The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

While we all know the Dodgers are now in LA and Seinfeld has a point that we're just rooting for laundry, there is still an echo of the Golden Era and a touch to baseball lore in this twelfth World Series meeting of the Yankees and Dodgers in 2024.

Jackie Robinson's Dodgers and Yogi Berra's Yankees met in the World Series six times from 1947-1956.

 

[LizzieMaine]

I was rooting for the Mets, but I gotta go for the Dodgers in the Series, both for history's sake and for Mookie's.

I often wonder how Joe and Sally will react thirteen years from now when the unthinkable becomes reality. Dr. Levine better clear her calendar. But the aftermath might go something like...

+++++

"S'funny," muses Joe, standing on an Empire Boulevard sidewalk on a certain warm May afternoon in 1960. "I toin aroun' an' I look down'is way, an'nit'sa same's it awrways was. Ev'ryt'ing's like it awrways was an' prob'ly's awrways gonna be. But t'en," he adds, turning around to gain a clear view of the intersection of McKeever and Sullivan, "I toin aroun'again, an'..." "I know, Pa," sighs Leonora, shaking her head at the sight of the last remaining fragments of brick and steel. "I seen stuff like'at," nods Joe, "durin'a wawr. Y'd see t'ese buildin's awl blowed up an' ya'd neveh know what t'ey useta be. But," he continues, his voice hitching with emotion, "ain' no mistakin' what 'tat useta be." Leonora nods. "I neveh thought he'd go thru with it," she declares. "Awl a bluff, I thought." "So'd ya mot'eh," sighs Joe. "She neveh give up, right t't'las'. An'nen..." "Yeh," sighs Leonora. "I wish she'da come with us t'day. There won't be nothin' left t'morra but a empty hole." "You hoid what she said," shrugs Joe. "She's neveh gonna come past heeh again. "S'fawr's she's consoined, t'eh'r awna laaaawng road trip, an' Ebbets Feel is awrways gonna be t'eh wait'n f'rm t'come back." "That's not healthy, though," observes Leonora. "In my psychology class, we..." "Ya ma ain' got oveh Coscarawrt bein' traded," notes Joe. "Y't'ink she's gonna get oveh t'is?" Leonora nods in sad agreement. "You was awrmos' bawrn inneh," Joe sighs. "I know," replies Leonora. "You awlways say that." There is a pause in the conversation as a wrecking ball swings into the last remaining bit of the rotunda, collapsing bricks and mortar into a scattered heap, as with an angry groan the last rusty framework topples. "T'at's it," observes Joe. "It's awl gone." "Let's get outa heeh, Pa," says Leonora, taking her father's arm as they turn toward Rogers Avenue. "Thezz nothin' more t'see..."

 

[Fading Fast]

..."Ya ma ain' got oveh Coscarawrt bein' traded," notes Joe. "Y't'ink she's gonna get oveh t'is?" Leonora nods in sad agreement....

Explain to me Sally in the fewest words possible.

 

[LizzieMaine]

But resuming our story in 1944...

("I still dunno 'bout t'is, Sal," sighs Alice, settling into her seat. "Absenteein' fr'm woik..." "Ev'ry day'a'ya life y'c'n go t'woik," snaps Sally, raising her glasses to peer thru a pair of Davega opera glasses toward center field, where men in sodden raincoats are fiddling with a canopied sound amplifier. "How many days inya life ya gonna get a chance t'see t'Pres'dent in poisson?" "I neveh sit in seat'is good f'ra bawl game," concedes Alice. "How'ja swing it?" "T'at cop we met comin' in," explains Sally. "Doyle t'cawp, fr'm Empieh Bouehvawrd precinc'. I useta know 'im when I was a kid. He uset'a keep'n eye awn us when we was playin' potsy." "He t' one," snickers Alice, "run ya in f'writin'at Socko an' Vaznetti stuff on choich wawls?" Sally shoots a look, and then raises the glasses again to her eyes, as Willie fidgets and Krause scans the crowd for a vendor. "Uh-oh," pipes Leonora. "S'rainin' again!" "Ahhh, t'at ain' nut'n," scoffs Sally. "T'Pres'den' useta be inna Navy." "Hey!" nudges Alice, as the center field gate swings open to admit a black convertible and the crowd explodes with a roaring cheer. "Lemme look!" she insists, snatching the glasses away from Sally. "Huh," she observes, focusing on a man in a soaked pinstripe suit, his thinning grey hair plastered to his head. "T'at don' look like t' President. You sueh t'at's him?" "O'couehse it's him," snaps Sally, grabbing the glasses back. "He don' look so good," notes Alice. "Looks sick." "He ain' sick," growls Sally. "He's tiehd. An' wet. I'd like t'see you rid'naroun' in a convoitable inna rain." "I'd put t'tawp up," mutters Alice. "What?" "Nut'n." )

