(or 2001 a Strat-O-Matic
Odyssey)
by Phil Trygar
In all of this, even the theme of the website, I’ve tried to stay focused on the fun of playing the game itself and not the ins and outs or finer points of winning at it. I’ve won my share or league titles, finishing in the playoffs more often than not over the years in all of my leagues. I’ve played, worked and coached ‘real’ baseball for 30 years as well, so I don’t feel I have to prove anything to anyone in the way of my knowledge of the game. Hopefully, there are some of you out there that will appreciate what it is I’m promoting and trying to accomplish with all of this.
Some of the things I’m really tired of, are the endless debates and theories that crop up all over the place, from message boards to mailing lists to e-mails, on the same subjects time after time after time. “A-Rod should be a 1…A-Rod should be a 4… Joe Blow is a much better player because he rates out to be a 58 against RHP while Neil N. Bob only rates out to a 57.5…how can Strat make up this rule…why hasn’t Strat made up this rule…” While it makes for no shortage of topics, since there is a new Major League baseball season and a new Strat set every year, it makes for some pretty dry reading in my opinion. What happened to the game itself? To me, the fun of playing was not always winning, but the competition and friendships that I’ve been able to make and keep over the years . The endless tasks of rebuilding, researching, trading, improving your team from year to year are fun and intriguing challenges, but who you do it with remains more important to me. Give me a league of guys who you can become friends with and who play this game competitively but with integrity and honor, over a bunch of cut-throats and statistical theory geeks whose attitudes are win-at-all-costs, any day. Wake up guys…playing this game doesn’t pay your bills!
I will get more into the banal chatter and lame rehashing of the same ideas over and over again in a later chapter. But now, let me relate to you another example of Strat-O-Rage that was humorous when it happened. It was Strat night in the LSL and the ten of us had gathered this time at the Kirby’s, for another night more fun than a barrel of monkeys. I’m sure there were times when the rest of Frank and Jeff’s family thought a troop of howler monkeys HAD invaded their home.
There was not enough space in the basement for everyone to find a place to play, so some of us had to go upstairs to the kitchen. I never minded that, since the proximity to their refrigerator made up for the fact that you couldn’t eavesdrop on the other series that were going on around you. It was late in the season and this year I was playing the spoiler roll. I was taking on Frank in a key 3 game set that might determine if he made the playoffs or not. Meanwhile, downstairs, Jeff was playing a series with the same possible outcomes as his brother. Now I think everyone knows the rivalries that can ensue between family, especially brothers, and the Kirby’s were no different. Who made it up the stairs first, for them was a race with pecking order implications, so a Strat league game had even more impact.
Now over the years, if anyone had my number, it was Frank. No matter how good my team was and how bad his was, he always found a way to win the season series between us. I can’t explain it and I don’t think he could either. I would get a small measure of revenge for years of being his whipping boy in a later season as well, but tonight I would exact some too. Winning 2 out of 3 from him put him in a position that if his brother swept his series downstairs, then he would be in the playoffs and Frank would be out. Jeff kept the pressure on, winning the first 2 games and Frank and I split our first 2.
Bottom of the 9th in the crucial game, I loaded the bases with 1 out and I trailed by a run. Rick Camp came on to try and clinch a playoff spot for Frank, but rather than creating a celebration, he walked Rich Dauer of all people to force in the tying run. Then Tony Armas singled to win the game for me and put his season in jeopardy. No sooner had the dice stopped rolling on Armas’s single, when Frank grabbed a stack of his players in frustration, shredded them in half, walked over the bathroom and proceeded to flush them down the toilet. After trying to cheer him up a little bit with the news that I thought I heard that his brother was losing in the 8th of his game, we went downstairs to see the finish.
“Man, that was stupid, ripping up those cards like that.” He told me. “I guess you’re really circlin’ the drain now.” I told him. J That comment didn’t cheer him up, but seeing his brother trailing by 2 with only 1 on and 2 out in the top of the 9th of his game, gave him some hope. A walk to Ron Cey and a 3-run bomb by Ken Singleton later and Jeff was on top, however. But Bob Carey loaded the bases with no one out in the bottom of the inning and Frank could still see a spark of hope. Bruce Sutter extinguished that spark by striking out the next 3 hitters to save the game.
Jeff was ecstatic…Frank was crushed. The thrill of victory…and the agony of defeat. I’d seen the opposite happen before and I knew what would happen next. The rubbing of the face in it started immediately. Frank took it well…better than anyone expected and after some good natured ribbing, he went back upstairs. After talking for a few minutes, a few of us went upstairs to get a soda. When we got there, Frank was furiously stabbing at the toilet with a plunger, water spilling onto the floor from the over flowing toilet. It seems he kept his composure enough to return upstairs, shred the remainder of his team and then flush the rest of them down the toilet. Or at least that’s what he tried.
The next day, I went back over their house and saw the plumber’s truck leaving just as I got there. Oh great, I thought, their Dad is going to be pissed now. He was, but he was a pretty good natured guy and seemed to understand…I think. Anyway, all the plungering of the toilet the night before couldn’t unstop the Strat-O-Blocked pipe, so after cleaning up the mess, a professional was brought in. The plumber snaked and scoped out the line and came up with a good sized blob of regurgitated strat cards. You could even read some of the players names…J m R ce ston R d Sox probably being the most readable. How do I know…well just so that little episode never got repeated, their Dad made them keep the soggy mass of compost that was once the Scranton Boilers as a reminder…in a goldfish bowl that was bought just for the occasion.
The lesson…Try not to lose your temper playing this game…and (now say this aloud with me)
Never..Ever…Ever…try and flush your Strat cards down the toilet!