Ed Kranepool's words of wisdom

Hilarious blog post by a guy who sees Ed Kranepool first as a kid speaking to his Little League banquet (after the guy, and Kranepool, have had shitty seasons), and then sees him again when he grows up to be a youth coach:

http://www.dadcentric.com/2009/06/how-you-play-the-game.html

...The All Stars got their marble-based trophies with the golden-like statue of God as a 12-year-old batter swinging oh-so-sweetly atop.

The rest of us got nothing to wash down our lukewarm helping of baked ziti but a couple of pints of envy and self-loathing.

If that wasn't motivation enough to make you either give up or hit the batting cages, amid all the evening's glorious ode to excellence and victory was the night's speaker: Ed Kranepool.

Ed had just finished his 18th and final year with the New York Mets. This dated from the team's comically inept 1962 inaugural (featuring a still record worst 120 losses out of 160 games) to its 1969 World Series-winning "Miracle Mets" then right back down to the pitifully ugly cellar dwellers of 1979. His nickname "Steady Eddie" came about not so much for his prowess as a pinch hitter but because he continued to show up despite the regular beatings.

That night, Ed discussed how crappy the Mets were and how awful it was playing on a consistently bad team. A strange talk to give a group of baseball-crazed, gung-ho kids but damned if I ever wanted to be Ed Kranepool after that -- miserable and mediocre.

I enjoyed several good-to-great seasons of baseball after that. Then I discovered girls, rock music and under-age drinking and my priorities changed, which is neither here nor there. But I still felt I owed Ed Kranepool his due.

A few months ago, more than 30 years after that fateful night, I again came face-to-face with Steady Eddie. He was at the Mets' new ballpark, propped up against a waist-high table, pretty much alone. I walked up, introduced myself and asked for an autograph. As he signed, I told him about that Little League banquet.

"Did I hand you a trophy?" he asked.

"No. But you did make a speech. Mostly about how awful the Mets were that season."

"Well," he said, "you can't make chicken salad out of chicken shit. Enjoy the game."

Now that's wisdom worth passing on to beleaguered youth sports coaches and players alike.

 

"Did I hand you a trophy?" he asked.

"No. But you did make a speech. Mostly about how awful the Mets were that season."

"Well," he said, "you can't make chicken salad out of chicken shit. Enjoy the game."

I like Ed Kranepool.

 

I loved Ed Kranepool growing up. I have no idea why.

I was shocked when I saw another Met wear his number after he retired.

 

My first baseball memory, period -- and I have no earthly idea why -- is coming into the living room, my Mom asleep/passed out on the couch with a bowl of ice cream melting nearby, and Lindsey Nelson going nuts on the black-and-white TV because Jerry Grote just threw out a guy at third base.

Again, I have no idea why this has stuck with me. Maybe it was the wasted ice cream.

 

If you ever had to cover Jerry Grote you would not have liked him. One of the biggest assholes ever.

 

My earliest baseball memory was of Harry Caray talking about Damon Berryhill stepping to the plate.

But I didn't realize they just said players' last names, so when he said something like "Berryhill steps to the plate," I thought the guy's name was "Barry Hill."

I also thought my soon-to-be-hero's name was "Ryan" Sandberg in the early going.

 

Ed Kranepool borrowed Chico's soap and never gave it back ...