulfstream on a monitor. He is using binoculars. I am home here. We are all home.
Sunday, May 17, 2015
Students from St. Clare of Montefalco march in the Unity Walk on Saturday, May 2.
Grosse
Pointe and Detroit families unite to march against violence
By Dave Mesrey
Hundreds of Detroit and Grosse Pointe residents
came together Saturday in a show of solidarity in the wake of the shooting deaths
of Paige Stalker and Christina Samuel.
Stalker, 16, of Grosse Pointe Farms, was shot
and killed on the city’s east side near the Grosse Pointe Park border on Dec.
22. Samuel, of Detroit, was shot and killed in her car on Christmas Eve near
Eight Mile and Gratiot. She was 22.
The Unity Walk, sponsored by Save Our Children’s Future of Michigan, took place
along Mack Avenue, which borders Detroit and Grosse Pointe Park on the city’s
east side.
The nonprofit community
group is the product of an unlikely friendship between Stalker’s grandfather
Dave Lawrence and Samuel’s father, Chris Samuel, who’ve forged a strong bond in
the aftermath of their families’ tragedies.
“Chris is my brother and my rock,” Lawrence
said.
Grosse Pointe Park mayor Gregory Theokas and
Detroit Mayor Mike Duggan were on hand and addressed the crowd in a rally at Mack
and Alter.
“What you saw was two families
sharing the same pain,” Duggan said. “They responded to the attacks with unity.
… I’ve never seen this in my lifetime. The way
you handled this tragedy, you’ve put the city of Detroit on the road to being a
much better place.”
Detroit mayor Mike Duggan, left, greets the families of Paige Stalker and Christina Samuel.
Other speakers included Detroit City Councilman
Andre Spivey, U.S. Rep. Brenda Lawrence and YouTube sensation Fredrick Wilson II.
“This is the dawn of a beautiful community
coming together,” Wilson said.
“This gathering is absolutely what this country
needs,” Lawrence said, adding that the deaths of Stalker and Samuels would not be
in vain.
Notable among the
marchers Saturday were students, parents and staff from St. Clare of
Montefalco, the diverse elementary school located in the heart of the march
route.
Long an anchor in the neighborhood,
St. Clare is quietly leading its community forward, striving to give students a quality education no
matter what side of the border they live on.
Founded in 1926, it is something
of a microcosm of the Unity Walk: a multicultural, multidenominational school
focused on peace and nonviolence.
“We had children and families from both sides of Mack marching together,”
said Principal Sr. Kathy Avery. “Some of our children knew the two girls that were killed, so I
think it was especially meaningful to them.”
Detroit resident Tom
Sherry and his wife, Jennifer, marched in the parade with their two children,
both of whom are students at the school.
“St. Clare is a loving,
integrated community,” Sherry said. “It’s a living example of our shared future.”
A key speaker at Saturday’s rally was federal Judge Terrence
Berg, a Grosse Pointe Park native and St. Clare graduate recovering from a
gunshot wound he suffered in an attack outside his home in March on Detroit’s
west side.
“We know these incidents do not tell the whole story of
Detroit,” Berg told the crowd. “We’re all here because we love Detroit. We’re
here because of our commitment to peace and nonviolence.
“We must ensure that every child in Detroit gets a quality
education. If we don’t better educate our children, we will not be able to
reduce the problem of gun violence.”
For more information, visit
saveourchildrensfuture.com. If you have information on the deaths of Paige Stalker or Christina
Samuel, you can leave an anonymous tip with Crime Stoppers at 1-800-773-2587 or
go to 1800speakup.org.
Eight Belles, who finished second to Big Brown in the 2008 Kentucky Derby, crumpled in a heap after the race, shattering both of her front legs. She was quickly euthanized on the track at Churchill Downs in front of 157,000 fans. Brian Bohannon/Associated Press
May 16, 2008
The ‘sport’ of kings can help inject
life into metro Detroit’s sputtering economy, but underneath its glossy surface
lies an often cruel and unusual business.
By David Mesrey
I’m the son
of a horseman. Or, more accurately, a horse man. My father spent
most of his adult years in one of two places: behind the counter of a grocery
store or behind the gates of a race track. Winter, spring, summer and fall, he
could be found atDRC, Northville
Downs, Windsor Raceway, or Hazel Park Raceway, where, in the fall of 1980,
he lost his life in the grandstand.
As a boy, I
tagged along with my father to all these tracks day after day, week after week.
I studied harnesses and thoroughbreds. I learned about gaits and weights, bits
and splits, objections, inquiries, trifectas and superfectas.
