Earlier today I had a conversation with a friend regarding writing and how I go about it. He asked close to a dozen questions but there are a couple that stand out.
1) Who would I compare my writing to?
2) How do I develop my stories?
He stumped me with the first question. I don’t think that anyone has ever asked me that before and I am not sure that I have an answer. I think that I have a very distinct style. I don’t say that because of ego but because I don’t have any other answer. Perhaps I am just too close to this, but I cannot think of any writers that I think I write like.
Now, I could give you a list of writers who I would like to emulate, but that is a different story altogether. If I had to pick one writer that I’d like to write like I’d have to say that Jim Murray would be right up there. He was a fabulous sports writer, just phenomenal.
Here are some quotes of his that still make me smile:
â€œBaseball is a game where a curve is an optical illusion, a screwball can be a pitch or a person, stealing is legal and you can spit anywhere you like except in the umpire’s eye or on the ball.â€
â€œShow me a man who is a good loser and I’ll show you a man who is playing golf with his boss.â€
â€œI’d like to borrow his body for just 48 hours. There are three guys I’d like to beat up and four women I’d like to make love to.â€
â€œWillie Mays’ glove is where triples go to dieâ€
And just because I have to cite a column he wrote about losing an eye.
OK, bang the drum slowly, professor. Muffle the cymbals and the laugh track. You might say that Old Blue Eye is back. But that’s as funny as this is going to get.
I feel I owe my friends an explanation as to where I’ve been all these weeks. Believe me, I would rather have been in a press box.
I lost an old friend the other day. He was blue-eyed, impish, he cried a lot with me, saw a great many things with me. I don’t know why he left me. Boredom, perhaps.
We read a lot of books together, we did a lot of crossword puzzles together, we saw films together. He had a pretty exciting life. He saw Babe Ruth hit a home run when we were both 12 years old. He saw Willie Mays steal second base, he saw Maury Wills steal his 104th base. He saw Rocky Marciano get up. I thought he led a pretty good life.
One night a long time ago he saw this pretty girl who laughed a lot, played the piano and he couldn’t look away from her. Later he looked on as I married this pretty lady.
He saw her through 34 years. He loved to see her laugh, he loved to see her happy.
You see, the friend I lost was my eye. My good eye. The other eye, the right one, we’ve been carrying for years. We just let him tag along like Don Quixote’s nag. It’s been a long time since he could read the number on a halfback or tell whether a ball was fair or foul or even which fighter was down.
So, one blue eye missing and the other misses a lot.
So my best friend left me, at least temporarily, in a twilight world where it’s always 8 o’clock on a summer night.
He stole away like a thief in the night and he took a lot with him. But not everything. He left a lot of memories. He couldn’t take those with him. He just took the future with him and the present. He couldn’t take the past.
I don’t know why he had to go. I thought we were pals. I thought the things we did together we enjoyed doing together. Sure, we cried together. There were things to cry about.
But it was a long, good relationship, a happy one. It went all the way back to the days when we arranged all the marbles in a circle in the dirt in the lots in Connecticut. We played one-old-cat baseball. We saw curveballs together, trying to hit them or catch them. We looked through a catcher’s mask together. We were partners in every sense of the word.
He recorded the happy moments, the miracle of children, the beauty of a Pacific sunset, snowcapped mountains, faces on Christmas morning. He allowed me to hit fly balls to young sons in uniforms two sizes too large, to see a pretty daughter march in halftime parades. He allowed me to see most of the major sports events of our time. I suppose I should be grateful that he didn’t drift away when I was 12 or 15 or 29 but stuck around over 50 years until we had a vault of memories. Still, I’m only human. I’d like to see again, if possible, Rocky Marciano with his nose bleeding, behind on points and the other guy coming.
I guess I would like to see Reggie Jackson with the count 3-and-2 and the series on the line, guessing fastball. I guess I’d like to see Rod Carew with men on first and second and no place to put him, and the pitcher wishing he were standing in the rain someplace, reluctant to let go of the ball.
I’d like to see Stan Musial crouched around a curveball one more time. I’d like to see Don Drysdale trying to not laugh as a young hitter came up there with both feet in the bucket.
I’d like to see Sandy Koufax just once more facing Willie Mays with a no-hitter on the line. I’d like to see Maury Wills with a big lead against a pitcher with a good move. I’d like to see Roberto Clemente with the ball and a guy trying to go from first to third. I’d like to see Pete Rose sliding into home headfirst.
I’d like once more to see Henry Aaron standing there with that quiet bat, a study in deadliness. I’d like to see Bob Gibson scowling at a hitter as if he had some nerve just to pick up a bat. I’d like to see Elroy Hirsch going out for a long one from Bob Waterfield, Johnny Unitas in high-cuts picking apart a zone defense. I’d like to see Casey Stengel walking to the mound on his gnarled old legs to take a pitcher out, beckoning his gnarled old finger behind his back.
I’d like to see Sugar Ray Robinson or Muhammad Ali giving a recital, a ballet, not a fight. Also, to be sure, I’d like to see a sky full of stars, moonlight on the water, and yes, the tips of a royal flush peeking out as I fan out a poker hand, and yes, a straight two-foot putt.
Come to think of it, I’m lucky. I saw all of those things. I see them yet.
Wow. He was just phenomenal. If you like that you can find a few more here.
Anyway, if you are still following you probably wonder what I have to say about happy endings. I am like most people. I enjoy movies/books with happy endings. It feels good to see justice served, the bad guy goes to prison, the hero gets the girl and moseys off into the sunset.
It is nice, but it is not reality and sometimes I like reality. Sometimes I like the darker endings. Sometimes that darker side comes out of me and I remember that life doesn’t always work out the way that we want it to.
Sometimes the love of your life marches off to the Middle East and gets blown up by a roadside bomb, fragged by friendly fire or killed in some senseless tragedy. Sometimes the man/woman you planned on spending the rest of your life with is hit by a drunk driver or falls off of a bridge.
Sometimes cancer or some other terminal disease robs us of the people that we love the most.
These aren’t feel good stories. They don’t make you smile or leave you feeling like humanity has been redeemed. But they are real and sometimes I need that. Sometimes I need that sense of reality, the gut check.
Maybe it is just one of the ways I have of keeping my life in perspective.Don’t get me wrong, I prefer happy endings and I think that it is important to remember that life is a journey. Good things do come to those who work and wait.
But every now and then I like to go against the grain. It is just the way things are.