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!"

 

[LizzieMaine]

("Ah there," puffs Uncle Frank, rushing into the lobby of the Empire Boulevard police station. "Oi come as soon as Nora gimme yarr message. Whaaar's this bloody spalpeen stole me watch?" "Inneh," replies Sergeant Doyle with a jerk of his thumb. "Oh -- befoeh you go in, Frank, y'know we gotta hold ya stuff f'evidence." "Of carrse ye do," nods Uncle Frank, passing a folded five dollar bill across the desk. Doyle smirks, pockets the bill, and hands Uncle Frank his watch. "Oh," the sergeant adds, "befoeh y'go inneh -- well, no, I'll letcha see f'y'self." "Ahhhl roit now," growls Uncle Frank, stepping into the small interrogation room, "we'll see aboot....Oh." His voice trails off as a sullen, hollow-eyed young woman, seated at the table, glares up at him with undisguised contempt and takes a pointed puff from her cigarette. "Well now," exhales Uncle Frank. "Whaat's aaahl this then? Yaaar th' woon picked me paacket?" "Piece'a cake," snickers the suspect. "You bend oveh t'tie ya shoe, ya coat gaps open, in an' out like t'at. Piece a'cake." "Ah," ahs Uncle Frank, pulling out the other chair and taking a seat. "Pr'fessional dip, aaahr ye?" "I been aroun'," frowns the young woman. "I make a livin'." "Oi'm sure ye do," concedes Uncle Frank. "Y'know, ya t' fattes' one d'tective I eveh seen," snorts the suspect. "An' I seen some real tubs. Guess awla skinny guys gawt drafted." "What's yarr name, choild?" queries Uncle Frank, as the young woman blows a stream of smoke in his face. "Whassamatteh," she snaps. "You didn' read't'papehwoik? Name's Bink Scanlan." "Bink?" replies Uncle Frank with a small smile. "Howcoom they call ye 'Bink?'" "'Cause," Miss Scanlan replies, "if t'ey cawl me 'Binky,' I kill 'em." "Ah," nods Uncle Frank...)

General Douglas MacArthur today abolished laws enacted under Japanese puppet rule in the Philippines, and proclaimed the return of members of the Philippine Government to their homeland, declaring that the Allied armies will act not as conquerors but as protectors of civil liberties. With gunfire rumbling in the background, Gen. MacArthur stood on the steps of the Capitol building in the newly liberated city of Tacloban, and introduced President Sergio Osmena and members of his cabinet to a cheering Filipino throng. The General stressed that there will be no military rule in the liberated areas of the Philippines, and that power is now back in the hands of the Osmena government, which will have as an early order of business the establishment of tribunals to deal with Filipino Quislings who collaborated with Japanese rule. Only military traitors, the general added, will be dealt with by U. S. troops.

Mayor LaGuardia in his Sunday WNYC broadcast yesterday urged that voting hours in the city be extended to allow war workers ample opportunity to cast their ballots. He noted that it takes even the fastest voter at least a minute to select their choices, and more than two minutes when poll workers must confirm a voter's identity, and that therefore the 780 minute from the usual polling times of 6 AM to 7PM will be insufficient to accomodate the record number of voters anticipated on Election Day.

("Ehhh," ehs Sally. "I read t'at book. I seen inna New Masses it was s'posta be, you know, whatcha cawl class conscious. So I read it, 'n -- eh." "Nawt so hawt, huh?" chuckles Alice. "Well," shrugs Sally. "Pawrts of it was -- um -- kinda hawt. But class conscious? I mean, t'is Lawrence characteh ain' no Steinbeck. T'eh wasn' no strikes, t'eh wasn' no, you know, standin' upta t'bawss, wasn' no sitt'n down." "I hoid t'eh was a lawtta layin' down 'nough," laughs Alice. "Y'know," frowns Sally, "sometimes I don't t'ink you grasp whatchacawl t'struggle." "Maybe," grins Alice, "y'could loan me t'at book.")

(A picture where Edward Everett Horton plays a Russian Count is hardly trite formula.)

The Eagle Editorialist, prompted by recent remarks from Dorothy Gish on how easy stars have it today, waxes rhapsodic for the lost days of the silent cinema, when the old Vitagraph studio in Flatbush thrived, and Prospect Park could represent reasonably well the Gardens of Versailles, if you ignored the electric lights occasionally visible on the screen. But in spite of that, the silent days brought us, the EE argues, a product that was "entertaining, and often real art. Lillian Gish gave us 'Broken Blossoms,' which would be utterly impossible in sound."

(Sigh. That's exactly what our Joe WOULD do.)

(I really want to see some color photos of those uniforms.)

("Well, we've got to call you something. I think I'll call you 'Leona.' I always liked that name...")

(As the war winds down, the Boys From Marketing reconvert for peacetime prosperity.)

(Actually, I can name several old men just around town here who drink so much wine...)

(Odds that Annie Curls drives off an embankment now running 1-1, stalls on a railroad track 2-1, is stopped by the country police in a hail of shotgun pellets 5-1, gets away to Hollywood, goes on a diet, and changes her name to Shelley Winters, 100-1.)

(Where's Trix when we need him?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

Get on the phone quick and book Mr. Reynolds and Mrs. Luce to appear together on "Information Please."

What, you didn't know Kay and Mae had day jobs?

Yes, that's a great idea. Third degree burns from a hot muffler.

Honestly, though, given what happened three years ago, you'd think Burma would have a thing about riding in the back of trucks.

Oh, and in case any particular dog's agent is thinking of trying to renegotiate, we have plenty of potential auditions on hand...

Control yourself, Jess.

You know, a couple of pinball machines would really clean up in here.

"That's it, we're selling that stupid bandsaw."

You don't seem to understand how all this works, and that's probably a good thing.

"Sigh." -- Franklin D. Roosevelt.

 

[LizzieMaine]

And also...

"But when the working day is through...."

 

[Fading Fast]

I know money was much tighter then, but going to small claims court to sue over one book that you even admitted was given to you seems a bit much.

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

Odds that Annie Curls drives off an embankment now running 1-1, stalls on a railroad track 2-1, is stopped by the country police in a hail of shotgun pellets 5-1, gets away to Hollywood, goes on a diet, and changes her name to Shelley Winters, 100 25-1.

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

"Well, we've got to call you something. I think I'll call you 'Leona.' I always liked that name..."

[Then Bill chimes in.] "Same vein, but let's go a bit more colorful and call you 'Buccaneer.' I might even have an outfit or two you could wear."