When I grew up, I was gonna be a jockey. I’d ride the sons of Alydar and avenge his defeats to the dastardly Affirmed. I’d be the next Willie Shoemaker, but always aboard the underdog. The longshot. The dark horse.
Horse racing
was in my blood.
And it always
will be, to some extent, not just because of how my father lived, but also
because of how he died. On a fateful autumn night, my father managed to win some $300 at the track, and as he stood to place another bet, a heart
attack felled him on the grandstand stairs.
Last Saturday
afternoon, I was again reminded of my father. As I swilled a mint julep and
rooted for underdog Smooth Air to win the Kentucky Derby, I wasn’t thinking of
the inherent cruelty of the sport. I was imploring people on the front
porch to come inside the house. “C'mon, guys! They’re at the post!”
What
followed, as always does the first Saturday in May, was “the most exciting two
minutes in sports.” And for a change, the favorite won.
But moments
after the race ended, I saw something I won’t soon forget.
The filly had
fallen.
Eight Belles,
who’d not distinguished herself at all in 2007, had “turned the corner,” as
they say in sports. According to The New York Times, she’d won just one of five starts as a 2-year-old (thoroughbreds are raced at 2, well before
their knees are even fused), but in her first race as
a 3-year-old in 2008, she won by a remarkable 15 lengths. In fact, she won all
four of her starts this year. That remarkable turnaround raises some nagging questions. Nevertheless, Eight Belles certainly made a name for herself on
the track. Her owner, Rick Porter, also wanted to make a name for himself and,
no doubt, started seeing dollar signs. Big dollar signs. Late last week, he
decided to enter his prize pupil in the Derby. She would be the only filly in
an otherwise all-male field.
Eight Belles
was no dainty lady. She was as big as the boys, and her handlers
thought she just might be the belle of the ball. When the gates flew open, Eight Belles broke from the 5-hole and held her ground for more
than a mile; she was a genuine contender. But, as always, there was genuine
risk. Then at the top of the stretch, jockey Gabriel Saez asked her for more. They
always ask for more. The diminutive Panamanian, barely 20 years old, whipped
his mount hard down the stretch. First with the right, then with the left.
Gallantly she
galloped past the besotted throng in their high-priced hats and designer
Derbywear. Boldly she strode past the towering spires of Churchill Downs.
And were it
not for the odds-on favorite, Big Brown, Eight Belles just might’ve won the Run
for the Roses. But Brown blew by her in that last quarter-mile and left her on
the dust heap of history.
Eight Belles
placed second, though, besting 18 of 19 boys in the process.
But as
everyone knows by now, that’s not where the story ends.
Moments after
crossing the finish line, the fragile filly collapsed in the second turn, in
front of some 150,000 spectators in Louisville and millions more watching on television.
The cameras cut away. Find Big Brown. Quickly. Find the stud! There he is! Focus on the winner. Eyes on the prize.
Eight Belles,
having trained most of her short life for this most lucrative of races, had suddenly crumpled
in a heap. Her spindly black legs could no longer support her heaving torso.
Both of her front ankles, like the illusions of countless casual observers, were shattered — irreparably damaged.
The jockey, Saez, was thrown from the horse, the vets rushed in, the ambulances surrounded her, her fate was sealed.
Eight Belles was likely given an intravenous injection of
barbiturates, which instantly — and mercifully — killed her. She was no longer
of use to her owner, to her trainer, to her industry. And so to the dust heap
she went. A ghastly scene, to be sure. But if Eight Belles were in shock, she
likely would’ve been shot, point blank in the forehead, with a .22-caliber
pistol, right there on the track. This sort of
tragedy rarely plays itself out in the public eye. It’s something that’s raked
out of the stall and under the straw all too often. According to the Times, for every 1,000 racing starts in
the United States, there are 1.5 career-ending breakdowns. That’s an average of
two dead horses a day.
I don’t know
about you, but I hope I’ve seen my last one.
Quarterhorses
in America, by contrast, are handled much more sensibly. Much smaller than
thoroughbreds, they’re typically broken at 2 years old, and lightly ridden for another year. Walking, trotting, cantering. But with the big money at
stake with the big horses, thoroughbreds are all-out galloping on their
delicate appendages by age 2.
Detroit
native Kristen Billiu, who now raises horses in South Carolina, says that’s
simply too soon. “Their bones are much too fragile to be ridden that hard, that
young,” she says. She’s not alone.
Sheryl Leigh-Davault, an owner and
breeder in Cookeville, Tennessee, says it’s shameful for owners to invest so much
in breeding and training these beautiful animals “only to use them for our own
greed.”
