Joe Posnanski

Some people can swear. And some people cannot. It’s important in life, I think, to know where you stand. For instance, I cannot swear. It’s isn’t a choice. It isn’t because I’m in any way offended by curses or troubled by foul language or any of that — quite the opposite. I’m more than willing to play my role in the David Mamet play of life. It’s just that whenever I swear I feel a little bit like Willis from The Jeffersons when he tries to “get down.” My Buddy Vac is a good swearer. I like to say that when he curses, he sounds like Tony Soprano. And when I curse, I sound like Tony Orlando.

Writer Pat Jordan is one of the world’s great cursers. There are eight Fs, two As, one S and a rather specific breakdown of the sex machine in Pat’s already classic tale of Jose Canseco. And they are all perfectly placed. Maybe it’s because Pat began this crazy writing journey as a ballplayer, a pitcher with great stuff. That will give a guy some effing perspective. I would say that Pat Jordan is the best curser going in journalism today, and I say that with great esteem because I think the second best is my friend and hero Scott Raab.

Pat is the author of the must-own baseball classic “A False Spring,” and 10 other books, writer of many, many brilliant magazine pieces, Miami Hurricanes football fan, stepfather (I guess technically you’d call him that) of Meg Ryan and a pitcher who once threw harder (he insists) than Tom Seaver. He has a new book out, a collection of stories he put together with another friend, Alex Belth, called The Best Sports Writing of Pat Jordan, and it is (of course) absolutely brilliant. Every time I read a story of Pat’s I will find myself stopping at some point and thinking, “DAMN, that’s good.” Take this last paragraph in his story about O.J. Simpson, the outcast.

“O.J. stops his Navigator at a red light across the street from the Wild Oats parking lot where I left my car. He says, “I wonder if I’ve run into the person who killed Nicole? Have I talked to them?” He glances in his rearview mirror before turning the corner, and says, “Do I see them every day?”

I mean, seriously, how good is that? There’s a beautiful tension in everything Pat writes; he’s got one of the great B.S. detectors around. We’re all looking for authenticity in games and life. Pat just happens to be a little better at finding it.

I have — with the help of Alex — done a long interview with Pat, one that began with him calling me a Pollack, which is one of the journalistic highlights of my life.* I believe he meant it with affection. Anyway, we’ll try to get that interview posted sometime in the next day or two. In the meantime, I want to give you a little taste with a discussion of one of Pat’s answers, and another answer that reads, at least to me, like a little essay. This should be fun:

*I love the story of how Ted Kluszewski used to sometimes hold up his fist, smile, and said, “You know what this is? It’s a Polish joke stopper.” I do often wish that we were not so sensitive in society today.

* * *

One thing I sometimes talk about with friends is how we would be if we were star athletes. I guess we all like to believe that we would be the ultimate great guy athlete, the Stan Musial athlete, the guy standing out there for hours signing autographs, the one who pitched a great game or went four-for-five with a double and two homers, and then gave the media all sorts of witty and thoughtful quotes. I guess we all like to believe that we would be there to answer all the questions even after a blown save — the way that Roberto Hernandez always was. I guess we all like to believe that we would be somewhat heroic.

But, I can tell you from the outside looking in that some of my friends probably would be complete jackasses if they were great athletes. I say this because they’re not great athletes and they’re STILL jackasses, as they would tell you in their morst honest moments. I cannot speak for myself — who can? — but I’ve got to believe the repetitive and stupid questions, the constant barrage of autograph requests (and then seeing those autographs on eBay), the way anonymous one-named radio callers tear you up on the radio, the way so few people would act normal around you, the way yes people would constantly tell you how great you are … well, let’s just say it’s always worth remembering that it isn’t easy.

I asked Pat Jordan if he would still have become a writer had he harnessed his pitching talents and become a star Major League pitcher. He gave me the most honest answer I’ve ever heard on the subject.

He said: “No. I would have continued becoming an asshole until I’d perfected that persona to a degree even Jose hasn’t.”