("I thaaaat'chee said," growls Ma, cinching the coat tight about herself against the lashing rain, "thaat Doyle was gaaahnt'a get oos in. Look 'eer, Francis, thaaar cloosin' th' gates!" "It's yaaar oon fault," grumbles Uncle Frank in reply. "If ye hadn'a staaahpt t'wait aahn them coostomars." "Oi doon't make soo mooch money," argues Ma, jostling thru the crowd toward a uniformed functionary, "that Oi can aaffard t'tarrn away ev'n a fifteen-cent pack'a cig'rettes. YOU THARR! LET OOS BY!" "Sorry, Ma'am," shrugs the Ebbets Field Special Officer. "No moeh seats." "Francis!" snaps Ma. "Pay th' man." Uncle Frank reaches inside his coat, and blanches. "Oi can't pay th' man," he mutters. "Soombody picked me paaahcket!" "INSIDE YE COAT?" bellows Ma. She cranes her neck trying to see over the thousands of bobbing heads clustering into the rotunda. "This is r'idculous. Oi gaaahta get back t'th' stoor. What toime ye got, Francis?" "Ohhh," exhales Uncle Frank. "Oi can't tell ye. He gaaaht me waatch too!")

In Buffalo, New York, a man, his wife, and their roomer are in the psychiatric ward of Buffalo City Hospital after the two men locked the woman in a chin-to-hip chastity belt and kept her prisoner for more than three months in a bedroom. Thirty-eight-year old machinst Paul Roof told police he had padlocked his wife Gertrude in the leather and canvas garment at the instruction of their roomer, 57-year-old William Alferts, a barber and self-styled "healer," in order to "keep evil spirits away from her." The garment was locked at the waist, and closed at the bottom by a contrivance of safety pins and heavy twine covered in adhesive tape. Alfters consulted a neighborhood priest for further advice on how to keep spirits away, and the clergyman, after learning of the situation, called the police.

(Just the same, though, he probably SHOULD put the top up.)

("And once you DO get used to it, this "boogie woogie" sort of grows on you...")

(A $100 player deal? Wait till television.)

(There sure is a lot of this going around.)

("It has come to our attention that you haven't paid income tax since 1919." "But I don't have any income, except from -- ah -- I don't have any income...")

("And they didn't even settle my paid-time-off!")

(You know, most of these farmhouses get their water from wells. I just thought I'd point that out.)

(Sagging eyelids? Paranoia? Has AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG been nibbling on ditchweed again?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Spiritual advisor."

The pollers haven't gotten to Bensonhurst yet, but the 11th District, home to Ma and Uncle Frank, is predictably strong for Mr. Roosevelt, even if an infiltrating Dewey voter DID get Uncle Frank's watch.

Horseshoes? Shouldn't he be throwing the bull?

Future senator, right there.

"All right then. Back to work!"

Hey, didn't you used to be a fortuneteller? Can't you predict what's going to happen?

The Maquis in action!

"Well, that and your mother told me two days ago."

"Oh -- ew, I forgot about that egg salad sandwich."

Well, you might as well go join the Army now.

 

[LizzieMaine]

