'I Hate Baseball'
Clip Job: an excerpt every day from the Voice archives.
August 7, 1957, Vol. II, No. 41
Look Ma, I'm Interested
By Jim Larkin
Gee but I hate Baseball and all that phoney baloney that goes with it. The crap about sore arms, balloting for the All-Star Game. Ladies' Days (I just can't bring myself to believe Ava Gardner wants to go to a ball game), and batter's neuroses -- all leave me colder than yesterday's pizza. The mularkey that's jammed into your eyes, ears, nose, throat, and god knows what else for at least six sickening months a year.
No matter how hard you try, you can't escape it. You can stay away from the sports pages. Leave off the radio and TV. And then some moron operating an elevator will turn on you and bellow: "Hey, Mac, what's the score?" When you shake your head in ignorance, he returns to his life's labors convinced he's transporting a Communist or fairy -- possibly even both. It's enough to drive a guy to putting a monkey on his back.
And then these broads that are supposed to dig the game. Well, fellas, I've never met a gal even remotely lovable that knew the difference between First Base and a water cooler, and I for one like it that way. To me, the dame fan figures to be a sorry mess: flat chest, messy hair both on chin and dome, who drinks beer and carries a man's handkerchief. Well, doll, this may be a great imitation of Mickey Mantle, but I don't kiss people who smoke Viceroys anyway.
Then I have my own private theory about this "interest" in the "National Pastime." I figure it's a pose. From Ike right on down to the All-American boys and girl next door and back to Jimmy Cannon. A pose which makes you slobs feel that sweet "togetherness." But I suppose you do need something to blabber and nod to each other about. Just count this lad out. I've had it. Stoneham and O'Malley can take their moon faces and bank accounts to Hawaii, for all I care. I'll keep my fingers crossed and hope the Yankees get the general idea.
Krupa Bruised as Car Somersaults
Gene Krupa was slightly injured when the car in which he was a passenger made a complete somersault following a collision with another car at 14th Street and Sixth Avenue early Sunday morning. The 48-year-old drummer was treated at St. Vincent's for minor bruises. The three other occupants of cars involved also escaped serious injury.
Mr. Krupa and his group had been playing in the Village at Lower Basin Street, the jazz club on Sheridan Square and Seventh Avenue South.
[Each weekday morning, we post an excerpt from another issue of the Voice, going in order from our oldest archives. Visit our Clip Job archive page to see excerpts back to 1956.]
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