Smak-O-Matic

Volume II, Number 1

 

Too bad Mike Darr wasn’t a Joni Mitchell fan

By Steve Felson

 

 

            It has always been the policy of Smak-O-Matic to offer advice to those of us in the Strat-O-Matic world who don’t get that the game should be fun.  This month’s column is no exception.  I realize that it may be in poor taste to Smak off at those who can’t smak back, but in this case, I simply can’t help myself.

            Last month, my keeper league conducted its annual draft.  In the throes of expansion, most of the clubs are pretty void of any type of depth, so prospects went flying left and right.  Mark Prior went in the second round; Juan Cruz was selected in the third round, you get the picture. 

            During my pre-draft preparation, I realized that my outfield tandem was starting to age a bit and my bench was extremely thirsty for a left handed bat.  So, in the thirteenth round I smartly (so I thought) selected San Diego outfielder Mike Darr.  My brain would reel in anticipation every time I thought of my outfield of the future.  With previous selection Austin Kearns almost ready to roam the gaps and Chin-Feng Chen already ripening on the vine, Darr seemed the perfect final piece to the puzzle.

            On Friday, February 15th, all that changed.  I was waiting for my delayed flight to take off from George Bush Intercontinental Airport at about 8:00.  As I slumped in my faux plastic chair amidst crying children and migraine-laden parents, I heard out of the corner of my ear that a major leaguer had been killed in an auto crash earlier in the day…details after this station break.

            I turned to look at the tiny television above the bar to see who it might be; to mourn for whatever tragedy might have taken place.  After the commercial and a local story boasting how one crazy person in the 12 items or less line had assaulted someone for having 13 items (sadly, this fact is not made up) came to its climactic end, the anchor turned to the sports guy and the story unfolded.

            “Mike Darr, promising San Diego Padres left fielder, had been killed today in an automobile accident.”

My heart churned as I listened to how he was survived by his wife and two kids.  It is inconceivable to me how hard it must be for those kids to find out dad’s not coming home. My sadness lasted for mere minutes.  While lost in my thoughts, I was able to stay aware enough to hear that alcohol was involved.  Darr was driving drunk.  I focused further on the crisp words of this otherwise soft broadcaster as details continued to flow.  “Darr behind the wheel”…”not wearing a seatbelt”…”passenger also killed”.

The kids and the parents sprawled across the airport floor, the overworked Continental terminal employees making announcements, the rotund linebackers on wheels yelling, “Cart!  Cart, please move to your right” were no longer in my range of hearing.  All I could think was, “Screw you Mike Darr!”

            Strat-O-Matic is a game; a stack of creased cards and rolling dice created to escape the pressures of the every day; allowing short, overweight guys like me who could never make the majors live out their fantasy a few hours at a time.  But Mike Darr lived the fantasy every day.  This is the source of my anger.  To tell you the truth, at this moment, I could care less about my future outfield being one piece short.  There is always another can’t miss phenom to draft.  People out there still curse themselves for drafting Joe Charboneau.  But, hey, that’s the fun of it.  At that moment, however, all I could think about was what I would have given to be this man for just five minutes; what I would have sacrificed to have a few moments under the sun a couple of hundred feet from Tony Gwynn or Rickey Henderson; what I wouldn’t sell or steal to face a Kevin Brown fastball and knock it for a double, stare back at the mound with my uniform all dirty sporting that smart alec smirk from the corners of my mouth as Brown stares me down.  There’s very little I wouldn’t have given for a piece of what this man threw away over a couple of drinks and an unfastened seatbelt.

            Next, I turned my thoughts back to his family.  I think of what I would do if it were me who suddenly found out his spouse was never coming home.  What do you tell your kids?  How do you explain that they have to be the men of the house now before they ever finish being boys?  What would you say, years later, when you overhear some drunk in a San Diego bar comparing your husband to Len Bias, spouting off at the lips about how your husband’s death was the end of the resurgence of his beloved Padres?

            Mike, you gave up everything…for what?  My only hope is that somehow, somewhere, someone hears of you and decides to put down their bottle or to kiss their wife one more time before they go to work.  I appreciate my life.  I appreciate my family.  I have a little baby due in March who I can’t wait to take to Astros games as soon as he or she is old enough to go outside.  I have already written the check for the day I buy this child their first Strat-O-Matic game.  Maybe I’m just naïve, but I can’t understand how someone could throw everything away as you apparently did. 

Two weeks from now, a new Strat-O-Matic year and a new baseball season begins …and sadly enough, without you, Mike Darr.  I hope whatever you were doing was worth the price you had to pay for it.  As for me, I’ve got my eye on this kid in the Phillies farm system.  He seems to have a good head on his shoulder, loves his family, respects the game and his place in it.  He hits about .250 with no power.  I think I’ll draft him next year. He sounds like a great guy           

 

 

** As an addendum, I feel it is appropriate to add that all the information I gathered to form my opinions on this topic have come from television, radio and internet news sources.  If I have received inaccurate information regarding the death of Mike Darr upon which I have based these opinions, I wish to apologize and encourage anyone to contact me via this web site.  Although I don’t agree with his actions, my wish for Mike is that he rests in peace.  There is no disrespect to Mike or his family intended by my words, just the hope that someone will read them and make their life better because of what I had to say.

 

Big Yellow Taxi

by Joni Mitchell

© 1966-69 Siquomb Publishing Co. BMI

 

They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot
With a pink hotel, a boutique
And a swinging hot spot
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

They took all the trees
Put 'em in a tree museum
And they charged the people
A dollar and a half just to see 'em
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Hey farmer farmer
Put away that D.D.T. now
Give me spots on my apples
But leave me the birds and the bees
Please!
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

Late last night
I heard the screen door slam
And a big yellow taxi
Took away my old man
Don't it always seem to go
That you don't know what you've got
Till it's gone
They paved paradise
And put up a parking lot

 

“Smak-O-Matic” was written and conceived by Steve Felson

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