("I wisht it coulda been like t'is yestehday," sighs Sally, picking at a loose bit of yarn on the sleeve of her sweater. "T'at pooeh man, sitt'n innat cawr, soaked t't'skin, havin' t'smile an' wave awl t'way. LEONOREH! DON'T JUMP INNAT PUDDLE YA GONNA ROON YA SHOES!" Leonora looks over at Sally, huddled on the stoop next to Alice, and considers a "sppppprt," but something in her mother's expression causes her to reconsider. "He coulda put t'tawp up," shrugs Alice. "Leas' we gawtt' see 'im," continues Sally. "Awlese yeehs 'e's been pres'dent, an' y'know, I neveh seen 'im in poisson till now. Awlem times he comes t'City, he neveh comes heeh, leas' nawt till now." "Whatcha mean?" injects Alice. "He come heeh'ra whole buncha times." "G'wan," challenges Sally. "Name one time he eveh come'eeh befoeh yest'ehday." "Awright," snaps Alice, chomping on the bait. "R'membeh when'ney was buildin' Brooklyn Collitch? Oveh t'ehr in Midwood?" "I guess," shrugs Sally. "Whawazzat, t'oity-five, t'oity six? I know when I looked inta goin'neh, t'ey didn' have no collitch, whatchacawl ya campus, t'ey didn' have none'a t'at, jus' a buncha awffices downtown'eh. Ma wouldn' lemme go, she says t'eh was too many dangehrous charactehs t'eh. I coulda gawn, don' cawst nut'n if y'got t'grades, an' I had t'grades, but Ma would'n lemme go." "Yeh," nods Alice for want of any better response. "But I r'membeh when'ney was doin'nat, y'know, buildin'at collitch, t'at t'Pres'den' come t'eh t'give a speech. I know, 'cause I was t'eh." "You?" protests Sally, pushing her glasses back up her nose. "You neveh went t'no collitch." "I didn' say I did," counters Alice. "I was woikin'at day. Me'n Mickey, in fac'. We was deliverin' some -- um -- coppeh pipes a' sumpn' -- fa' ya Uncle Frank." "An' when you was d'liverin'a coppeh pipes," frowns Sally, trying her best to follow the story, "you seen'a President." "Well, I didn' 'zackly see t'Presd'en'," admits Alice, "but I seen some -- um, people t'at seen t'Presd'en', an', see, t'ey got a lit'l rough witcha brot'eh t'eh, an' -- um -- awww, skip it. But t' Presd'en' was t'eh, sweahtagawd. Yeh. Nineteen t'oity-six. I r'emembeh t'at, cause it was 'caus'a what happn'tat day t'at I..." "T'atc'ha what?" queries Sally, drawn into the story. "Nut'n," dismisses Alice. "I jus' done some trav'lin', at's awl. Heh, lookit Leonoreh t'eh, she made'at ol' newspapeh int'wa boat." "Don' play innat puddle wateh!" yells Sally. "Ya get typhoid!" This time, Leonora responds with a particularly effective SPPPRRRRT. "I worry so much 'bout t'at chil'," sighs Sally. "Attitude like 'at, who knows, maybe she's gonna end up in jail someday." "Nah," shrugs Alice, flipping a loose bit of concrete into the street...)

Fifth Army troops fought bitterly in the mountains south of Bologna today, against ever increasing German reinforcements and a record concentration of heavy artillery, while on the Adriatic sector, 8th Army forces moved along the coastline to capture Cesenatico, to drive the Germans from all but the fringes of Cesena. A BBC broadcast reported that 100,000 German troops were massed below Bologna in an effort to keep the Americans from capturing that important industrial city.

In Cleveland, firemen searched the ruins of a 50-block section of the city's east side yesterday for survivors of a holocaust blaze that was expected to claim more than a hundred lives. The devastated area covering approximately 165 buildings of nearly all types was almost completely leveled by the fire that started yesterday when a storage tower at the East Ohio Gas Company plant exploded like a flame-thrower, sending blazing jets of burning gas into the surrounding neighborhoods. Cuyahoga County Coroner Samuel Gerber indicated today that 78 persons are confirmed dead, and he expects the toll to continue to rise as the ruins are searched for bodies. It is anticipated that the search should conclude tomorrow. The fire has been called the most devastating blaze in the city's 148-year history. The cause of the explosion in the gas tower is unknown, and, authorities acknowledge, may never be known.

("How d'ye spell..." asks Uncle Frank, his fountain pen uncapped and a sheet of F. Leary & Sons Plumbing and Heating stationery before him on the counter, "how d'ye spell 'ootrageous?'" "Dictionary thar aaahn that rack'a paper books," calls Ma, exiting the back room with a bag of nickels in hand. "Look'it oop yeself. Oi got warrk t'do." "Oi'll poot 'tarrible,' declares Uncle Frank. "Who ye wroit'n to?" queries Ma, her curiosity roused. "Th' President," declares Uncle Frank. "Oi want me watch back, an' seein's he's a man gets things doon, Oi figyarr he c'n do soomthin' aboot it farr woona his prood constituents. Oi don't care aboot th' mooney, but th' Friendly Soons a' St. Patrick gimme that watch in recognition'a sarrvices rendarred, an' Oi resent losin' it." "Th' President doon't care noon'a'boot' th' loikes'a you," scoffs Ma. "Ye didn' see noboody roonin' down' t'th' gate tharr yistarrday an' sayin' 'Francis Leary, coom roit in, didjee?" "It's th' principle'a th' thing," declares Uncle Frank. "Th' Pres'dent aahlways said he was farr th' little man." "That lets," snickers Ma, her eyes flicking midward, "you oot." "Hmph," hmphs Uncle Frank, with an indignant thrust of his chins. "Joost t'be safe, thoo," he adds, "Oi'm sendin' a carrbon copy t'Mistarr Flynn.")