See, now that’s honestly. And I told you he’s great at swearing.

* * *

Pat Jordan on his Mike Veeck, his comeback and the heart of writing:

I did the St. Paul Saints in the mid-nineties. Mike Veeck always interested me, partly because his father—whom I had never met—wrote something nice about “A False Spring” in one of his books. So I wanted to do the St. Paul Saints, heard funny things about them. I love minor league stories because nobody wants to do them. Mike wanted to meet me. So I go out there, get my press pass and I never went to see Mike, I just hung around the Stadium that first night ‘cause I didn’t want a guided tour. I wanted to see what was going on myself. So I hung around, sat in different sections, talked to people, and then the next day I went to Mike. He said, “Pat, where were you I was looking for you?” ‘Cause he didn’t know what I looked like. I said, “Oh, I just wanted to check it out myself.” He said, “You’re the only guy who ever came and did that. They all come to me, ask me 20 questions and then leave.” I said, “Well, the story is not only about you it’s about what’s going on here.”

So I’m still writing the story a few months later. I had to call up Veeck to check a couple of facts and I see in the paper, in The Miami Herald, that Veeck has invited Charlie Sheen, the actor, to pitch for him. I call Veeck up and kiddingly, I said to him, “What’s the story, you invite that fucking actor to pitch for you? I’ll get in shape and I’ll pitch for you.” He said, “Okay, get in shape, I’ll pitch you.” So I hang up and Susan says, “What’s wrong? Your face looks white.” I said, “I just told Veeck I was going to pitch for him next summer.” She says, “You put your foot in your mouth, but it’s not my business.”

I was 56-years old. I hadn’t thrown a baseball in thirty, thirty-five years. Oh, I had a catch here and there with my ten-year old son, but I mean THROW a baseball. So I go to the park. I’m standing on the mound and the first pitch I throw, I fall down. I couldn’t even stand upright. So I had to get closer to the plate, start with lobbing the ball. To make a long story short, it took me six months to get in pitching shape. By the time I was ready to pitch for Veeck, he had hired a girl to pitch for him. I called him up and told him I was ready to pitch and he said, “I can’t. I’ve got a girl pitching for me. If I have an old man too, it’ll be a freak show.” It was a freak show anyway, but I guess a woman and an old man was over the top even for him.

So he sends me to Miles Wolff of the Northern League. Great guy. Real baseball fan. Miles hooked me up with another team in Waterbury, Connecticut and I went and pitched an inning for them. Did well, and wrote a book about it called “A Nice Tuesday.” All because of my involvement with Mike Veeck.

Along the way, I find out that Mike’s daughter, Rebecca, has a degenerative eye disease and she’s going blind. Young girl. So I sell the idea of that story to Good Housekeeping. Problem is Good Housekeeping likes upbeat stories. There’s not much that’s upbeat about a little girl who is going blind. I go to St. Petersburg ‘cause Veeck is now working for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays.

Now Mike and his wife, Libby, were in conflict. Mike wanted to trot his daughter around the country as a symbol of this disease so that they can raise money for research. Mike’s wife wanted to keep their life private and small so that the daughter would have an ordinary life in school and everything and not be a celebrity. Both arguments were valid but they were clashing over this when I showed up. Naturally, Good Housekeeping abandoned that part of the story, but it’s in the original.

The thing I remember the most is that Mike had told his daughter about me. So we’re in his small apartment waiting for her to get home from school and when she gets home, she runs through the hall and throws her arms around me and says, “Uncle Patty, I’ve been waiting for you.” She was the sweetest little girl. Just an angel. Beautiful blonde hair. I ended up talking to her a lot. The last scene in the story, man, it always makes me cry. We took a long walk down the pier as Mike was fishing. She grabbed my hand, walked with me and closed her eyes. I asked her what she was doing. “I’m practicing,” she said. It was the most chilling thing that ever happened to me doing a story. She was practicing to be blind. It was devastating.