Thoroughbred horses are magnificent
creatures that are still growing at 2 and even 3 years old. One Maryland breeder
tells me that saddlehorses, for instance, often aren’t even “backed” at age 3
“because their owners care enough to let them finish growing before even
working them lightly, let alone galloping them every morning.”
After
Saturday’s sad spectacle in Louisville, it’s impossible to ignore the plight of the
thoroughbred industry: Even when horse racing is clean, it’s still a dirty
business. For every Genuine Risk, there are thousands like Eight Belles. For
every Secretariat, scores of Barbaros. And
broken bones are just one of the many hazards racehorses face. Ulcers and heart
murmurs are commonplace. And because of overexertion, these horses frequently
bleed from their lungs. Simply put, a thoroughbred
has much better odds of being destroyed by age 3 than it does of winning a
bouquet of roses.
Colorful images and slick
marketing campaigns have traditionally shielded the public from harsh realities
like these. Whether it’s fast food, prescription drugs, or parimutuel wagering,
hard truths are too often skillfully concealed by those in control. With a new
thoroughbred race track set to open this summer near Metro Airport, some tough
questions need to be addressed in Michigan.
Pinnacle Race Course,
according to its website, aims to be “a world-class venue.” If that's the case, then
perhaps owner Jerry Campbell should consider a synthetic surface such as
Polytrack, as they’re using throughout California. Or perhaps Michigan racing
commissioner Christine White might consider regulating the use of whips, as they
do in England. But horse racing’s biggest issues today are the breeders,
trainers, and owners who value speed (i.e., money) above all else.
It’s high time we took a
closer look at this so-called “sport of kings” in Michigan.
After casting
off my rose-colored glasses, I’m not so sure it’s a sport after all.
A version of this story first appeared in the Detroit Free Press.
As Ndamukong Suh and the Detroit Lions get ready for their wild-card matchup today in Dallas, they're focused on stopping Tony Romo, DeMarco Murray, and Dez Bryant.
That's their job.
Surely Coach Caldwell has them well-prepared.
As you and I get ready for today's game, we're focused on watching it.
That's our job. We just sit back and watch.
For many Lions fans today, there's hope.
Hope because, hey, the Lions are in the playoffs. Playoffs?
That's right, Jim.
Playoffs.
Sure, Matthew Stafford and the Lions went out with a whimper against the Saints last time around.
So what.
So they lost again at Lambeau last week.
Big deal.
The Lions are back in the playoffs.
For disillusioned Lions fans, of course, this is no cause for celebration.
We've seen this movie before. We know how it ends (usually around midway through the third quarter).
We can't help but suffer the flashbacks.
Mark Rypien. Sterling Sharpe. Scott Mitchell.
They're seared into our psyche.
Looking back on their woeful playoff record over the last half century, it hasn't really mattered who they face in the postseason.
The Lions prevailed that day on the legs of Tom "The Bomb" Tracy ...
detroitlions.com
... but road playoff games have been a nightmare for them ever since.
In the years since they knocked out the Niners, the Lions have traveled to Washington, Philadelphia, Green Bay, back to San Francisco, and Tampa Bay, and every time they've come home with their tails between their legs.
The last time the Lions went to Dallas for a playoff game, it did not go well.
Of course, home field advantage is no guarantee either:
But maybe this time it's different.
Maybe this team's got what it takes.
To slay the Cowboys and the ghosts of playoffs past, the Lions need to do more than just play error-free football today.
Kyle Meinke over at MLive says the Lions need to score more than 20 points to win.
I say better make it 30.
Just to be safe.
On second thought, 40 sounds pretty good.
Hell, better make it 50.
For the Lions to win in Dallas today, everyone has to contribute.
Offense, defense, referees.
Sure, they're underdogs (again), but who knows ... maybe with Dominic Raiola and Ndamukong Suh back in uniform, they just might stand a chance.
Maybe these Lions will finally take flight:
Who knows?
We can't rule anything out (it's not even halftime yet).
Maybe if Stafford can conjure up the spirit of Kramer.
Maybe if Prater can conjure up the spirit of Eddie ...
Maybe if they can all conjure up the Spirit of Detroit ...
Detroit Free Press
If Lady Luck and the Big Buck smile upon them, maybe — just maybe — the Lions can pull this off.
Of course, a little prayer couldn't hurt either.
"Speramus meliora; resurget cineribus. Amen.”
Dave Mesrey is a veteran journalist who’s worked for the Metro Times, Hour Detroit, and ESPN’s Grantland.com. The editor of Willie Horton’s autobiography, “The People’s Champion,” Mesrey was also a creative consultant on the 2013 Tiger Stadium documentary “Stealing Home.” A version of this post first appeared on the blog of The Detroit Athletic Company.