(Between the rain and the mess left behind on the field by yesterday's event, they better check the grounds for quicksand before they try to play any football.)

Dodger groundskeeper Matty Schwab says he and his crew have a lot of work ahead cleaning up after yesterday's Presidential rally at Ebbets Field, with disturbing quantities of lost articles expected to fall into his lap as his men attempt to bring the ballpark back to order. Lost items found in the stands are routinely kept for 60 days after which they may be taken by any member of the grounds crew that wants them, but what nobody wants are the thousands of shards of glass from broken Coke bottles that litter the park after every event. Usually Matty can get by with 10 or 12 men sweeping up after an average ballgame, but a full house such as turned out yesterday forces him to double or triple the size of his crew.

(Poor Mr. Ryder always ends up saving people who don't deserve saving. He ought to have a talk with Punjab and get his priorities straight.)

(Poor Bugs. Not only does he have to appear in a strip that makes him out to be an idiot, but he also has to do scripts that were clearly written for Daffy Duck.)

(Mr. Bushmiller does not know a single word of Spanish.)

("How dare you put word in my mouth!" -- Silent Cal.)

(Not only that, she doesn't even have a tire certificate.)

(All those guys and you leave out Eisenhower, whose mother was one of Jehovah's Witnesses?)

("Let me search her first, and see if she's got a ration book. BECAUSE I DON'T.")

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"I'm tellin' ya, Sal," sighs Alice, "he shoulda put th' tawp up."

"Amateur!" -- T. Manville.

"Yo' awlways tawkin' 'bout this wife uh yaws," comments the Corporal, "awlways moonin' ovuh that pitchuh yuh got thar. C'mon now, boy -- what's she like?" Joe settles back on the tailgate of the truck and reflects for a moment, gazing down at the wrinkled photo. "She likes," he replies, slipping the picture back into his shirt pocket, "ME."

See what happens when you don't wash your car?

"Leastwise, that's how it looked. 'Course, I had to throw the knife and the saw in the river, but it was worth it."

All our cartoonists play poker together on Saturday nights and one time they got to talking about dogs...

Jack mooning over the mail while Joy's storming the jungle with a gang of stooges and a couple of automatics. Mosley's best strip ever.

"Yipe?" Nice crowd you run with, kid.

Point of order: isn't she MRS. Gump, or has Bumley been consigned to oblivion by time and press agents? And panel two of today's "Harold Teen" is either a psychological masterpiece or a matter of failed perspective. You decide.

Miss Belinda?? I'm sorry, but in panel eight, with your hair like that and that expression on your face and your hands in that pose, I could swear you look exactly like -- no, it COULDN'T be.

 

[Fading Fast]

("How d'ye spell..." asks Uncle Frank, his fountain pen uncapped and a sheet of F. Leary & Sons Plumbing and Heating stationery before him on the counter, "how d'ye spell 'ootrageous?'" "Dictionary thar aaahn that rack'a paper books," calls Ma, exiting the back room with a bag of nickels in hand. "Look'it oop yeself. Oi got warrk t'do." "Oi'll poot 'tarrible,' declares Uncle Frank. "Who ye wroit'n to?" queries Ma, her curiosity roused. "Th' President," declares Uncle Frank. "Oi want me watch back, an' seein's he's a man gets things doon, Oi figyarr he c'n do soomthin' aboot it farr woona his prood constituents. Oi don't care aboot th' mooney, but th' Friendly Soons a' St. Patrick gimme that watch in recognition'a sarrvices rendarred, an' Oi resent losin' it." "Th' President doon't care noon'a'boot' th' loikes'a you," scoffs Ma. "Ye didn' see noboody roonin' down' t'th' gate tharr yistarrday an' sayin' 'Francis Leary, coom roit in, didjee?" "It's th' principle'a th' thing," declares Uncle Frank. "Th' Pres'dent aahlways said he was farr th' little man." "That lets," snickers Ma, her eyes flicking midward, "you oot." "Hmph," hmphs Uncle Frank, with an indignant thrust of his chins. "Joost t'be safe, thoo," he adds, "Oi'm sendin' a carrbon copy t'Mistarr Flynn.")

I would think Frank would know a few people whom he could "ask around about," as the professional pickpocket biz is a pretty small and well-known, umm, clique. If Frank has a contact a bit up the chain, which I bet he does, he should be able to get his watch back.

******************************************************************************

"Our pleasure lieutenant – I understood you to say there is another young woman with Miss Belinda."

"Ehhhh, 'young' is relative, I guess."

[From the back of a truck a voice can be heard.] "Shut up!"